#and definitely not how its only for an instant

[xoxolaw]

+ 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘

in which ex-lovers wage a war of passive-aggressive pranks, dangerous tension, and stolen glances—until the classroom door locks behind them and all hell breaks loose.

+ 𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗦𝗨-𝗚𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

sensual, angst

The Porsche screeched to a halt in front of the school gates. It didn’t just arrive—it announced itself.

A low growl of an engine, glossy black frame catching the morning sun like polished obsidian. It was the kind of entrance that didn’t ask for attention. It demanded it.

All heads turned. It was a spectacle—sleek, expensive, and arrogant. And there was only one name it could belong to.

Han Su-gang.

Who else?

He was the only one who could show up late, park like the asphalt belonged to him, and still have teachers pretending not to notice. The kind of presence that didn’t walk so much as conquer. When he entered a room, backs straightened, shoulders tightened, eyes dropped—not out of courtesy, but self-preservation.

He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. Didn’t need to lift a finger to be obeyed. Fear wore his name like perfume.

But then—

The door opened.

And it wasn’t him.

The chauffeur stepped out first—tall, pressed, professional. He moved to the passenger side with a practiced ease, his gloved hand reaching for the handle.

A pause.

Then—

She stepped out.

A single black heel touched the pavement, followed by the smooth fall of a pleated Muyeong High skirt. Her blazer was crisp, cuffs buttoned perfectly, tie slightly loosened like she’d done it on purpose. Her hair was pinned back in a clean twist, one strand brushing her cheek in the breeze.

A new face. But her presence was anything but unfamiliar. People didn’t know her name yet. But they felt it—the tension shift. The way their own conversations faltered in their throats. The way they couldn't stop staring.

She stood there for a breath, gaze sweeping over the courtyard, lips parted just enough to suggest either amusement or apathy—no one could tell which. And then she walked forward, each step measured, graceful, unhurried.

“Who… is she?”

“Transfer student?”

“She came in that car? Do you know how much that costs—”

“She looks like she owns the place—”

“Wait… is she someone?”

The whispers were instant. Hungry. She didn’t spare them a glance. Didn’t acknowledge the stares. Didn’t shrink under the weight of attention like most students did their first day. Instead, she walked as if she’d walked this campus a hundred times, as if it already bored her.

Her gaze flicked toward the building. Not at the students. And definitely not at the crowd of boys already craning their necks, whispering her into existence like a myth.

Then—

Another sound. A softer rev. Clean, quick, impatient. Another car pulled in behind hers. White Porsche. No one even blinked this time. They already knew.

Han Su-gang.

Now, it was him.

And somehow, the air got heavier.

The door clicked open with a practiced flick, and out came the devil the high school had already sold its soul to. The moment his foot hit the pavement, a breath passed through the courtyard like a collective flinch. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t need to. His gaze locked straight ahead—on her.

Not her car.

Not her uniform.

Her.

The girl who’d once kissed him like she meant it. And left like she didn’t.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile—something colder. A flicker of something dangerous and amused, like a fire remembering exactly who’d lit it the first time.

You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought.

There she was. Walking through his school like she hadn’t shattered his ego a year ago and vanished. Like this was just another morning, another hallway, another crowd she didn’t care to notice.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. As if the king behind her wasn’t worth the effort.

And that? That made something coil in Su-gang’s chest like a live wire.

He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, slow and tight, the muscle in his jaw ticking with restraint.

This wasn’t going to be a normal day. He could feel it already—thrumming beneath his skin. That familiar crawl of adrenaline, slick and electric, snaking up his spine like the moments right before a fist connects. That sickening high he only ever got before a fight, before the rush, before control snapped and something real broke loose.

Except this time, it wasn’t fists he’d be throwing. It was something sharper. And older.

His fingers flexed against the windowsill, nails digging into the wood. Let the rest of them watch. Let them whisper. He wasn’t done with her. Not even close.

✮⋆˙

The buzz hadn’t died down. If anything, it spread like smoke from a slow-burning fire.

By now, everyone knew.

“She’s in our class.”

“Did you see Su-gang’s face?”

"I heard she's his ex? Why did she come here?”

“She doesn’t even look scared.”

The whispers didn’t bother him. They were fuel. White noise under the real game. Han Su-gang lounged in his seat at the back of the room, long legs stretched under the desk, fingers tapping out a silent beat against the wood. His expression was relaxed. Too relaxed.

He looked like a predator who’d already set the trap. And in a way, he had.

The empty desk by the windows had always been the spare one. Today, it wasn’t. Today, it was hers—new textbooks stacked, name tag freshly printed, chair already tampered with.

Su-gang hadn’t touched it himself, of course. That’s what his underlings were for. One screw loosened, one leg shaved ever so slightly—nothing too obvious. Just enough to tip. Just enough to rattle her.

He wanted to see it happen. Wanted to watch her stumble, just once.

Let’s see if you still walk like you’re untouchable, he thought, smirking to himself.

The teacher walked in first, holding a clipboard.

Then—

She stepped through the door.

The classroom stilled like someone hit pause. Same girl. Same clean uniform, same cold gaze. And still… no fear. None. Her eyes scanned the room. Not nervously, not wide-eyed like other transfers. No—she studied them, like they were the ones being introduced.

And then her gaze landed on him.

Su-gang smiled—slow, cocky, familiar.

“Class,” the teacher announced, adjusting his glasses. “We have a new student joining us today. Please introduce yourself.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m Y/N,” she said simply. Voice calm. “Transfer student. Please treat me well.”

She bowed. Perfect angle. Straightened.

Then started walking. Every step toward the desk was like a countdown.

Su-gang sat up, elbows on his desk, watching like a hawk. Waiting for the crash. Waiting for the shake. One moment. Just one.

She reached her desk. Paused. Her hand brushed the chair, fingers delicate.

And then—

She stopped. Knelt slightly. Eyes scanning the leg. Two seconds. Maybe three. Just long enough for anyone paying attention to know:

She knew. Su-gang’s jaw ticked. She didn’t say anything. Just calmly stepped to the side, chose the chair from the seat behind hers, and swapped them. Smooth. Casual. Effortless.

Then she sat down. Unbothered. Untouched. Unmoved.

Su-gang leaned back in his chair, one brow raised. The fun he had forgetten was surfacing itself. The thrill his whole body felt, was back

From beside him, one of his underlings whispered, “She noticed?”

“Obviously,” Su-gang muttered.

And then—

She turned her head.

Just slightly. Just enough for him to see her profile—sharp, composed, effortlessly cold.

And at the very edge of her lips, a smirk. Not wide. Not playful. But deliberate. Razor-thin and devastatingly calm.

A message.

Try harder.

Su-gang’s smirk dropped.

Only for a second.

But it dropped.

Because that wasn’t just defiance.

That was familiar.

That was the look she used to give him before she said something that made his blood boil and his pulse race.

That was the look she wore when she was about to win.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even look at him again.

She just turned back to the front, crossed her legs beneath the desk, and opened her textbook like this was any other day. Like he was just another name in the attendance sheet.

Su-gang exhaled through his nose. A laugh, almost. Cold and quiet.

So this is how you wanna play it?

Fine.

He could play all day.

But this time, she wouldn’t get to walk away first.

✮⋆˙

It started small. Subtle. Calculated.

The kind of games that didn’t leave bruises—just tension, stretched tight across the classroom like a wire waiting to snap.

The next day, his chair began to squeak.

Not a normal squeak. No. A deliberate, high-pitched screech, timed perfectly for maximum irritation. Every time he leaned back—like he always did—it let out a shriek that made heads turn and teeth grit.

He didn’t react at first.

Just sat there, jaw slack, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. His gaze slid across the room until it landed on her.

Y/N.

Sitting three rows ahead. Elbows on her desk. Writing calmly in the margins of her notebook like she hadn’t just committed psychological warfare.

She didn’t even look at him.

Not until the chair squeaked again. Her pen paused. And her lips curved. Barely. Just enough.

Su-gang’s teeth clicked once, slow and deliberate.

✮⋆˙

Thursday.

It rained the night before. Just enough to leave the courtyard damp, the air clinging and heavy like breath on a windowpane.

By lunch, the sky cleared. Perfect timing.

Su-gang leaned against the third-floor railing, a metal straw between his teeth, iced coffee sweating in his hand. His gaze was fixed downward—on the open-air walkway between the buildings. Right where she always walked alone.

Right on time, Y/N stepped out. Books in hand. Untouched by the buzz around her. Every day, she moved like the chaos didn’t touch her. Like even gravity bent to her rhythm. He’d seen it too many times now—the way heads turned and lips parted and still, she didn’t look up.

It was infuriating. It was addictive. Today, though? She wouldn’t walk out untouched.

“Ready?” he muttered without looking.

Beside him, two of the girls from his circle shifted nervously, holding a heavy bucket of cold water, the metal edge damp in their white-knuckled grip.

They weren’t thrilled about it. But no one said no to Su-gang. Not unless they wanted thmselves beaten and expelled.

He tilted his head slightly. “She passes that white pillar—dump it.”

“Got it,” one whispered.

He watched.

Step by step, Y/N walked into position.

Hair tied up. Shirt pressed. Not a wrinkle on her.

So composed.

So clean.

He didn’t want to ruin her. Not really. He wanted to crack her. See the break. The flash of real under all that stillness.

She passed the pillar.

The bucket tipped.

And—

It missed.

No. Not just missed. She stopped. Half a second before it happened. Without looking. Then took a single step back.

The water splashed down in front of her—loud, soaking the tiled walkway in a messy arc.

Gasps echoed. Screams from a few girls.

She looked up, slowly. Right at them. Not surprised. Not angry.

Just…

Amused.

Su-gang’s grip tightened on the coffee cup.

She bent down slowly, tucked her books into the crook of her arm, and—very deliberately—stepped over the puddle.

Then she walked on. Dry. Elegant. Unbothered. And the look she gave him as she passed beneath his line of sight? It was a look that burned.

Not loud. Not petty. Just… devastating.

“You really thought that would work?”

Su-gang’s jaw flexed, tongue pressing into his molars.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He heard someone laugh softly behind him—nervous. One of the girls. And he turned on her so fast she flinched.

“Try harder next time,” he snapped.

Then shoved off the railing and walked away—eyes still trailing after her silhouette like smoke he couldn’t breathe.

✮⋆˙

Friday. Rooftop.

The sun beat down on the concrete. The rooftop, high above Muyeong High’s noise and chaos, sat still and silent. It was his place. His refuge. His throne.

Only the people he allowed ever came up here.

Today, the usual crew lingered — half-lounging on the benches, passing around lunch boxes, loud laughter echoing off the brick walls. Girls in glossed lips and boys with nothing to say but “yes, Su-gang” on loop.

He sat on the ledge like a king, one leg dangling, white button-up rolled at the sleeves, watching the world below through half-lidded eyes. His underlings circled him like hyenas drunk on his scraps.

Then—

The rooftop door creaked open.

Everyone turned. Every voice halted. Because she walked in. Uninvited. Unbothered.

She walked in slow, composed—

One hand in her blazer pocket, the other casually holding the handle of a metal bucket, swinging low by her side.

Like it was a handbag.

Like it wasn’t about to change the atmosphere of the rooftop entirely.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” one of the girls muttered, already moving to intercept.

But Su-gang raised one hand. Just a flick. The girl froze. Because this? This was interesting.

Y/N walked up slowly, her eyes on him. Not the crowd. Not the heat. Him. And that smile—not quite kind, not quite cruel—sat at the edge of her mouth like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

Su-gang stayed where he was. Didn’t stand. Didn’t blink.

“Lost?” he asked, voice low, lazy.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she walked straight past the others—no glance, no fear—and stopped just in front of him. A breath away.

And in her hand? A bucket. Metal. Cold. Full.

His brow twitched. “Don’t.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Calm. Clear.

“I thought you liked playing with water,” she said softly.

And then—

She poured.

The entire rooftop went dead silent.

Ice-cold water cascaded over him, soaking his shirt, drenching his perfectly careless hair, water dripping off his jawline in thick, humiliating rivulets. It hit the concrete with a slap.

No one moved. No one dared to. He sat there, frozen, dripping. Still not blinking.

And she leaned down, close—so close he could smell the faint perfume she always wore.

“This is me showing mercy,” she whispered.

“You try it again, I won’t be this kind.” Then she straightened. Turned. Walked. And the rooftop door shut behind her like a judge dropping the gavel.

He didn’t move. Not even when the water pooled around his shoes. Not even when his crew gawked in stunned silence. Because inside, Su-gang’s pulse was roaring. Not with rage. With adrenaline. With obsession.

Because only she—only Y/N—would walk into his domain, soak him to the bone, and leave without looking back.

No one’s done that before, he thought, slowly slicking his wet hair back.

Not even once. He grinned. A real one. Crooked. Dangerous.

You want war, sweetheart? You just made it personal.

✮⋆˙

Y/N didn’t make it to the second floor. He was faster than she remembered.

A hand slammed against the wall beside her head — hard — cutting her path off like a trap snapping shut. She flinched, but only slightly. The stairwell was empty, thick with heat and silence. Somewhere below, a bell rang faintly.

His voice came just above a whisper. “You’re brave,” Han Su-gang said. “Or stupid.”

She didn’t turn her head. “Didn’t you always say the two are the same?”

He laughed under his breath. Water still dripped from his hairline, sliding down the side of his cheek. His soaked shirt clung to his chest, and the dark strands clung to his temple like an aftershock.

He looked feral. And she? She looked like she’d meant it.

“That bucket stunt,” he murmured, fingers curling near her temple, “was cute.”

“Did it make you feel better?”

Her eyes flicked to his — unafraid, steady. “Almost as good as leaving you did.”

His jaw twitched. He stepped closer, chest brushing her back, voice dropping.

“You always ran when things got real. That’s what you do, right? Run. Disappear. Leave.”

She finally turned to face him.

The space between them was nonexistent now — nose to nose, breath to breath.

“And you always break everything you touch,” she said softly. “That’s what you do.”

Su-gang’s smile wasn’t real. It never had been with her.

“You think this is still about last year?”

He leaned in, slow and deliberate, until his forehead nearly touched hers.

“You think I give a shit about that night?”

“You think I haven’t erased you ten times over?”

She tilted her head, lashes low.

“And yet… here you are,” she whispered.

“Dripping wet. Pressed against a stairwell wall. Cornering a girl you say you’ve forgotten.”

Silence. His hand slammed the wall again, this time harder. It echoed.

“I hate how you talk to me,” he growled.

“Funny,” she murmured, stepping into him now, toe-to-toe, “You used to beg for it.”

And that—

That broke something.

He grabbed her wrist — not hard, but tight — like he didn’t trust himself. Like he didn’t know whether to drag her closer or push her away.

His breathing was ragged now. Not from anger. From restraint.

“You don’t get to come back,” he said, voice cracking with control. “Not here. Not like this.”

“Why not?” she said, cool and unbothered. “You don’t like mirrors, Su-gang? Don’t like someone who fights just as dirty?”

He stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time and reliving every single second he’d spent trying to forget her.

“You’ll lose,” he whispered.

Her smile returned — cruel, quiet, precise.

“Maybe. But not before I drag you down with me.”

And with that, she pulled her wrist free. Turned. Walked. Again. Left him there in the echo of his own breath, fists clenched, mind spiraling. And that was worse than the bucket. Worse than anything. Because the war wasn’t over.

It had just begun.

✮⋆˙

Y/N didn’t need to check the seating chart.

She knew exactly what he’d done the second she saw the empty chair beside his.

Han Su-gang sat back in his seat, legs wide, one arm draped over the chair that was now hers. Like it was already claimed. Like she should be grateful he was even letting her sit.

She walked over without hesitation. Dropped her bag. Slid into the chair. Didn’t glance his way once. But he was already leaning in. Elbow on her desk. His fingers drummed once, then stilled.

“Still wearing that gloss that used to end up on my jaw?”

Her hand froze halfway through opening her notebook. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, voice low and velvet, inches from her ear. “You used to bite my lip when you wanted to win an argument. Worked every time.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. Because a second later, she felt his hand ghost over the hem of her skirt—not touching, but hovering. Like memory. Like a warning.

“Move that hand,” she said.

“Why?” he murmured. “You were always louder when I didn’t.”

Her eyes flicked sideways. Met his. Dangerous. Dead calm. “Try it now. See what happens.”

He smiled. A slow, dangerous grin. Like he liked the idea of finding out. The teacher was at the front. Talking. The room was filled with students. But the space between them? Silent. Private. Pressurized.

“You act like you hate me now,” he whispered, mouth so close to her ear she could feel the shape of the words. “But your thighs still tensed just now. Didn’t they?”

She didn’t blink.

“No,” she said. “That was disgust.”

“Liar.”

His voice dropped lower—meaner, closer.

“Your pulse is jumping. You shift every time I breathe near you. You still remember exactly what I sound like when I’m not wearing a shirt.”

Her pen snapped between her fingers. The crack was soft. But he heard it. And smiled like she’d just confessed a sin.

“You haven’t changed,” he said. “Still pretending you don’t want me. Still failing.”

She turned now. Slowly. Their noses nearly brushed. Her voice was a whisper. Sugar-laced venom.

“I don’t pretend. If I wanted you, Han Su-gang, you’d already be begging.”

His breath hitched. Just once. And that’s when the teacher called her name.

She turned away without another word. Left him sitting there, breathless with a smirk dying on his lips.

✮⋆˙

The last bell rang like a sigh.

The room stirred with half-hearted chatter, the scrape of chairs and shuffled books. Students filtered out in small clusters, filing toward the exit with minds already halfway to convenience stores and cram schools.

Y/N packed her things slowly. She wasn’t in a rush. She could feel it. That shift in the air. That something-wrong kind of silence.

Until—

Click. The door. She heard it. Felt it. Not slammed. Not bolted. Locked.

Her fingers froze on the zipper of her bag. The room felt smaller now. Thicker. The fluorescent lights hummed above her like a warning.

She turned slowly to her side. Still seated at his desk, elbows on the armrest, legs spread wide with that same insufferable ease. Like he had nowhere else to be. Like the world could wait for whatever he was about to do.

His tie was loosened. His sleeves rolled. His eyes pinned to her like a match waiting for dry wood.

“Was that supposed to trap me?” she asked, tone flat. “You could’ve just said hi like a normal psycho.”

He stood. No words.

“Normal,” he echoed, voice low. “You think I’m still trying to be normal around you?”

She scoffed, shouldering her bag and walking toward the door. He didn’t stop her. Not until she reached it and turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Her knuckles flexed around the handle. She turned her head—just slightly.

“Su-gang,” she said. Calm. Warning. “Open the door.”

“You left without a word,” he said, voice now dangerously soft. “And you want doors open for you?”

She turned fully now. They were only feet apart. “Don’t turn this into some tragic heartbreak monologue,” she bit. “You were never that deep.”

“No,” he murmured. “But you dug deep anyway. Didn’t you?”

A pause. Her jaw tensed. He stepped closer. The air between them tightened, heat blooming like static in the summer.

“You think you can come back here,” he said, voice a murmur laced with edge, “look me in the eye with that pretty little smirk, and pretend you didn’t wreck me?”

“You wrecked yourself,” she said. “I just watched.”

His hand moved then—just slightly. Fingers brushing the edge of the desk beside her, knuckles dragging until they stopped near her hip.

She didn’t back away. She never did.

“You kissed me like it meant something,” he said.

His voice dipped lower. “You left like it didn’t.”

Her breath caught. But she didn’t let it show.

“Maybe I got bored.”

“Liar.”

He moved in close. Close enough that his chest brushed hers. Close enough that her bag slipped off her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud neither of them noticed.

“Tell me it didn’t mean anything,” he whispered, lips near her ear. “Say it.”

Her pulse kicked in her throat. She could smell his cologne now—clean, sharp, unmistakable. “Say it,” he repeated, this time with heat.

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head toward his. “You want permission to forget me?”

“I want a reason to stop dreaming about your fucking mouth,” he snapped.

Her eyes locked with his. And suddenly, the words were gone. There was no space between them now—just friction. His hand found her waist. Firm, possessive. Not yanking—daring.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, clutching the collar like she was debating between shoving him and pulling him closer. Their breathing slowed. Heavy. Intimate.

“You want this?” she whispered. “Or are you just pissed you didn’t get the last word?”

“You’re the only goddamn sentence I never finished,” he growled.

That was it. The last thread snapped.

They kissed—hard.

It wasn’t gentle. There was no sweet build-up. Just the sudden, explosive collision of mouths and memory and months of unsaid things.

He backed her into the door, hand threading into her hair with a low groan. She tugged at his shirt, fingers clenching as her teeth scraped his bottom lip in warning.

“Still mad?” she breathed between kisses.

“Fucking furious,” he answered.

His lips crushed against hers again, bruising and unapologetic. She bit his lip. He smirked into her mouth. Her hands tugged his hair. He pressed his thigh between hers.

“You don’t get to do this,” she hissed. “You don’t get to touch me like—”

“Like I never forgot where to touch?” he whispered, dragging his mouth down her jaw. “Like I remember every sound you made?”

Her breath stuttered. His hand slipped beneath her blazer, fingers splayed against her spine—hot, possessive. But she wasn’t passive. Her hand fisted in the front of his shirt and yanked him closer until his breath caught, and she whispered against his lips:

“You lock me in here again, Su-gang, and I’ll burn this entire school down with you in it.”

He chuckled, rough and low. “Then let’s burn.”

And he kissed her again. Messy. Addicted. Desperate.

They didn’t stop until their chests heaved, until her buttons had nearly come undone, until the lines between hate and hunger blurred too far to redraw.

Finally—

She broke the kiss. Swallowed hard. Stepped back. Fixed her collar. Reached for the handle.

This time, the door opened.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she said without looking at him.

“It never does,” he replied, smiling like a man already planning the next mistake.

She walked out, jaw tight, lips swollen, eyes lit like gasoline waiting for a spark.

And Han Su-gang stayed behind. Breathing hard. Smirking. Burning.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + ��𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Ok this was long... But I hope you enjoyed it!!

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@ma-1-ze @kozuapi @changbinkisser @fayepz @ruruyinn @dindaaloha @jww-sjzyeirie

[euphoria-looney]

hello, I have a question about your royal series.

original [name] = the princess… novel one. I did not want to write [P!Name] because it looks off to me

[name] = the one who got. ykw yeah you know.

I read the sources, and they all said that the original [name] had no magic, or at most, very little. But then, in Chapter 2, suddenly [name] has this magical ability? And without any difficulty at all? ‘I clapped my hands, and my magic kicked in, styling my hair, changing my clothes, and even applying skincare!’ I get that it’s technically a different soul, but still.. there’s not a single hint of struggle? It’s still the same body, even if the soul’s changed.

magic isn’t just a thing you can access without any explanation. There should be some kind of learning curve, right? Even if it’s a different soul in that body, the whole ‘instant magic’ thing just feels lazy. It makes the whole world feel inconsistent, like the rules only apply when they’re convenient. Where’s the struggle? Where’s the growth? You can’t just throw in an ability like that without establishing why it works this way, especially if the original [name] had none.

It's like... we’re supposed to believe this change is fine, but it doesn't feel fine. It’s way too smooth.

The special chapter gave us this dialogue where the original [name] is struggling with their identity. ‘had no strength to my name and was disgracefully unable to use my magic, but I knew I had some... I had to. Right?’, That’s a big emotional beat. It’s telling us that [name] was constantly battling their limitations. So why, when this.. new soul inhabits their body, does magic suddenly become a breeze? How does this person, who’s from a modern world with no frame of reference for how magic works, suddenly become a magical prodigy with zero effort? The contrast feels jarring. We went from ‘I have magic but can’t use it’ to ‘Oh, look, I can use magic now without breaking a sweat.'

I get that it's supposed to be ‘different soul, different circumstances,’ but this kind of sudden, effortless magic completely undermines the original character’s struggles. It’s like [name] just waltzes in and uses the magic better than the original, which makes the original’s journey feel cheap. Was all that emotional weight in the ‘special chapter’ just... ignored? Because it’s one thing to inherit a body, but it’s another to inherit its history, its emotional baggage, and its limitations.

and like. yeah, maybe you could say [name] have read countless books and watched movies where magic is a thing, right? They even explicitly say, ‘Let’s see if this is just like the movies.’ And that, right there, in my opinion, is a huge red flag. Because magic is never the same in any book or movie. In some stories, magic requires words, gestures, or rituals. In others, it’s based on emotions, sacrifices, or even the understanding of the universe. So why did [name] jump in thinking it’s definitely going to work the way they expect it to? That’s a classic sign of someone not fully grasping how unpredictable magic can be. Especially since we know that the original [name] had no actual experience with magic.

In my perspective, the real issue here is that magic in this world has already been established as something difficult for the original [name]. they couldn’t use it. So, how does [name] just waltz in and know how to use it? And more than that.. how do they have the confidence to think that their understanding of magic, based on movies and books, is the right one? There’s no humility in their approach, no sense of doubt. They should at least be testing the waters, asking questions, or struggling a bit. But instead, it’s like they’ve just assumed, ‘This is how it works,’ and it happens that way. Which... doesn’t feel earned.

like.. why is [name] so sure of themselves? They have no magic training, no context for the magical history of this world, nothing. There’s zero reason for them to be able to manipulate magic the way they do, especially considering that the original body was never shown to have that kind of talent or even a basic understanding of how to channel magic. The whole situation just makes the magic feel less like an actual part of the world and more like a convenient plot device.

and yes yes, I get it. [Name] is supposed to be this girlboss. totally confident, big ego, laid-back, and just oozing with self-assurance. And I get why you want to show her as someone who just owns everything she does. It’s supposed to make her seem super capable, right? But confidence isn’t magic. Sure, being confident can get you places, but it doesn’t instantly make you able to do things, especially in a world where you have zero experience with magic. There’s a difference between a character who’s self-assured and one who’s unrealistically good at something they’ve never even tried. And that’s the vibe I’m getting here, it’s not confidence, it’s plot convenience.

we just get this immediate mastery of magic that feels like the character’s confidence was just... grafted onto her abilities. The narrative is telling us she’s a ‘girlboss’ but isn’t showing us how that plays out. like in magic.

Also, the way this character is written kind of makes me question what ‘confidence’ really means in this story. Is she confident in her own abilities, or is she just... written as too confident, to the point where it doesn’t feel real? It’s one thing to have self-assurance, but another to have such blinding confidence that you ignore the logic of the world around you. This isn’t a world where magic is easy. it’s a world where the original [name] couldn’t even use it. So, how does this new soul from the modern world, with no magical training, come in and just start mastering it? The story feels like it’s telling us she’s powerful but not showing us why she deserves to be, or even how she struggles with that power. or anything at all.

what’s missing here is the ‘show, don’t tell’ principle in how the person’s confidence is portrayed. Instead of giving us the character's ‘confidence’ as a fixed trait, show us how it manifests in real situations. Confidence isn’t just an attitude, it’s a response to challenges. If she’s so confident about magic and other things, then the challenges she faces with it should reflect that attitude in a way that feels earned. instead, we just get this immediate and effortless success, and it undermines the impact of her character's supposed strength

and like, okay. I might be being dramatic, maybe this story isn’t supposed to be super serious. Maybe it’s more lighthearted, maybe it’s even poking fun at the whole neglected trope and the way things are often portrayed in fiction. But even then, there are some things you can’t just shrug off, no matter how ridiculous or playful the story is meant to be. And one of those things is internal consistency. the world has its own set of rules, and if you want the audience to buy into it, you’ve gotta make sure those rules make sense and are consistent, even in a more comedic or carefree context.

and I’ll continue, maybe this story is meant to be lighthearted, a bit of a romp, and not something we’re meant to take too seriously. I get it, I do. But there’s this thing.. even in lighthearted stories, you need to get the audience to care. You can’t just toss in cool scenes of magic or ‘girlboss’ moments and expect the reader to be like, ‘Yeah, this is great!’ without them feeling like they have something invested. In comedy, there’s still structure. still a reason why things happen the way they do. And without that, it feels like [name] is just being plopped into the story to do ‘cool things’ without any real consequences or stakes.

sure. yeah! maybe the magic is supposed to be over the top, but if everything happens without any struggle or effort, if she just knows how to do it, it’s hard for the reader to stay engaged. It’s kind of like watching someone play a video game on ‘god mode,’ right? Sure, it’s fun at first, but then there’s no sense of challenge, no satisfaction in watching them overcome something, and before long, you lose interest.

I mean, a big part of lighthearted stories is playing with tropes, right? you are already doing that with the ‘girlboss’ character and the neglected family theme, so why not take it further? Why not show her getting unexpectedly humbled by the very thing she thought she understood, like magic? If the magic is all-powerful and completely at her disposal from the start, then where’s the fun in that? Even in the most fun, breezy stories, the most interesting thing to watch is how a character grows. Otherwise, you’re just watching a character coast through a world without any real tension, and that’s boring.

and like, it was written that [name] is supposed to be this super-talented woman who dominates in many fields, then that actually adds complexity to the situation. Talent in one field doesn’t automatically translate into competency in another, especially something as unpredictable as magic. So, what’s bothering me is that a person who has mastered other fields, who’s supposedly mature and experienced, wouldn’t approach magic like this. She wouldn’t just ‘do what she saw in the movies’ and expect it to work. That’s... not what experienced people do. In fact, it's almost a red flag. If she’s as talented as they say, then she should at least be aware that magic isn’t something you can just learn from pop culture references.

this is where the ‘talented woman’ characterization really trips up. A person with a wide range of talents, someone who’s truly mastered multiple fields, understands that expertise in one area doesn’t give you instant mastery over something else. If you’ve spent years honing your skills in various disciplines, you get that expertise requires time, practice, and a deeper understanding of the field. A person who has achieved a high level of proficiency in multiple fields knows that you can’t just rely on external sources, like books or movies, to suddenly make you an expert. Especially in something as nuanced as magic. So, why is she going in blind? Why is she relying on what she’s seen in fiction? like why didn’t she go to the library?? she’s literally in that world right now???

It’s actually against the logic of her being someone who’s already talented. A woman who’s dominated other fields should have enough self-awareness to recognize that just reading about magic or watching it on a screen isn’t going to teach her how to actually wield it. Magic is one of those things, especially if it’s supposed to be a serious part of this world, that demands a deeper, more systematic understanding. A truly skilled, and experienced person would know to approach it with curiosity and caution, not cocky confidence. like, don’t just tell us that [Name] is highly confident and successful in multiple fields, show us through her actions, choices, and how she handles challenges. Let her maturity and experience come through in how she handles situations, not just in statements about her ego or achievements. Magic can’t just be figured out in a ‘one-size-fits-all’ way, not when every media portrayal of magic is so different. Don’t say she’s experienced; show us a moment where that experience pays off. Let the audience come to their own conclusion that she’s actually experienced and competent.

magic isn’t like other ‘skills’ that you just pick up and run with. You can’t rely on your previous achievements to make you an expert in a completely different field. And this is where the story’s logic gets iffy. You wants us to believe that because she’s talented, [name] should be able to pick up magic without a hitch. But the reality is that someone who’s truly talented, and therefore likely experienced, would know that not everything isn’t something that works so easily.

I don’t know, I’m sorry, I know rhis is a small detail but it kinda peeved me a little, I’m just a very dramatic person and very confused about this part of the story. like, isn’t chapter 2 basically like day 2 of being in the novel???? like did I miss a detail? in one of the chapters? ???? ? like unless the og novel was really in detail about magic and [name] managed to remember it all despite hating it, it just doesn’t make sense 😭 and even if it did, how was she able to do it in the og [name]’s body ?

Dog… WHY ARE YOU SO SMART?

I’m going to be so real with you guys when it came down to the story, at first it was supposed to be a random Drabble that I came up with so I was whipping up something out of nothing, chapter one at first was supposed to be a stand alone, giving MC no time to learn or develop anything but like the user get a gage at her personality and how cool she is but no development.

but then it blew up which I did not expect and didn’t want to leave it on such a cliffhanger that’s also why in my opinion chapter two was absolute booty more than half of that chapter was just me throwing things together in hopes that it suffices.

while chapter one was okay there are some changes that I do have to implement to make it better including not rushing certain things so if you see my chapters for this story prompt go down don’t worry it won’t be deleted forever.

I just rather build up the world and characters before we start with the actual story with that in mind chapter one will be edited and changed drastically and he current chapter will be scrapped and made anew. Any questions, comments, or concerns will be appreciated.

also if you guys couldn’t tell I’m having a hard writers block, nothings coming to my mind and sometimes I get other story prompts for other fandoms or just ideas that would just spiral into a whole new project so that’s why I have been seemingly dead.

I hope this addresses the problem and also why I’ve been on hiatus, I will be looking back at this question for help so thank you for writing and putting much thought into my idea!

not proofread btw…

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

Yo I was RIGHT?!?!

[coweye]

The Worst Logan

Logan Howlett x Reader!Loganverse| smut | 5.8k words

Summary: You are the deceased-anchor-being-Logan's lover, having found yourself with Laura in the void, you navigate meeting the variant of the love of your life. Sweet dick kicking angst with gratuitous smut, cause we all know Logan eats pussy like a CHAMP. 😤

This is self indulgence at its finest, but it had be to done. 7-years ago, the movie Logan broke something within me that has finally been fixed! 🤠💕

Warning: Explicit - smut. canon death, depression, angst, spoilers for Logan / Wolverine and deadpool, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, creampie, all the good stuff. 18+

The first time you see him again, the new him, the other him you mean. It’s in the cave accompanied by a man who talks far too much.

You recognise his voice in an instant when the mouth finally allows him to get a word in edgeways. His voice. 

You’ve heard it nearly every night for the past seven years. It's a few octaves deeper than you remember and filled to the brim with vitriol but it's definitely his. The realisation that your memory has been warped by time is a blow to the gut but you continue towards the sound all the same.

When finally you round the corner Logan stands before you in all his glory. For a moment you are rendered utterly unable to form a single sentence as he leans against the wall, a bottle of bourbon in his palm and adorned in yellow and blue.

Your mind can't reconcile this figure as the man you buried. He has the same sneer, the same broad shoulders, he even has the same stance - but Logan, your Logan, would rather die than wear that garish yellow suit and admit to being the hero he always was. 

His nose flares in what you believe to be recognition as he smells your presence, you allow your powers to retreat and reveal yourself. As your invisibility ebbs away Logan snarls in surprise as the talkative man in red gasps theatrically and begins jumping on the spot. 

Your fears are proven well founded when your eyes connect with his across the room, instead of the love and recognition, you find only open hostility and rage.

Your heart had bulldozed all logic, you were in the fucking void, of course it was a variant.

This Logan looks younger; his hair not so grey, his face unscarred and his eyes not so tired. 

This not-quite-Logan stares right back at you seemingly ill at ease with the stranger who is currently taking an inventory of his face. 

“Logan, that's them. It’s X-23 and Y/N, the one’s I told you about.” You graze your palm along your daughter's back in support as you come to stand beside her. 

“Her name is Laura.” It’s a knee jerk reaction; your correction. Your girl wasn’t the sum total of an experiment, she was her own person with her own thoughts and feelings, not a weapon to be utilised. 

The Wolverine’s gaze darts between the two of you, it’d be comical if you didn’t feel like you were about to regurgitate your lunch. They land on Laura, and linger there for a few moments, before they return to you, it's as if he’s trying to find you in her features. 

You barely hear the man you will later come to know fondly as Wade Wilson, question how you all ended up in the void.

“There was a knock at the door TVA sent me here, saying my world was dying … and I never even got the chance to fight for it.” Blade explains remorsefully. 

“They sent us here because they knew we’d put up a fight.” You utter distractedly, finally breaking your staring contest with Logan as he takes a swig from the bottle he’s currently white knuckling. 

“People like us don’t go quietly, TVA knows that so they took us out.” Elektra attests.

“The answer is yes, I’m in.” Wade declares.

“In what?” Blade questions bemused by the man in red. 

“A team up, you me, me you, all of us together, lets get the fuck outta’ here.”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s a fucking liar!” Logan growls, furious at the other man. 

“It was an educated wish!”

“HA!” The loathing behind it makes you pause, he was so angry. 

The heat in his voice, the resentment, it burns you. You supposed even your Logan had his fair share of rage.  

When he arrived at the mansion all those years ago, fresh faced and wild, you had adored him even then, though Logan was far too preoccupied with Jean to notice the torch you carried for him back then.

It was ironic that It had taken the utter annihilation of the X-Men to bring you together. Charles’ accident had left the two of you as sole survivors. Over the years in hiding your ability to mould force fields managed to keep the worst of the effects of Charles’ seizures at bay, but Charles Xavier was one of the most powerful telepaths to grace the earth and your powers had limits. 

Those years were some of the darkest and yet the best of your life, you found yourself growing to love the man the world called The Wolverine.

You realise you’ve entirely tuned out Wade’s rousing speech and have spent the time analysing the man wearing your love’s face currently gargling bourbon though your name pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Laura, Y/N? What’s it gonna’ be girlies?” 

“Lets fucking go.” Laura agrees heartily, you simply nod still dazed. 

“YES! LET’S FUCKING GO!” Wade shouts back fist pumping. 

“You’re all fucking dead.”

Much later in the evening when the sun has finally set you seek him out. When you come across the father and daughter duo before the campfire you hold back, your skin slowly begins reflecting light, fading from vision as you call upon your powers to hide in the treeline. 

They both needed this and it wasn’t something you were about to get in the way of. They talk for a little while, before they part ways, both a little teary. Laura nods your way despite being unable to see you as she heads back to the cave, her nose just as keen as her fathers. 

So it shouldn’t surprise you a few moments later when you hear Logan's voice call across the clearing.

“You gonna’ stand there all night, Bub?” The man sounds utterly exhausted. 

You say nothing in response, only dismissing your powers and revealing yourself as you advance. You take Laura’s seat at the fire, not quite having the courage to look at him just yet. 

“You hear all that? Should mind your own damn business.” You remembered this Logan well, the one aching for a fight, desperate to shed his vulnerability and bloody his fists. 

“I didn’t hear a thing, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, you haven’t had to gentle parent The Wolverine in a while but it’s like riding a bike. “I wanted to let the two of you talk, she needed it and I think maybe you did too.”

“What do you fuckin’ know.” He growls dismissively, swigging from his bottle of what now appears to be scotch. “You can skip the speech and go back up, I’m not looking for company.” 

“I’m not here to tell you what to do, Logan.” Finally, you look away from the fire and find his eyes fixed on you, you swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “I just wanted to see you.”

“See me?” He questions incredulously. “Well, keep the change, bub. Good night.”

Despite your smile at his words, you can’t help the tears that begin to cloud your eyes. Your mind and your heart have been locked in a constant battle since setting eyes on him. This man by all rights is Logan. The man you have mourned relentlessly and yet in every way that matters he isn’t.

“It’s like seeing a ghost.” Is the only explanation you can give him, his response is a stoic cheers with his bottle before he takes a deep gulp. 

Finally either his curiosity or the alcohol gets the better of him as he questions. “You her Mother?” 

“Yes and no.” His stare doesn’t leave your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “Her biological mother was a woman from Mexico City that the fuckers in the lab exploited, all we know is that she disappeared after giving birth. After … you … after everything that happened in North Dakota…” You trail off.

Your voice is suddenly thick and your words get stuck in your throat as you try to make them form. It's utterly embarrassing as you feel the traitor tears begin to form. 

A bottle of Johnny Walker enters your field of vision from where you sit staring at your clasped hands in your lap. Startled, you glance up to find the Wolverine standing before you, casting an impossibly large shadow as he holds out the bottle.

You accept the offering from his gloved hand, your fingers grazing his in the transaction as you take a swig or two (or three) before passing it back. He looks thoughtful when he places his lips on the place where your own had just lingered, as he retakes his seat. With amber courage coursing your veins, you continue. 

“She was all I had - if not for her, I-.” You wipe your nose, staring back into the fire. If it was a struggle to meet his eyes before, it was impossible for you now.  “I just couldn’t see the point in being alive anymore if everything just slowly gets stripped away; the X-Men, then Charles and then Lo-” 

You don’t know it, but you’re preaching to the fucking choir with your words. It was rare to find a soul, going through the exact same torture as yourself. Logan found himself softening to you, it was as involuntary as it was unwelcome, but he couldn’t help it as you described a battle so close to the one he fought daily. 

“-she reminded me what I had to live for. Laura she is fierce and so fucking kind; she is everything I loved about him.” You cut your trauma dumping to a swift end as you remember yourself. “So no, to answer your question. I’m not her biological mother, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.”

Silence reigns for a moment as neither one of you knows what to say to the other. 

“You loved him?” Logan’s voice is deeper than before when he speaks the sentence. You raise your eyes from the fire to find his for the first time since you began monologuing. They’re filled with something you can’t quite name.

“I did.”

Logan seems to contemplate this, mulling it over as he continues drinking. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion.  “You should get some sleep, big day for you tomorrow.”

“Can I stay here … with you for tonight?” The words slip out before you really even mean them to. Tomorrow you might be going to your death and the ghost of the love of your life is here alive and real, what do you really have to lose?

Logan does a double take, not quite expecting those to be the words that leave your lips. “I’m not him, Darlin’.”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” You sigh, “but could you please just hold me whilst I sleep, James?”

A huge part of you expects him to tell you to fuck off back to the cave and leave him to his booze fueled pity party. However, against all odds, he doesn’t do that. 

Logan simply lifts the half full bottle of scotch to his lips and downs every last drop. He’s a little unsteady on his feet when finally he stands up to his full height and turns towards the blankets he’s laid out on the ground. 

“Fuck it.” He growls and drops himself like a sack of potatoes onto the pile with little regard for his own body. You’ve certainly had nicer invitations into his bed but when he waves you over with a lazy gesture, you can’t help but hurry before he changes his mind. 

Before you know it you’re tucked into Logan’s side. His gloved hand doesn’t quite seem to know where to go, more accustomed to brutality than tenderness these days as it hesitates for a moment suspended in the air. After some careful consideration he delicately places it on the dip in your waist securing you to him. 

Logan’s breath is uneven, though he’s doing his best to seem unaffected by your closeness. It has been years since someone has touched him with such easy affection and the way your body curls around his own as if it was created to do just that is driving him crazy. 

You are completely at ease with him, you trust him so entirely it almost breaks his fucking heart. Logan's stomach is heavy with something he can’t name, you fucking terrify him. Yet, he doesn’t move because you feel so fucking good as he holds you. 

It's scary, you realise, how easy it would be to pretend this was your Logan as you melt into his embrace. He smells exactly the same as you bury your face in his neck, the roughness of his beard feels the same pressed against your forehead. 

This Wolverine’s arms are a little fuller and his chest a little firmer, but he still holds you the same. You make a decision to not focus on such difficult philosophical concepts as variants and the morality of switching out your Wolverine. You decide to live in the moment, to just enjoy the furnace of his body keeping you warm and his arm encircling your waist protecting you from the world, it’s so easy to pretend that this was your Logan, so you do. 

And you fall asleep quicker than you have in years.

It is still night when you awaken, it's not quite dawn but the fire has burned out to a low smoulder. You’re not sure what has awoken you from the best sleep you’ve had in a long while, that is until you feel the arms wrapped around you and the sleeping Wolverine holding you in a death grip against his chest, his half hard appendage digging into your hip. 

Everything is still hazy; you’re floating in that sweet spot between waking and dreaming, you forget about North Dakota and, god forgive me, Laura. 

You’re back in your bed at home and Logan is holding you.

There's no my logan, new logan, old logan. 

He’s just Logan. 

You bury yourself deeper in his neck. 

It’s only for a moment though before it all comes flooding back and the agony overwhelms you like a blade to the gut. 

Instantly tears flood your cheeks as you shake from your silent sobs. 

“...Y/N?” Logan's voice is thick with confusion and sleep, his grip has loosened somewhat to allow you to breathe but he doesn’t release his hold on you. “What’s wrong darlin’?” 

That affectionate name is the last nail in the coffin it fucking ends you. 

All teary, and regrettably maybe a teensy bit snotty, you lean forward and kiss him. Kiss isn’t the right word but it’s your intention. Your lips touch one anothers before he’s pulling away and holding you back. 

“Y/n… Darlin’ you don’t want this… I’m not-”

“But you are Logan. You’re him just as much as he’s you.” Your hands rise to his jaw, running your finger along its familiar sharp edge. “You’re Logan.”

“Y/N… I’d be taking advantage…” His voice is firm yet gruff as he tries to inject reason into the conversation. As usual being the good guy he’s constantly telling everyone he’s not. 

“I am so goddamn sick and tired of being sad, please Logan.” This time when you capture his lips, he doesn’t rear back. You’re not sure what’s going through his mind, but his self control seems to snap within him as he begins returning the kiss in earnest.

Logan’s tongue swipes along your bottom lip begging entry, entry you swiftly allow. You’re breathing heavily through your nose as he plunders the depths of your mouth, exploring your mouth with his quick tongue. 

Deciding to make the next move you push yourself up, throwing a leg over him to straddle his lower stomach. He’s lifted the top half of his body to ensure he doesn’t lose your mouth, your teeth clash slightly with the movement and you can’t help a bubble of nervous laughter.  He pays it little mind though as he swallows the noise, his hands coming to rest on your hips. 

Instantly, you grind your hips downward on the growing bulge that lurks below. Logan lets out a deep groan at the friction and his hands on your hips raise to the bottom of your tee in response, his thick hands tugging at it requesting your permission.

Nodding, you pull back causing him to groan at the loss of your hot mouth on his. Though it's only for a moment as the second the tee is over your head, he’s back on you, only it's your bare neck he’s lashing with affection now.

Logan breathes in deep your scent mixing with the heady aroma of your arousal. He’s nipping and licking along the smooth skin, soothing his bites as quickly he makes them. It's the animal instinct within him, telling him to devour you entirely; make you his. 

“Logan…” You gasp, your eyes are clenched shut in pleasure as he bucks his hips upwards into your jean covered centre.  

Logan pulls back to take you in, writhing above him in the moonlight, you’re fucking beautiful, though the flash of familiar metal between your breasts catches his eye, unable to stop himself, he catches it in his fist. 

Dog tags; his old dog tags.

‘LOGAN’ is etched into the aged metal and they’re warm to the touch from living beneath your shirt over your heart. 

The realisation hits him like a freight train, not only was he loved by you, but for his other self to have given you these, he fucking loved you. 

He’s not sure why it didn’t occur to him before, that the other him was as devoted to you as you were to him. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, but he twists his hands, careful not to snap the metal string, but using it to pull you close. 

For the other dead Logan, the hero he’s heard so goddamn much about, he decides he’ll give you the treatment you deserve. 

As if you weigh nothing at all he flips you onto your back, his hands dropping the dog tags and falling to the waistband of your jeans. His dexterous hands undo the button so quickly, that your trousers are peeled from your legs before you know it, leaving you in an unimpressive unmatching set of underwear beneath his roaming eyes. Though Logan couldn’t give a fuck as he groans at the sight of your body exposed to him. 

Logan begins by kissing down your stomach before his hands linger on your black panties, he can't help but grin at the tiny barely there bow in the middle of them; you’re like a gift all wrapped up for him. 

His eyes lift to meet your own as he begins sucking at the fabric that's keeping your pussy from him, it's already damp with your arousal and by the time he finishes, absolutely sodden with his saliva.

“Logan, please…” you whisper desperately as your hands find his ‘tufts’ for a lack of a better word. They were new, but you liked them, plus they now seemed pretty functional. 

He takes only a moment to remove his gloves, before they return eagerly to your body. Those thick hands traverse the planes of your thighs, they’re quick in their passing as they make their way up to the waistband of your panties, he hooks them over his thumb and reveals your soaking core to his hungry eyes and he’s right back to wanting to fucking devour you, and boy, fucking does he. 

Enthusiastic, would be the word, earth-shattering would be another - the word to describe how Logan eats pussy.

Logan without much preamble dives into your centre, his tongue slips into your hot wet heat, lingering for a moment on your clit, circling it reverently before he dips that talented tongue inside of you. His nose knocks against your clit several times, each more delicious than the last as he utterly devours your pussy. He moans, grinding his hips into the dirt and readjusts pulling you closer, his thick muscled arms locking under your thighs as you buck against his mouth. 

You're a complete goner the second he slips a single long thick finger inside of you. 

“Fuck, Lo, I’m gonna-” 

“Come, baby... I got’ya.” He mumbles into your pussy. And fuck me, he does. He carries on lapping at you all the way through your orgasm, drawing it out of you like the pied fucking piper of pussy. It feels like you’ve been falling for hours by the time you finally come down, only Logan doesn’t allow you any reprieve before he’s back to lashing your clit with his quick tongue. Your hands find those faux ear tufts once more and he groans as you pull on them a little more sharply than you intend in your shock, in answer Two fingers bury themselves deep inside of you.

“One more.” He’s negotiating orgasms, but you have no qualms as he rubs his nose side to side with affection against your sensitive bud. His tongue and nose moving in pace with his fingers, currently fucking in and out of you. 

It's when he scissors those thick long fingers inside of you, hitting that spongy spot within you that makes your back arch. 

Your top half has left the ground, he grunts in annoyance, suspending your hips back to his mouth at the angle he likes. Those deep hazel eyes meet yours from between your thighs, crazed and animalistic, driven wild with arousal as he eats your pussy with gusto.

It's that image that thrusts you over the edge once more, your back hitting the ground as your body seizes, thrusting your hips against his mouth. 

Without any preamble a third finger joins stretching you deliciously. The hand not currently fucking you, leaves your hip to caress your stomach stroking the flesh there, not quite able to reach your breast. 

“Lo… fuck… yes… right… right fucking there.” You cry as he draws your second orgasm of the night out, only when you tug at his tuft due to overstimulation does he acquiesce and pull back, only of course, after cleaning up your gaping desperate hole. 

He sucks his fingers clean as he sits back on his knees, his cock thick and tenting against the yellow bottoms of his suit. Your arousal has soaked through his beard making his chin slick, he wipes it with a single swipe with the back of hand though, it does very little for his sodden chin. 

Tired of not touching him, you sit forward grabbing at his belt. It's a difficult contraption that confounds you, though Logan is far too wound up to find any humour from it. 

 He replaces your hands unbuckling the thing before finding the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. 

There, finally in all his glory, he is exposed to you and you’ve never been a religious woman, but Mary mother of fucking christ, he is gorgeous. Logan’s chest is fucking… transcendant to behold, it's like he’s been sculpted by god herself, the light isn’t the best out of here, but you hope to god you don’t die tomorrow simply for wanting to take your time and lick each and every single one of those muscles on his stomach. 

Its your turn to leap forward onto your knees and join his mouth with yours, he tastes distinctly of you and his chin is still sodden, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck, you love the fact your desire is still marking his skin. 

Your hands trace the firm abs at your disposal, before dipping into his now open trousers and underwear to find him rock hard. 

If his physique impressed you, you had a big storm coming, because his cock was a fucking resplendant beauty and it was plain to see from the swelling Logan really liked eating pussy. 

Your fingers barely touched as you pumped him, once twice, spreading the copious amounts of precum along his shaft.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your mouth. You lean down, positioning yourself to take him in your mouth, though he stops you in your tracks grabbing your shoulder. “No sweetheart, I want your pussy.” You clench around nothing at his filthy words, this man will be the fucking death of you. 

You reach behind you and free your tits from their confines, another moan leaves his throat as he pushes you backwards. On his hands and knees he’s deliberate with every move as kicks the bottoms of his suit off as he prowls towards you.

Finally, he’s in between your legs naked as the day he was born. His hands are on your breasts, exploring the new plains exposed to him, playing with your nipples alternating between sucking and twirling them between his fingers. 

So lost in his skilled hands, you barely notice when one disappears to line himself up, it's a shock, the sudden intrusion, but not an unwelcome one as he thrusts himself forward and as deep as he can go. 

You moan his name into his ear, doing your best to keep your volume down.

He has prepared you well, you’re so worked up that he slides home through your tight slit. The sheer size of him means it's a stretch that borders on uncomfortable, but the second his hand finds your clit you’re clenching around him and grinding forward, desperate for more. Unable to control himself, his claws extend, he grunts pulling you close and thrusting them down into the ground. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts into your neck, where he's busy lavishing the flesh once again with bites. Your neck is going to be black and blue tomorrow, but you can’t find it in you to give a single fuck.

The two of you are so fucking close his bare skin so deliciously hot against your own, but you want more, you need more.

Logan pulls his hips backwards, pulling out of you until only the tip remains before slamming home and spearing you wide open his cock. Your moans blend together as you lose yourself in each other's bodies.

Logan is worked up from eating your cunt, so it doesn’t take long for the sensation to hit him.

“Fuck, where do you want it?” He grunts into your neck, as his hand descends to rub quick circles on your clit. He pulls your ass up, making sure to hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

You know he’s teetering on the edge, desperate to make you cum before he does. 

“Inside - come inside me, baby.” You whimper into his neck as he pounds into you reaching your deepest recesses with his thick cock, his hammering, it’s unforgiving with his enhanced strength but it pushes him deeper into spots you couldn’t have imagined. He groans at your words, sounding every bit the wounded animal he is. Your shared groans and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass as he takes you again, and again is all that can be heard in the clearing. 

Finally as he joins your lips in a kiss, you come hard on his cock. Clenching around him as your body writhes uncontrollably. 

Logan adjusts his hold on your thighs, now he uses your body, drawing out your pleasure but ultimately chasing his own. The pace is fast as he grunts and groans erotically into your neck, he fucking growls as his hips stutter against your own, and you know you should be more careful, but the thought of him cumming inside you has you gripping his cock like a vice once more. You give him a tight sheath to come in, and he pumps you fucking full of his cum and its a big fucking load. Logan thrusts a few more times, pushing his seed deep inside of you as he claims your mouth once more.

You run your hands through his hair as he lets his body fall against yours, he’s supporting his own weight, thank god, you don’t think you could handle his muscle, let alone the adamantium skeleton. He’s still sheathed inside you as the two of you revel in the closeness.

The silence stretches on for an amount of time you can’t quite quantify. The two of you take in your surroundings, listening to the quiet of the forest, until your breathing has finally calmed down. 

Logan lifts himself up on one arm, and pushes your hair back from your face. You stare at him in the moonlight for a long moment, unable to help yourself as you trace his familiar features. His strong nose and the curve of his brow, your finger dances along his flesh. 

Logan’s eyes close, so touch starved he basks in your affection. 

“I-” Logan goes to speak, before you drop your finger on his lips.

“It’s okay. Whatever happens tomorrow, happens. I’m okay with it.” You smile at him, there's a chill to the air but you’ve got your Wolverine warming you up. “I just wanted one night to be about something other than death.”

He takes your hand from his lips and kisses along the back of it and up your wrist, though It's a slippery slope as he hardens inside of you again. 

Logan manages to pull two more orgasms out of you before dawn.

When your time has run out, the two of you finally dress, not wanting to be found in a compromising position. Logan curls his body around yours and buries his face in your hair as he spoons you from behind. 

Just when you’re just on the cusp of sleep, he finally speaks into the night. Logan opens up about his world tearfully, instantly you reach your hand down, finding his own thicker one resting on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his. He tells you of the mutant hunting as you draw comforting circles on the back of his hand, it's not much, but it's more than he’s ever had whilst reliving his worst day. When he has finally bared his soul, the two of you fall back into silence. 

After what has been an emotionally, not to mention physically taxing night the two of you finally fall asleep if only for a few more hours, two incredibly damaged souls offering one another comfort.

It’s later in the morning when you finally awake. The sun has risen that much is clear but you're slow to awaken from your comfortable position in Logan's arms, his warm strong body coiled against your back fighting off the worst of the early morning chill, his face still buried in your hair as he snores peacefully.

There’s a sensation niggling at you, you think it's what woke you up in the first place; you can’t shake the sensation of being watched. 

Lazily you open your eyes, only for your heart to drop to your asshole when you find Wade Wilson about 10-inches from your face lying on his side, his head supported by his hand.

“Mornin’ sleepy head, have a good night?” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“AGH!”  Unable to stop both your cry of fear and your fight or flight response in progress, you throw yourself backwards, your powers activating of their own accord, and slamming your body into Logan’s chest. He startles awake, with the telltale ‘snikt’ of his claws extending as he orientates himself, his arm coming out to block you from the threat, despite not being able to see you. 

After your brain catches up, you call your power back, but Logan doesn’t do the same, keeping his claws out seemingly ready to slice up his not-so-best friend. 

“Get the fuck outta’ here, Wade.” Logan growls harshly at the other man, his voice is filled to the brim with hatred.

“Hmph - this is what I get for acting altruistically. I thought a good stress relieving bone in the woods with your cherie amour would really sort out that bee in your bonnet, but you sir are just a very unpleasant man and I’m worried that-”

“WADE.” This time Logan’s voice is a threat as he shouts at the man. You place a hand on his muscled arm to steady him. Though he may have stopped your heart with his antics, Wade isn’t doing anything particularly outrageous.  Logan shakes your hand from his arm and allows his claws to retract as he stands. 

“Thanks for jumping to my defence there, Y/N. Great to meetcha bt-dubs, huge fan.” You’re disoriented from the wakeup call but you shake the hand he offers you.  Honestly, you’re still trying to process the head-fuckery of the past day, so you don’t have a quick response for him, though the mouth doesn’t seem to mind as he continues. “That mean lil’ lady is asking for ya’. Thought I’d come and check you and big yellow weren’t still bumpin’ uglies. Didn’t want her to see you and Papa going to town on each other's fun parts.”

“Uh - Thanks… Wade?” 

“That’s me.” He theatrically begins bestowing multiple kisses on the back of your hand he still had in his grasp, which you retract gently. “Oh, and we’re done.”

Pushing yourself up, you go to stand though Logan offers you his newly gloved palm. You lock your fingers around his and the two of you stand together, inches apart and your fingers still intertwined, neither quite sure what to say to the other. Wade’s ‘awh’ over your shoulder shatters the moment and he drops your hand instantaneously. 

After a beat or two Logan leans forward, placing a single solitary kiss on your forehead. “See ya’ around, bub.”

“Where’s my smooch, Logie-bear?”

“Go fuck yourself, Wade.” He calls as he walks around, Logan doesn’t look back as he heads off into the forest. 

You still had faith he’d turn up for the fight, Logan always turned up when it counted and you knew this time would be no different. 

“Hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.” Wade sighs linking his arm with yours. 

“Mmh, You can say that again.” You agree with the clown watching Logan’s ass as he walks away, you swear you see his step falter thanks to his impeccable hearing, but he doesn’t turn back. 

The two of you turn and you begin walking back to the cave arm in arm with the strange man to prepare for the assault on Cassandra’s lair when Wade finally asks the question you know he’s been dying to ask since meeting you “So, Y/N just between us girls… how big is it?”

LOGAN TENDER HAIR TUCK SUPREMACY RISE. I'll use it in every fic, don't think I won't.

Thanks for reading xxx

Graphics by my pal - @saradika-graphics 💕

[curryshesus]

jeon jungkook fics that had me going feral

hi guys, here's a part 2 to my favorite jjk fics on tumblr! note that many of these fics contain 18+ content. you are responsible for the content you consume! as always, if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, please take a moment to send some love to the authors! part 1 | other bts members

➺ cold nights & blurred lines - by @awrkive

summary: jungkook and you have been in a sexual relationship with each other for four months now, and it’s casual for the most part. but as time passes, you can’t help but feel that some of the lines suddenly got blurred in the process. is it a cliché to blur the lines with your fuck buddy? it definitely is. will you do something about it? both of your emotional constipation have a hard time saying yes.

➺ night crawlers - by @alphabetboyluvr

summary: jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

➺ this is how you fall in love - by @jeonqkooks

summary: after years of drinking and clubbing most days of the week and leaving every gig with a different girl on his arm, jungkook feels what it’s like to want someone with his entire being.

➺ the dilf installments - by @mercurygguk

summary: this series follows jungkook’s life as a divorced father. but wait, how exactly does one balance being a father, a boyfriend, a friend, and a respectable boss at the same time? read the installments below to find out!

➺ ultimatum - by @parkmuse

summary: your pervy, idiotic boyfriend just so happens to also be your friendly neighborhood Spider-man (in bed).

➺ a hero's journey - by @hansolmates

summary: jungkook and jisoo are the mightiest power couple. however, one drunken confession and that whole facade fades in an instant. you realize that maybe you need to break from your unvaried life for a bit and be the hero of your own love story

➺ tempest - by @kooktrash

summary: you’ve always considered your life to be more mundane than you would like to admit. it was a constant cycle of the same things over and over again that when you meet jeon jungkook at a bar, of all places, you didn’t expect to see just how much he would change your life and those around you. he’s got an air of mystery around him with his charming good looks and a violent past that you slowly begun to unravel when it feels like everything is going perfect.

➺ by its cover - by @gimmesumsuga

summary: the one where Jungkook makes a horrifically bad first impression.

➺ slow dancing - by @yoonia

summary: when your countdown appeared on your wrist right in the morning of your eighteenth birthday, you had thought that perhaps the universe was on your side, especially since the final seconds were already ticking so soon. You just never expected to have your first meeting with your soulmate to be the day when you had to let him go. But hope was not lost when you still found love without the bond, and Jungkook showed you that it was possible to find happiness beyond the system that was written for you. Except that the universe doesn’t seem to have enough of its game, when your past sacrifice comes back hitting you straight in the face, just when you had believed that you had written off the perfect ending to your bittersweet tale.

➺ e s p r e s s o - by @joonberriess

➺ hold me closer - by @ahundredtimesover

summary: when you're asked to look after your parents' house and meet them before they go on vacation, you, Jimin, and Jungkook take the trip to your hometown of Busan and relive memories of your youth. While your new relationship has you feeling like a lovesick teenager with all the affection that Jungkook shows you, you're still you - a professional trying to make it in the corporate world, and an eldest child trying not to disappoint her parents. And that turns out to be your undoing, as a little blunder causes a rift between you and Jungkook, resulting in a trip that you might as well have messed up… Not if your brother can help it, though.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: My comms are discounted for a limited time for Black Friday btw. This is a kofi request, so if you want more then send me a Kofi~ it’s a snow leopard hybrid ^^

Being abandoned by your owner in the middle of winter was already not ideal, but being caught in a record breaking blizzard was definitely worse.

You could sense it coming. Being a cat hybrid had its perks, but you almost wished you were blissfully unaware of your imminent demise.

It had been a few hours since your owner drove off, leaving you in a torn hoodie and your thin pajama pants. He hadn’t known the risks of owning a cat hybrid such as yourself, and when you went into heat and started rubbing your scent on everything and biting him to try and claim his as your mate, he abandoned you.

It really hurt. You adored your owner, thinking he was different from other humans who simply saw you as a pet.

But you were wrong. He tossed you away without a second thought, leaving you to die. Had you really meant that little to him?

Despite your sadness, you curled up under a bench, shivering as you tried to keep yourself warm. Even being in heat wasn’t helping much, the ache in your belly only adding to the discomfort and pain you were feeling.

You wanted to be warm, to nest and be properly bred by a kind male. Maybe that was too much for a house cat hybrid such as yourself to ask. Thinking you were worth something led you here after all…

As the snow only continued to fall, you tried your best to stay warm. It was only to try and find the most comfort you could while waiting for your death.

You weren’t accustomed to taking care of yourself. Ever since your birth, food had been handed to you, beautiful clothes and jewelry adorning your body when it came time for you to be presented before humans for sale.

Before this, you had never worried about warmth or sustenance, simply relying on your owner.

What else could you do?

As you thought all hope was loss, a scent other than the cold and wet smell of snow wafted through the air, a familiar yet strange one.

It an instant the bench was ripped from its foundation, a figure bending down to examine you.

Your vision was a bit blurry, but you could smell it.

This was a wild hybrid.

In the past you heard tales of such beasts, hybrids that fled to the wild to escape human subjugation, but because you were a pampered house cat hybrid, you had yet to encounter one.

“Lost, little one?”

Your tail puffed out as you let out a weak hiss, watching as the hybrid’s face got closer to yours. He smelled like blood, perhaps he had just procured a fresh kill and was looking to add to his winter stockpile.

At least if he killed you, it would be a quicker death than freezing. Perhaps this was some kind of twisted mercy…

But you never felt his fangs puncture your throat, instead your hoodie was being bitten, your body lifted and carried by his strong jaws.

He was taking you somewhere. Where? You could only guess back to his den. It would be easier to kill your there instead of risking the scent of blood being left on the snow, leading back to his home.

Although you were afraid, the big cat was warm. His breath fanned against your neck, and your body reacted against your will, producing enticing pheromones that told any hybrid nearby that you were in heat.

He was soft, and for some reason you felt something being wrapped around you��� some kind of furs from one of his hunts. Why would he bother to keep you warm? Did he prefer his prey fresh and didn’t want you to freeze to death?

None of this really mattered to you. You were cold, hungry, and exhausted. If you slept now, perhaps you would be unconscious when the time came and pass on in your sleep.

So you passed out, too tired to even notice how his pheromones responded to yours.

When you awoke, you were in bed. Your owner had never allowed you to sleep with him, so this was the first time you had been in a human bed and not one for pets.

The blankets were made of the same furs you had been cloaked in before. You sat up slowly, still processing what led you to this.

Being abandoned right before a blizzard… nearly freezing to death… a wolf hybrid taking you with him…

It was a lot to think about, and even with a now well rested mind your head was still spinning. Maybe a meal would help you make sense of this…

“You’re awake…”

You stiffened at the voice, your blood running cold. When you finally found the courage to turn and look at the source of it, you nearly passed out again.

In the doorway was a snow leopard hybrid, his cat ears flicking as he stared down at you. He was nearly twice your size, and thoughts of you beating him in a fight went down the drain immediately.

“Thought you were a goner for a bit. Tougher than you look.”

He spoke slowly, his eyes on your plump form. You weren't sure what he was thinking, and before you could respond your belly rumbled.

“Hungry, huh?”

His long, thick tail swayed behind him as he approached. Although he was tall, he was thin and lean, not the same type of terrifying a lion or tiger hybrid would be, but still holding the same predatory glint in his eye.

“Kittens in heat such as yourself have to eat.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Of course he could tell you were in season, your scent was probably overwhelming at this distance.

He tilted his head. “Not wild, are you? What’s a little thing such as yourself doing all the way out here?”

Your lip wobbled. All the pain, all the anger and confusion came bubbling to the surface.

“My owner… he just… he left me all alone… a-and it was scary, I…”

The snow leopard stared at you, letting you cry before he leaned down to lick away you tears before beginning to groom you.

This calmed you significantly, a soft purr rumbling in your chest. This was a comfort you had been denied since you had been separated from your litter as a kitten, and you couldn’t help but lean in as he licked back your hair.

“It’ll be alright. You’re mine now, my property. You won’t be cold or scared anymore.”

He rubbed his cheek against yours, moving his face to your neck and giving a harsh bite to your sensitive flesh, a clear marking of his territory.

While you ate, it was clear he was holding himself back from something. His golden eyes followed your every move, his tail swaying behind him almost sending you into a trance like state.

You usually ate whatever your owner did, even if it made you sick or upset your sensitive belly, but tonight you had stew, made with cat hybrids in mind.

Once you had your fill, your body was able to recover enough to start producing more pheromones. It was well aware there was a male nearby and that you were fertile, so it made your cunt grow wet and hot, ensuring you’d be easy for the average male to penetrate.

But unfortunately your stupid body didn’t understand the male before you was twice your size. He could sense your heat, knew that your body was trying to stir him forward.

He sniffed at you. This was the scent that had interested him. It wasn’t like he was cruel, if a female such as yourself was in need he wouldn’t just abandon you in the cold, but the fact you were plump and in heat certainly made taking you in much more enticing.

You let out a startled mew when he approached, his face burying itself into your neck. His tongue lapped softly at the scent gland there, his hands moving to hold onto your hips.

From the moment he saw you, he knew that you would be his mate. The bond had been formed before you even noticed he was there, and the snow leopard was eager to confirm it.

You smelled like heaven, a mix of your natural musk and some kind of sweet perfume your owner had you wear. Tearing off your clothes was child’s play for his sharp claws, and his body vibrated with purrs once he laid eyes on your naked form.

Already he was imagining your belly heavy and swollen with his kits, his hand gently pressing against the fat of your tummy. Being fat and plump was good for surveying the harsh climate where he lived, and it was important for females to be fed fresh meat throughout the winter.

His cock hardened, it wasn’t going to be easy fitting into such a small cat hybrid. Compared to him you were like a mouse, easily positioned however he wanted.

His fingers dipped into you, making you mewl and arch your back. You had already been bucking your hips like a needy little thing, your body desperate to be mated before your heat was over.

His cock stretched you out. It was unpleasant at best, almost painful as you struggled to take in something too big for you.

Even though he was being gentle, nothing would help when you were never meant to be bred by a big cat such as himself.

Despite this, your heat ridden body made it work, beat pooling into your abdomen as your gushed around his fat cock. Your tail twitched as he slowly pulled out and pushed back in without warning, a bulge forming in your belly from the sheer size of him.

The feeling of being ravished by him was… exhilarating. You were too small, too weak to do anything besides moan and writhe underneath him, letting the snow leopard use you as a living flesh light to be filled with his seed.

Even though it felt like you were being torn apart at first, his finger slowly rubbing at your clit and his tip hitting your special spot over and over has your cunt clenching around him before you could even think.

If you hadn’t been in heat, you most likely would have died during the mating session, but while you were in season your body produced so much more lubricant and pheromones that helped you take him inside of you.

You felt so warm when he came inside, thick ropes of hot and sticky cum filling your little womb. Your heat eased a bit as you were thoroughly bred. You knew that this would ensure pregnancy, even if all you had to go off of was instinct alone.

“Little one…”

He purred into your ear, keeping his cock inside of you to make sure none of his cum leaked out. His tongue licked at your neck and hair again, grooming you out of affection now.

“My mate, my sweetheart… I’ll take care of you, alright?”

And that was enough for you. Now all you wanted was a mate and somewhere warm to sleep with three meals a day. It was clear that he could provide that.

So you slept without worry, curled up with your mate, your new provider.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say—there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really. 

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat. 

Well, most of the time. 

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store? 

Total dream job. 

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong? 

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like: 

“Can you work nights?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool, you’re hired.” 

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate. 

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across. 

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear. 

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits. 

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask). 

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur. 

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe. 

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule. 

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being. 

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait. 

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns. 

And looks directly at you. 

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?” 

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks. 

Gasp. 

So we can cross mute off the list. 

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh. 

Almost. 

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment. 

Excuse me? 

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume. 

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look. 

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf. 

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction. 

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics. 

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?” 

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged. 

“No.” 

You blink. 

“No?” 

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.” 

You blink again. 

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes. 

This man is dead serious. 

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious. 

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death. 

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger. 

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie. 

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face. 

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N. 

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?” 

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood. 

He does not smile back. 

Not even a flicker. 

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life. 

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall. 

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager. 

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans. 

Your jaw drops slightly. 

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?” 

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face. 

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.” 

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.” 

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.” 

Silence. 

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review. 

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.” 

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him. 

“You mean regular spicy.” 

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.” 

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here. 

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store. 

“Hello?” 

Oh. Right. Your job. 

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible. 

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two. 

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.” 

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.” 

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you. 

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic. 

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore? 

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent. 

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness. 

The first? 

Insomnia. 

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread. 

And the second? 

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk. 

Yes, it’s a weird combo. 

No, he doesn’t care. 

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world. 

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace. 

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm. 

Does he have a problem? Absolutely. 

Is he addicted? Without a doubt. 

Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent. 

Well, except for last night. 

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen. 

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with. 

And the worst part? 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible. 

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome. 

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter. 

Yup, there she is. 

You. 

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice. 

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him. 

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight. 

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are. 

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk. 

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night. 

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again. 

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds. 

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen. 

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?” 

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night. 

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’” 

Okay, ouch. 

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not. 

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off. 

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.” 

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know. 

Do you recognize him? 

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something. 

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast. 

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him. 

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands. 

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head. 

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues. 

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest. 

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk. 

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious. 

And now you’re in his head. 

Great. 

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float. 

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird. 

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk? 

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?” 

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.” 

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something. 

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.” 

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.” 

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh. 

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight. 

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat. 

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?” 

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips. 

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.” 

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal. 

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating. 

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices. 

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him. 

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan. 

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?” 

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you. 

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.” 

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?” 

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way. 

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.” 

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along. 

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves. 

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is). 

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated. 

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers. 

And Heeseung? 

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help. 

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air. 

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him. 

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great. 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?” 

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you. 

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?” 

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box. 

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—” 

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.” 

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts. 

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it. 

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.” 

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push. 

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.” 

And that—that makes Heeseung look up. 

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too. 

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his. 

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that. 

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving. 

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck. 

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here. 

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.” 

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store. 

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.” 

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought. 

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves. 

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.” 

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.” 

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing. 

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter. 

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight? 

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance. 

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster. 

Why? 

Because, it’s 2:21AM. 

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with. 

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening. 

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him? 

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around. 

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to. 

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then. 

You see it.

A tweet. 

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple. 

Yet entirely soul-crushing. 

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!” 

Your breath catches. 

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?” 

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—” 

He stops. Starts again. 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings. 

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too. 

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t. 

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words. 

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think. 

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch. 

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days. 

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did. 

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did. 

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest. 

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers. 

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly. 

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both. 

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out. 

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense. 

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you. 

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows. 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer. 

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise. 

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it. 

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once. 

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else. 

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side. 

You were always meant to cross it. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

I HAD THIS IDEA!!!! Bob being sassy to the whole team and they realize its because he hasn't seen you in a few days and misses you

Summary: Bob’s been moodier than a cat in the rain lately, and the team’s patience is wearing thin. It takes Yelena’s sharp eyes to notice the cause: you’ve been gone for a few days, and Bob’s acting out like a lovesick drama queen

Bob was on a rampage.

Not a dangerous rampage, not physically at least. The tension rolling off of Bob made the type of mood where everyone on the team collectively started to avoid eye contact and speak in whispers. His sarcasm was nuclear, his expressions so exaggerated he looked like a soap opera star, and his mood swings were faster than Ava's phasing.

“Do we have to breathe this loud?” he muttered, stirring his coffee with the kind of fury that made Yelena believe he was going to break the mug. Across the table, Bucky blinked at him. “We’re literally just sitting here.”

“Well, maybe sit quieter, James,” Bob snapped, setting his mug down with an aggressive clink. “I can hear your existential dread from here, and frankly, it’s exhausting I have my own dread thanks for wanting to share yours though.”

John just grunted, scrolling through his phone. “What's crawled up your cape today?”

“My cape is in the laundry, didn't know you'd be so concern,” Bob fired back. “But sure, let’s deflect from the fact that our briefing room smells like expired protein powder and ego.”

John raised a brow. “That one aimed at me or Bucky?”

“Why not both?” Bob smirked. “Two-for-one special. See how efficient I can be."

Yelena leaned back in her chair, eyeing him with the precision of someone who grew up knowing how to spot a lie three days before it happened. “Okay. Enough,” she said plainly. “What is actually going on with you?” “I’m fine,” Bob replied too quickly. “Maybe I just woke up and realized I’m the only one on this team with a functioning personality.”

“That’s definitely news,” John muttered under his breath. Yelena ignored him. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Bob froze.

The mug hit the table again, this time slower. He didn’t look at her just stared into the last bit of coffee like it had the answers.

“Three days,” he said finally, voice much smaller than before. “Not that I’m counting. Or brooding. Or making dramatic exits from rooms like I’m in a shitty 90s romcom film. Except I am. And I hate it. I hate that she can make me feel like this, that she has this power over me." The room went quiet. Bucky ran a hand down his face. “You’re telling me I've been putting up with you turning your heartbreak into a Broadway audition over three days?”

Bob waved a hand. “It’s not heartbreak. It’s just... I’m used to seeing her. Talking to her. Being near her. I miss that little snort-laugh she does when I say something stupid or how she always gives me the middle of the cinnamon roll or when she texts me dumb memes during boring meetings. And now she’s just—poof. Gone. No cinnamon. No memes. Just... silence.”

“She’s just at her friend's wedding,” Yelena reminded gently. Bob slumped back in his chair. “Her friend lives in Idaho. That’s practically the moon.” Yelena’s expression softened slightly. “You could’ve just said you missed her.”

“Where’s the drama in that?” Bob replied, deadpan. “No one makes me tea or gives me extra hugs just because I say I’m sad. But make when it's everyone’s problem? Instant attention.”

Ava muttered, “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

Bob opened his mouth to argue—when his phone buzzed. His expression instantly shifted, eyes lighting up as he read the name on the screen. You. He quickly opened the message and smiled.

[Miss you too. I’ll be home tomorrow night. Don’t sass the team too hard without me.] Bob’s fingers flew across the screen in reply before he stood up, clearing his throat with the air of someone delivering a monologue. “Okay. I’m better now.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”

“What can I say?” Bob grinned. “Love is a powerful mood stabilizer.”

Yelena leaned over to John. “We should get them married. For national security reasons.” John just shook his head. “We need a support group. For us."

<><><><><><><><><><>

That night, Bob camped out on the couch with your favorite blanket, a mug of tea you always somehow made better than he could, and the goofiest smile on his face as he watched old sitcom episodes, he used to make fun of—just because they reminded him of you.

And when you walked through the door the next night? He didn’t say anything at first—just tackled you in a hug, buried his face in your shoulder, and whispered, “You're not allowed to leave me for that long ever again, at least not without a two-week emotional prep notice and a signed cuddle contract.” You grinned against his cheek. “It was just three days.” You muttered against him, smile growing even bigger as you feel him shake his head, tickling you with his hair. "That's a lifetime."

As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3

Tagging:

@msfirth

@my-name-is-baby

@metalarmsandmanbuns

@live-love-be-unique

@disillusioniary

@you-bloody-shank

@sarcazzzum

@itsjustisa

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Thinking about PHAINON’S cock being almost 7 inches, though its long enough for the head of his cock to reach your cervix. He definitely has the prettiest cock out of all of men. Its really pale and has a—lot of veins around it. Phainon is literally the best at fucking—you with his cock. His cock was just so pleasurable. A faint dusting of pale hair sits above the base of his cock, neatly trimmed and well-kept, adding to his effortless appeal. It's soft to the touch, smooth against your skin, just like everything about him—controlled, refined, and devastatingly perfect.

And then there's the way he fucks you. Not just with skill, but with purpose. Like he knows exactly how deep he needs to be, how slow or rough to take you apart. His cock stretches you in a way that borders on overwhelming, the thick veins pressing into your walls, the head of it brushing your cervix with every deliberate thrust. It's not just pleasure—it's possession, the way he claims every inch of you without a single word.

His breaths are heavy, low grunts escaping his lips when he feels you tighten around him. He watches you, eyes sharp, taking in the way you shudder, the way your body reacts to him alone. He knows no one else could fuck you like this, no one else could ruin you in a way that still feels so reverent. It's not just about taking—it's about making sure you know he's the only one who ever could.

Thinking about MYDEI’S cock It's the biggest one-thick, heavy, and a full nine inches of sheer, overwhelming size. There's nothing refined about it, nothing delicate. Just raw power, veined and flushed, built to stretch and ruin. His cock sits heavy between his legs, a perfect reflection of him—unapologetic, dominant, untamed. His pubic hair is just as unruly, untouched, dark curls framing his length. He doesn't shave, doesn't brush it down, because why would he? He's not the type to care about pretty appearances. He's the type to take, to claim, to make sure you remember exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him.

And when he's inside you gods, it's too much. The stretch is instant, a sharp, unbearable fullness that has you gasping before he even moves. He knows it, too. He watches the way your body struggles to take him, the way you twitch and tighten, barely able to handle his size. It's intoxicating to him, the way you clench around him like you were made for him, like no one else could ever compare.

His pace is merciless, rough and deep, slamming into you until all you can do is take it. Every thrust forces his cock against your cervix, dragging a mixture of pain and pleasure so intense it leaves you trembling. He doesn't stop-he never stops until you're shaking, until you're completely lost in him, until he's sure you'll never forget that he was here, that he's the only one who could ever fuck you like this. Because Mydei doesn't just want to pleasure you. He wants to own you.

Thinking about ANAXA’S cock It's not the biggest, not the thickest, but gods, does he know how to use it. Five inches of pure, aching need, pale and flushed at the tip, standing proudly against his smooth skin. There's no pubic hair—whether it's natural or something he takes care of, it's impossible to tell, but it only adds to the softness of him. He looks almost delicate like this, like something meant to be worshiped. But that's the trick, isn't it? Anaxa isn't just delicate. He's dangerous in the way he holds himself back, in the way his soft-spoken nature masks something deeper, something utterly consuming.

Because when he's inside you, it doesn't matter that he's not the biggest. He makes it feel like he is. He fucks like he has something to prove-slow at first, teasing, watching your every reaction like he's memorizing the way you fall apart for him. Then he picks up, hips snapping forward, angling himself just right so every thrust hits exactly where you need it. He's precise, controlled, relentless in his focus on your pleasure.

His breath hitches when he feels you clench around him, his hands tightening on your hips, keeping you in place. There's something desperate in the way he moves, like he needs you to understand that size never mattered-only this, only him, only the way he can make you shake with nothing but his cock and the sheer intensity of his devotion. Because Anaxa doesn't fuck to claim. He fucks to worship.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[strwberri-milk]

can you make a scenario where MC called the LI’s during night then she’s crying and sobbing mess through the call? i wanna see how would they react <3

honestly i love these LMAOO also totally you shuold check out midnight blues!! its a raf fic i wrote thats got a similar premise to this

Zayne's first response is going to be to get you to cry a little less so he can figure out what the problem is. He'll try to give you a task to focus on - naming something you can see, smell, feel, etc. until you're able to speak with him. He hates that he's caught at work right now but also glad that at least he's on call while in the hospital so he technically has a moment between operations at this point in time. He'll sit with you as long as he can on the phone until you calm down, setting the phone beside him as he works to give your tired brain something else to focus on. If he's able to he'll drive over to your home to comfort you, holding you securely against his chest and running a gentle hand along your back.

Xavier is by your side in an instant. He immediately scoops you up in your arms - and you're so confused as to how he got there so quickly that you just. Stop crying. That doesn't stop him from comforting you though, his soft voice definitely great for some bedtime ASMR as he talks to you about anything he can think of. He...doesn't have much to say because he's not a big talker but you appreciate how hard he's trying.

Rafayel's going to want to be by your side - just depends on where he is. If he can, he'll drive right over to you and keep you company but if he's across the world then he'll stay on the phone with you and talk your ear off, definitely loud and distracting enough for you to fall asleep again. He only feels his heart settle when your breathing does too, watching/listening to you sleep with a soft smile.

Sylus is going to be at your side too - just not as quickly as Xavier is. He'll come by with some small treats but primarily, his focus is to hold you close and press soft kisses to your forehead. He'll tease you a little for needing him so badly but that's only to make you laugh and smile, internally feeling incredibly happy that your instinct is indeed to seek him out.

[prlite]

how i went from waiting weeks for results to getting instant results

(WARNING!!!! this isn't a method, don't expect a method.)

though i had been listening to subliminals since i was 10, i never really knew what they did until i hit 12 (i originally thought they were just lucky videos that give you superpowers) & started joining the community once i had realised what they were. when i first got into it, i was hit with so many rules that it confused me ‐ "drink water for this to work", "listen 5x" etc but i decided why not believe in these rules since everyone else does and eventually i started getting results.

the issue was it would take me AGES and it would also take a long time to convince myself that they were actual results (& it didnt help that i had a friend who i joyfully told about manifestation and they revealed after 3 years??? that they found it stupid and thought i was insane for believing in it...not a great time) and it annoyed me because half of the subliminals i'd use would say INSTANT RESULTS but i'd have to wait a month for anything that seemed like a result.

it wasn't until manifestation & subliminals started to take off on tiktok when i realised my problem. once manifestation started getting popular, i'd see all of these weird rules again that made zero sense to me...like how you'd have to say you're grateful every single day or else your manifestations wont occur...it confused me because i had gotten results without all of that.

and that's when i realised. oh these rules aren't rules, they're more like...advice? they can work for some people but not all people, i can manifest stuff how i want to...if i just want what i want.

there's always this focus of the key of manifestation or the key of law of assumption, the perfect way to gain all the things in the world but all you need is intention and even that is easy and once i realised that, it was like my world flipped upside down.

i remember the first time i tried to just set an intention and just leave behind logic, pressure or circumstances, i wanted a bunch of snacks cuz i was craving some but i had no money so i just sat there hoping for snacks and setting the intention that somehow i'll get snacks. within an hour, there was a knock at the door and it was a huge gift box with expensive chocolates from my brother's workplace (this was the first time and also the last time they ever did this btw & it was not like a scheduled thing, they dropped it out of nowhere) and every. single. thing. there was something that i liked which is uncommon as i'm very picky with my snacks.

and i even remember telling people in a discord server that i got an instant manifestation and what happened and someone tried to say i was lying because i didn't listen to subliminals and i didn't write it down or "verbally" set the intention which made me realise that a lot of people in the community believe that their rules are set in stone. "if they can only manifest through meditation, then anyone else who manifests without meditation is either lucky or lying" ‐ its a flawed way of thinking but they think it's valid because these rules are presented as if they are rules that cannot be broken.

manifestation works in many ways and in a way, everyone has a different perspective/understanding of it. my definition of manifestation won't be the same as your definition & my rules won't be the same as your rules. people treat it like an academic subject where there are rules & grades and set ways to do things but it's not an academic subject. if you think you manifested a snack because you found change in your pocket and went to the store and the snack was there...then you manifested it.

it's your game, your playbook, your rules. for some, every single moment in life is viewed as a manifestation and for others, it's a lot more technical and depends on specifics but the point is...you're the one choosing. you can have your own vocab, your own structure, your own routine...if you want to manifest through songs, then that's your way of manifestation.

there is no wrong or right way to manifest, there is no learning curve or studying to manifestation. if you want to study and learn about manifestation and it's origins, that's perfectly fine but you don't need to. the second you let go of the idea that manifestation is this strict way of living with rules, you'll realise how easy it is. it's all how you perceive things no matter how big or "impossible" they seem, if you think you can manifest it within a day...you can. so just go do it. no matter how, no matter why, no matter when or where, you will get what you manifest the second you set an intention so instead of worrying about the logic...just set the intention and let the rest happen.

since then i've been instantly manifesting, whether it's food or money or clothes...really anything. i haven't looked back once, it's that easy like you don't need to have it all planned out. just set an intention and let it sail off until the manifestation comes to you and if you want it instantly than it will come instantly !

prl ✶⋆.˚

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)

[eoscien]

Saja boys headcanon — General to dating

A/n: I know. I don't write but THIS HAS ME THIBKING A LOT A LOOOOT! This isn't funny a fictional boy band is helping me write again. AND AND. THIS IS MY HEADCANONS! ITS WHAT I THINK THEY'D ACT LIKE IF THEY WERE LIKE JINU.

Warnings: None, I think LMAO

General headcanons: They mostly suck at like technology and the new trends, but they're stupidly charming and get away with most things.

They SUCK at doing things "normally" since at the start. Before huntrix's concert the girls had some demons disguised as humans and they acted so off and kinda uncanny valley. So definitely when they got to earth for the first time they were kind of acting weird due to not remembering how to act human LMAO

Jinu —

Smoothest with his words.

Unironically has the best clothes

Hes the type of guy who doesn't like to take for granted, if you give him something or do things for him. He will deeply cherish it

Acts of service + words of affirmation guy >>

Teased a fuck ton, BUT catch him off guard but then you'll see him fumbling so hard

Abby —

Id like to think he could be soft when alone

Gives himbo vibes i cant lie.... like he looks so tough and shit but when he opens his mouth to talk to you, he will not stop yapping

Loves loves hugs... got to put those arms to use i tell you.

Will be the type of guy who has you on his back as he does push-ups. He doesn't need to buy weights anymore

Baby —

AAAAJAHHWSJJDJD MY FAVORITE. I lowkey see him as either the type of guy to inhale his food or have the smallest appetite. Like you see the way he chugged the hot sauce? Yeah.

Soft visuals yet he has the deepest voice and a bit of a foul mouth I tell you.... he casually says the most unhinged shit ever.

His personality really contrasts his visuals... like take harua (&team) for example, iirc he doesn't like being called cute but his mannerisms and moments are cute effortlessly. Or he has the same personality as bamby (plave) LMFAO

Hes very quick with his words, boy can clock you in an instant I tell you....

Romance —

He has a starring problem.

Also the smoothest with his words, he's also just unironically sweet to his fans

Takes extensive care of his hair... just from a single glance you'll know its silky

Probably does the most fan service along with Abby

Mystery —

Not that good with his words (the mf barks what do u want me to say/j) BUT GREAT AT WRITING AND ACTIONS !!

" Actions tfym " like he's definitely expressing himself with his body language, doing small things to show that he's upset or mad. You will only catch him saying things if he's singing or when its REALLY needed

But would definitely talk a moderate around with someone he likes hehe...

[heron-knight]

decided to crack open my skull and pour the contents of my brain onto the keyboard. thought the denizens of tumblr might enjoy it. bon appetite

Mech Pilot Care guide

You never expect it, do you. Even as you see the flashes of pulse-decay fire in the sky, illuminating a scene of violence on the cosmic scale. Planetary defense satellites forming Monolithic structures in the sky, their purpose now revealed as they scatter constellations of destruction across the night horizon, drowning out the stars and replacing them with ones born of death. The oxygen in a ship catching fire and burning away in an instant, a flash of light that marks the death of its crew of hundreds. Even if you take your telescope to watch this spectacle, this war in a place without screams, you still feel profoundly disconnected from it.

Even as you see a pilot cleave through a drone hive with a fusion blade, the molten metal glistening in the light of the explosions around it, scattering without gravity to the corners of the universe, even as two mechs dance across the sky, their reactors pouring into the engines enough energy to power the house atop which you sit for ten thousand years, flying in a 3.5 dimensional dance with only one word to the song that can reach across the vacuum: “I Will Kill You.” you don’t feel even the slightest glimpse of what goes on inside their minds. You don’t feel the neurological feedback tearing across the brain-computer interface, filling her mind with more simultaneous pain and elation that an unmodified human could ever experience. You don’t feel it as the pneumatic lance punctures through steel and nanocarbon polymer, the mech AI sending floods of a sensation you could never truly know through the skull and into every corner of the body carried on enhanced nerves for every layer of armor punctured, tearing into the enemy chassis with a desire beyond anything the flesh can provide. Let the stars kill each other. After all, I am safe on earth. No, you don’t expect it when the star is hit with a sub-relativistic projectile, piercing through both engines in an instant. You don’t expect it to fall. You never would have expected it to land, the impact nearly vaporizing the soil and setting trees aflame, on the hill beyond your house, and you would never have expected, beneath the layers of cooling slag, for the life-support indicator light to still be visible.

All the fire extinguishers in your house, your old plasma cutter that you haven’t used in years, and whatever medical supplies you think they might still be able to benefit from. All that on a hoverbike, speeding at 120 kilometers per hour through the valley and up onto the hill, still illuminated by the battle above, unsurprisingly unchanged by this new development. 200 meters. 100 meters. You don’t know how much time you’ve got. It wasn’t exactly covered in school, how long a pilot can survive in an overheating frame. You’ve heard rumors, of course, of what these things that used to be human have become. That they don’t eat and barely need air. That they don’t feel any desire beyond what instructions are pumped directly into their brains. Not so much of a person as much as an attack dog. It’s understandably a bit concerning, as if they are alive, then it’s not guaranteed that you will be. Three fire extinguishers later, the surface of the mech is mostly solid, and the cutter slices through the exterior plating. With a satisfying crunch, the cockpit is forced open, revealing the pilot, and confirming a few of the rumors, while refuting others. Pilots, it seems, are not quite emotionless. In fact, there seems to be genuine fear on its face when it sees you, followed by… a sort of grim certainty as it opens its mouth, moves its jaw into a strange position, and you only have half a second to react before it would have bitten down with all its force on the tooth that seemed to be made of a different material then all the rest.

Your thumb is definitely bleeding, and is caught between a metamaterial-based dental implant, and one containing a military-grade neurotoxin. You’re not sure exactly why you did it. The pilot looks at you for a second, before the tubes that attach to its arms like puppet strings run out of stimulants, and it passes out after who knows how long without sleep. This battle has been going on for weeks already. Has it been fighting that long? Its various frame-tethered implants disconnect easily, the unconscious pilot draped over your shoulder twitching slightly with each one you remove. It’s a much longer ride back to the house. Avoiding having the pilot fall off the bike is the top priority, and the injured thumb stings in the fast-moving air. 

An internet search doesn’t lead to many helpful sources to the question of “there is a mech pilot on my couch, what do I do?” a few articles about how easy targets retired pilots are for the “doll sellers,” a few military recruitment ads, and a couple near-incomprehensible legal documents full of words like “proprietary technology” or “instant termination.” However, there is one link, a few rows down from the top-- “Mech Pilot Care Guide.” It’s a detailed list, arranged in numbered steps. The website has no other links on it, just the step-by-step instructions: a quick read reveals that this isn’t going to be easy, but looking at the unconscious pilot, unabsorbed chemicals dripping from the ports in its arms and head onto the mildly bloodstained towel, you come to the conclusion that there’s no other option.

Step one: the first 24 hours.

The first thing you should know is that pilots aren’t used to sleeping. They’re used to being put under for transport and storage, but after the neural augmentations and years of week-long battles sustained by stimulants that would fry the brain of anyone that still has an intact one, they’ve more or less forgotten what real sleep is. If they see you asleep, they’ll think you’re dead, so don’t try to let them stay in your room yet. Once you’ve removed the neurotoxin from the tooth (it breaks easily with a bit of applied pressure, but be careful not to let any fall into their mouth or onto your skin.), start by moving them into a chair (preferably a recliner or gaming chair, as the mech seat is about halfway in between), and putting a heavy blanket over them. Don’t worry, they don’t need as much air as normal humans do, and can handle high temperatures up to a point. This is an environment similar to the one they’re used to. It’ll stay like this for about 12 hours-- barely breathing, trembling slightly underneath the blanket. Feel free to check if it’s alive every few hours, not that you could help it if it wasn’t. It won’t freak out when it wakes up. In fact, it doesn’t seem like they can. Turn down the lights and remove the blanket from its face. It’ll stare blankly at you, trying to evaluate the situation with a brain that’s not connected to a computer that’s bigger than they are anymore. Coming to terms, if you could call it that, with the fact that it isn’t dead. Don’t expect it to start reacting to things for a while yet, give it a couple hours. 

It’s been a bit, and its eyes are starting to focus on you. The next thing you should know is this: pilots only have two groups into which they can categorize non-pilots: handler and enemy. You need to work on making sure you’re in the right one. Move slowly, standing up and walking toward them, making sure they can see where you’re going to step. Place both hands on their shoulders, then slide one under their arm and carefully pick them up. Don’t be startled by how light they are, or how they still shake slightly as they realize their arms don’t have anything connected to them. Most importantly, don’t break. Don’t reflect on how something can be done to a person so that this is all that’s left. Just focus on rotating them as if you’re inspecting all the brain-computer interface ports, while holding them at half an arm’s length. Set them back down, wrap the blanket around them, then lean in close and say “status report.” they won’t say anything, as they usually upload the data via interface, but what’s important is that now they recognise you as their handler. Their entire mind will be focused on the fact that they exist now to do what you want. Now it’s up to you to prove them wrong.

Step two: the first week.

They’re shaking so hard that you’ve had to move them from the chair back to the couch, sweating heavily as they pant like the dog they’ve been trained to think they are. This was to be expected, really. Pilots are constantly being filled with a mix of stimulants, painkillers, and who knows what else, and you’ve just cut them off completely. You’ve woken up several times in the night and rushed to check if they’re still breathing, debating whether you should try to tell them that they’re going to be okay. The guide says they’re not ready for that yet, whatever that means. They’re still wearing the suit you found them in, made from nanofiber mesh and apparently recycling nutrients and water before re-infusing them intravenously. It’s been three days since you tore them out of the lump of metal atop the hill outside. Long enough that the suit’s battery, apparently, has run out. You lift them gently from the couch and carry them to the bathroom. The shower’s been on for the past hour or so, meaning the temperature should be high enough. You set them on their chair, which you’ve rolled there from the living room and covered with a towel. Removing the suit normally isn’t done except in between missions, and it’s only done to exchange it for a new one. Without the proper tools, you’ve opted for a pair of scissors. Cutting through the suit takes a bit of time, but you manage to cut a sizable line from the neck down to the front to the bottom of the torso. The pilot recoils slightly from the cold metal against their skin, but you manage to peel off the suit without incident, The Temperature of which was roughly the same as the steam filling the room, and you’ve done your best to minimize air currents. They’ve got a bit more shape to them than you expected of someone who’s been so heavily modified. Perhaps what little fat storage it provides helps on longer missions, or perhaps this is for the purposes of marketing. Just another recruitment ad that appeals to baser instincts. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Using a cloth with the least noticeable texture possible, you wash off as much sweat and dead skin as you can, avoiding the various interface and IV ports, as you’re not yet sure that they’re waterproof. Embarrassment is the enemy of efficiency, so you’re slightly glad that their eyes never completely focus on you. They shift their weight slightly, however. Despite the difficulty moving with their current symptoms, they lean in the direction opposite the places you wash once you're done, allowing you to more easily access the places you haven’t got to yet. An act of trust that you have a suspicion they weren't “programmed” to do.  As they dry out, you prepare for the difficult part. You take the blanket that previously wrapped around their suit, and gently touch a corner of it to their shoulder. Pilots are used to an amount of sensory  information that would overload any normal human in an instant, but most rarely experience textures against their skin. After about half an hour, they’re used to it enough that you’re able to replace what’s left of the suit with it, and after another you’re able to wrap them in it again. You carry them back to the couch, and place a few of your old shirts next to their hand. They pick one and touch it with one finger before recoiling slightly. Eventually, they’ll be used to at least one of them enough that they can wear it. It’s slow progress, but it’s progress.

Step 3: food

It goes without saying that it’s usually been at least a year since they’ve eaten anything. The augmentations scooped out much of their knowledge on how to survive as a human, assuming that they would die before ever needing to be one again. Start them off with just flavors. Give them a chance to pick favorites by giving them a wide selection and firmly telling them to try all of them. Avoid anything solid for the first month or so, both because they can’t digest it and because they associate chewing with their self-destruct mechanism. Trying to and surviving might make them think the “mission’s fully compromised” and attempt to improvise. They’ll typically pick out favorites quickly with their enhanced senses, so once they’ve sampled everything, tell them to pick one. Remember it, not in order to use it as a reward or anything, but them still being able to have a “favorite” anything is something you should keep in mind for later. 

Use a similar method anytime they become able to handle the next level of solidity. Don’t be alarmed if one of their favorite foods is the meat that’s most similar to humans (such as pork.) they’re not going to eat you, they just will have already formed an association between that flavor and the moment they went from being a weapon to living in your house. Don’t worry about your thumb getting infected, by the way. Pilots barely have a microbiome.

Step 4: entertainment:

Roll them over to your computer and give them access to your game library. No, really. They need enrichment, and there’s only one activity that they’re able to enjoy at the moment. A simulation of it will make the shift from weapon to guest easier. Start them off with an FPS with a story. Don’t go multiplayer, as your account may get banned for being suspected of using aimbots. Watch as they progress the story. The military left pilots with just enough of a personality to allow them to improvise, and that should be enough for them to make decisions on this level. They won’t do much character customization, but keep an eye on which starting character body shape they pick. No pilot would consciously think they have enough of a “Self” to still have a gender, but keep track of the ones they pick in the games. As for the one you’ve found, it appears that she’s got a player-character preference. You even saw her nudge one of the appearance sliders before clicking “start game.” Whether this means that a pilot doesn’t think of themselves as “it” or that it means there’s still enough of their mind left for them to know there’s more to themselves than the body they have, it’s a handy bit of information to know. Some pilots might have had this decision influenced by their handlers having referred to them as “she” in the way it refers to boats, but still, on some level they always know that “it” meant that they’re a weapon. 

Step 6: outside:

There’s a profound difference between experiencing the world through information fed directly into your brain and standing up for the first time, wandering around the room and investigating with hands not made of a half-ton of metal. She’s not used to feeling the air on her skin as she stands in front of the window, visual data coming from two eyes instead of seven cameras. It’ll take a while to get used to it again. New old data, reminiscent of a time before she’s been trained not to remember. It’ll take a while until she’s walking like a human and not a mech, as the muscles used are different, and the ones to hold herself upright haven’t been used in a while. She’s going to fall down at least once. Be sure you’re standing next to her when it happens, as pilots that fall aren’t trained to think they can get back up. It’s worth it, though, when she opens the door herself and strides into the yard, still wobbly but standing. Be careful not to let her look into the sun, partially because it looks nearly identical to the barrel of a pulse-decay blaster milliseconds before it fires. She would get hurt trying to dodge it. It will be somewhat confusing for her, standing on a hill as she once did, but not contained within a 12-meter metal chassis. A feeling of being small and alone without the voices of the computer. This means it’s time for step seven.

Step 7: 

All this time, and any idea that she’s still a person has, for her, been subconscious. Any thought of humanity is stopped when it slams into the wall of her handlers and mech AIs reminding her for years before now that she is a weapon. She’ll still ask for your permission before doing just about anything, and that’s just the rare times that she’ll do something you don’t tell her to. Even after you’ve moved her into your room, she’ll still try to sleep on the floor. She still thinks that beds are only for humans. Kneel next to her as she curls into a ball on the ground, assuming that’s what she’s supposed to do. Expect her to try to move down to the foot of the bed after you set her down on it. Gently move her back up until her head’s on the pillow. Sit on the edge of the bed, and hold out your hand to her. After a bit, she’ll take it, wrapping both hands around it and tracing her fingers along the scar on your thumb. Lie down next to her, an arm’s length apart. Place your other hand on her forearm, then slide it up her arm to her shoulder. Don’t move too quickly, and don’t surprise her. Whisper softly but audibly every movement you’re going to make in advance. Move in a bit closer, until you’re wrapped in her arms. Mech pilots aren’t used to this. They aren't used to feeling someone next to them. Not above them, but next to them, getting exactly as much out of this as they are. Even after several months, many won’t admit they deserve it. You wouldn’t waste time lying next to a gun. So why do they feel so strongly that they don’t want you to leave? Why do they hold on tighter? They often feel they’re doing something wrong. Overstepping a boundary. There’s a rift between what they want and what they’re told they can want that nearly tears their mind in half, and it hurts. No normal human will ever know how much it hurts them to think they’ve broken some instruction, that they feel things they aren’t allowed to. Nobody said it was easy, learning how to become human again. Tell her it’s okay. That she’s allowed to feel this way. She still won’t know why. It’s time to tell her. The guide can’t tell you what to say, only that you have to say it. It has to come from you. You have to be the one that tells her what she is underneath all the modifications. It’s time, say it.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel your heart start to beat faster as it presses up against mine? Do you feel your own breath against your skin after it reflects off my shoulder? Do you feel your muscles start to tighten as I slide my hand across them, then relax because you know it means that you are safe? It’s because you’re alive. Because despite everything, you’re still alive. Still someone left after all the changes, all the augmentations. And I know you’re someone because you are someone that likes food a bit spicier than most would prefer. Someone that closes her eyes and gets lost in music whenever it’s playing. Someone that added that one piece of customization to her character, even though they would wear a helmet for most of the game and nobody would know it was there but you. Maybe you aren’t the same person you were before. Maybe they did take some things from you that nothing can give back. But you’re still someone. Someone that people can still care about, and I know because I do.”

You can feel her tears drip down onto your neck as she pulls you closer. She tries to say something, but you can’t understand what. You tell her it’s okay. That it’s not easy, and that she doesn’t have to pretend that it is. Not for you, and not for anyone anymore. She doesn’t have to be useful anymore. No need to keep it together. All that matters is that she’s alive. 

There’s another battle going on in the night sky outside. The same flashes of light you saw the night you stopped living alone, even if the other person couldn’t admit that they were one yet. She still flinches at the brighter bursts of pulse-decay fire, still stretches out her hand on reflex to prime a pneumatic lance that isn’t there. But she knows it’s not her, it’s just a ghost of the weapon that died when it hit the ground. You can feel her relax as she realizes this, moving her hand back to dry her face before reaching out towards yours. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your own face. You place your hand on hers as she wipes the corner of your eye. Outside and above, the war continues on a cosmic scale, so far apart from where you both are now that you barely notice it. Let the stars kill each other. After all, the one before you has already fallen, and she doesn’t have to return to the sky. Together, you are safe on earth. 

[arpicityandneed]

Asking for a friend re: dark content Bucky, are we talking Bucky-Bucky, or like, are you also down with some Winter Soldier? Because WOW what a great look. Scared my ovaries so good.

Like, imagine the Soldier gets a bodyguard assignment to the daughter or wife of some SHIELD official. You're annoyed about having this mostly silent, kind of unsettling hottie shadow you constantly. So you get bratty, act out to try and crack that ice wall. "Kay fine, you need to keep an eye on me, I'll leave the door open to shower!" or "hey they said to pretend you're not even here, guess that means I can masturbate!" And you're not really sure what you expected to come of it, but it definitely wasn't getting railed because you managed to wake up half a century of repressed lust.

author's note: I mean all the dark content, Winter Soldier, Bucky-Bucky, dubcon, incest, all the good stuff. please ref my rules and guidelines <3

18+ Dark Content. Winter Soldier!Bucky. brat!reader. dirty talk. creampie. dubcon (mainly 'cause hydra). rough sex.

"Новая миссия Солдат." New mission, Soldat. The HYDRA handler handed the assassin the file, your seductive smirk in your profile photo making his stomach tighten. The sensation was new to him. But his response was the same it always was, a low husky rasp with no intonation.

"готов подчиниться." Ready to comply.

~

You didn't like your new bodyguard.

No matter how hot he was, he never spoke two words to you. All you got was da or net. He followed you everywhere and carried your bags and never seemed to sleep. You knew your dad was important to some big guys, but to think it would mean you'd be stuck with this ghost of a man with no way to sneak off wasn't what you had in mind.

He was just a big, hunking, idiot. With a metal arm. (You may have had a thing for the metal arm.)

He wouldn't let you drink since you were technically only 20, and killed any party just by standing there- not dancing, not moving, just watching you with his icy blue eyes.

It made you want to crack that perfect control he had.

"So you're really not going to leave that spot while I shower." You looked up at him as he stood at the threshold of the large ensuite bathroom in the hotel you were staying at while your father was having a business meeting.

"Da." He didn't smile, didn't frown. His handsome face was just always deadpan.

"Then I guess its not a problem if I leave the door open right?" You grinned, impish and bold as you started stripping. You new you looked good. It was the utter shamelessness of it all that had the Soldat's eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Bending over to drag your panties down your legs, letting him see your bare pussy before unhooking your bra. You sighed with relief as your breasts bounced free.

"Be a good boy and do what daddy paid you for. Watch me." You grinned when you saw him take a step towards you, your pussy gushing as you imagined him grabbing you and fucking you senseless. But he seemed to remember himself and stepped back. Firmly planting both feet and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Coward~." You sang as you stepped into the shower leaving the door open, its glass side walls fogging up as you lathered up your body. Touching every inch of yourself as slowly as possible making damn sure he could follow your hands with his eyes. His pupils were blown wide but it was the only sign he as affected.

You'd have to try harder.

~

"Ah!"

The Soldat was in your room in an instant the next morning even though you never heard the door unlock or open. He was ready for a threat, door locked so there was one less escape route for any intruders.

But all he found was you, on the bed with your legs spread- naked as the day you were born. A pathetic excuse for a plastic cock sliding in and out of your gummy walls as you fucked yourself over and over. One tiny hand was twisting your nipple and you were crying out loudly with every intention of making sure he could hear.

"Fuck!" You moaned as you met his eyes, pure mischief in your gaze. "Shouldn't be a problem, right Soldat? Just, nngh, watch me."

You never even saw him move, but suddenly he was on you. Snatching the dildo and dragging it out of your pussy before throwing it across the room.

"Этого будет недостаточно для такой шлюхи как ты." That won't be enough for a slut like you. He growled as he quickly undid his zipper, you barely had a glimpse of his girthy length before he was lining himself up. He didn't even bother to take off his tactical suit before fucking into your slick hole in one overwhelming thrust. It knocked the air out of your lungs.

"M-more!" You whined as you clawed at his back uselessly, your tiny pussy stretched almost painfully wide as you strangled his cock.

"Заткнись и возьми это." Shut up and take it. He was hissing in your ear with ever balls deep thrust, groaning as he felt pleasure for the first time in over 30 years. Your pussy was heaven he was sure. And he was never letting you go.

Every squelch and slap of his hips on your ass filled the room until it was a symphony of decauhery. You were being used, and somehow the knowledge made your blood burn with desire.

"Use me, fuck, cum in me please-" you begged as you felt your orgasm growing. The blunt head of his cock was dragging against the spot inside you that you'd barely been able to reach with the dildo. Your eyes were crossing every time his fat cock bottomed out inside you, and you knew you were going to cum harder than you ever had before.

"Просто теплое место которое я могу использовать по своему усмотрению." Just a warm place for me to use. He purred the words in your ear, and you cried out when you felt his skilled fingers making quick tight circles over your sensitive clit.

You bit down on his throat, the only skin you could reach to stop yourself from screaming as you gushed around his cock. (It was only later, much later when you were being interrogated about where the Asset had gone, that you realized the bastard had made you squirt.)

His grip on your hip became bruisingly tight but you didn't care, not when his thrusts were getting sloppy.

"Do it, cum in me, get me pregnant I don't care just-" His other hand, still slick with your juices slapped over your mouth as he growled at you.

"Я сделаю тебя матерью. Я сделаю тебя своей." I'll make you a mother. I'll make you mine.

You shivered, not understanding anything but the possessiveness in his tone. Your hole clenching around him and he was done for.

His load was endless. He fucked you through it, stuffing his seed as deep inside as his cock could reach. In your lustful haze you realized you truly wouldn't mind having the child of a man like him. You knew he'd protect you both if it ever came to that.

You must have fallen asleep after that because when you came to the window was open, and there was a pillow under your hips.

He was gone.

(pt 2)

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to their s/o suggesting going raw for the first time

Request: May I request something a little spicy SVT reaction to their partner tell them they are on birth control now and suggested on using no condoms for the first time. (if they both agree) P.S You have such good writing!

A/N: I'm not sure if I did this justice, but my writing style shifts depending on my mood and the request. This time, it just felt right to make most of them take the lead—so here we are. And ofc, they’d be thrilled to finally experience this without any barriers, but y’all, be smart and stay safe, alright? NOT PROOFREAD!

Content: MDNI ! reader is on birth control, heavy implications, mild degradation & possessiveness, several members take on dominant/assertive roles, mature language, grip-tightening, caging, and restraint, raw/unprotected sex implication, loss of control themes. Lmk if I missed anything

Seungcheol: His eyes lock onto yours, filled with a mix of surprise and something primal. "Are you sure?" His voice is low, just above a whisper, almost a growl as he steps closer, his hand cupping your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You've got to know this means something,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. There's an intensity in his stare is deeper than lust. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw before tilting your chin up, "We can take it slow, but I trust you." His lips press to your forehead, lingering for a moment, as if he's grounding himself of what's about to happen. His hands find your waist, his grip firm. "Tell me if you're ready,” he whispers, his voice laced with restraint, as if he's holding himself back. But you see it_the simmering desire in his eyes, the hunger behind his control.

Jeonghan: The moment you speak, Jeonghan's expression falters, his eyes darkening with a barely contained desire. His fingers reach up to trace along your jaw, slow, sending shivers through you. "Are you sure, angel?" he murmurs, yes he'll angel you in this moment his voice softer now, thoughtful, but there's an edge to it. "Because once we do this, there's no way we can go back to how things were, I'll love it." His lips brush against yours, feather-light at first, teasing. "I want you to be all in," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, "to feel every sensation with me." Then, without warning, he closes the distance, capturing your lips fully, deeply, drawing a gasp from you. His hands skim down your sides, a slow, lazy exploration. But you can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back, waiting for you to pull him closer, to give in completely to him.

Joshua: Joshua steps toward you, his gentle eyes now filled with dark clouds, with lust, love and longing. His fingers brush against your cheek, his touch too soft for the way his smirk is beginning to form. "If you're sure..." his voice trails off, as if giving you one last chance to reconsider, but the glint in his eyes tells you he already knows your answer. Then, before you can react, he's pushing you back onto the bed, hovering over you in an instant, caging you in beneath him. His lips crash onto yours, slow but demanding, as his teeth graze your lower lip, a light bite before he deepens the kiss. His hands slide under your blouse, fingertips tracing over your skin exploring every little definition. "You feel so warm," he murmurs, his lips now trailing down your jaw, your neck. "I've been waiting for this." His voice is smooth, restrained but utterly consuming.

Jun: Jun's lips curl into a teasing smile, but there's a pretty undeniable sharpness in his gaze. "Is that what you want?" His voice is smooth, almost playful, but there’s a darkness underneath—to say the least, it’s possessive. You nod, barely breathing as he steps closer, your bodies now only inches apart. He watches you carefully, like a predator watching its prey. "Say it," he demands, his fingers gripping your waist. "I want to hear you say it" Once the words leave your lips, the atmosphere shifts. The teasing glint in his eyes fades into more serious. Then, in one swift move, he pushes you back against the wall, his hand tilting your chin up before his lips crash into yours. His kisses are intense, his other hand sliding down, unbuttoning your shirt one-handed with an ease that makes your breath hitch. "You make it too easy for me" he murmurs against your lips, before pressing another deep kiss to them, his grip tightening ever so slightly, just enough to make you shiver.

Hoshi: His grin shifts into something raw immediately. His fingers brush against your arm before trailing up to your collarbone, his touch feather-light but burning all the same. "You want that, huh?" His voice is teasing, but there's a weight behind it. His smirk grows as he watches you, waiting, savoring your reaction. You barely have time to respond before he's stepping forward, walking you back until the back of your legs hit the bed. "Sit," he instructs, voice low. You obey, heart hammering as he crawls onto the mattress, kneeling before you. He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips but not quite kissing you yet. His hands slide over your thighs, slow, deliberate. Then, with a smirk, he says, "Take it off." When you hesitate slightly flustered cause of his so forward reaction, his fingers tilt your chin up. "Oh, come on," he coaxes. "Don't get shy on me now," he says as a low chuckle escapes him, his fingers trail down your arm. "I want to see you," his lips brushing against your ear, gaze never wavers, as he leans in just a little closer, his warmth pulling you in like gravity.

Wonwoo: His face remains impassive at first, but there's a shift in the air. His fingers graze your arm, soft yet searing. "If we do this, it's not just a step... it's a leap," he says, his voice a quiet storm. He leans in, lips hovering just over your skin, breath warm and intoxicating. "You sure you want to cross that line with me?" There's something about the way he says it—low, deliberate, a dare wrapped in restraint that makes you want him even more. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, just enough to make you gasp. But then you nod. And suddenly, there's no hesitation. His mouth crashes onto yours, ferocity unraveling between you both in waves. He lifts you effortlessly, pressing you against the nearest surface as his lips trail down your neck, fingers tracing paths of fire along your skin. "You have no idea what you've just started," he whispers, voice thick with lust and danger. Your breath hitches as his grip tightens, anchoring you against him. His teeth graze your pulse point, a teasing scrape before his tongue soothes the sting, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His hands roam lower, fingers pressing into your hips with just enough force to make you shiver. "You still have time to change your mind," he murmurs, though the way his body molds against yours tells a different story. His eyes lock onto yours, waiting for the final word that will unravel everything between you.

Woozi: Woozi doesn't react immediately, but the way his body stills speaks volumes. His eyes flicker with something intimate yet laced with danger. Slowly, he steps forward, erasing the space between you until your breaths are mingling. "You sure?" His voice carries a weight that sinks into your skin. His fingers brush against your waist, tentative at first, but when you don't pull away, his grip tightens. "I'll be gentle... but you'll feel every bit of me." It's a promise that makes your pulse stutter. Then, with no warning, he moves. His hands find your hips as he pushes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you, his smirk barely visible in the dim light. "You knew what you were doing when you said that," he murmurs, his lips tracing down your jaw. His body presses against yours, liquid seeping through the fabric of your underwear. "No going back now." His fingers trail along the hem of your shirt, teasing, testing, before slipping beneath the material, his touch searing against your skin. His lips follow the path of his hands, leaving ghostly kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, marking every inch as his own. The heat between you coils tighter, your heartbeat matching his as he meets your gaze and in the next second, the last barrier on you is gone.

Dokyeom: Kyeom blinks, as if processing your words, and for a split second, you see flashes in his eyes—excitement, hesitation and hunger beneath it all. His hands find your shoulders, grounding both of you, as he exhales slowly. "If we do this..." he swallows, his voice dropping an octave, "...I won't ever go back." His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make your breath hitch. "I trust you, but I want to make sure you trust me too." His lips brush against your ear, his voice a whisper, soft yet laced that makes your stomach coil. The moment you give him the green light, the hesitation vanishes. In one swift movement, he throws himself at you, knocking you onto the bed with a breathless laugh that quickly turns into something more heavier. His hands explore, his touch reverent but eager. "You don't even realize what you've done to me," he murmurs against your skin before his mouth captures yours completely.

Mingyu: Mingyu's smile falters—not in hesitation, but in something else entirely. The puppy boyishness drains away, replaced by something raw. His fingers find the curve of your neck, trailing down slowly, deliberately, as he tilts his head. "You sure you're not playing around, are you?" His voice is softer than expected, but there's a warning. He steps closer, so close that your bodies almost touch, and the air between you grows heavier. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip before he leans in, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. His hands grip your waist, firm yet careful. "I'll make sure you're okay," he breathes against your lips, "but once we do this... it's just us. No second thoughts." His body presses against yours, his warmth intoxicating. "I'm not going back." Then, with a smirk that's nothing short of sinful, he adds, "And if you think I'm stopping anytime soon... you're sorely mistaken." Before you can react, he moves swiftly and unrelenting, pinning you beneath him that steals your breath. His lips find yours again, demanding and feverish, his hands roaming memorizing every inch of you. "You started this," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a husky whisper. "Now, let me finish it."

Minghao: Minghao's eyes darken, his composed exterior cracking just enough to let something else slip through. He tilts his head, watching you carefully, calculating every flicker of emotion in your face, "Sure." His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering, almost possessive. He lets the silence stretch, watching your reaction, waiting for that final confirmation. Then, when he sees the resolve in your eyes, his lips curve into a slow smirk. "You sure you're ready for this?" His voice drops lower, softer, but it sends a shiver down your spine. "Because I don't do things halfway." His grip tightens on your waist as he pulls you flush against him, his mouth ghosting over yours before finally claiming it in a kiss that leaves no room for hesitation. "Guess we're doing this raw," he mutters against your lips, and the sheer confidence in his tone makes your breath hitch. He draws back slightly, eyes dark with lust and a hint of playful mischief. "Hope your pill work, sweetheart. Because pulling out isn't exactly my strong suit." He punctuates his words with a sharp nip at your bottom lip, followed by a sensual swipe of his tongue.

Seungkwan: Seungkwan's expression shifts from surprise to darkness, his brightness dimming into something far more intense. His eyes narrow, a slow smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "So, you really want this?" His voice is teasing, but laced with an intensity that mirrors the dark undercurrent of the situation. He steps forward, crowding into your space, his fingers skimming over your waist with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. "You know there's no going back once I start indulging, right?" His voice dips lower as he presses his lips to yours, slow at first, teasing until his grip tightens, pulling you flush against him. His breath is hot against your skin when he speaks again, his fingers tracing patterns along your sides. "Don't look at me like that unless you're ready to take everything I'm about to give you."

Vernon: For a moment, Vernon just looks at you, his eyes searching for yours, as if giving you one last chance to take it back. But then, something shifts—his gaze softens, but the flicker of danger remains, a smoldering heat beneath the surface. "So... we're doing this for real?" His voice is low, yet it reverberates through you. His fingers brush against your cheek, barely touching, before sliding down to tilt your chin up toward him. "I won't rush you. But if this happens..." He pauses, leaning in so his lips ghost over yours, his breath warm against your skin. "You're not going to forget it." He seals his promise with a kiss, His lips move against yours slowly at first, teasing, testing, like he’s savoring the anticipation crackling between you. But then, his grip tightens on your hips, pulling you flush against him, and all restraint shatters. The kiss deepens, turning hungrier, more demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours. His hands roam, tracing over your back, slipping under your shirt, fingertips grazing heated skin. "You have no idea what you’ve just started," he murmurs against your lips. Then, in one swift motion, he guides you back, your body sinking into the mattress as he hovers over you. His gaze locks onto yours, "Last chance," he says, his fingers trailing down your arm, his weight pressing just enough to keep you beneath him. "Tell me you want this." His breath fans over your lips, waiting. But the moment you whisper yes, everything else disappears.

Dino: For once, Dino hesitates. His energy is tempered. His eyes search yours, his hands settling at your sides. "Are you sure?" His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its playfulness, yet there's an undeniable intensity there. You nod, and the hesitation melts away, replaced by hunger. His grip tightens as he pulls you in, his forehead resting against yours for just a second like he's holding onto the last thread of control he has. "If we do this..." He swallows, his voice husky now, "It changes everything. You get that?" But the second you whisper yes, it's over. The restraint snaps, and he's on you. His lips capturing yours in a kiss that's all consuming, his hands exploring, pressing, claiming. "Too late to back out now," he mutters against your lips before pushing you down, his body following right after. He pins your wrists above your head, one hand holding them together while his other trails down. "Fuck, you're sexy when you look at me like that..." His voice trails off as he leans in, kissing along your jawline, then nipping at your earlobe. He releases one of your wrists to unbuckle his belt, smirking wickedly as he slowly unzips his pants and freeing his large, hard erection. He grips it firmly, giving it a slow stroke as he looks down at you with pure hunger and lust. "Last chance to back out, baby. After I'm inside you, there's no turning back."