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claramelooo · 3 days ago

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Checkmate (20/21)

Hey, little moths! Hope you're doing great! I have to say, I'm happy with the last chapter. I was fear, but how could I forget my babies are a bunch of filthy??

Anyway, hope you can enjoy this chapter! I tried to write the most real and credible ending for them. Let's go!

Enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: angst, corruption and sex

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Longing makes you accept your dark side

Checkmate II

noun

1. is a game-ending situation where a player's king is under attack (in "check") and there is no possible legal move to remove the king from that attack.

One month had passed.

You hadn't gone to college, let alone your internship. You didn’t answer calls, didn’t reply to Sonya’s emails. You ignored even the most persistent messages from Darcy, Billy, and Sharon.

You just... couldn’t.

It felt like you were in a coma. Lying silently in a dark room, blanket pulled over your head to guard against the winter cold, the world outside knocking on your window, and you refusing to acknowledge it.

You didn’t cry anymore. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because it felt like you’d already cried everything out of you. It was like Agatha had stolen even that. The tears and the ability to feel without shattering inside.

You sat with your thoughts and they were cruel. They paraded through your mind like ghosts, demanding accountability—for everything you’d let happen, and everything you’d become.

God…

Was Carol okay?

You hated to admit it, but you wondered every day. Carol had been cruel. Carol manipulated you, used you—maybe even played a part in it all, but she was there at the beginning. She introduced you to the city; held your hand when things were new, even if she let go too soon.

Was it wrong to care?

Maybe.

But that was the real you.

Not Agatha’s damn project.

You’d spent the past few weeks trying to erase Agatha’s voice from your mind, but she was everywhere. In the news, in the subtext of every headline you couldn’t bear to read, in the speeches you wrote months ago.

You barely ate, or ate poorly. You slept only when your body collapsed from exhaustion. It felt like punishment and maybe it was.

After all…

You forged evidence, you ruined lives. But you saved a woman who told you, with some twisted sense of pride, that she killed her own husband.

You felt filthy inside with every cell of your body contaminated by her touch.

And still… You missed her.

Not Agatha, the Governor. Her. Your owner. Your Mommy. You missed the way she smirked when she challenged you; The muffled laugh when you said something stupid, the way she moaned “honey” against your lips after tearing you apart.

Anger became desire; desire turned into guilt, and guilt circled back to anger.

It was a cycle.

A closed loop that repeated endlessly.

You were alone. Worse than that… you were lonely. And somewhere deep inside, you started to wonder if you'd ever be who you once were again.

Or if, in some twisted way, Agatha had been right.

Maybe she really had shaped you. Maybe you were never as strong as you thought. Maybe this was the first time you were truly seeing yourself—no illusions, no lies, no escape.

"I know you're in there!" The relentless knocking snapped you out of your depressive monologue.

Billy’s muffled voice came through the door, laced with practiced patience.

"You’ve been skipping classes, blowing off your internship. You didn’t even go to Agatha’s conferences. Jennifer’s pissed! I can’t believe you’re throwing away the opportunity of your life."

You stood frozen in the kitchen, paralyzed. You’d finally mustered the energy to get out of bed and make something to eat.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice gentler now. “I’m not here to fight or judge. I just want to know if you're alive.”

Ugh. You hated how good he was at this.

“Billy, go away,” you whispered, clutching a wooden spoon. “Seriously.”

“No.”

“Billy…”

“Not leaving.”

You shut your eyes, exhausted, and turned off the stove. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Too bad, 'cause I brought cookies.”

You wanted to laugh, but you were too far gone. You just sighed and walked to the door.

“You don’t understand, Billy. I did something terrible. There’s no... no coming back.”

“I honestly don’t care.” He said, slipping inside before you could change your mind.

He stood in front of you, searching your face for something you couldn’t quite name.

“You don’t need to go back,” he said. “You just need to keep going.” He took a step closer, but you backed away before he could see the tears collecting in your eyes.

“W-where are the cookies?” You asked, trying to sound casual.

Billy chuckled a little. He knew that trick—it was the same one you'd used after your first heartbreak with Carol.

He held out the plate, wrapped in cling film. “Mom made them this morning. She’s worried.”

You took the plate like you didn’t care, but your mouth watered. As soon as you bit into one, you groaned. Still warm, and the chocolate chips melted on your tongue.

“She broke you, didn’t she?” Billy looked at you now, and what hurt most was what you saw in his eyes: pity.

You looked away, uncomfortable. “W-who did?”

Billy scoffed.

“I’m not an idiot. Harkness. What did she do?”

You swallowed hard and set the cookie plate down on the table, fighting the urge to throw up.

You nodded.

“Yeah, I saw it. The way you looked at her... like she was the sun. But you know, the sun burns, too.”

You let out a weak laugh.

“You’re poetic today.”

“That’s not poetry, that’s worry,” he paused. “You look like Mom did when Dad left. I couldn’t do anything back then, but I can now.”

He stepped forward and took your hands.

“Billy, there’s nothing you can do to help me.”

“Yes, there is,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can show up every day with cookies, talk nonsense until you smile, but most importantly… I can remind you who you are.”

That broke you, so much it made your heart ache. Billy was your friend, truly. He cared about you, and once again, the guilt clawed at your insides.

You loved him, but you weren’t ready.

“I’m sorry, Billy.”

And he answered like the best kind of brother life could give you: “For nothing. I’ll still be here when you're ready.”

He let go of your hands and gave you a small smile, then walked to the door and left.

You leaned your forehead against the door, exhausted. This depressive wave had lasted longer than you’d expected.

All you wanted was a bit of relief, something only a shower could offer.

So that’s what you did. You bathed in warm water, letting the sadness run down the drain and when you stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping. For the first time in weeks, you felt a little lighter.

You threw on your Radiohead t-shirt, pulled on some shorts, and just as you were about to collapse back into bed, there was another knock at the door.

You smiled, faintly.

“I already told you, you’re not the Messiah, Billy,” you said, opening the door with your practiced grin. “But if you brought Paprikash this time, maybe I’ll—”

The world stopped.

She was there.

Agatha Harkness. Wearing a long, dark overcoat, hair impeccably tied up. But something was off—her eyes. Her eyes gave it all away. Exhausted and full, like she'd cried before coming here.

Your smile vanished instantly.

“You…” you swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried not to come,” Agatha replied. “I really did.”

Your hand gripped the doorknob like it was the only thing holding you up.

“Go away.”

“I can’t.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. You felt the weight of her presence pressing into you—like she had never truly left. Like she still lived under your skin.

“Why, Agatha?” Your voice came out low, tired. “Haven’t we had enough?”

She took a deep breath and wet her lips. There was something desperately fragile in that gesture.

“I’ve been a wreck in Olympia,” she finally admitted, stepping through the doorway. “I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t eat. Nick is gone, the team is new, the press is hounding me nonstop…”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t push her away either.

“But none of that destroys me as much as waking up every day and realizing you’re not there.”

Your throat tightened, and your heart did that stupid, familiar leap, as if you were still under the same spell.

She carefully removed her violet gloves and tucked them into her coat pocket, her eyes never leaving yours.

“You got me addicted to this unbearable, uncontrollable thing between us, and now… I don’t know how to live without it. Without you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, as if shielding yourself from her words. As if they were acid.

“You just miss having something to control.”

“No,” she answered too quickly. “I miss someone who challenges me. Who sees me. Who takes me apart.”

She took another step, now close enough that you could smell her familiar perfume—your kryptonite.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” she whispered. “You showed me there are things even I can’t control. And God, it’s… terrifying, but so intoxicating.”

Your eyes finally met hers, and something clicked inside you, like a missing piece sliding into place.

She was here with no power plays, no manipulations. Just her. And you knew, she was telling the truth.

“I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, voice thick. “But I know what I feel when I look at you.”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“Honey, please.”

The great Agatha Harkness was begging—with ocean eyes and lips that still tasted like hot chocolate like that time in Oregon.

The truth was, your pride was bruised. You had promised yourself this wouldn’t happen, that you’d shut yourself off from God and the world.

But here was your answer.

“Would you like some coffee?” You asked, unable to look at her.

The woman smiled, tears spilling freely.

“Yes, please.”

You turned away quickly, before she could follow. As you made the coffee, your heart hammered in your chest.

My God.

Agatha Harkness.

In your living room.

You carried the two mugs carefully, hands trembling slightly.

She was there. Curled under her own heavy coat, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched, as if she weren’t made of the steel she always projected. The newly undone bun made her hair fall loose around her tired face, and those hands—the ones that had set you on fire so many times—shivered quietly in her lap.

“Here.” You handed her the mug gently.

Agatha looked up with a vulnerability that wrecked you a little more inside, as if no one had ever offered her something so simple without expecting anything in return.

“Thank you.” She murmured, voice breaking.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch, turned slightly away, keeping a safe distance that, of course, meant nothing.

Because even apart, you were a magnetic field locked in collision.

You both took the first sip in silence. Only the sound of hot coffee being drunk, shared breaths, the hum of the waking city outside.

“I don’t know how to… do this right anymore,” Agatha began, voice low. “With you. With myself.”

You glanced down at your mug and gave a weak smile. “Funny. You always seemed to know exactly what you were doing.”

“I’m good at pretending.” She laughed, humorless, and you watched the mirth die in her eyes. “ But I’m not good at this. At needing. At wanting something so much it… knocks the ground out from under me.”

Your heart pounded.

“Are you talking about me?” You asked, voice softer than you’d have liked.

Agatha didn’t answer, just nodded. As if it hurt to admit, as if she was only here because she needed you more than she’d ever imagined.

More than she’d ever wanted to.

“I… I never meant for this,” Agatha began, her voice heavy with grief. “I never meant to lose myself. But that’s what happened. You… seeped into my bones. Into the cracks of what was left of me and I let you. I let you.”

You bit your lip, fighting tears.

“Every day we spent together,” she continued. “You… unraveled me. Peeled me back, layer by layer. And the worst part… the worst part was that you liked what you saw. Even the ugliest parts, mostly the ugliest ones.”

She took a shaky breath.

“And now I’m lost. Completely lost in you. Darling, I… I adore you. With every miserable piece of who I am.”

Your eyes betrayed you. The first tear fell, hot and solitary.

“I adore the way you challenge me, the way you look at me like I’m still someone. Like I haven’t become a political monster, or a murderer. Like I could still be… just a woman.”

Your chest tightened, and more tears escaped before you could stop them.

It was almost unbelievable.

This woman was undressing her soul in front of you.

“And I hate how much it terrifies me,” Agatha went on. “Because I know I don’t deserve you. But… letting go is killing me, piece by piece. I don’t want to let you go.”

Your eyes burned, but you swallowed the sob. This wasn’t the time to cry, not when she was tearing herself open like this.

“I don’t regret what I did. Killing that man freed me. In the end, it would’ve been him or me,” she took a sip of coffee, steadying herself. “But I regret dragging you into it. You’re just a girl… My little girl.”

And there it was.

That possessive pronoun she’d always used, the one you’d missed more than you’d ever admit.

“I was blind. With rage and resentment,” a tear rolled down her weathered face. “I thought everyone was the same, and that only I could save myself.”

Now you saw.

She was broken in a different way.

A desperate way.

A way that meant survival.

Literally.

“And when you did what you did, I knew. I wasn’t alone anymore. But it was too late…”

Agatha set her cup on the coffee table and knelt before you.

Your heart jumped, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me what to do to earn your forgiveness.” Her eyes were as blue as a winter morning sky.

Agatha was a beautiful woman. Beautiful, and fragile now.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You brushed your thumb over her tear-streaked cheek, watching as she leaned into your touch, craving it.

“Take off your clothes.”

You saw her eyes widen in shock. But you didn’t give her time to think—you grabbed her by the neck and kissed her fiercely.

Agatha let out a whimper, soft enough to make your skin prickle. Your tongues tangled like a slow, familiar dance.

When you finally broke for air, she pulled back, breathless.

Agatha obeyed, undressing with trembling hands, her mature skin pebbling under the chill of the room. And you watched like a starving hawk as her nipples hardened, pink and sensitive, inviting you.

She shuddered when your fingers traced her body, arching into your touch. You pulled her close, your bodies pressed together, heat clashing with the cold air around you.

“Mommy…” your voice came out rough, dripping with possession. “My poor, sweet Mommy…” your cold hands slid over her body, gripping the soft roundness of her ass.

Agatha shuddered at the beloved word, her winter-sky eyes glazed with submission and want.

You pushed her back gently, guiding her down to the floor again.

“My turn to take care of you.”

She watched you undress with hungry eyes and a dry mouth.

“Can I… touch you?” She asked.

You smirked, tongue between your teeth.

“You can do more than that, Mommy.” You knelt before her, bringing your faces level. Taking her hand, you pressed it to your breast, coaxing. And you nearly moaned at the contact.

Fuck, how you’d missed this.

Her fingers trailed down your stomach, finding the freshly grown curls at your mound, and you grinned. Agatha was right. Hair on a woman is delicious.

Now you couldn’t wait to nuzzle your nose there, breathing her in.

When your ring finger found her wet, pulsing entrance, Agatha gasped as you pressed against her—not entering, just teasing the sensitive flesh.

“Lie down.”

She obeyed, sinking onto the cold hardwood, cheeks flushed, those always-demanding eyes now dark with surrender.

You settled over her, hips slotting together. The hot, slick friction made Agatha moan, her hips rolling instinctively, seeking more. You pinned her wrists above her head, taking control for the first time.

Your bodies moved in sync, the slide intense and filthy, every motion designed to wring choked sighs and whimpers from her. The frigid air turned your ragged breaths to mist, but your skin burned, marked by passion.

Agatha arched off the floor, hard nipples dragging against yours. You bit her neck, and she cried your name, thighs trembling around you.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” her fingers clawed at your back, nails scraping lightly.

You grinned, wicked, speeding your rhythm, feeling her body coil tight, ready to snap.

“Oh, I think you can, Mommy.” Your cunts were so wet the sound was obscene. “Fuck, I’m dripping. Missed this so much. Missed you…”

Agatha broke. A muffled scream tore from her as she shuddered, legs locking around you while pleasure wrecked her.

“Say it again… please.” The older woman begged, body still shaking.

You ground down harder, swollen clits sliding together just like your mouths had earlier.

“I fucking love you!” You spat it out, just as lost as she was, your own climax building. “Fuck! Fuck! I missed you so fucking much!”

Agatha’s hips stuttered beneath you, tipping you both over the edge. She was losing control, muscles fluttering, thighs squeezing yours like a vise. You held her through it, drawing out every spasm, every gasp, until she went boneless in your arms—panting and utterly yours.

You kissed her then, devouring her whimpers, tasting her surrender.

Breathless, you collapsed beside her on the hardwood. Silence settled, broken only by your racing hearts.

Then, softly, Agatha spoke:

“I think I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

You searched her face for deceit but found none, just her raw and unwavering gaze. The intensity of it stole your breath.

“I… I’m not sure,” she admitted, suddenly shy. “I don’t know if I can love someone. I can’t promise. I—

You considered it.

It might be true. Agatha was ice and calculation, after all. The sociopath who’d killed her husband.

Yet an image flashed in your mind: a woman with a pregnant soft belly and bare feet, hands cradling her bump, smile crinkling her blue eyes when she mentioned Nicky. And was that who made you wonder if she wasn’t capable of love.

And right then, you decided to gamble.

“Agatha.”

You cut her off gently but firmly, voice still rough from exhaustion but clear enough to be felt.

She turned slowly, eyes still ashamed, still wet—caught between fear and the desperate need to be understood. The great Harkness, lying bare beside you, fragile, more woman than legend now.

“You don’t have to promise me anything,” you murmured. “I don’t want a vow, just a choice.”

She blinked, slow, trying to parse it.

“Choose me. Every day,” you traced her cheek. “Even the hard days. Even the days you want to run. Because I know you, Agatha. Every ugly, broken, dangerous part and I’m still here. I still choose you.”

She shut her eyes, as if your words were too much to hold, and two tears slipped free. Yet… she smiled.

“You terrify me,” she whispered. “Because I thought control would protect me, then you crashed in. Messy and reckless. And I let you. Worse… I wanted you to.”

You smiled back, trembling, full to bursting.

“Stay till morning.”

She huffed a laugh, tangling her fingers with yours.

“I wasn’t planning to leave, honey.”

~*~

Wasn't cute?? 🥹🤏🏻 See you in the Epilogue

Tag List <3

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#agatha all along #wlw post #agatha harkness x reader #checkmate #mommy k!nk #rio vidal #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lesbian smut #agatha harkness fanfic #dark fanfiction #angst #domme mommy

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lazysundaytales · 2 days ago

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Severus and reader are couple and I would like to see jelaous reader. Maybe another woman is trying to get Severus' attention? At the end of the day, Severus assures reader that he's not interested in another woman.

Flowers

Severus, he could be furiously jealous and overprotective, but y/n never was. Contrary to her friend's thoughts on the subject, it was not because she thought no one would be interested in him, but because she had seen behind the mask of anger, of disinterest, of cruelty, and she knew the man beneath could be intoxicating when his love or his desire fell upon you, and she wouldn’t blame a soul for flirting with him if that were ever the case.

So, in several years of marriage there had been many arguments over how friendly y/n was with another man, but never the other way round.

Until Petunia.

…

“You’re late.”

Severus stilled for the briefest of moments and then continued to hang his robe up by the door. Side by side their robes hung every evening, his the deepest black and hers the darkest green. Their mere presence in those robes, sweeping after them down the hallway, was often enough to cause complete silence until they had turned the corner. It always sent a thrum of pleasure up his spine to be by her side in those robes.

“I wasn’t aware I had a curfew.”

“You weren’t at dinner.”

“I was working.”

“You weren’t in the potions room, because I went looking for you.”

“Not hard enough, it seems, if you did not find me.”

“Perhaps you did not want to be-“

“Enough, woman!” Severus snapped, beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt. “I do not come here to be badgered!”

“Why do you come here then, Severus? Is it to remind me that you no longer love me?”

“You infuriate me.” He growled, taking her arm with a tight grip to pull her to her feet.

“Do not touch me!” She attempted to push, but he was solid.

“What has changed? Two weeks ago you were my perfect wife, and now you do nothing but spew bile at me at every moment!”

“Because I hate you! I hate what you have done!”

“If you would at least attempt to tell me what it is you think I have done we could move on!” He snapped back. “Or do you not because it is imaginary?”

“You know what you have done!”

The same argument, night after night, and it always ended the same.

She would push him again, he would pull her closer, then she would kiss him angrily, hungrily, biting and scratching at him as he fucked her against the wall, the door, the desk. And then she would cry and say she didn’t hate him. He would hold her until she slept, offering quiet reassurances that he loved her still.

But tonight, he was done with this game. Two whole weeks, and he wanted his wife back. So when she went to push him again, he allowed her to. He fell to his knees in front of her and buried his face against the warmth of her middle.

This stunned her into silence.

“Tell me. Tell me because I cannot stand this wretched play over and over every night! What do you believe me to have done?”

Y/N stared down at him with wide eyes that soon clouded with tears as she went to pull away, but he kept his tight arms around her.

Finally, she uttered a single word. “Petunia.”

Confusion. “Who?”

She gave a sharp, unamused laugh. “You are having an affair with Petunia Mandrake.”

He frowned up at her as though she’d gone mad and could only repeat “who?”

“The new history of Magic professor!”

“Have I even met her?!”

“She was in the staff meeting this morning!”

“You’re mistaken if you think I am looking at anyone or anything but you any time before 8am. I cannot stomach anyone else’s face.”

The disgusted note on his voice made y/n hesitate again, and she looked back down at the slightly sweaty black hair, the forehead that creased in confusion, the jaw that worked to keep his temper in check.

Suddenly it all came tumbling out. Petunia Mandrake; bully of y/n for years when they were at school together. Stole her first love from her only to abandon him as soon as they graduated.

Severus rose to his feet, and his temper rose with him. “And you believed me so easily swayed that if she tried, I would simply turn from you?!”

“She is beautiful, and funny, and smart, and -“

“You are all those things and more, all of them good.”

“And you have been late home so many times since she came.” Y/n whispered, now unsure when she had been so positive earlier.

“I am helping Enid with end of year exams. I cannot be seen to favour anyone, so we do it in the astronomy tower during dinner time.”

“Why have you not told me this before?”

“Because, my darling, you have been edging insanity for two weeks and I was simply concerned you may snap our daughters' head off for cheating on exams, because you’ve already told me I mustn’t give her an unfair advantage if she is to be a student here. I would have mentioned it sooner had I realised you believed I could love anyone but you, you infuriating witch!”

Y/n stared at him silently for what felt like hours before she turned away, covering her face in mortification.

He may not be the jealous one, finally, but he was still the protective one. “I will speak to Minerva and get her removed. I will teach her classes for the remainder of the term if need be. I will not have her here upsetting you.”

She thought of herself as a kind woman, but Y/n still nodded at this, agreeing that a woman should lose her job and for what? Bullying from more than a decade ago. She may have changed.

There was the shuffle of feet from behind her, and then Severus broke the silence to ask “…as much as it pains me to admit this, I am enjoying the jealous coupling, so can we perhaps have one last hurrah before i go?” He cleared his throat, then added “she is awfully pretty, after all.”

Y/n turned, arms folding slowly in front of her, a single eyebrow raised. “Describe her to me.”

He could think of the woman’s voice, syrupy sweet, but he could not formulate even a slight picture in his mind because he had simply never given her more than a passing glance. “Shorter than you. Wide hips. Colourful?”

On the last word, y/n released a laugh, and with it went the last of her anger as her husband continued to describe the flower in more and more detail as y/n pushed him onto the couch and straddled him.

#harry potter #severus snape #severus snape x oc #severus snape x reader #severus snape x y/n #alan rickman #severus snape x original female character

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spizgany-lipejs · 5 months ago

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Actually the sheer ridiculousness of Adder understanding Czech decently because he's polish, refusing to speak Czech that he clearly picked up, Czechs seemingly barely understanding a word, his allocated Hungarian bestie (long live bratanki) understanding and speaking polish best out of everyone gathered despite being the token non-slav. KCD2 is a comedy and Adder is not a goose and he's got his own language.

#kcd2 #I actually can't understand what warhorse was on abt with foreign speakers that communicated mostly in English #None of the VAs are native speakers #Zawisza isn't voiced by a pole and his polish inserts could have used being consulted with even Adder's VA #Janosh is voiced by a Slovak which is kind of hilarious and his polish is better than Zawisza's #Vasko is shared with Hynek but I find it funny that my allocated Hungarian deemed Tom's hungarian as better sounding #I had to yap. I played throughout the weekend with sleep and food breaks to finish because I can't repeat the last week with 3h of sleep

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cathnospam · 8 months ago

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“I didn’t shave—“

“I do not…give a fuck. Open your legs.”

You and Bakugo have this argument at least once a month. You only need to wax your little lady once a month after your period , and it’s about that time to do so but you have 2 problems;

Your appointment isn’t until 2 more days, and you have a boyfriend that has been waiting a full week to eat you out.

“‘Suki I told you I hate—-“

“Why do you give a fuck about that? It’s HAIR.”

“I FEEL DIRTY.”

“You just took an everything shower.”

Bakugo NEVER understood the point of shaving your pussy anyway. He genuinely does not care whether there is hair or not on it, and after having an irritating crave to eat your pussy he definitely couldn’t care less.

“It’s a bush.”

“I don’t—- y/n the area I wanna suck—“

“Don’t be a pervert.”

He deadpanned at you, the Blondie also never cared for how blunt he was with his dirty words. Just two weeks ago you and him were eating cereal when he just casually spoke, “When I get home tonight I wanna eat your pussy against the door like I did last night.” As he gets up to clean his bowl.

No emotion

And no care.

He’s a damn savage.

“Your clit don’t have hair on it it’s just the lips.”

“OMY fucking—“

“Please.”

You blink, “what…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Bakugo groans loudly and lays his head on your shoulder. And bites it, “OW!” The main reason why Bakugo haven’t let up is because you and him established a strict safe word rule. He knows he can be pushy with things he wants but he’d never want to make you uncomfortable about it. If you GENUINELY don’t want him to all you have to say is “TNT” and he’ll drop it no questions asked. And never bring it up again.

But here you are, contemplating.

Your thoughts get broken by a soft kiss on your jaw, his scarred warm palms lifting your his shirt , playfully tapping his fingers on your clothed panties, “I heard you playing with yourself in the shower.”

You freeze, feeling his devious smirk against your cheek, his natural scent and musk clouding your mind as he keeps kissing you, rubbing on your body, “You want it as bad as I do. I fucking know you do.”

“Remember last time?”

He had your knees to your ears last time, ass hanging off the edge of the bed as he spit, licked, and sucked all inside and on your pussy. His fluffy hair tickling your inner thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin so deep you could just barely grind against his mouth. Bakugo was always a nasty ass eater to the point you were embarrassed just watching him.

His ring and middle finger swirling circles on your clit as his tongue filled your aching tight hole, the way he stops for a moment to kiss the soft little nub , nearly making out with it making you roll your eyes because his pillowy wet lips felt soooooo good against you.

You remembered how he’d slap your ass a few times when you looked away for too long or covered your mouth, you swore he’d heat up his hands slightly just to do so.

You remembered how he’d hold your ankles up and he licked stripes against your pussy and his tongue teasing your other hole.

You remembered how he’d swished his head back and fourth while his lips captured your clit and tugged on it. Sending you over the edge while he sucked and groaned. Two fingers pumping inside you.

“You remember, huh.” His raspy voice against your ear, already teasing his fingers inside you panties, “You came so much you passed out right after.”

The more he spoke to distract you the further he got, eventually laying you down on his huge couch, to pulling off your panties, to opening you legs, to kissing each thigh, and down to repeating his exact actions from last time.

And no he did NOT care about the hair.

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kaiist · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐃-𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The tension between you and Xavier had been building for the past ten minutes. The living room felt smaller with each passing second, the space between you charged with unspoken frustrations. He remained still as always while you gesticulated wildly, your frustration mounting as you paced back and forth.

“You can’t just disappear for hours without telling me, Xavier! I was worried sick!” Your voice cracked on the last word, betraying how genuinely frightened you’d been.

He stood with perfect posture by the window, hands clasped behind his back. “I apologize. I was helping a neighbor downstairs with their computer system. Time escaped me.” The words were perfectly reasonable, delivered in that maddeningly measured tone he always used.

His calm demeanor only fueled your irritation. How could he be so composed when you’d been imagining the worst? Fatal accidents. Hospital rooms. All the terrible possibilities that had played through your mind on repeat.

“That’s not the point!” you snapped, closing the distance between you. “This is the third time this week you’ve vanished without a word. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To call and text and get nothing back?”

Standing this close, you noticed subtle changes in his expression—his eyebrows furrowed slightly and the corner of his mouth turned down just enough to be noticeable. The tiny muscle along his jaw twitched, and you caught the quickening pulse at his neck despite his outward composure. These microexpressions—so small anyone else would miss them—revealed the emotions he struggled to articulate.

“I didn’t intend to cause distress,” he said quietly, and for once, his voice carried a hint of genuine regret. “The repair was more complex than anticipated. The family had lost access to critical medical records.”

“Oh, so you’re suddenly a mechanic or something?” You exhaled sharply, running your hands through your hair. “Just... call next time. Or text. Anything.”

His eyes met yours, searching. “The thought didn’t occur to me. That was... an oversight.”

Something in his admission—the rare acknowledgment of an emotional mistake rather than a logical error—made your frustration shift into something else entirely. You suddenly become aware of how close you were standing, you can faintly smell the subtle scent of his cologne. Your anger was still there, but beneath it stirred something warmer.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, fingers gripping the soft fabric of his hoodie, and pressed your lips firmly against his. For a moment, everything froze—the argument, your racing thoughts, even time itself.

Xavier went completely still, clearly caught off guard by this abrupt change. You felt the slight intake of his breath against your lips, the momentary tension in his shoulders. Then, like ice melting in the sun, he yielded. His shoulders relaxed, and his hands—initially hovering uncertainly—found their way to your waist, steady and warm through the fabric of your shirt.

The kiss lingered longer than you’d intended, your anger dissolving with each passing second. His lips were surprisingly soft, with the faint taste of the mint tea he always drank in the evenings. What had started as impulse deepened into something tender, the physical connection saying everything words had failed to express between you.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wider than usual, pupils slightly dilated. Xavier’s carefully composed expression had cracked completely open, revealing vulnerability you only got to see. A flush colored his cheekbones, making him look younger, more boyish.

“What was that for?” he asked, his voice softer than before, slightly breathless in a way that made your heart skip.

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, equally breathless. “I’m still mad at you, though.” The declaration lacked conviction even to your own ears, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as if processing a complex equation. His thumb traced a gentle circle on your hip where his hand still rested. “I understand your concern,” he said finally, each word carefully chosen. “Next time, I’ll message you.”

You sighed, feeling the last remnants of your anger slipping away. “I just... when I couldn’t reach you, I imagined all these terrible scenarios.” Your forehead dropped against his chest, suddenly exhausted from the emotional whiplash.

“That hadn’t occurred to me, because I usually came back just fine,” he admitted quietly. His arms encircled you fully now, pulling you into an embrace. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, reassuringly present and real.

“Though if this is how our arguments conclude,” he whispered, that subtle teasing tone emerging that only you ever got to hear, “I might be tempted to provoke them more often.”

You smacked his chest lightly, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Don’t you dare.”

“Noted,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Though I make no promises about forgetting the time again. But I will promise to let you know where I am.”

“That’s all I’m asking for,” you whispered against the soft fabric of his hoodie, breathing in his familiar scent. The argument had dissolved, leaving something stronger, more honest in its wake—another layer of understanding between you and this complex, fascinating man you’d fallen for.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital cast everything in an unflattering glow, including Zayne’s stern expression as he worked on your arm. The sharp antiseptic smell permeated the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood—your blood—that had soaked through your uniform.

“Hold still,” Zayne commanded as he dabbed antiseptic on the gash along your arm. The cool liquid burned against the raw wound, making you inhale sharply.

You winced at the sting but tried to maintain a brave face. “It’s just a scratch,” you said dismissively, though the throbbing told a different story.

His eyes flicked up momentarily from his work, dark with barely contained emotion. “A ‘scratch’ that nearly severed your brachial artery,” he countered, his deft fingers working methodically on the sutures.

You watched his hands as he worked—steady, precise movements born from years of practice. The precision of his gestures contrasted sharply with the tightness around his eyes and the muscle jumping in his jaw. The silence between stitch pulls felt heavier than artillery fire.

“What were you thinking, charging like that without proper clearance?” he finally asked, voice too controlled, too measured to disguise the emotion underneath.

With each stitch, you could feel his conflicting emotions—the methodical doctor warring with the man who clearly cared for you more than he wanted to admit. His eyes remained focused on the wound, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.

“I had intelligence that couldn’t wait,” you defended, though your voice lacked conviction. The pain medication was making it hard to maintain your stubborn front, and his proximity was distracting. Zayne had always been handsome, but there was something about the intensity of his focus, even while angry, that made your pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with your injury.

Zayne’s jaw tightened visibly as he reached for the surgical thread again. “Intelligence. Right.” He tied off a stitch with perhaps more force than necessary, making you flinch. His eyes immediately softened with regret for causing additional pain, though his voice remained stern. “And that intelligence was worth risking your life?”

“The mission was—”

“The mission would have failed entirely if you’d bled out in that alley,” he cut in, his voice sharp as a scalpel. “Do you have any idea what it was like—” his voice wavered, “—knowing you’re out there, but not knowing if you’d come out alive?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment filled the silence, counting the heartbeats where neither of you spoke. You hadn’t considered that perspective—hadn’t thought about Zayne possibly remembering other battlefields where he’d arrived too late.

As he reached to wrap your arm, you noticed the slight tremor in his usually steady hands. It was subtle—anyone else might have missed it—but you knew those hands too well. They had patched you up countless times, had grabbed you out of harm’s way, had steadied you during your hard times. Now they betrayed his composure in a way his disciplined expression never would.

“You could have died,” he said more quietly as he smoothed the bandage over your skin, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Something in his vulnerability made your chest tighten. The walls you’d both maintained through professional necessity suddenly seemed absurd in the face of how close you’d come to never seeing him again. The realization hit you with unexpected force—what if this had been your last interaction? An argument in a sterile hospital room?

Without overthinking it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, effectively silencing his lecture. You felt his momentary surprise, the stiffening of his shoulders before something like surrender washed through him. The kiss was gentle, an apology and a reassurance wrapped into one. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours.

For a suspended moment, the hospital, the mission, the injury—everything disappeared except the point where you connected. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, careful to avoid jostling your injured arm. The professional mask he wore so carefully had slipped entirely away, revealing the vulnerability underneath that only you were trusted to see.

When you pulled back, his expression had transformed. The stern doctor was gone. His breath came slightly faster, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

You gave him your best innocent look, trying to lighten the suddenly charged atmosphere. “Doctor, am I going to make it?”

For a moment, he appeared stunned, lips slightly parted in surprise, a flush rising from beneath the collar of his medical coat. Then he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders visibly releasing. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but getting there.

“Your prognosis is favorable,” he murmured. He finished securing the bandage, his touch had gentled considerably. “But I’m prescribing close observation for the next twenty-four hours. My office would be the appropriate location for such monitoring.”

He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then traced a path down to your lips again. This second kiss was different—unhurried and deliberate, carrying promises neither of you had voiced aloud. You felt the last of his anger dissolving.

You smiled against his lips, victory achieved. “If that’s your medical opinion, Doctor.”

“It is,” he said, carefully helping you sit up. His hand lingered at the small of your back, steadying you. “And next time, wait for backup. Please.” The ‘please’ was barely audible, a rare moment of naked vulnerability.

It was a plea from someone who couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.

“I promise,” you said softly, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“Three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and—” Rafayel checked his watch with exaggerated timing, spinning around to face you as you entered his studio, “—fourteen seconds. That’s how long I’ve been waiting.” He threw his hands upward. “Do you know what I could have done in that time? I could have watched Titanic. I could have baked a soufflé—actually, no, three soufflés! I could have learned the basics of Spanish!”

You closed the door behind you, exhaustion evident in your movements. Your muscles ached from the tension of the mission, and your uniform still carried the faint smell of smoke and sweat. The emergency operation had taken everything out of you, but Rafayel was clearly in no mood to be sympathetic.

“I’m sorry, Rafayel. The situation was critical and—”

“Critical enough to not send a single message?” He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. He paced the room with exaggerated steps, hands gesturing wildly as if conducting an invisible orchestra of grievances. “We had plans. Specific plans that involved a sunset and a dinner reservation that I can’t get back. Do you know how many strings I had to pull? How many favors I called in?”

You dropped your bag with a heavy thud, wincing as your bruised shoulder protested the movement. “Rafayel, please—”

“The restaurant had a two-month waiting list!” He spun again, his silk shirt billowing slightly with the movement. “The chef was going to prepare that ridiculous flaming dessert you like—the one with the sparklers that always makes you smile like a child at a festival.” His voice softened momentarily before hardening again. “I even wore the shirt you like. The one that’s actually uncomfortable but makes my eyes look nice or whatever.”

He wasn’t wrong—the color of the silk did make his eyes look particularly striking, even now as they flashed with indignation. You noticed he’d styled his hair as well, and the realization that he’d put such effort into the evening made your heart twist with guilt.

“There wasn’t time to message anyone,” you explained, sinking onto the couch, too tired to remain standing through his complaints. “The comms were jammed. We barely made it out at all.”

Rafayel narrowed his eyes, studying your face for any sign of deception. “Oh, so it’s technology’s fault now?” He threw his hands up again, accidentally knocking a decorative vase that he caught with surprising reflexes before it could shatter. “Humans and their excuses. Always something or someone else to blame. ‘The sun was in my eyes! The dog ate my homework! The communications were jammed during my super-secret mission!’”

He set the vase down with care despite his agitation—a reminder that for all his dramatic flair, Rafayel was actually quite meticulous. “Next you’ll tell me there were explosions and car chases, like some absurd action movie.”

The accuracy of his sarcastic guess made you hesitate just long enough for his eyes to widen.

“Wait, there were actually explosions? And you’re just walking in here like it’s nothing?” Something flickered across his face—genuine concern breaking through the outrage—before he quickly composed himself again. “Well, that’s... that’s beside the point! The point is I was abandoned. Left to wither away on my own.”

Despite your fatigue, irritation sparked. “I didn’t exactly choose to be ambushed and pinned down for two hours! I wasn’t having fun, Rafayel!”

“And I didn’t choose to sit alone at that ridiculous restaurant while the waiter gave me pitying looks!” he shot back, voice rising as he threw himself into the armchair across from you. “Do you know how humiliating that was? Waiting and waiting while everyone whispered about the poor abandoned man? The maître d’ actually patted my shoulder, like I was some... some tragic figure!”

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, mussing it in a way that somehow made him look even more attractive—an infuriating talent he seemed unaware of. “I ordered wine. I checked my phone approximately nine thousand times. I made up elaborate excuses about my date being a super great hunter called into an emergency mission to save Linkon City.”

The genuine hurt beneath his outrage became suddenly clear. Behind the dramatic gestures and exaggerated language was real pain—the vulnerability of someone who had been genuinely worried.

You rose from the couch, crossing the small space between you. He continued his rant, though his voice lost some of its conviction as you approached.

“And then I had to walk home alone, past all those disgustingly happy couples who—”

You stepped forward, cupping his face in your hands, and pressed your lips firmly against his. You could feel the exact moment his indignation melted, his body language transforming from rigid offense to relieved surrender. For a moment, he remained stiff, clearly determined to hold onto his righteous anger. Then, with a small sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, his arms encircled you, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.

The kiss tasted faintly of the expensive wine he’d mentioned—he hadn’t been exaggerating about waiting at the restaurant, at least. His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle despite his earlier theatrics, cradling your head as if you were something precious he’d feared losing.

When you pulled away, his pout remained, though considerably less convincing. His lips, slightly reddened from the kiss, contradicted his attempt at maintaining his anger. His fingers traced your cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicted his dramatic words—the clearest sign that you’d been forgiven, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.

“This changes nothing,” he mumbled, even as his fingers gently traced patterns on your back, discovering and carefully avoiding the spots where you’d been injured. “I’m still upset.”

“I know,” you acknowledged softly, resting your forehead against his. “And I really am sorry about dinner. I know how much trouble you went through to arrange it.”

“You should be,” he huffed, but then rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your face. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? The things I imagined? You could have been hurt or—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “A few bruises, nothing serious.”

His eyes searched yours, seeing through the minimization. His hand found the tender spot on your shoulder that you’d been trying to hide, his touch feather-light. “Liar,” he said softly, with none of his earlier accusations. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s part of the job,” you reminded him gently. “But I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“A job that consistently interrupts my meticulously planned romantic gestures,” he complained, but his voice had lost its edge. His fingers moved from your shoulder to your neck, then to your face, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, whole and safe. “But I suppose I’m glad you weren’t permanently damaged. That would have been extremely inconvenient for my future plans.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“You seem distracted today,” Sylus remarked, watching you from across his office room in the Onychinus’s base. His voice carried that peculiar blend of observation and judgment that never failed to set your teeth on edge. “Something troubling that brilliant mind of yours?”

You’d been on edge all morning, his casual observations hitting every nerve. The mission report in front of you blurred as you tried to focus on anything besides his piercing gaze from across the room. Each time he passed behind your chair, you could feel his presence like electricity, deliberately invading your space as if testing your limits.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you replied tersely, gripping your pen tighter.

“Clearly.” His lips curled into that infuriating smirk that made you want to either slap him or— No. You refused to follow that train of thought. “That’s why you’ve been glaring daggers at the same report for twenty minutes. Fascinating reading material, is it?”

“I’m concentrating.” You made a show of turning the page, though you hadn’t absorbed a single word from the previous one.

“On setting it ablaze with your eyes, perhaps?” He chuckled, the sound rich and smooth like aged whiskey—a sound that would be pleasant in any other context, from any other person. He pushed away from his ornate desk, crossing the room with that grace that seemed to define his every movement. “Come now, sweetie. You know I can see right through you.”

Your grip tightened on your pen until your knuckles whitened. Today, his typical banter felt like sandpaper on raw skin. The weight of the failed mission hung heavy on your shoulders—a mission he’d asked you to accompany him. The subtle way his eyes had followed you since your return suggested he knew exactly how it had gone wrong, and was simply waiting for you to admit it.

The mission had been stressful enough without his commentary, and you’d specifically chosen to work in his office for the quiet atmosphere, not the running commentary. The irony wasn’t lost on you—seeking peace in the devil’s lair—but the alternative was the bustling common areas where questions about the mission would be impossible to avoid.

“Perhaps it’s the negotiations?” he continued, leaning against your desk, invading your personal space with calculated precision. The subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and custom-made, no doubt—wrapped around you like an unwelcome embrace. “Your strategy was... unconventional. Though I must say, watching you attempt to outmaneuver your opponent was quite entertaining. Like watching a chess novice challenge a grandmaster.”

His words struck with precision, targeting exactly where you felt most vulnerable. The negotiations had fallen apart spectacularly, though not for lack of preparation on your part. Sylus had blamed it on a few of his henchmen, he’ll deal with them later for forgetting to mention some details that caused you to stress yourself out.

“Or maybe it’s that little encounter with one of my rivals the day before yesterday?” he pressed on, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that forced you to incline toward him despite yourself. “I heard of how that meeting concluded.”

That was the breaking point. The pen in your hand snapped, ink staining your fingers like evidence of a crime. In one fluid motion, you stood from your chair, the sudden movement causing Sylus to straighten, a flash of surprise crossing his features before his customary smirk returned.

“Would you just—” The words caught in your throat, frustration making it impossible to articulate exactly what you wanted from him. Silence? An apology? Some acknowledgment that he’d set you up to fail although it’s not entirely his fault?

Instead of finishing your sentence, you grabbed his perfectly pressed collar and yanked him down, crushing your lips against his. It wasn’t gentle or sweet—it was pure frustration translated into action, teeth clashing, fingers gripping fabric tight enough to wrinkle the expensive material.

The stunned widening of his eyes gave you a flash of satisfaction—finally something had caught the ever-composed Sylus off-guard. For a heartbeat, he remained completely still, his usual grace abandoned in genuine surprise. Then his hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he responded with unexpected intensity.

What had started as an impulsive act of defiance quickly transformed into something more. The kiss deepened, his other hand finding the small of your back, drawing you closer with surprising strength. Heat bloomed where his fingers pressed, spreading through your body like wildfire. The taste of him—bitter coffee and something sweeter underneath—was intoxicating in the worst possible way.

When you broke away, breathless and disoriented, you glared up at him. “Shut. Up.”

For perhaps the first time this week, Sylus appeared genuinely caught off balance. His usual perfect composure had slipped, collar askew, a hint of color high on his sharp cheekbones. Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, certainly, but also something darker, more intense that made your pulse quicken despite yourself.

Rather than appearing offended, Sylus looked thoroughly entertained once he recovered, eyes gleaming with intrigue. He straightened slowly, adjusting his collar that drew attention to his long fingers.

“Well,” he murmured, voice slightly rougher than his usual polished tones, “that’s certainly one way to request silence.” His tongue darted out to touch his lower lip briefly, as if sampling the taste you’d left there. “Effective, if unorthodox.”

But true to your demand, he didn’t speak further. Instead, he returned to his chaise lounge across the room, picking up his own work with an amused expression that should have infuriated you but somehow didn’t.

The silence stretched between you, no longer suffocating. You returned to your report, finding it suddenly easier to focus with Sylus’s voice no longer needling at your concentration. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced up, he was seemingly absorbed in his own work, though the ghost of a smile played around his lips.

After you’d made significant progress through the stack of files, a steaming cup of your favorite tea appeared at your elbow without warning. The delicate china cup—part of an antique set Sylus guarded jealously—was filled with the precise shade and aroma that you preferred, complete with the exact amount of honey you favored.

When you looked up questioningly, Sylus merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘See? I can be helpful when not talking.’ His smirk had softened around the edges, a truce offering in the form of perfectly brewed tea.

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. You raised the cup in silent acknowledgment, a momentary peace established in the aftermath of that impulsive kiss.

As you sipped the tea—prepared exactly as you liked it, proving he’d been paying far more attention than you’d given him credit for—you wondered which one of you had actually won this particular skirmish. Based on the satisfied gleam in his eye whenever he glanced your way, Sylus clearly thought he had the upper hand.

But as the afternoon wore on in productive silence, punctuated only by the occasional meaningful glance, you weren’t entirely sure you’d lost either.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The drive back to Caleb’s apartment was suffocating with silence. Rain streaked across the windshield, city lights blurring into watery halos as he navigated the evening trafficking Skyhaven. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw set in that way that meant he was holding back words—a dam of frustration ready to break at any moment.

You stared out the passenger window, your reflection ghostly against the glass, unable to look at him directly. You’d avoided him for three days after the mission went sideways. Three days of ducking into supply closets when you heard his footsteps in the corridor, of swapping shifts with anyone willing, of ignoring the increasingly terse messages on your comm unit. It wasn’t rational—you knew that—but facing him after your mistake in the field felt impossible.

The car stopped at a red light, engine humming. Raindrops raced down the window, merging and separating like the strategies you should have coordinated better during the operation. In the reflection of the glass, you could see Caleb’s profile—strong jaw tensed, eyes fixed straight ahead, the small scar above his eyebrow more pronounced in the harsh street lighting.

Neither of you had spoken since he’d found you in the briefing room, simply saying “We need to talk” in that Colonel voice that brooked no argument. Now, pulling into the parking space at his building, you still hadn’t found the words to bridge the chasm between you.

He unlocked his door, letting you enter first. The familiarity of his place—the orderly bookshelves, the single plant you’d given him that somehow thrived despite his frequent absences, the subtle scent of coffee and cologne he wore—made your chest ache with a complicated emotion. You couldn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead around the room—everything in its place except for the emotions threatening to spill over between you.

The moment the door closed behind you with a soft click, the tension broke.

“Three days,” he stated, voice unnervingly calm as he set his keys in the exact same spot they always occupied on the entryway table. “No communications, dodging my calls, switching shifts.” Each offense listed with the precision of military charges being read.

You shrugged, aiming for casual while removing your jacket, though your hands betrayed you with a slight tremor. “I’ve been busy.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you,” he said, stepping closer, the controlled anger in his voice making it lower than usual. “Never has.” He moved into your space, not touching you but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the rain on his uniform mingling with his cologne. “I know exactly what you’re doing. Running away because you think I blame you for what happened.”

Your breath caught. Of course he’d figured it out—he always did. Caleb could read encryptions and enemy movements with uncanny accuracy, but his ability to decode your thoughts sometimes felt even more disarming.

“People could have died because of my call,” you whispered, finally voicing the fear that had been haunting you for days. Your hands clenched and unclenched at your sides, the phantom feeling of your weapon during that critical moment when everything had gone wrong.

“But they didn’t,” he countered. His voice remained firm but had lost some of its edge. “The team is safe. The mission objectives were achieved, if not in the way we planned.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, finally meeting his gaze. The intensity there nearly made you step back. “I ignored direct orders—your orders. I put everyone at risk because I thought I knew better.”

“You made a judgment call in the field,” he corrected, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. The gesture, so uncharacteristically nervous for him, revealed just how deeply the situation had affected him, too. “What I can’t accept is you avoiding me afterward. Avoiding the team. Avoiding the debrief where we could have addressed what happened.”

“And avoiding me doesn’t change what happened or help us prevent it next time,” he continued, his voice softening. “The team needs you. I need—” He stopped, seeming to catch himself. “The mission requires all officers and you, Miss Hunter, to be present for debriefing. That’s protocol.”

The retreat behind protocol stung worse than his anger. The distance he was deliberately placing between you—falling back on rank and procedure—felt like a physical wound. The intensity in his eyes was too much to bear.

Before he could continue his lecture, before he could retreat further behind the wall of Colonel, you surged forward, grasping his collar and pulling him down into a desperate kiss. The kiss was both surrender and defiance—an apology you couldn’t voice and a desperate plea to move past the wall building between you.

For a heartbeat, he remained rigid, hands stiff at his sides. Then, like ice thawing, he responded, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist, drawing you flush against him. The rain had chilled his lips, but they quickly warmed against yours, the taste of something uniquely him making your heart race.

What had begun as impulse deepened into something more profound. His fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss. The carefully maintained distance of the past days dissolved with each passing second, replaced by an urgency that spoke of relief and lingering fear—fear that the rift between you might have been permanent.

When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, his expression had transformed. The stern Colonel was gone, replaced by just Caleb—your Caleb—with unguarded emotion in his eyes. His shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in days.

“Don’t be mad at me like that...” you whispered. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart where your bodies pressed together.

His expression had softened even more, he could never stay mad at you for long, not when you looked at him like this.

“That won’t work every time,” he murmured, though the smile playing at his lips suggested otherwise. His thumb traced gentle circles at the small of your back.

“Seems to be working now,” you replied, relieved to see the anger dissipating like morning fog. You pressed your forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow to its usual steady rhythm.

Caleb sighed, one hand still tangled in your hair, gently massaging your scalp in that way he knew always calmed you. The rain continued to patter against the windows. “You know why I was angry, don’t you?” he asked quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest against your ear.

You nodded slightly. “Because I disobeyed a direct order.”

“No,” he said, pulling back just enough to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Because you disappeared afterward. Because for three days, I didn’t know if you were okay—not physically, but here.” He tapped gently at your temple. “Missions go wrong. Plans fall apart. That’s the nature of what we do. But we process it together.”

“I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”

“I was disappointed you didn’t trust me enough to face me,” he corrected, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “We’re partners in this, in all of it. The good calls and the bad ones.”

“I promise,” you whispered. “No more running. No matter what happens, we face it together.”

Something in your tone must have convinced him, because the last traces of tension left his body. He pressed his lips to your forehead, the gesture tender in a way that made your heart ache.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Because the next time you go dark on me for three days, I’m sending the entire squadron to find you.”

After five hours of writing with plenty of breaks (read: procrastination and distraction), and I finally finished my longest scenario yet. This ended up being one of my favorites, as I truly enjoyed the writing process and got completely carried away.

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a-hermit-pining · 5 months ago

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LaDS Men React To An Unexpected Pregnancy

AN: Pregnant reader. Not the boys. That genre is currently unexplored on this blog but not for long 🤭👺

Pairing: LaDS boys x Fem reader

Ingredients: 75% fluff, 25% angst.

My Fav: Rafayel's (new segment because I want to discuss which ones I liked best when writing)

Xavier:

You pass out during a mission. That’s how you find out. In the Hunter Association’s medical ward, you stare at the positive report in stunned silence.

The nausea hadn’t just been Xavier’s cooking.

How even…? You sit there, frozen, until he walks in, finding you pale and unmoving.

A child.

He leans against the wall, the report in his hand. God.

He had vanished the day he found out. Left you bitterly alone. But you didn’t need him, you could raise the child on your own. If Xavier was too weak to accept the truth, so be it.

But he returns. You don’t know where he went, only that when he comes back, he is broken.

"I couldn't change it." He falls to his knees. "The world remains unchanged," he repeats, voice hollow.

The destruction he had accepted, the grief he had worn like armor, now, it becomes unbearable. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if he can ever manage to save it for his child.

Rafayel:

He dreams of it. Strange dreams.

He’s not one to obsess over omens, but even he, in his eternal wisdom, cannot decipher what a colony of seals playing with marbles is supposed to mean.

Then, one afternoon, he dreams of a baby seal. It coos at him, glumphing closer, making infant-like noises.

And in the dream, he bends down to pet it. Only for you to pick it up instead.

He jolts awake. Hands immediately over his stomach. Breath unsteady. No...not him...it was you. You picked the seal, that meant-

Then he stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to find you.

Drives like a madman. He counts the days. Two months. He counts the signs.

His heart refuses to slow down.

Barging into the Hunter’s Association, he’s chased by guards, by an exasperated receptionist, but none of it matters.

When he finds you, he grips your shoulders, searching your face. How could he have missed it?

By the tides, he was a fool.

And then—he feels it. A whisper, warm and murmuring, like the gentle pull of the waves.

A half-formed yawn, ringing softly in his mind.

The presence of his child.

Now all he has to do is tell you.

Zayne:

You watch Zayne eat dinner, half-listening as he talks about his day. He absentmindedly bites into another baby carrot.

Not just baby carrots, baby corn, baby potatoes, those tiny tomatoes.

"How’s dinner, Zayne?" you ask, feigning nonchalance.

He nods, smiling. "It’s good. Very healthy."

"Notice anything?"

He hums in thought. "You’re trying Italian cuisine these days." He places his hand over yours, gentle. "But you don’t have to cook if you’re tired after work."

He’s too kind to mention the small incident with the oven last week. To be fair, the bun in the oven analogy is a classic.

A week. A whole week of hints, and still, he hasn’t caught on.

Sighing, you give up on subtlety. "Darling, did you visit the pediatrics ward today?" you ask, pushing food around your plate.

"I didn’t have time. Had to miss the volunteering event for surgery."

You grin. Taking his hand, you guide it over your stomach. "Well, luckily for you, we’ll have one right here soon."

His mouth hangs open. Eyes darting between you and your stomach before his fingers brush over the nonexistent bump.

"Really? Are we—"

"Yes, you dummy!" You pull him into a hug. "I’ve been trying to tell you for days."

For a man obsessed with your health, he somehow had been ignorant of the biggest of surprises. Unplanned or not, you were going to give him the longest late night shift of his life.

Sylus:

The timing could have been better, he muses, wiping blood off his cheek.

But he had been too lax.

Not that it mattered. Everything was under control.

"Clean up," he orders, snapping his fingers. Shadows slither forward, dragging the remains of his enemies into the abyss.

The news of a child had changed things. He had let fate play its part for too long. Now, it was his turn.

Whatever slow-moving scheme he had let linger, ended now.

There was no way in hell he was letting you go on any mission while carrying his child.

Aether Core be damned. EVER be damned to NEVER. He would wipe them out if he had to.

For now, though, he had other priorities.

Leaving you safe at home, he finishes this last errand. Your only battle at the moment is morning sickness which, much to his surprise, isn’t just limited to mornings.

He wipes his hands clean, heading for his bike.

One last stop. You wanted pickles.

He smiles, revving the engine. Soon, only cars.

And then, he’s gone, speeding into the night, back to you. Back to his family. To cuddle the little dragon who gives you unrivaled heartburn and kicks like a menace at 18 weeks.

Caleb:

He knew.

Some would say he saw it coming, but just because he kept track of your cycle didn’t mean he could predict your ovulation exactly.

He was just…good at math.

Mental math.

And taking you to a convenience store for cough drops, right next to the pregnancy tests, had been pure coincidence.

Not that he totally snuck a glance at you eyeing them. And if he excused himself to grab a snack right then? Also not planned.

You hand him the test. "I think I’m pregnant."

He goes through all the expressions shock, surprise, joy, tears. So dramatic that it fools no one.

Seriously, he’s atrocious at being subtle about it.

Instantly proposes. Shotgun wedding because the baby will need a family.

Grins like a madman when it turns out to be twins.

Secretly, he’s very, very proud.

Heavens, he thinks smugly, I really am amazing at math.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace headcannon #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #caleb x reader #fluff #love and deepspace reaction #fem reader #pov caleb grows concerning with every piece i write

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cherryberrycheol · 6 days ago

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Summer Heat | Choi Seungcheol | mature (+18)

Pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader

Summary: What starts as a desperate escape from summer heat in the library turns into an obsession when the new librarian, Seungcheol, replaces sweet Mrs. Thompson. Flirty book returns, tension thicker than humidity, and one very overdue confession lead to a closing-time encounter that’ll get you banned and him fired. If you’re caught.

Word count: 4.7k

Genre/warnings: romance (a little fluffy i guess), smut, slow-ish burn (? lol), library!au, librarian!seungcheol x patron!reader, these two are flirting, reader is fighting for her life most of the time for various reasons, the weather is atrocious (i hate stuffy humid summers and I’m living through one rn send help), Minors DNI. explicit sexual content, some cursing here and there.

Smut warnings: sex toy use (vibrator, dildo; we’re a basic bitch), vivid sexual fantasy, they both imagined each other, reader is called a good girl like once, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected piv sex (don’t do it kids, be responsible unlike these weirdos), semi-public sex (library after hours), dom/sub undertones (light praise/degradation) , light exhibitionism, risk of being caught, kinda cum play, probably inaccurate representation of someone with glasses having sex because i have no clue i’m sorry (T_T). If i missed anything anywhere please let me know.

A/N: I literally wrote it because of this disgusting weather (>.<). The only acceptable scenario for this humid bullshit is if Choi Seungcheol is balls deep inside you. This man is a public menace and we thank him for it. (RIP Mrs. Thompson’s pristine shelves.) Still not over his expensive-ass glasses, want him to post more photos in them. Coups nation keeps fighting for our lives. (◕‿◕✿) also hey look she finally posted smut!!! and as always, hope you enjoy this read :)

If you see any mistakes I'm sorry, English isn't my first language, proceed at your own discretion.

Masterlist.

The mid summer heat clings to your skin like a second layer as you step off the bus, the pavement radiating warmth even as the sun begins its slow descent. The air is thick, sluggish, the kind of heat that makes you feel icky and want to crawl out of your skin, to cool off under a cold shower.

You push open the library doors, and the rush of cool air is an instant relief, like slipping into a quiet, shaded pool after hours in the sun. The familiar scent of aged paper and dust settles around you as you slide your borrowed books across the return desk, their pages slightly warped from the humidity. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the quiet and the chill seep into you, the buzz of the outside world fading into the hush of shelves and soft footsteps. It’s a small escape, but in this heat, it feels like a gift.

You blink, still half-dazed from the heat, before realizing the usual warm, wrinkled smile of Mrs. Thompson, the librarian, isn’t there to greet you. Instead, behind the desk stands a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of build that suggests he lifts weights but doesn’t just do it for show. His arms strain slightly against the sleeves of his linen shirt, and his thighs look like they could crush watermelons. Or your head. You’re still processing his existence when you belatedly register that his plush lips are moving, saying something you’ve completely missed.

“Sorry,” you stammer, shaking off the stupor. “Could you repeat that?”

He smiles, and oh—dimples. Deep, unfair dimples. Your heartbeat stutters in two places at once at the sight. His big, doe-like eyes catch the library’s warm light, lashes casting delicate shadows as he tilts his head. The rectangular rimless glasses perched on his nose only sharpen the softness of his features, and when he leans forward slightly, you catch a whiff of cedar and bergamot—clean, warm, expensive.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low but bright, “Mrs. Thompson retired last week. I’m Seungcheol. You’re a regular, right? She left notes about you.” His fingers tap the keyboard and you notice how big his hands are. “Said I should keep an eye out for new releases for you.”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how much cooler the library is compared to the sweat-dampened back of your blouse. “Yeah,” you manage. “That’d be… great.”

He grins again, and you’re doomed.

Then he turns to type something into the computer and you watch his fingers tap awkwardly at the keyboard while he mutters under his breath. You watch him struggle for a minute, observing as he becomes more and more irritated by the second and then decide to come to rescue.

"Need some help with that? The system's pretty temperamental." You suggest your assistance. You only know how it works because you helped Mrs. Thompson quite a few times before, when you volunteered for small book events hosted by the library.

His plump lips curve into a relieved smile, revealing his dimples yet again. "Please. I've been fighting with this thing all morning," he admits, and you only just register that his voice is deeper than you expected. You really must be overheated if your brain works this slow.

Your hands accidentally brush as you come around the desk and reach for the mouse, causing you both to pull back slightly. You feel your cheeks heat up immediately. For a moment you feel very self conscious. Somewhere in the back of your mind you briefly note down like a broken record how his broad shoulders and muscular arms are visible even under his simple linen shirt as he shifts to make room for you at the desk. You guide the new librarian through the library's outdated computer system, explaining the quirks of the catalog software while he watches attentively. "You have to double-click, wait exactly three seconds, then click again or it freezes," you explain.

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rich, and you feel it more than hear it—the vibration of sound so deep it goes straight to your core. Gosh, you’re past salvation. “Three seconds, huh? Who programmed this, a sadist?” His voice is teasing, but there’s genuine frustration underneath, and you can’t help but smirk.

“Probably some underpaid intern in the ‘90s,” you say, clicking through the menus with practiced ease. “Mrs. Thompson used to say the library’s budget went entirely into books, so they never upgraded the tech.”

He leans in slightly, his cedar-and-bergamot scent wrapping around you, and in the corner of your eye you catch the way his brow furrows—not in annoyance now, but focus. You barely turn your head to get a better look at him and immediately regret it (well, not really, it would be a crime to regret observing such a handsome face). His lashes are unfairly long up close, and when he blinks, you swear you see the light sparkle in his brown eyes under the library’s soft lighting.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, and his shoulder brushes yours as he shifts again, solid and warm. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him, like he’s been standing in the sun too long, even though you’re fairly certain he’s been locked up in the library for most of the day.

“Just a regular with too much free time,” you reply, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps when he smiles at you.

“Well, I owe you one,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—playful, but with an edge of sincerity. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee after my shift? As payment for IT support.”

Your fingers pause on the mouse. Oh.

Mrs. Thompson never offered coffee.

You glance up at him, at the hopeful tilt of his lips, the way his glasses slide just slightly down his nose—and you realize, belatedly, that the library might’ve just gotten a lot more interesting.

Just as you open your mouth to respond—yes, no, maybe, oh god—a woman approaches the desk, sliding a book across with an expectant look. Your pulse stutters, and you seize the chance to escape, ducking away from the desk before you can embarrass yourself further.

But the space behind the counter is cramped, and Seungcheol is right there, all broad shoulders and solid warmth. You try to sidestep him, but your hip brushes against his arm, and you feel the muscle there tense slightly under the thin linen. “S-Sorry,” you mumble, face burning, as if your body has suddenly forgotten how to navigate basic spatial awareness.

You retreat to the safety of the stacks, but you don’t leave. Instead, you linger, pretending to browse the fiction section while your brain scrambles for an excuse. I can’t go for coffee. I’m a mess. I smell like office sweat and bus exhaust. My hair is probably frizzing from the humidity. He’s wearing linen and smells like a luxury candle, and I—

“Hey.”

His voice is closer than expected. You turn to find Seungcheol leaning slightly against the shelf, arms crossed, those damn dimples making a reappearance. “You never answered me,” he says, tilting his head. “About the coffee.”

Your grip tightens on the book in your hands—some random thriller you definitely aren’t reading. “I, uh—”

He raises an eyebrow, waiting.

And then, because the universe hates you, the overhead vent kicks on, blasting a gust of air that sends your hair flying directly into your mouth.

Seungcheol laughs—not meanly, but like he’s genuinely delighted. He reaches out, fingers grazing your wrist as he tugs the book from your grip and slides it back onto the shelf. “Look,” he says, softer now, “if you don’t want to, it’s cool. But if you’re hesitating because you think you’re not…” He gestures vaguely at you, then at himself. “...put together enough or whatever? Trust me, I spent my lunch break hiding in the storage closet eating a sad convenience store sandwich. We’re all disasters here in one way or another.”

You stare at him. His glasses slide slightly to the point of his nose and he lifts his chin before pushing them back in place with the middle finger and his thumb.

“So?” He grins. “Coffee?”

You exhale. Maybe disasters can have caffeine together.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

The minutes stretch as you linger in the library, pretending to browse the shelves while stealing glances at Seungcheol—his broad frame bent over the desk, the way his fingers drum impatiently on the keyboard whenever the system lags, the way his glasses slip down his nose when he squints at the screen. Every time he catches you looking, your face burns, and you quickly duck behind a bookshelf like some flustered teenager with a crush. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown adult. And yet, there’s something about the way his eyes crinkle when he smirks at you that makes your stomach flip.

By the time his shift ends, the sun has dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. The evening air is still thick with summer’s stubborn heat, but there’s a faint breeze now, carrying the scent of pavement and distant rain. You step outside together, and Seungcheol stretches his arms overhead with a groan, his linen shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. You look away quickly.

“So,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “where’s this café you promised?”

You lead the way, slipping into the role of local guide with ease. “It’s just a few blocks down. Best iced coffee in the area—though, fair warning, their pastries are hit or miss.”

He laughs, falling into step beside you. “Noted. Though honestly, after dealing with that ancient computer all day, I’d drink gas station coffee if it had caffeine in it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly from there. You learn he moved here just last month for the library job—a career shift after burning out in corporate hell. “Turns out I like books more than spreadsheets,” he admits with a shrug.

You tell him about your own job—just a business office manager of your local hospital—but mostly, you talk about the city. The hidden dumpling spot by the post office. The park where most of the local seasonal markets and festivals take place. The used bookstore where the owner is a very chatty lady who’d buzz your ears away about the three of her cats if you stay long enough.

Seungcheol listens intently, nodding along, his brown eyes bright with interest. “You’re like a walking Yelp review,” he teases, looking amused.

You shove his arm lightly—then immediately regret it when your fingers meet solid muscle. It takes all your self control to not make an explicitly awed face. “Shut up. You asked for recommendations.”

“I did,” he agrees, grinning. “And now I’m asking for more. Starting with why you didn’t just check out that thriller you were holding earlier.”

You freeze. “You saw that?”

“I see a lot of things,” he says, voice dropping just low enough to make your pulse skip. Then, lighter: “Like how you’ve been avoiding looking at me directly since we left. Am I that scary?”

“No,” you mutter. “Just… making sure we don’t go astray.”

Seungcheol gives you this incredulous look, his lips stretching in a way that gives away the titanic attempt not to laugh. You pretend not to notice, yet again.

The café appears ahead, its neon sign buzzing softly in the dusk. All this time you’re acutely aware of how close he’s walking—close enough that his sleeve brushes your arm, close enough to catch his scent again, warm and woodsy.

Maybe, you think, summer isn’t so unbearable after all.

The library becomes your sanctuary, though not for the reasons it once was. No, on second thought, it becomes an addiction.

You tell yourself it’s about the books, new releases, classics you’ve been meaning to read, anything to justify showing up three times a week when you used to visit once, maybe twice. But the truth is embarrassingly obvious: you’re there for him. For the way Seungcheol’s forearms flex when he reshelves heavy hardcovers. For the way his voice drops to a murmur when the library is quiet, like he’s sharing a secret just with you. For the way his plush lips quirk when you say something witty, like he’s savoring the taste of your words.

It’s pathetic. You’ve never read so much in your life no matter how much you love a good book.

Every interaction is a carefully orchestrated dance. You linger at the desk under the pretense of asking about new arrivals, leaning just a little too close under the guise of peering at his computer screen. His scent that you already memorised by heart somehow—cedar and bergamot, warm and expensive—wraps around you, and you have to clench your thighs together real tight to stop the ache.

“Another thriller?” he asks one afternoon, raising an eyebrow as you slide a well-worn copy of The Silent Patient across the counter. His fingers brush yours when he takes it, deliberate. “You’re burning through these. Should I be worried?”

Your lips stretch in a half-smile. “About what?”

“That you’re researching how to get away with murder.” His eyes flick up, dark and amused. “Or that you’re just trying to impress me.”

The accusation hits too close to home. You are trying to impress him—not with your reading habits, but with the way your nails tap against the desk, the way your skirt rides up when you cross one leg over the other. You want him to look. You want him to want.

“Please,” you scoff, tilting your chin. “I’d never murder someone in a way that could be traced back to a library book.”

Seungcheol laughs and the sound of it coils in your stomach. “Good to know.” He leans in, voice dropping. “But if you were going to kill me… I’d hope you’d at least take me to dinner first.”

Your breath catches.

It’s like this every time now—words laced with something hotter, heavier. A game where neither of you really knows the rules but both refuse to lose.

It’s Tuesday evening. The air in your apartment is thick and suffocating, heavy with humidity you can almost taste when you breathe in. The ancient AC unit in your window groans pathetically, barely pushing out a lukewarm breeze. You kick off your work shoes, peel your damp blouse from your back, and collapse onto the bed with a groan.

You'd gone to the library again today. Again.

It's becoming a problem.

You'd told yourself you were just returning The Silent Patient and picking up something new—maybe that new romantasy novel everyone's talking about. But the moment you'd stepped inside, the cool air brushing your flushed skin, your eyes had gone straight to the checkout desk. To him.

Seungcheol had been bent over a stack of returned books, his linen shirt stretched taut across his shoulders. When he'd looked up and seen you, his lips had curled into that slow, knowing smile, the one that made your stomach flip.

"Back so soon?" he'd teased, voice low. "Miss me already?"

You'd rolled your eyes, playing it cool, but your pulse had been racing. You'd felt his gaze on you as you'd browsed the shelves—heavy, lingering. Like he was imagining the same things you were.

Now, lying on your bed in just your bra and panties, you can't stop thinking about it.

About him.

You're aching.

With a frustrated sigh, you reach into your nightstand drawer and pull out your vibrator—a sleek, purple thing you've had for years. It's not enough. Not today. You grab the dildo too, the one that's thick and curved just right.

You're already wet, your panties sticking to your skin. You slide them off with a whimper, spreading your legs. The vibrator buzzes to life in your hand, and you press it to your clit with a gasp.

Fuck.

You close your eyes, and instantly, Seungcheol is there. You imagine his big hands sliding up your thighs, pushing them apart. His deep voice murmuring in your ear. "You've been driving me crazy, coming in here all the time. You want me to see you, don't you?"

You moan, circling your clit faster with the toy.

In your mind, he's above you, his body thick and solid, pinning you down in this heat and adding to it with his own body. You wouldn’t mind, in fact the imagery of it makes you wetter. You imagine his lips on your neck, sucking marks into your skin as his fingers slide inside you. "So fucking wet for me," he growls. "Knew you would be."

You whimper, arching off the bed. The vibrator isn't enough—you need more. You reach for the dildo, slicking it with the arousal dripping down your thighs and then quickly grabbing the lube from your nightstand too. You slick up the thing just to be sure. And then guide the silicone cock to your pussy lips.

You imagine it's Seungcheol.

His cock, thick and heavy, pushing into you.

The stretch burns so good, and you moan, fucking yourself onto the toy. "Seungcheol—"

Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling. You picture him above you, his muscles flexing as he fucks into you, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Look at you," he rasps. "Taking me so well. Knew you'd be perfect."

The vibrator buzzes against your clit, and you're close, so close—

Until you hear your phone buzz on the nightstand. It throws you off a little and yet you ignore it, chasing your release. But it buzzes again. And again. With a frustrated groan, you abandon the dildo to grab it—and freeze. It's a text. From him.

Seungcheol: Missed you at the library today.

Your breath catches. You'd just been there. Was he… was he messing with you? Before you can overthink it (not that you can think much in your current horny state), another text comes through.

Seungcheol: Were you in a hurry? Your book is glaring at me from the desk.

A photo follows—a blurry shot of the checkout desk, your book still sitting there. Your heart pounds. Is he... flirting? Teasing? Torturing you?

You bite your lip, then struggle to type back with one hand:

You: Oops. Guess I'll have to come back tomorrow.

The response is immediate.

Seungcheol: Can't wait.

You whimper.

The vibrator is still buzzing against your clit, temporarily forgotten in your hand. You're so close, but now your mind is racing with all these questions you aren’t sure you want answers to. Did he know? Was he imagining you like this, spread out and desperate? No, there’s no way he would know, is there?

You unconsciously press the vibrator harder and snivel as your hips jerk once at the harder contact.

Another text. You groan in exasperation, muttering under your breath something about one particularly unfairly hot man distracting you from imagining him do very unholy things to you.

Seungcheol: What are you doing right now?

You nearly drop your phone, cussing quietly, startled. He can’t be seriously making small talk right now. If only he saw what state you’re currently in. Panting, thighs shaking, hair sticking to your forehead from sweat. You feel your frustration grow as type back with trembling fingers:

You: Nothing interesting.

The reply comes seconds later.

Seungcheol: Sure.

You let out a breathless sigh at the smug face emoji he sends afterwards. The thought of him possibly knowing what exactly you’re doing right now send you into overdrive, a series of high-pitched whimpers fills the room the moment your orgasm hits you, crashing over you so hard you choke on your voice and drop your phone somewhere to the side of your bed. Your back arches, your inner muscles clamping around the dildo as you begin to thrust it brutally again just to ride it through your climax, your mind filled with him: his hands, his mouth, his cock.

When you come down, boneless and even sweatier than before, your phone buzzes one last time. You take your time before you reach for it, pulling the dildo out and turning off the vibrator. You know that you need to control yourself otherwise this little indulgence can go on forever. With a heavy sigh, you grab your phone and unlock it once again, staring at the message that he sent you.

Seungcheol: Sweet dreams then ;)

You groan, throwing an arm over your face as the realisation of what you just did dawns on you. You're fucked.

One evening a couple of weeks later, you’re the last patron in the library, pretending to browse the poetry section while he closes up. The fluorescents hum overhead, casting long shadows between the shelves. You hear his footsteps before you see him—confident, unhurried.

“Find anything good?” he asks, suddenly too close.

You turn, and there he is: sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms, his collar slightly undone. His glasses catch the light, hiding his eyes, but you don’t need to see them to know they’re hungry.

“Depends,” you say, holding up a dog-eared copy of Love in the Time of Cholera. “Do you think unrequited love is romantic or just tragic?”

Seungcheol comes closer and plucks the book from your hands, his fingers lingering. “I think,” he murmurs, “if two people want each other, they shouldn’t waste time pretending otherwise.”

The air between you crackles. Seungcheol steps forward, you freeze. Not in fear, rather, in delighted anticipation. You can feel your pussy throbbing just from looking at him move, from him gradually backing you up against the bookshelves. You could kiss him. You should kiss him.

Instead, you sidestep—but Seungcheol doesn't let you retreat. His hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you flush against him. The book in his grasp hits the carpet with a muffled thud, abruptly forgotten.

"Pretending gets old," he murmurs, voice rough. His free hand slides up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your skirt. "Don't you think?"

Your breath hitches. "We're in a library."

His grin is all teeth. "And you're overdue."

Then he's backing you into the nearest shelf, the wood creaking under the impact of your weight. His mouth crashes onto yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding against your lip until you gasp. He swallows the sound, one broad palm cradling your jaw, the other hiking your leg around his hip. You can feel him already—the thick, insistent press of his cock against your stomach, even through his jeans.

"Fuck," you whimper, arching into him.

Seungcheol nips at your lower lip, then pulls back just enough to watch you unravel. "You've been driving me insane," he growls. "Flirting over book returns. Smirking at me like you know exactly what I want to do to you." His thumb brushes your bottom lip. "Guess what? You were right."

Then he's sinking to his knees.

The sight of him—broad shoulders, those thick thighs straining his pants, his big hands sliding up your bare legs—makes your cunt throb. He hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them down, letting them pool around your ankles. Seungcheol pushes his glasses up to sit on top of his head and his breath ghosts over your damp skin, and you shudder.

"Look at you," he murmurs, dragging a single finger through your slick. "All this for me?"

You nod, desperate.

Seungcheol's eyes darken. "Then hold still."

His mouth is on you before you can brace yourself—hot, wet, relentless. His tongue laps at you in broad strokes, then flicks your clit just hard enough to make your knees buckle. You grab the shelf behind you, knuckles white, as he eats you out like a man starved. Every suck, every swirl, has you biting back whimpers, your hips jerking against his face.

"Cheol—fuck—"

He groans against you, the vibration making you clench around nothing. Then, without warning, he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just so. Your vision whites out.

"Quiet," he orders, mouth still working you. "Or I stop."

You choke back a moan.

He doesn't stop, continuing to lick and suckle, nosing you and alternating between long licks of tongue pressed flat and quick kitten licks, assaulting your clit.

When you're trembling on the edge, he pulls away, leaving you gasping. His lips glisten with you. He stands, towering over you, and unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness. His cock springs free and he strokes it—thick, tip already flushed from strain, already leaking precum. Then his free hand slides to the back of your neck, gripping gently and pressing down, guiding. You sink to your knees.

“Good girl,” He praises and taps his cock against your cheek, smearing precum over your skin. The scent of him fills your senses and you mewl quietly, chasing his shaft to smudge an open-mouthed kiss against the girth.

"Open," he rasps.

You do.

He feeds his cock into your mouth, groaning as your lips stretch around him. "God, yes— just like that." His hands cradle your face, guiding you, but not forcing. "Take it. You can."

You hollow your cheeks, sucking as he rocks shallowly into your throat. He's everywhere—the salt of him, the musk, the way his hips stutter when you hum and the sound vibrates through his length. His grip tightens in your hair, just shy of painful.

"Fuck, your mouth," he grits out. "Should've done this weeks ago."

You whimper around him, and he pulls back, letting you gasp for air. His thumb swipes over your spit-slick lips before he helps you up to your feet yet again. You sway a little and his arms wrap around your waist, stabilising. “You alright?” He hums, leaning down to kiss along your jawline and you nod. “Good.”

"Turn around," he commands, already guiding you to do just that before your balance fully returns.

You obey, attempting to carefully step free of your underwear as he spins you, but your heel catches in the fabric and you still stumble trying to shake it off while bracing your hands against the shelf. The ancient thing shudders upon impact but holds as you grip the edge, knuckles white. Behind you, Seungcheol huffs a chuckle at your clumsiness and kneads your ass, then spreads you open. His breath hitches.

"Christ," he mutters. "Look at you."

Then he's pushing into you in one smooth thrust, stretching you, filling you. You cry out, and his hand clamps over your mouth.

"Shh," he murmurs against your ear, hips flush against your ass. "You'll get us caught."

He starts slow, rolling his hips in deep, grinding circles that have you seeing stars. Every drag of his cock lights you up inside, the stretch bordering on too much. You're so wet it's obscene, the sound of him fucking you filthy in the quiet library. It’s the wet squelching of your juices and skin slapping against skin. You don’t even think you moaning would make a difference. Anyone who hears these sounds will be able to tell what exactly is going on.

"Feel good?" he teases, nipping your shoulder. "Bet you've thought about this. Bet you've touched yourself thinking about it."

You nod, shameless. Because it’s exactly what you did. On multiple occasions.

Seungcheol groans, snapping his hips harder. "Knew it. Knew you were desperate for it." His hand slides from your mouth to your throat, tilting your head back. "Come on, then. Let me feel you."

You shatter with a barely restrained whimper. Your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around him so tight he curses, his rhythm faltering. But he doesn't stop—he fucks you through it, his grip on your hip bruising, his breath ragged in your ear.

"One more," he demands. "Give me one more."

You're oversensitive, wrung out, but his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you're gone again, your back arching as you sob his name.

Seungcheol growls, slamming into you one last time before he spills deep, his cock pulsing inside you. He keeps you pinned there, both of you trembling, as he rides out his high.

For a moment, the only sound that fills the space between you is your ragged breathing. Then he pulls out, turning you to face him. He swipes his index and middle fingers through the mess between your thighs, then brings it to your lips.

"Taste," he murmurs.

Your face flushes deeper red but you do as you’re told, your inner walls clamping down on nothing. But you can’t help it, the filth of the moment only turns you on more.

His eyes burn as he watches you suck his fingers clean. "We're definitely doing that again."

You lick your lips and laugh breathlessly, boneless against him, pushing the skirt back in place with your weak trembling hands, thinking this was it. "What about the coffee date sequel?"

Seungcheol nips your earlobe. "Oh, we'll get to that." He pushes your skirt up again, then smirks when your eyes widen with belated realisation that he’s not done with you. "After round two."

The library's lights flicker overhead.

Somewhere, the sweet Mrs. Thompson is rolling in her retirement home unsuspecting of what her charming successor is doing to you in the sanctuary of books she spent most of her life working at.

And you're definitely getting banned.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

Masterlist.

#cheol #choi seungcheol #svt fanfic #scoups #choi seungcheol x reader #choi seungcheol x you #scoups x reader #scoups smut #seungcheol smut #choi seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #scoups x you #seventeen smut #seventeen imagines #cherryberrycheol

1K notes · View notes

btdemaru · 6 days ago

Note

Hello~ can I plz request Saja Boys separately react to having a small argument with their girlfriend before she hits them with the: "That's it, no sex for a week!" So in conclusion, tries to put them on a sex ban because she's upset with them. Dom! Saja boys plz.

NO NUT. ALL NERVE — THE SAJA BAN.

You put your foot down and said "no sex" after an argument out of impulse. Bad idea. Now? They're reacting in their own devastating ways.

Pairings - Jinu x reader, Abby x reader, Romance x reader, Mystery x reader, Baby x reader

Type - seperate | 5.3k words

Warning - cunnilingus, oral, pussydrunk abby, squirting, semi public (mystery), mean!baby, sixtynine, creampies, petnames, curse words, messy, whimpering.

JINU SAJA — LOVE STRATEGIST

It wasn’t your most mature idea.

But after Jinu’s comment about your 'questionable impulsive management,' or whatever it is that he blabbed about— you decided to take action. Swift, decisive, a very absolutely most petty action you've ever done.

"No sex," you said, arms crossed, perched on the bed in nothing but one of his oversized shirts. "You’re officially banned."

He looked up from his tablet slowly, the dim lamp behind him making his cheekbones look sharper than usual. One brow raised.

"Banned," he repeated flatly.

You nodded with complete smugness as if you won something.

"Until further notice. Strategic retaliation." You added, trying to be just a little bit in control more than he was.

There was a long, quiet pause. "You do realize," he murmured, setting his tablet down with care, "that I could win this in a single move, right?"

You blinked.

He got up.

You blinked faster.

Jinu approached in a calm, methodical manner and sat on the edge of the bed like a man preparing a chessboard. His voice was low, coaxing.

"You’re simply ruffled—" he spoke before you cut him off with an offended expression . "Ruffled? What am i? A bird?" Jinu sighs with a gentle smile that teetered on the edge of smirking, "crabby? grouchy? either way that’s when you say things like this."

He leaned in slightly. "But you forget something, love."

You narrowed your eyes.

"What?"

He touched nothing. Only let his breath brush your cheek as he spoke "i’m a strategist."

You swallowed.

"And you’re an idiot if you think I won’t outlast you," you replied, though your voice wobbled slightly.

He chuckled softly but it was obvious how confident he is. "I’m not trying to break the rules, love. I’m trying to make you reconsider them."

His hand rose slow, slow but stopped just beside your face, not quite touching.

"Look, I'll play by your rules. I won’t kiss you. I won’t touch you." Raising both his hands in the air in fake defeat. "But I’ll talk to you like this. I’ll stand close enough for you to remember.. everything. I’ll brush by with my cologne and never look back."

You inhaled sharply.

He grinned. Devilish. Beautiful.

"You want to play with restraint, sweetheart? You forget who you’re up against."

And maybe he's right, because on day three you were already losing.

Two days were easy, busying yourself with everything you could.

Every glance he gave you came wrapped in velvet and challenge. He’d whisper praise in your ear while you brushed your teeth. Bring you coffee in bed shirtless, just shirtless enough to be suspicious. Read next to you on the couch, legs touching just enough to remind you what he wasn’t doing.

You tried to hold out.

You failed spectacularly.

You found him in the living room, halfway through some dry nonfiction book he's not even actually reading.

He didn’t even look up when you stood in front of him, arms folded. "You smug bastard." You barked.

Jinu closed a page with a saved bookmark. "Hmm?"

"You know what you’re doing." Trying to at least catch a glimpse of his facade faltering. But he stayed.

He placed down the book gently and finally met your gaze.

"Do i?"

You stepped closer. Straddled his lap nothing more than a flimsy oversized white plaid shirt with no panties. No nothing. Perhaps he'll give in.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you.

"Say it," he murmured.

You frowned. "Say what?"

"Say the ban is over." It was more of a demand.

You huffed. Looked away.

He leaned closer, voice silk

"Say it, or I’ll stop." He could smell your arousal, could see the way your pink folds were tacky and slick with your desire. It made his mouth water, made his cock jerk and leak in his pants as he gazed at the feast laid out before him.

Swiping two long digits from the bottom to upwards, grabbing as much as he could. Parting his fingers creating a glossy web and your composure shattered. "Fine," you muttered. "Ban’s over."

"Louder." He plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt, pumping them in and out of your velvet walls, stretching you open, preparing you for what was to come. His thumb rubbed relentless circles over your clit.

You glared. "Jinu—"

Tilting his head, looking entirely too pleased.

He curled his fingers just right, rubbing against that G-spot, making your back arch off the bed and your hips buck wildly against his hand.

"Shit, i said—" trying your best to utter the words, "the ban is o-over."

Big palms reached down and gripped his thick shaft, aligning the broad head with your soaked, fluttering entrance. Slowly, torturously, you sank down, feeling your silky walls parting for him, welcoming him inside.

Inch by inch, you took him in, your eyes fluttering closed in bliss as you felt yourself being split open, stuffed so full that you swore you could feel him in your fucking throat.

"So fucking good f'me, missed this pussy s'much." Jinu was no better, mumbling nonsense as he lost himself the second your folds rested on his balls.

With a moan, you began to move, lifting your hips until just the tip of his shaft remained inside you, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt once more. You set a steady rhythm, your hips undulating as you rode him with wanton abandon, lost in the pleasure of being so deliciously full.

every ridge and vein of his huge cock dragging along your sensitive walls as you fucked yourself on him, could feel the way he jerked and throbbed with each bounce, as if he was fighting not to just flip you over. "So good— oh fuck- so good n pretty."

Walls began to flutter and clench around his pistoning shaft, gripping him like a silken fist as your orgasm approached.

"Fuck, can feel you squeezing me..." Jinu grunted, his eyes squeezing shut as he battled to hold back his own release, determined to make you come undone first.

you screamed his name, your voice raw and ragged as your orgasm finally crashed over you, your vision going white as lightning zapped up your spine. Your pussy clenched down hard on his plundering cock, the walls rippling as you came all over his shaft.

As much as you hate to admit, he won.

ABBY SAJA — TOUCH DEPRIVED?!

"You banned me?!"

Abby stood in the kitchen doorway like you’d just slapped out of his hand. His jaw dropped, one sock sliding slightly off his foot from how fast he’d run in after hearing your declaration.

"No kisses. No touching. And definitely no sex" You crossed your arms with dramatic finality.

He blinked. "Wait, wait, wait— back up." Quickly rambling on as he panicked, "That’s like, the whole relationship combo meal?!" Face turned even paler than a canvas. "Babe, be serious."

You arched a brow and picked up your mug with the calmness of a god exacting divine punishment.

"You said I overreacted to a ‘small thing’—aka, you forgetting to tell me about that super important interview until literally-" You jabber at him before dropping the nuke, "two hours before leaving for OUR DATE."

Abby winced. "Okay, yeah. That was... okay. Look, I suck at dates! And calendars! And remembering things unless they scream!"

"Well I’m screaming now," you said sweetly, sipping your tea.

Abby let out a sound like a wounded seal. "But i'll starve! I could never last a day let alone a week without your—"

Groaning at Abby's annoying excuses, "Should’ve thought of that before you tried to hug me mid-fight and said, 'C’mon babe, we can argue later after some rounds'"

"I WAS NERVOUS." he yelled, then shrunk immediately.

But nonetheless he still had to put up with the no sex ban for quite awhile, promising himself he'll last just so it wouldn't upset you.

An hour later however, he was in full breakdown mode.

You were curled up on the pool lounger just outside the Saja's penthouse, peacefully ignoring the way Abby was flopping dramatically over furniture nearby.

Every five minutes "This ban is ruining my mental health."

Another five minutes "I will disintegrate if I can't have you right now."

For the tenth time "Is cockwarming banned too or can I at least kiss you?"

He dragged the pool lounger that was near to combine with yours before collapsing next to you with a sad little sigh. "I miss my favorite food, 'm hungry" he said mournfully, eyes wide and childlike.

You resisted. Oh, you tried. But when he peeked up at you through messy hair, face pouty and boyish and full of unsaid apologies as his bulky arms peel your legs apart, your heart cracked.

And just when you were about to give in

"Wait—" he said quickly, holding a finger up. "Is the ban officially lifted? Or are you just weak for my stupidly handsome god given face?"

You grabbed your towel to smack him, only for him to place it under your hips.

"You’re lucky your stupid face is cute." Palming his face trying to block it away from melting your guards down.

'So that’s a yes?" he said, grinning way too fast.

"One," you warned.

"Then I’m making it COUNT." His tall frame folding like a house of cards, movements clumsy and uncoordinated. With all the restraint he had left putting your legs on his broad patterned shoulder. Too warm. Too eager.

You gasped as his tongue finally made contact, the slick, hot muscle parting your slick folds and delving deep into your dripping hole. Abby let out a loud, messy slurp as he began to eat you out with wild abandon, his tongue plunging in and out of your clenching channel, lapping up your fragrant juices like a man starved.

"So- mfff so fuckin' sweeeet." Drool dripped down his chin and onto your thighs as he sucked and slurped noisily, too drunk on you to care about finesse. His sharp eyes fluttered shut in bliss as he savored your tangy essence, addicted to your unique flavor that danced on his tongue. "Can eat you all mpff day, y'know?"

"C-can't get enough of this fucking pussy," he slurred, his words punctuated by fat, open-mouthed kisses pressed against your sopping wet slit.

Sucking the sensitive nub between his lips as he lashed at it with the rough pad of his tongue. At the same time, he plunged two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping hole, pumping them in and out of your clenching channel at a brutal pace.

Your back bowed off the lounger, your tits heaving as you gasped for air as your first orgasm crashed over. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt, making a mess of the lounger and the pool deck, marking his face and hair with streaks of your essence.

Abby just grinned like the fucking fool he was, drunk on pleasure and pussy juice, eagerly swallowing every drop he could catch. "You 'kay?" He smooched your pussy folds as if he's talking to it.

The moment you nod a simple 'okay' it's as if you've grant him infinity. He was already diving back in for more, his tongue lapping into your abused hole.

"Abby 's too much— oh god" you whimpered, squirming on the lounger, your body hypersensitive from the intense pleasure. But Abby was too far gone to hear your feeble protests, too consumed by his own desperate need to keep tasting you, to keep pushing you to the very edge of your limits.

The wet, obscene squelches and schlicks of his fingers plunging into your soaked flesh filled the air as your second orgasm crashed. ""I...I can't..." you sobbed, your fingers fisting in his hot pink hair, trying desperately to pull him away "yes you can, baby.. c'mon please just one more."

One more, then another, third, fourth.

He's gonna make it count.

ROMANCE SAJA — ONLY READY.

You didn’t mean to yell. Not at him. Not like that.

See, the argument had started small. A forgotten detail, a missed plan, something he said offhandedly that rubbed your tired nerves the wrong way.

You were exhausted. Overwhelmed. Your words sharper than they needed to be.

"Maybe if you actually listened to me when I talk—"

He'd gone quiet at that, like always. Letting you burn hot while he stood calm in the smoke.

"You’re right," he’d said. That was the thing about Romance. He never raised his voice. Never pushed back when you were hurting.

That only made it worse.

So you’d said it — a line flung out in the heat of frustration.

"No sex. Just not until you're off the hook."

And Romance blinked once. That was all. A gentle pause like he was giving space for a retraction. But when none came, he just nodded.

"Alright," he murmured. "Whatever you need, love."

You thought it would feel like a win.

Instead, it felt like sleeping in a bed missing its gravity.

He didn’t touch you that night. Didn't kiss your shoulder like he always did before falling asleep. Didn't slide a lazy hand over your hip, or breathe slow against your neck.

Just silence. Gentle and full of distance.

You turned your back on him. But it didn’t help.

Because even with the space, you could feel him.

Romance wasn’t gone. He was just holding back. Out of respect. Out of love.

The next morning, you tried not to show how sorely you missed him. You brushed past his hand when he offered you your coffee. Mumbled thanks. Kept your tone even.

He didn’t push. He didn’t even pout. That somehow made it so much worse.

Romance was domestic in the quietest ways — a hand on your back when you passed, little shoulder squeezes in the kitchen, resting his chin on your head when you were in the fridge too long.

And now? He was a ghost. A warm, visible ghost who would not touch you until you asked him to.

It was excruciating.

By the second day, you were crawling out of your skin.

You tried to bait him. A sleep shirt that was just his own oversized tee. A casual stretch while reaching for something high, back arching in that way he used to immediately notice.

He didn’t take the bait.

"Want me to help with the dishes?" he asked softly behind you that evening.

"No," you said. "I’ve got it."

He leaned a hip against the counter but didn’t move closer.

"I can still touch to you, can’t I?" he asked, voice low and careful.

You swallowed. "Of course."

"Just making sure." His voice dipped. " Sex is off the table, but touches isn’t."

His words were tender, but his presence? Devastating. He smelled like the warm fabric of your sheets and honey soap. He didn’t look mad. Just patient. Infuriatingly patient.

You dropped a sponge in the sink with a frustrated huff.

"You’re really not going to- y'know, fuck me?"

"No." His tone was soft as rain. "Because you said not to."

You turned to him, finally looking up — and his eyes were there, waiting. Soft. Patient. But glowing with affection so thick you could feel it from where you stood.

And you snapped.

"You always make it hard to stay mad at you," you muttered, glaring at the tile.

"I love you," he said, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I can’t undo the things I miss. But I can honor your boundaries, and wait. That’s what I’ve been doing."

You stared at his chest, hand curling into the hem of his shirt.

"...You’re such a cheat," you whispered.

He chuckled, low and warm, and leaned close enough for his breath to kiss your cheek. "You always break before I do."

And you did.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, you pulled him close and finally, finally kissed him.

Not like you were angry. Not like you were desperate.

Like you were coming home

Soft. Leisurely. No urgency — just the kind of reverent touch he gave only when the world had quieted.

"Still mad at me?" he whispered into your temple.

"No," you breathed, lips brushing his collarbone. "Still mad at myself, though."

His fingers curled into your waist.

"You’re allowed to be angry. But don’t punish yourself for feeling."

You kissed his throat, slow and warm.

"Does this mean the ban’s lifted?" he asked, all amusement and silk.

"It’s… under review," you mumbled.

He laughed, low and deep. "Then I’ll keep proving I’m worth parole."

And with that, he flipped you gently onto your back lifting those pathetic excuses for clothes "you're absolutely breathtaking," Romance murmured, his deep, velvety.

He leaned down, peppering your shoulder from behind with soft, open-mouthed kisses, his lips lingering on your skin like he was tasting the finest delicacy.

His hands, strong and warm, skimmed up your sides, his fingers trailing lightly over the swell of your breasts, teasing the underside of your hardened nipples. He cupped the soft globes, kneading the pliant flesh gently.

Romance slid his hands down to grip your ass, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he held you in place, trapping his cock against your dripping slit. He kneaded and squeezed the globes, pulling them apart slightly before squeezing them back together, the motion making your pussy lips flutter and your juices drip down "look at her, all giddy f'me.."

A needy cry left your lips, "please—"

The musky scent of your arousal permeated the air, filling his nostrils, he rutted his wetting cock onto your folds, collecting as much lubricant as he could. The mushroomy top nudging against your clit leaving electric pleasures.

"Inside.. need— ah fuck- please" and he wasted no time. How can he deny his girl? That wouldn't be romantic.

Romance gripped the base of his shaft, stroking himself slowly as he nudged the engorged head through your drenched entrance pressing forward, letting just the crown breach your tight opening.

A guttural moan tore from his throat, "perfect, so p- perfect." he hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he began to move, withdrawing until just the tip remained inside you before slamming back in, impaling you on his shaft over and over.

Each thrust striking your cervix, his heavy balls slapping lewdly against your ass as he fucked into you with long, purposeful strokes. "Fit just- for me, so filthy n' tight" The kitchen filled with the erotic symphony of flesh meeting flesh, your wanton moans and cries of pleasure punctuated by the wet, obscene squelches plap plap plap as his heavy balls drawing up tight to his body as his orgasm built in intensity. But he was determined to make you come first, Romance slammed into you and ground his pelvis against yours, his pubic bone rubbing against your throbbing clit as his thick shaft pulsed deep inside you. At the same time, he pinched your clit hard between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and rubbing the sensitive nub "cum, come on- ahh s'so fucking tight i cant— come with me."

Your juices gushed out around his pistoning shaft, flooding your channel and dripping down onto the marble countertop below.

His hips jerked erratically as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his shaft throbbed and jerked inside you filling to the brim like such a thick creamy gloop.

Kissing your temple gently with soft loving words easing in "Mm.. I'll take it as I'm forgiven."

MYSTERY SAJA — WINNERS, LOSERS.

He came home at 2:47 a.m., the way he always did — quietly, like fog slipping under a locked door. You didn’t hear the front door creak. You didn’t hear his boots. Just the shift of air pressure and the way your spine instinctively knew he was in the room.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t greet him.

You just curled deeper into the side of the bed he hadn’t touched in four days.

Your voice broke the silence. Cold. Controlled.

"Don’t even think about touching me."

He paused in the dark. You could feel it, the way the stillness rippled, how even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

You turned to look at him finally, eyes narrowing against the hallway light he’d accidentally let spill through the door.

"I mean it," you said, sitting up. "No touching. No kissing. No sex. I’m not doing this anymore. You disappear whenever you want, and then just show up like nothing happened—like I’m the one waiting for you to breathe life into the room again."

He stood in the doorway, tall and still, the collar of his coat damp with rain.

He didn’t say a word.

He never did.

You expected him to leave again.

Instead, Mystery entered the room.

Slow. Controlled. Silent.

He peeled off his coat first — rain-slick and heavy — draped it over the back of the chair. Then the gloves. Then the harness. All quiet. Methodical.

You could feel the tension in his movements, the restraint in every inch of his body. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t try to justify his absence.

He simply walked toward the bed deliberate, firm.

You straightened.

"I said—"

But you cut yourself off when his body leaned over you slowly putting his cheek on your shoulder, nuzzling himself.

It was a silent plea, Mystery lived off of physical touch, he barely talks but every single damn time he wants to communicate its through actions. Refraining him from doing so it's like cutting him off entirely.

He tilted his head, just slightly. Something in your heart softened. Like the way storm clouds break apart before they cry.

His free hand reached up — knuckles brushing your cheekbone, Voice almost unheard, "don't.. ban."

"You can’t just leave and come back and expect me to open up like nothing happened."

His fingers finally grazed your arm. Light. Testing

"I'm sorry."

It was how he spoke when he meant it.

You looked up at him, throat tight.

"If you’re sorry, then stay. Stay here. Stay in this bed. Stay when I need you."

He met your gaze. Unflinching.

Then, in a whisper so low it felt like velvet against your skin. "...I will."

Cunningly enough, he changed subtly for the whole week.

It started subtly.

A hand brushing your lower back when you walked by. A lingering graze along your arm as he handed you your coffee. The way he sat next to you on the couch, knees pressed to yours, thigh warm against your skin, thumb lazily tracing circles against your leg through the blanket.

You glared at him the first few times.

You didn't know how he could be so physically close and still keep his promises.

He wasn’t breaking the ban, no.

He was letting you break it.

Mystery became more present, always near. Always humming something under his breath. Always watching you with a patience that feels like a trap.

You want him to be distant, cold, retreating.

Instead, you get cooked dinners, soft shoulders to lean on, long silences that feel just too comfortable.

It was just irritating, now he wants to spend time with you on the rooftop calling it a 'date'.

You were becoming restless. He knew.

You broke first. He grinned.

You reached up and dragged him down by the collar of his shirt, crashing your mouth to his — rough, hungry, angry.

He groaned into the kiss. Not loud. Just low and wrecked.

Mystery moved with intent. Slow, devastating control. "Still banned?" he rasped against your neck, finally speaking his voice a rare, broken thing, like thunder that doesn’t know how to whisper.

"Yes," you breathed.

He hummed, pressing his hips against yours in a slow roll that made your ban feel like a lie. "Are you sure?" He cocks.

He let you undo him piece by piece, shirt sliding from his shoulders, his breath shallow, his restraint cracking at the seams.

He let you take charge.

He let you use him.

Or at least for now.

"You set stupid rules to see if I'll break 'em." One hand released your breast to slide down your belly, his fingers skimming over your navel before delving between your thighs. He cupped your mound possessively, his middle finger pressing against your slick slit, feeling the wetness that had gathered there.

"Nnngh... you're fucking drenched," Mystery groaned, his voice a low, eerily rumble.

Mystery's long, deft fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and with a sharp tug, he yanked them down your thighs, baring your dripping slit to his hungry gaze. He drank in the sight of your glistening folds, swollen, just begging to be devoured. Tossing the ruined lace aside, "look at you, putting up a fight when i could've taken care of this." He purred while the thick head of his cock parting your slick petals. "Now.. tell me how much you want this? lift that useless.. rule."

You gasped, trembling.

"Fuck— its lifted i want it." Meeting his smug grin "need.. you, plea—"

he slammed forward, burying every rigid inch of his thick shaft inside you with one brutal thrust. A guttural groan tore from his throat as your silken walls clenched down around him,

Reaching down and pressed his thumb roughly against your sensitive, aching clit. "ohfuckohfuckohfuck!" Wailing at how good you feel around him.

He could feel it, you could feel it. Just before he reached his peak, he abruptly pulled out, his curvy cock slick with your juices. "please cum— with me ohh feels so go-ohd!" fist flying over his thick length as he chased his rapidly building release as he aimed the swollen, leaking tip at your sensitive clit.

Pearly ropes of cum erupted from the tip, splattering lewdly across your oh so sweet cunt, coating your lower abdomen in his hot, sticky seed.

Moonlight casting a glow on both skins, his pale ones almost translucent due to the sleek sweat coating him. Mumbling sorry's and love you's as he desperately nuzzles himself, head spinning high.

BABY SAJA — NO? FINE. ROT WITH IT.

You’d said it on impulse.

"You’re not getting anything tonight. Or tomorrow. Or until I say so."

Baby had stilled mid-step, mid-breath, mid-whatever sarcastic retort he’d had locked and loaded.

And then he just… smiled.

Not a nice one.

The kind that made your spine stiffen and your thighs clench in the same second.

Baby thrives on chaos, so if you, his lover, suddenly bans him from sex, he’s not taking it with quiet grace. Not even close.

He's sarcastic.

He’s petty.

He’s not above throwing a tantrum—but his kind of tantrum is the mean, smug, backhanded compliment-filled type that leaves you wanting to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.

"Ohhh," he drawled, clapping slowly. "How *terrifying."

You scowled. "I’m serious."

"Oh, I know. That’s the funniest part." He turned on his heel, dramatic as always, walking off toward the bedroom with his arms raised like he’d been wrongly imprisoned.

"I hope your moral high ground keeps you warm tonight, sugar." he called over his shoulder. "Because i won’t be giving you allllll this.”

Good. That was the point. Right?

Right?

Days after and Baby was… unbearable.

He still talked to you. Laughed around you. Sat beside you on the couch.

But he weaponized everything.

He’d come out of the shower shirtless and towel-drying his hair, stopping to stretch right in front of you.

"Oh, whoops —didn’t mean to give you a show. Not that it matters. This body’s banned, remember?"

He’d casually flop onto your lap and sigh dramatically.

"God, I’d kill for some stress relief right now. Shame my girlfriend thinks I should suffer."

He’d even sneak a hand on your thighs in the movie theater, "You’re lucky I have restraint, sweetheart. Old me would've had you here already."

You gritted your teeth. "Then maybe I should ban you longer."

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear with that smug little lilt in his voice. "Then maybe I should stop pretending to behave."

It was a big day for the Saja boys, performing up against the Huntrix. All of them were inside their dressing rooms and like a routine, you were in Baby's dangling your feet listening to their music waiting on the tiny touch.

And Baby walks in like a storm.

Pulls the headphones out. Tosses your phone aside. Climbs on top of you, knees on either side of your thighs, bracing his hands by your head.

His eyes—dark. Unamused.

"You done punishing me for shit I didn’t do?"

You blink, speechless.

"No? Great. Then I’m done pretending it doesn’t bother me."

He dips down, face inches from yours.

His voice lowers, pure venom-laced honey. "I could’ve had you crying on my tongue by now. Instead I’m sitting here listening to you pretend you’re fine."

Your throat tightens."You’re not fine. You’re stubborn. And maybe I like that. But it's getting annoying,"

He finally leans down, dipped his head, burying his face between your thighs as he inhaled your scent, groaning at the intoxicating aroma of your arousal.

You whined pushing his head nesr your aching core but he held back. "Now it wouldn't be fair if you get what you want now.. right?."

It happend with a snap of a finger, Baby's laying down the couch with you on top him, ass up near his face just how he loves it. The typical sixty fuckin' nine.

Blowing air onto your folds before he taps it "hurry up, get to work. apologize."

His tongue delved deeper, plunging into your soaked, clutching heat as he feast on your dripping slit. He could feel your walls fluttering and clenching around the slick intrusion.

You were crumbling. But so was he.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you wider open to him, allowing him to bury his face deeper into your aching core.

At the same time, Baby guided your hand to his rigid shaft, wrapping your fingers around the throbbing length. He groaned against your dripping folds as you began to stroke him, your fist gliding up and down his thick, pulsing cock. "Ohh yeah, easy ain't it?" The sensation of your soft hand around him and your tongue swirling around the sensitive crown of his erection made his hips buck and jerk, fucking into the tight channel of your fist as he ate your pussy with single-minded intensity. "Bein' such a brat with that ahnn shit- stupid ban."

your pleasured gasps and moans vibrating against his own aching flesh as you lapped and suckled at his swollen balls, your fingers pumping faster along his shaft in response to the building ecstasy. "Ba-ahmp! Baby- mpf"

The show starts in five.

Redoubled his efforts, sucking hard on your throbbing clit as he thrust two fingers knuckle-deep into your spasming sheath, stroking that mushy spot with ruthless precision. "There we go, c'mon- ahk dont suck so hard—"

Your thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenched down hard on his fingers, your velvety walls rippling and fluttering "yes yes yes tha's it th'pfff.. tha's it sugar."

Balls-deep in the tight, slick heat of your throat, his shaft jerking and shuddering as thick ropes of scalding cum erupted from the swollen tip. He pumped jet after jet of his potent essence directly down your gullet, "mpff- show mwuch..!?" Gagging hard as cums dribbles out.

His body shuddering and convulsing with the force of his release.

Muffled scream of ecstasy was met by your greedy gulps and swallows, your throat muscles milking his pulsing cock for every last drop of his creamy load as you both rode out the aftershocks of your intense, mind-blowing orgasms.

"Gotta keep the show.. y'know- oh feels s'so empty n good." He grinned, mouth slathered in your.

Tapping his tongue on your folds "let's continue after show yeah? 'least i can focus on stage."

note : i personally liked it, but ngl it is just a little bit rushed. but i hope u still enjoy it, reblogs and likes r lovely!!

#smut #btdmaru #kpdh #kpop demon hunters #abby x reader #btdmaruwrites #romance x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #saja boys #mystery x reader #kpdh smut #saja boys smut #kpdh saja boys

1K notes · View notes

serikai · 9 days ago

Text

nerd bf satoru helping you study with a reward

cw ؛ making you recite what he thought you while he eats you out

“need help with that, ma?” satoru's voice is a sly, teasing lilt, cutting through the quiet of your bedroom, he’s sprawled on the bed, glasses perched low on his nose, a textbook open but ignored, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches you.

you’re at the desk, brows furrowed, pen between your lips, deeply focused on a calculus problem that’s been kicking your ass for days.

your mouth parts in a small oh, and fuck, you feel a flutter in your stomach at his words, heat creeping up your cheeks.

“satoru, dont—im trying to focus.” you mutter, but you can’t hide the way your thighs press together under the desk.

you’ve been begging him for study help all week—your nerdy boyfriend’s a math genius, after all—but he’s been dodging, claiming he’s “too busy” with his own work.

now, though, he’s clearly in the mood to play, he grins, pushing off the bed to saunter over. “tryin’? looks more like struggling, baby.” he teases, leaning over your shoulder, his breath hot against your ear.

his fingers brush your pen, plucking it from your lips, and he smirks. “c’mon, let your genius boyfriend save the day. what’s got you so worked up?” you huff, embarrassed but desperate.

“it’s this damn integral..” you say, pointing at the scribbled mess on your notebook. “i've been at it for hours.”

“hours?” he raises an eyebrow, sliding into the chair next to you, his knee brushing yours. “and you didn’t call me sooner? thought you were tougher than that.” his hand rests on your thigh. “alright, then, let’s make a deal. i’ll teach you, but you gotta earn it.”

“earn it?” you echo, your stomach flipping again. “satoru, i've been begging you for days!” he laughs, his hand squeezing your thigh. “yeah, and it’s cute, but i'm thinkin’ you need a little… motivation.” he pulls your chair closer, his lips grazing your jaw.

“here’s the deal. i explain this shit, and you repeat it back to me later. every mistake? i’m gonna make you moan it out. sound good?”

your breath hitches, heat pooling between your legs. “sounds like a jerk move.” you mutter, but you’re already nodding, too turned on to argue. “thought so.” he says, smirking, and dives into the problem, his voice clear and confident as he breaks down the integral step-by-step.

he’s good—too good—his explanations making the math click in a way your professor’s never could, you’re scribbling notes, trying to focus, but his hand keeps stroking your thigh, creeping higher, and it’s driving you crazy.

“got it?” he asks after ten minutes, leaning back, his glasses glinting. “or you need me to go slower, baby?”

“i.. think i got it.” you say, voice uncertain, your pen tapping nervously. “but you’re distracting me.”

“me? distracting?” he gasps but his hand slides under your skirt, fingers brushing the damp spot on your panties. “is this how im distracting you, baby?”

“satoru!” you whine, cheeks burning, but your hips shift, chasing his touch, he chuckles, and before you can protest, he’s tugging you out of the chair and onto the bed, your notebook forgotten.

“time to test you, baby.” he says, pushing you onto your back, his body looming over yours. “but first..” he hooks his fingers in your panties, sliding them down, the cool air hitting your slick folds.

you groan, as he spreads your thighs, his lips brushing your inner thigh. “gonna eat you out, ma, but you’re gonna learn what i taught you.”

“satoru, wait—” you start, but his tongue flicks over your clit, and you moan, loud and desperate, your hands flying to his hair.

he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp, his tongue swirling slowly, teasing circles that have your eyes fluttering shut.

“fuck, you taste so good.” he murmurs, voice muffled, his glasses fogging slightly as he dives in deeper, his lips suck gently, then harder, his tongue dragging along your folds, lapping up your slickness.

“but you gotta talk, baby. what’s the first step of that integral?” you whimper, your brain foggy with pleasure. “i—fuck, satoru, i can’t think—”

“wrong answer.” he grunts, his teeth grazing your clit, making you yelp. “try again, or im stoppin’.” his fingers slide to your entrance, one slipping in, stretching you, and you moan louder, hips bucking.

“It’s.. hmp... u-substitution..” you gasp, tugging his hair, and he hums, approving, his tongue flicking faster. “good girl..” he chuckles, adding another finger, pumping slow. “what’s the substitution? c’mon, moan it out.”

“satoru, please..” you whine as his fingers curl, hitting that spot that makes you tremble. “it’s… u equals… fuck… x squared plus one.”

“fuck, yeah,” he groans, his tongue diving deeper, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. “so smart, baby, keep goin’. what’s next?” tou’re panting, tears pricking your eyes as the pleasure builds, his mouth and fingers relentless.

“differentiate...mph... du equals two-x dx,” you moan, your voice loud and needy, echoing in the room. “perfect..” he growls, sucking your clit hard, his fingers thrusting faster. “one more, baby. solve it. tell me the final form.”

“fuck, satoru!” you cry, your body shaking, so close to the edge. “it’s.. one over two.. natural log of.. u... plus c..”

“goddamn, you’re hot when you’re smart.” he mutters, his tongue swirling furiously now, his fingers pounding your pussy, slick sounds filling the air. “cum for me, baby. scream it.”

“satoru!” you wail, your orgasm crashing through you, your walls clenching around his fingers, your moans loud and unbroken as you cum, trembling under his mouth.

he laps you through it, groaning at your taste, his tongue slowing but not stopping until you’re a whimpering mess, he pulls back, lips glistening, glasses slightly askew, and grins, all cocky satisfaction.

1K notes · View notes

jakesimfromstatefarm · 4 months ago

Text

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.

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 :( )

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papayainsectorone · 2 months ago

Text

Thin Walls.

summary: you were supposed to go out, but sickness kept you in, by morning, the silence hurt worse than the moans through the wall

content: emotional hurt, implied sex (not graphic), casual relationship angst, jealousy, loneliness, overheard intimacy

word count: 2.8k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

You were supposed to go out tonight.

Some new place Lando had found, low lights, overpriced drinks, something about a DJ who only played vinyl. You’d even gotten halfway through your makeup before your stomach lurched and you ended up bent over the sink, hands braced, eyes watering as the nausea rolled over you like a tide.

You never made it out the door.

Lando had found you sprawled on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed to the cold tile, mascara smudged. His hair was still damp from the shower, curls dark and dripping at the edges of his hoodie.

“Jesus,” he muttered, crouching down beside you. “You okay?”

You managed a groan that could’ve meant anything.

He stayed with you as you threw up again. Held your hair back, rubbed slow circles on your back, filled a glass of water and pressed it into your hand like he couldn’t think of what else to do. You didn’t talk much—you didn’t have the energy. But when he stood in the doorway afterward, one arm through his jacket sleeve, that familiar frown pulling between his brows, you knew what he was about to say before he said it.

“I can really stay in.”

You shook your head. “Go. Really. I’m gross, and you’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“Still—”

“Go,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’m not fun tonight. Not even a little bit.”

He didn’t look convinced, but eventually he nodded. Told you to text if you needed anything. Promised not to let Max get him into trouble.

You told him to stop being dramatic. He smiled. Then he left.

And you went to bed.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep if you’d really slept at all. The hours passed strangely, melting into one another. You drifted in and out. Everything ached. The water on your nightstand stayed untouched. Your phone buzzed once—Lando, probably—and you ignored it.

When the front door clicked open sometime way after midnight, you stirred. A sliver of you relaxed at the sound. Familiar keys. Familiar footsteps. Home.

You swallowed thickly and cleared your throat. “Lando?” you rasped, barely above a whisper. “Can you—?”

But then a voice answered. And it wasn’t his.

It was higher. Feminine. A soft laugh, lilting at the end like a question. Then his voice, lower, slurred slightly, that lazy cadence he got when he was half-drunk and in a good mood.

You froze.

Shoes hit the floor. A giggle. The shuffle of two bodies moving down the hall.

At first, it was almost funny. You’d done the same thing last week—brought Adam home and Lando had made fun of what happened then. You could still hear the amused twist in your own voice, saying something like, “What, can’t handle being cockblocked in your own flat?”

But that night had ended with you on the couch and Lando throwing popcorn at your head while some terrible action movie played.

This was not that.

You could hear them through the wall. Every breath, every shift of weight on his mattress. Every sound she made. You curled in on yourself, knees to chest, head pounding.

It wasn’t funny now.

You pressed a pillow over your ears. It didn’t help.

The moans started quiet, stifled, maybe self-conscious but grew, pulled along by the creak of his bed, the wet press of skin. And Lando—his voice, when it came, made your stomach twist harder than anything else had all night. Low and coaxing, a muttered curse, a breathless laugh. You knew that voice. Knew exactly where his hands were when he made that sound.

You breathed through your nose, slow and shallow, gripping the blanket with white knuckles.

You told yourself you weren’t angry.

You’d started this, set the precedent. Casual. Open. Not serious.

You’d slept with other people. He knew. He’d seen. He did it too but it was never here.

Still, your chest hurt.

But what gutted you most wasn’t the sex. Not the rhythm, not the moans, not even the part where she said his name the way you do.

It was the quiet after.

The way they didn’t stop touching, not really. The murmurs. The softness.

You couldn’t hear the words. Just the cadence. Hushed and easy, unhurried. He said something that made her laugh again, quiet, real. And she said something back and he answered and neither of them moved to leave.

You lay there, wide awake.

The wall between you was barely half a foot of plaster, but it felt like an ocean.

They talked until nearly dawn.

And for the first time since you started whatever this was with Lando—friends, friends who fuck, friends who don’t ask questions—you realized just how badly you’d underestimated the part of you that still wanted to matter to him more than this.

More than her.

More than a night.

By the time the sun began to crawl up the walls, you hadn’t slept a minute.

Not really.

The quiet had returned. Their quiet. The kind that came after intimacy, after everything. It was worse than the sounds before, more intimate, somehow. Her sighs had faded. Lando’s voice had too. But the silence was heavier than either of them.

You stared at the ceiling. Your eyes burned, dry and overused, but no tears had come. Not one.

You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Your body still ached. You weren’t sure how much of it was the illness anymore. Your stomach hadn’t stopped churning, not since the first laugh spilled through the wall.

You tried to breathe evenly. Tried to swallow the knot in your throat. But it just sat there, thick and choking and useless.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this.

You were the one who said it was fine. Who shrugged the first time he kissed you and didn’t call it anything. You’d joked about other people. About being casual. About being cool. And you were, right? You were so cool. Unbothered. Fun.

Fun doesn’t lie awake and listen to her almost-lover make someone else come through the wall. Fun doesn’t memorize the sound of his voice when it’s not meant for her.

You sat up. Too fast.

The room spun, nausea crashing into your ribs all over again. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

There was a moment, brief, stupid, when you thought about knocking on his door.

Not to start a fight. Not even to interrupt. Just to see what he’d do. If he’d look guilty. If he’d look relieved.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stood and walked slowly to the bathroom. Your feet were cold against the tile. The reflection in the mirror was worse than you expected. Hair tangled. Skin washed out. Your mouth pale and dry and unkissed.

You turned on the tap and splashed water onto your face. Again. Again. Like maybe if you did it enough, it would cool everything burning beneath your skin.

It didn’t.

You stood there, hands braced on the sink and hated yourself just a little, for every time you’d laughed off the late-night texts, for every moment you’d believed that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one pretending not to care.

Because clearly, he’d never had to pretend.

You stumbled back to bed. Your sheets were too warm now, twisted and suffocating. You pulled the blanket up anyway and curled into yourself like it could keep the ache in.

It didn’t.

You wanted to cry.

You really, really wanted to cry.

But all that came out was silence.

Just like the room next door.

You heard her leave.

You hadn’t moved from your bed, just lay there, eyes open, chest hollow, still pretending not to listen.

But you heard it. The soft rustle of clothes being pulled back on. The quiet pad of bare feet against the hallway wood. A door creaking open, gently. Like she was trying not to wake anyone.

Like he’d asked her to be quiet.

You strained without meaning to, catching murmurs at the front door. Too muffled to make out words, but one voice was hers, light, airy, a little hoarse from sleep. The other was his. Lower. Still warm.

Then—

“Bye,” she said, soft.

A pause.

Then a second one: “Bye.”

His voice. A little thicker.

You didn’t need to see it.

That pause was a kiss.

Of course it was. You felt it anyway, like something brushing the back of your neck. Like being touched through a pane of glass.

The door shut with a whisper. Quiet steps moved back through the apartment. He paused in the kitchen. You heard the fridge open, close. A glass set down. Then retreating footsteps. His door shut.

And that was it.

Stillness again.

By the time you finally slept, it was real daylight.

Only for maybe an hour. Two at most. When you woke, your mouth tasted stale and your body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in a cold room. You didn’t move at first. Just blinked into the corner of the ceiling, where a shadow flickered faintly from the curtains.

It was late morning now.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

You kicked the blankets off with effort, limbs heavy and sluggish. You felt sore. Your stomach was still tender, but more than that you just felt... used up. Like the night had crawled into your bones and refused to leave.

You shuffled out into the hallway slowly, one hand braced on the wall. The air smelled faintly of something warm—toast, maybe, or coffee. The kind of domestic scent that could've been comforting, if not for the bile rising at the back of your throat.

You hesitated outside his door. It was closed. No sound came from the other side. You didn’t knock.

In the kitchen, a half-full coffee mug sat on the counter. His keys were back in their dish. A hoodie draped over the back of a chair.

You filled a glass of water with shaking hands and sipped slowly, staring at the window. The city outside looked too bright. The traffic moved as if nothing had happened. As if everything inside you hadn’t quietly rearranged itself in the dark.

You used to laugh at people like this, quietly, cruelly. People who got too attached. Who got soft. Who heard someone moan into someone else’s mouth and broke a little over it.

But now, standing barefoot in the kitchen, in an oversized tee that didn’t smell like you anymore, you weren’t laughing.

You just stood there.

Tired.

Alone.

Wishing you hadn’t said he could go out. Wishing you hadn’t cared when he did.

Wishing you hadn’t listened.

You were still sitting at the kitchen table when you heard his door open.

The soft shuffle of socks on the hardwood, the muted crack of a yawn stretched into the hallway. You didn’t turn right away just stared at the half-empty glass of water in front of you and waited for the rest of him to arrive.

“Hey,” he said, voice still rough with sleep as he rounded the corner. “You’re up.”

You hummed, noncommittal.

He rubbed at his face, blinking at the light. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” you lied.

He made a sympathetic noise in his throat. “Still looked rough last night. I almost stayed, y’know.”

You nodded. “I remember.”

“I just figured, like—you didn’t want me hovering.”

You didn’t answer.

Lando moved to the fridge, pulled out the orange juice, poured himself a glass like it was just another morning. Like he hadn’t spent the night making someone else feel wanted through the wall you shared.

He sat down across from you, running a hand through his hair. “Anyway, the night was good. Really good, actually.”

You looked at him then.

He smiled, broad, boyish, a little smug.

“I met someone.”

Your mouth tasted like metal. “Yeah,” you said, voice thin. “I heard.”

He laughed, totally missing it. “God, shit—right. Fuck. Sorry.”

You said nothing.

“She’s—her name’s Lottie. Charlotte, actually.” He took a sip of juice. “She was with a few friends. I think she’s from Bristol or something, but lives here now. We started talking at the club, she made fun of my drink choice, can you believe that?”

He was grinning. Like it was a good story. Like it was funny.

And maybe it was.

Maybe to someone else.

You forced a smile. “Sounds like a good night.”

He nodded, that warmth still on him. “It was. Unexpected, but fun. We... yeah, we ended up back here.”

“I heard.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the retelling, in the fuzzy afterglow that clung to him like the scent of her perfume you could still faintly smell in the air.

And you just sat there.

Listening.

This time, to the way he remembered her.

Not you.

Never you.

He was still talking, something about Charlotte’s laugh, about how they’d ended up sharing fries at some god-awful hour, how easy it had felt.

You couldn’t listen anymore.

You stood up mid-sentence. No warning. Just the sharp scrape of the chair legs against the floor.

He stopped, startled. “Hey—what’s—?”

“Need the bathroom,” you said quickly, already turning away.

You didn’t.

But you needed out. Needed away from the way he said her name. From the ghost of her perfume still clinging to the room. From the way his voice kept rising like he didn’t even notice the silence pooling between your ribs.

In the hallway, you steadied yourself against the wall. The same one that had betrayed you last night. Your fingers curled against the paint like you could scratch it down to brick.

Back in the kitchen, he called after you, not unkindly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied again. “Stomach’s just—still a bit off.”

He didn’t press.

And maybe that hurt more than anything.

You shut the bathroom door behind you and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, hands braced on your knees.

The worst part was you weren’t even angry. Not really. You’d brought someone home last week. You’d started this game. You’d made the rules.

You just hadn’t expected to lose this badly.

Not like that.

You swallowed hard, but your throat stayed thick.

From the other side of the door, the apartment sounded quiet again.

But it was too late.

You’d already heard everything.

Later, you emerged like nothing had happened.

Hair brushed, hoodie changed, face washed cold. You looked… fine. Or close enough to it. The headache had dulled, the nausea thinned to a manageable hum. You even offered to make tea.

“Wow,” Lando said, perched on the arm of the couch. “You sure you’re alive?”

“Barely,” you said with a small grin, flicking the kettle on. “But I figured I’d try.”

He watched you like he was trying to decode something, but didn’t push. Just nodded and stretched, groaning a little. “Think I’m still drunk. What’s the cure for that?”

“Water. Sleep. Regret,” you replied, pulling down two mugs and setting them beside the kettle.

He laughed. “Shit, one out of three’s not bad.”

You smiled like it didn’t hurt. You laughed where it fit. You asked about his night—just enough to seem polite, not enough to sound jealous. You let him talk.

God, he could talk.

She was a writer, apparently. Or trying to be. Smart. Funny. She’d ordered something weird at the bar and convinced him to try it. She didn’t like racing all that much but knew who he was. Thought he was cooler in person.

Of course she did.

You nodded, sipping your tea, the steam hiding whatever might’ve shown on your face. You asked the right questions. Played your part. The roommate. The friend. The girl who hadn’t curled up in the dark, fists clenched, listening to someone else’s moans coming from the other side of the wall.

“Anyway,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck, “I might see her again.”

You shrugged like it meant nothing. “Cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should.”

He smiled, clearly relieved. “Alright. Good.”

You took another sip of your tea.

It tasted like ash.

tag list:

@lifesass @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs

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yeagersss · 3 months ago

Text

Sukuna as a firefighter (Part 3)

<- Previous | Next ->

The world was against you. There was no other explanation for your current predicament.

Ever since your workplace burned down, you decided to earn your living working part time as a waitress at some local pub until you landed a proper job.

But that wasn't enough to cover your expenses so you took up odd jobs on the weekends. And one of them just happened to be babysitting some kid living in the suburbs from afternoon to late evening.

The family was nice. The house was nice. Even the pay was nice so you had absolutely no complaints.

But today of all days, the kid decided that he wanted to fly his kite outside and said kite got stuck in the tallest tree in the backyard.

You could have just told the kid he could play something else or maybe bought him a new kite and politely asked his parents to compensate you for it.

But no. Your dumbass decided to climb that tree, forgetting the fact that you weren't the little girl who used to hop from branch to branch in her parent's backyard. You were now a mid 20s woman with backpain and money issues for goodness sake, so what were you thinking?

Now here you were, clinging to the tree trunk while your ankle was twisted. Unable to get down.

But, hey. Atleast the kite is on the ground now, right?

The kid got so, so worried that he ran to his neighbour who was just some old lady. She merely stuck her head out the window, shot you an annoyed look, shook her head exasperatedly then went back inside.

Ten minutes later, you heard the sirens.

"Well, well, well. We really ought to stop meeting like this."

Oh god.

You glanced down to see him. That firefighter from before. Sukuna grinned as the aerial ladder lifted him up to where you were.

Yeah. The world was definitely against you.

Once he was finally at your eye level, he smirked with that same cocky attitude like before.

"What's with you being so accident prone, princess? Not the kind of quality I want from my future wife."

Oh, this fucker—

You glared at him. "God, just shut up and get me down."

He was thoroughly enjoying your desperation. You can tell from the glint in his eyes. He was about to say some stupid shit again but stopped when you shuffled a bit and a gasped hitched in your throat when you accidentally placed pressure on your twisted ankle.

He narrowed his eyes at your foot then snorted and extended his hand at you. "Alright, give me your hand."

You huffed. "You better not drop me."

Sukuna rolled his eyes. "Trust me, I've done this shit too many times to count. Now... I won't repeat myself. Give me your hand."

You kept your wary gaze on him before hesitantly letting go of the tree trunk to grab his hand.

And he pulled you in like you weighed nothing. You gasped and wrapped your arms around his shoulders while he held you firmly with an arm around your waist.

"Easy, easy. That's it. I got you, princess." You shivered as his deep voice rumbled next to your ear.

After you and him were lowered to the ground, you found yourself sitting on the back of the fire truck with Sukuna bend down on one knee in front of you, wrapping your swollen ankle.

"Hmph. Nothing serious. You'll walk it off in a week." He said, standing up when he finished his work.

You looked down at your ankle and bit your lip before looking back up at him hesitantly. "Uh... Thanks."

Sukuna raised his eyebrow at that before he snorted. "Last time I saved your life, you made me some brownies and now all I get is some shitty thanks?"

Oh this fucker—!

"Oh I would bake you brownies but last I checked you thought they were too sweet for you." You argued back.

But he merely rolled his eyes and hopped into the truck to retrieve something. You stared at him with a frown until he tossed something towards you. You instinctively grabbed it and realized it was your empty container. The one which you gave him with your brownies.

"Uh?"

"I may think it's too sweet but my nephew inhaled your entire batch and has been begging me to get him more."

Your heart skipped a beat at that. "... Oh."

Sukuna came back to you, one hand absentmindedly running through his hair as he smirked down at you. "I'm not gonna accept that shitty thank you. Drop by next time with another batch, princess. Then we'll be even. Got it?"

You stared at him in surprise before averting your gaze. You bit your lip and looked down at the empty container, already deciding on how many brownies to make. Maybe you can do two containers this time.

And maybe one of them will be less sweeter than your usual batch.

"... Fine. I'll see what I can do."

#sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #mine

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spizgany-lipejs · 5 months ago

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

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Override: Denied

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut.

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more… expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly.

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it.

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old.

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. “Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

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