#I'll definitely write a follow up to this eventually

[stereopticons]

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: June 7

2019

I'll take you as you are [david/patrick, T, 3,715] by @enablelove

A closer look into David’s anxiety as Patrick witnesses David’s first panic attack and not knowing how to help him through it. Then, Patrick learns over time what David needs. With each instance of panic, Patrick gets more confident in his abilities and provides constant support.

love makes the lightest sound [david/patrick, NR, 1,546] by @noimeanyeah

David has always hated New Year's Eve.

Mostly to Yourself [david/patrick, G, 4,689] by @mostlyinthemorning

The story so far, this time from Marcy's perspective.

Truth or Dare [david/patrick, M, 4,159] by Kamirynn

The gang settles in for some drinks and a game of Truth or Dare after another successful open mic night. Fic Night prompt: - Another party, this time with a game of truth or dare (doesn’t necessarily have to be at Patrick’s, could be anywhere - maybe at a bonfire?)- David has a bout of insomnia and Patrick tries to tire him out- Plot as a whole is up to writer, but must include this sentence: I’m sorry that I woke you up by setting the smoke alarm off by cooking bacon but I’m definitely not sorry enough to give you any.

you are in love [david/patrick, G, 1,520] by @crazygirleddie

The times Patrick think's he's falling in love with David, the time he knows he's in love and the time he knows David loves him.

2020

A (well dressed) Good Person [david/patrick, G, 2,515] by @kindofspecificstore

David isn't always confident in his business decisions, but Patrick trusts him enough to leave for a tax seminar.

call my bluff, call you babe [david/patrick, T, 1,138] by withkissesfour

He’s befuddled by this place, all chintz and mahogany and mystery, but he knows the pattern in the creaks on the floorboard outside Patrick’s bedroom, and how to work the remote for the television, and the loud whirr of the old oven, and where the tea towels are kept. He supposes he’s been playing house too. He supposes this is being in love.

chapters... [david/patrick, T, 803] by @startswithhope

Two moments where David and Patrick let themselves get carried away.

From the Time We're Young [david/patrick, T, 1,248] by @loveisallyouneed21

Patrick is struggling with guilt following the days after he comes out to his parents, but he isn’t sure why he feels guilty.

Great Acoustics [david/patrick, E, 1,297] by @kiwiana-writes

It’s intensely flattering at the start of their relationship, but David always sort of assumes that it’s a result of Patrick having the kind of sex he wanted to be having for the first time in his life, and that it will settle down eventually.

Hard to Find, Lucky to Have [david & stevie, G, 918] by bigficenergy

Three times David fussed with Stevie's clothes over the course of their friendship.

it's fashion, baby! [david/patrick, G, 939] by @hullomoon

Everything is the same except Patrick does wear his fringed vest with nothing underneath at the Open Mic

you'll always be my baby [david/patrick, G, 831] by patrickbrewer

It takes a serious amount of effort, so much so that for a long time he doesn’t let himself get his hopes up at all, but after approximately five billion phone calls and a secret gofundme page, Patrick manages to buy a few minutes of Mariah Carey’s time.

you're my mariah carey. wait, no, that's literally mariah carey [david/patrick, G, 771] by patricksdavid

David wakes up to strong fingers playing with his hair. He can hear humming coming from somewhere near him but he doesn’t pay much attention. The person has a nice voice. He was having a weird dream. Something about Mariah Carey… His eyes fling open as he’s greeted by his husband lovingly brushing his hair out of his face. “Mariah,” David blurts, still trying to make sense of his dream. “No, I’m Patrick. I didn’t think you hit your head that hard,” Patrick teases, the side of his mouth curling into one of his fondest smiles yet.

you've got me feeling [david/patrick, E, 39,197] by @samwhambam

Patrick likes a little pain. David helps him discover just how much.

2021

In The Merry Month of May [david/patrick, E, 10,911] by asoftplacetoland

A series of one-shots spanning David and Patrick's relationship from pre-relationship to husbands that focuses on masturbation. That's it, that's the fic. Each chapter can be read as a stand alone and I'll update weekly throughout the month of May. Stay hydrated, friends!

Isla [david/patrick, G, 2,042] by @midnightstreet

“Your dog needs discipline!” “Oh, so she’s my dog now, is she?” Patrick put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, trying to keep from laughing as David worked himself into a frenzy. “You’re the one who fell for her charms! I only went along with this out of love for you! We need to find some kind of. Puppy school. That’s a thing, right?” He whipped out his phone and started typing. “At some point we will be revisiting the ‘you fell for her charms’ statement. But yes, puppy school is a thing.” “Surely they can teach her proper respect for others’ possessions.” “You weren’t sending our dog to military school when she chewed on my sneaker.”

Or I could try to dance with you instead [david/patrick, E, 21,196] by orphan_account

Patrick Brewer thought he had his whole life figured out, but he was in for a whirl wind as he finds him self wanting to settle down in a town he never heard of before and falls in love with someone unexpected.

supernova [david/patrick, G, poem] by elifisher96

i once said you were a flamebut i never once thought we would burn out so fast

The ice cream truck cometh [david/patrick, E, 1,030] by @cheesecurdsgravyandfries

“The ice cream truck is coming back and we need to sign our classes up.” David perks up at the thought. One of the few perks of the sweltering last month of school is the weekly ice cream truck that parks out front and offers discount treats to staff and students. Or so he’d heard. *Note the change in rating as of the second chapter*

You got me and I got you [david/patrick, G, 680] by @brokenchairwrites

Patrick is filled with thoughts of a big plan, for the rest of their lives.

2022

a little more warmth [david/patrick, T, 5,700] by @rosedavid

5 times someone wears David’s clothes (+2 times David wears Patrick’s)

Every Day is So Wonderful [david/patrick, G, 956] by @a-noble-dragon

David feels sad. Patrick loves him through it... David could feel tears forming in his eyes at Patrick's tender care. He hated being so difficult, hated that he wanted to stuff his face when he felt so bloated, hated everything right now, apart from Patrick.

Insert scene at 15:00, S04E09: The Olive Branch [david/patrick, G, 500] by @cheesecurdsgravyandfries

Prompted by a comment on The last first kiss - a series of alternate first kisses: Petition for first kiss post-barbecue break up that is canon compliant except when Patrick leaves for lunch, he has a quiet moment with himself outside, and then comes in to kiss David before leaving for lunch again.

2023

Starfish [david/patrick, G, 774] by @a-noble-dragon

Patrick pauses enough that David starts to feel nervous. "You know it's ok to spend some time apart every now and again, David. Right? It's healthy. Just because we're married doesn't mean we have to spend all our time in each other's orbit." "It doesn't?" David asks, still seeking reassurance.

2024

The Confession [david/patrick, NR, 11,482] by @whatevenisthisbloganymore

“Wait, Patrick is your fiance?” Alexis turns to her. She doesn’t sound happy. Before Rachel can reply, a man with his back to her exclaims, “uh, I’m sorry, you have a fiancee?” He doesn’t know about her. Whoever this guy is, he knows Patrick well enough to be surprised about not knowing of her existence. Her heart catches in her throat, and she thumbs the back of her engagement ring. They’re still engaged. They’re going to get married. Rachel just has to remind him.

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017 or 2018 2019: 5 fics/15,629 words 2020: 10 fics/49,657 words 2021: 6 fanworks (5 fics, 1 poem)/36,063 words 2022: 3 fics/7,156 words 2023: 1 fic/774 words 2024: 1 fic/11,482 words Total: 26 fanworks (25 fics, 1 poem)/120,761 words

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

Augusnippets Day 8 : Reunion

This is like waaaay after these two pieces in my ocs recovery. I think I'm finally getting their story written and I'm learning more about them as I go.

CW : anxiety, returning home, memory loss, recovering memories.

They paused at the edge of the clearing, staying hidden in the treeline. Watching the people going about their day, so mundane compared to what their own life had been. A shadow of old memories flicked across their mind like the birds passing overhead.

Fingers twisted the hem of their shirt and teeth bit their lip, eyes scanning for familiar faces. Some of the people had more wrinkles than they remembered, hair a different length or color, just barely recognizing the young adults whose childhood faces were like ghosts beneath the surface.

The anticipation was making their heart beat faster and their hands feel clammy. It had been so long, they barely remembered the way home; let alone people's names or traditions they knew they had but no details for. The instincts beaten and conditioned into them would be no help here. Their newfound individuality may not have a place here either.

They wished they hadn't left Caretaker a mile back. But they had remembered enough that a complete stranger wouldn't have been welcome; had the potential of being injured and driven out. Their calm advice would've been grounding about now.

But they had to do this on their own. Had made the decision to when the memories started making sense. They were going to stick to it. They could pretend it was an order, just another mission. Caretaker suggested thinking of it as infiltration, but they didn't have to be the weapon, just themselves.

With that thought in mind they took a breath, their hands relaxed at their sides, and walked forward into the clearing. It wasn't but a few steps before they were noticed and voices called out to each other.

[dye-it-rouge-et-noir]

"If you post and do more traditional art that's of finished quality, you can consider that a covert promotion post for your favorite pen company if you put the pen somewhere in the photo to show what pen you used."

You're right.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

fine line ── l. hs

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

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

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

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

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

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

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really. 

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

And repeat. 

Well, most of the time. 

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

Total dream job. 

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

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

“Can you work nights?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool, you’re hired.” 

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

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

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

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

Someone?

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

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

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

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

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a curse.

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

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nope.

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

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

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

Except it is.

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

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

He looks up.

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

Abort mission. Now.

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

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

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. 

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

And looks directly at you. 

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

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

Gasp. 

So we can cross mute off the list. 

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

Almost. 

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

Excuse me? 

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

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look. 

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

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

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

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

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

“No.” 

You blink. 

“No?” 

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.” 

You blink again. 

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes. 

This man is dead serious. 

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N. 

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

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

He does not smile back. 

Not even a flicker. 

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

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

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

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

Your jaw drops slightly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. 

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

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

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

“You mean regular spicy.” 

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.” 

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

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

“Hello?” 

Oh. Right. Your job. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic. 

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

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

However—

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

The first? 

Insomnia. 

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

And the second? 

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk. 

Yes, it’s a weird combo. 

No, he doesn’t care. 

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

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

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

Does he have a problem? Absolutely. 

Is he addicted? Without a doubt. 

Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

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

Well, except for last night. 

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

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

And the worst part? 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible. 

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

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

Yup, there she is. 

You. 

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night. 

Except—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, ouch. 

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

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

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

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

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

Do you recognize him? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now you’re in his head. 

Great. 

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

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

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

He’s so weird. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

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

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

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

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you should do the same.

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

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

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

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

And yet—

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

It’s nothing.

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

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

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

And then—he hesitates.

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

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

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

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

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

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

“What…are you doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

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

Still no response.

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

That makes him pause.

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

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

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

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

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

You blink. “Wait, really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan. 

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

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

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

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

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

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

“I do…stuff.”

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

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

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

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

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

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

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

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

"Weird how?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

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

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

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

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

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

His stomach drops.

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

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

Panic creeps up his spine.

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

You jump in your seat.

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

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

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

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

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

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

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

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

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

You squint at him.

Then—

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

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

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

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

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

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

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

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

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

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

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

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

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

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

Heeseung groans.

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

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

You stare back at him.

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

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

You stop.

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

Then back at him.

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

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

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

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

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

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

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

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

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

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

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

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

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

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

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

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

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

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

“Choose.”

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

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

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

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

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

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

“More like character damage.”

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

“Here. Try some.”

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

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

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

And then he moves. 

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

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

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

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

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

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

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

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

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

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

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

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

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

Oh.

Oh no.

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

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

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

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

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

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated. 

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers. 

And Heeseung? 

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help. 

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air. 

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him. 

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great. 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?” 

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you. 

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?” 

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box. 

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—” 

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.” 

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts. 

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it. 

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.” 

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push. 

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.” 

And that—that makes Heeseung look up. 

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too. 

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his. 

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that. 

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving. 

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck. 

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here. 

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.” 

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store. 

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.” 

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought. 

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves. 

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.” 

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.” 

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing. 

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter. 

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight? 

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance. 

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster. 

Why? 

Because, it’s 2:21AM. 

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with. 

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening. 

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him? 

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around. 

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to. 

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then. 

You see it.

A tweet. 

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple. 

Yet entirely soul-crushing. 

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!” 

Your breath catches. 

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?” 

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—” 

He stops. Starts again. 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings. 

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too. 

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t. 

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words. 

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think. 

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch. 

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days. 

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did. 

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did. 

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest. 

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers. 

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly. 

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both. 

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out. 

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense. 

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you. 

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows. 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer. 

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise. 

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it. 

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once. 

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else. 

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side. 

You were always meant to cross it. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

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

However—

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

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

[alohajix]

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦

Description: [Y/N] signed her son up for soccer to help him feel a little braver. She didn’t expect it to feel like she was the one learning how to start over. And she definitely didn’t expect the coach to start feeling like home.

Warnings: single parenthood, child anxiety, parental guilt, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, slow-burn romance, eventual consensual smut (soft to intense).

Word count: TBD.

author’s note: this little mini-story is actually part of something a bit bigger! if you enjoyed part one, i’m planning to share the four other parts exclusively on my patreon as i write them. there’s zero pressure, of course—just knowing you’re here reading already means the world to me. but if you’d like to support my work even more and follow this story as it continues, you’ll be able to find the rest over there when they’re ready. thank you so much for reading. i appreciate you more than you know! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

Warnings: child nervousness, social overwhelm, parental self-doubt, references to past social exclusion, emotional tension, fear of letting someone in.

Word count: 3,748.

The field is busier than I expected. Parents already staking their claims with fold-out chairs along the sidelines, sipping from oversized thermoses, shouting to each other over the hum of kids in matching jerseys sprinting across the grass like it's the World Cup. My stomach pulls tight as I kill the engine, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like I'm not entirely sure if we should even be here.

I glance into the rearview mirror, catching Archie in the back seat, small hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey again. He's been doing that since we left the apartment—rolling the fabric between his fingers like it might unravel if he stops. It's bright red, way too big on him. He'd wanted it that way. Said the bigger one felt safer. Like armor, he told me, with the kind of serious little face only a six-year-old could pull off. But looking at him now, all I can think is how small he really looks in it.

I let out a slow breath and glance toward the field again, already feeling the weight of every other parent who looks like they've done this a hundred times before. Like they belong here. Like they belong together.

I climb out of the car, shut my door gently, and walk around to his side. He doesn't move when I open it, just looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes I know too well. The same eyes I've seen every time we try something new. I crouch down so we're level, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Alright, champ... you ready?"

His feet swing nervously over the edge of the seat. His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

"Do I have to go with them by myself?"

God, how many times have I heard that question in one form or another? First days of school, new babysitters, birthday parties where he doesn't know anyone but me. The same fear, every time. The same knot in my stomach when I have to lie just a little to make him believe this time will be different.

I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I tell him quietly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. "But remember what we said? About trying? About being brave enough to see if it feels a little better once you get started?"

He bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, glancing toward the field. I follow his gaze, taking in the kids already spread out in messy clusters, parents shouting encouragement like this is the most important thing in the world. My throat feels tight just looking at it.

"I'll be right here," I add softly. "The whole time. You can look for me whenever you want."

His chin wobbles just a little, but after a second, he nods. It's barely there, but it's enough. I press a quick kiss to his temple, breathing him in like it might settle something in me, too. That familiar scent of shampoo and syrup and him. My safe place, even when I'm the one who's supposed to be his.

I hold out my hand.

"Come on. Let's go check it out."

He slips his hand into mine without saying another word, holding on tight. Tighter than usual. We start walking toward the noise. And even though I've already promised him it's going to be okay, I'm not sure I believe it yet.

The closer we get, the more it feels like my skin's been pulled too tight. Like every step drags me further into a place I'm not convinced we belong. Archie's fingers are sweaty in mine, small and tense, and I can feel the tiny tremble in them with every squeeze. He's walking slower now, half a step behind, like if he keeps dragging his feet long enough, maybe I'll turn us around and call the whole thing off.

I want to. God, I want to. But I don't.

We stop at the edge of the field, just shy of the first line of folding chairs. I shift my weight, standing tall enough to look like I know what I'm doing, even though the truth feels like it's unraveling by the second.

Parents are everywhere—chatting over the hum of thermoses being popped open, stretching their legs out toward the grass like they've claimed this territory a dozen times before. Some of them are wearing team hoodies. Some already know each other's kids by name. You can tell by the way they laugh like it's nothing new.

I tuck Archie in a little closer to my side, scanning the field until I find the group in red jerseys forming near the far goalpost. A man's standing in front of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose from his neck. His sleeves are already shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing casually as he calls the group to attention.

"All right, Red Rockets, let's bring it in!"

The way he says it catches me off guard—not sharp, not impatient, not the way I expected someone to rally a group of six-year-olds on a cold Saturday morning. It's... soft. Confident, but not loud. Like he already knows they'll listen without needing to shout.

I feel Archie flinch just a little beside me, his body shrinking closer to mine like the sound spooked him. I glance down, smoothing my thumb across the back of his hand.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I have no idea if that's true.

When I look back up, the man's moving. Walking toward the group of kids gathering into a loose circle in front of him. I catch the edge of his voice again—lower this time, more focused on the ones who haven't settled yet.

Archie stiffens all over again, frozen like he's deciding whether to bolt or hide. And all I can think is please don't shut down. Not yet.

I'm already running through my backup plan in my head—how to peel him off the sidelines gently if he refuses to move, how to keep my voice from cracking when I tell him it's okay, we can try again another week—when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. He's walking toward us. Steady. Unbothered. No clipboard this time, no whistle in his hand. Just easy steps like he's done this before. Like he's not in a rush to fix anything.

Archie stiffens even more, his little body locking up next to mine like he's bracing for impact. I lean down toward his ear, lowering my voice to that quiet, steady hum I've learned works better than anything else.

"It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here."

He stops a couple of steps away, leaving space like he knows better than to crowd us. His hands are loose in his jacket pockets, his mouth tipping into the kind of smile that feels... patient. The kind that makes it look like this isn't a problem to solve—it's just a moment to walk through.

"Hey there," he says, nodding once like it's the most normal thing in the world to approach strangers this way. "First day nerves?"

I shift my weight, pulling Archie a little closer to my side.

"Yeah," I answer softly, my voice rougher than I mean for it to sound. "We just moved here. Still trying to find our place."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he's heard it before.

"'S a lot, isn't it?" he murmurs, glancing toward the field again like he remembers exactly what it feels like to stand on the outside of something. "Is that your little one, then? Number five?"

I look down at Archie, who's still clinging to me, eyes wide but curious now.

"Yeah. Archer. We... we call him Archie."

Harry crouches down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't reach for Archie. Doesn't try to pull him out of hiding. He just lowers himself to his level and lets his voice drop even softer.

"Hiya, Archie. I'm Harry. Coach Harry, technically, but that feels a bit too serious for six-year-olds, don't you think?"

Archie doesn't answer, but his grip on my sweater loosens just a little. His eyes flick to Harry's shoes, then to his face, then back to me like he's checking if I'm still here. Harry keeps going, easy as anything.

"Y'know, we've got a job open today," he adds with a quiet grin. "Someone needs to help me set up all those cones over there before the team comes in. Think you might be able to help me with that?"

Archie shifts his weight, biting his lip, and for a second I'm sure he's going to shut down again. But then—so small I almost miss it—he nods. Just once. Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't whoop or cheer or make it a moment bigger than it needs to be. He just leans back on his heels, pushes to his feet, and tips his head toward the pile of cones on the grass.

"We'll just be over here," he says to me softly. "Promise I'll bring him right back."

I stay frozen where I am, arms wrapped tight around myself like I might actually fall apart if I move too fast.

Archie follows him. Slowly, yeah—but he follows. Two tiny steps at first. Then one more. He's a full body length behind, but he's moving. Moving toward something without me. My throat feels like it's closing up just watching it happen.

I hover at the edge of the chairs, not daring to sit down. My eyes flick to the other parents spread out along the sidelines, already swapping stories about school pickups and carpool schedules like this is just another weekend. Some of them aren't even watching the field. Some are already halfway through their second cup of coffee, shouting out names like they've done this a hundred times.

It's strange, standing here alone. My arms wrapped around myself like I'm bracing for something, like I'm waiting for a punch that never comes. I glance up at the sky for no reason at all, noting the gray clouds stretching low and heavy over the trees at the far end of the field. One gust of wind, and it'll probably rain.

Of course, I didn't bring an umbrella. I didn't think that far ahead. I'd been too busy worrying about Archie. About whether or not I could even get him this far.

I shift again, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop myself from calling Archie back. My fingers itch to reach for him, to pull him out of the spotlight and hide him somewhere safer. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere where he doesn't have to try so hard. But I don't. I stay planted. I watch Harry kneel beside the pile of cones, picking them up one by one and laying them out on the grass like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't even glance back to see if Archie's still following. He just... waits.

Archie shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking back toward me like he's asking permission without saying it out loud. My chest tightens, but I nod once, small and steady, like I'm not terrified he's about to fall apart in front of everyone. And then he moves again. Steps right up to the pile and crouches awkwardly, his little fingers fumbling to grab a cone. Harry leans in a little, points to a spot on the field, and Archie starts walking toward it, arms stiff like he's afraid to drop it.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My throat stings with it. Like I've been holding that breath for longer than just today. It's small. So small. But it's more than I expected. I've seen people give up on him before. I've watched them get impatient when he freezes or takes too long to answer or hides behind me when they try to pull him out of his shell too fast. I've heard the tight, strained "it's okay, some kids just aren't social" more times than I can count. Always laced with that disappointed edge like they've already decided he's too much work.

I've seen the way they check their watches. The way they glance toward me with that half-frown, half-smile that really means "he's slowing us down." I've walked Archie back to the car more times than I can count with his head on my shoulder, whispering it's not his fault even when I know he doesn't believe me.

And every time it happens, I feel that weight in my chest. That bitter little voice in the back of my head that says see? This is why you keep your circle small. This is why you don't expect people to stay.

But Harry doesn't flinch. Doesn't push. He just lets Archie take his time, moving one cone at a time like there's nothing else to do today but wait for him to figure it out.

I glance down at the ground by my feet, kicking at the grass with the tip of my shoe like that might ground me somehow. It doesn't. All I can do is watch. All I can do is hope. I feel my heart catch in my throat because I already know I shouldn't let myself get used to that. He's just doing his job. And it's nothing. But the way it feels settling in my chest tells me I'm lying to myself already.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I barely register what the other kids are doing. I don't hear a single word the parents around me say. I'm too locked in on Archie. On the way he stays close to Harry, watching every move like he's afraid he might miss something important.

And somehow, somehow, he stays. He doesn't run back to me. He doesn't shut down. He doesn't quit.

By the time Harry claps his hands together and calls the team in one last time, Archie's cheeks are flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, his little hands tugging on the bottom of his jersey again—but his shoulders aren't hunched the way they were when we got here. He's tired, but he's still standing.

I push off the fence and start toward the edge of the field, hugging my arms around myself again like it's going to hold me together for the next thirty seconds.

Harry crouches down to Archie's level again, says something low that makes Archie nod. Then he stands, turns toward me, and starts walking over with that same easy pace like we aren't two strangers standing on opposite sides of a life we haven't figured out yet.

"He did great," Harry says when he reaches us, nodding toward Archie like he means it. "Took a little warming up, but he stuck it out."

I swallow the knot in my throat, brushing Archie's hair off his forehead again.

"Thanks for being patient with him. I know he's... a lot sometimes."

Harry frowns a little—just for a second—like he doesn't like hearing that.

"He's not a lot," he says quietly, like it's a fact. "He's a kid. Kids move at their own pace."

And just like that, something in my chest pulls tight again. Because no one ever says it like that. Not without sounding like they're trying to convince themselves. But Harry says it like he actually believes it.

I shift my weight, blinking hard to keep my expression neutral. My mouth opens to thank him again, but nothing comes out. I chew the inside of my cheek instead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Before I can embarrass myself further, he clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"Listen, uh—would it be alright if I grabbed your number? Just in case we have to reschedule or... if Archie forgets anything?"

I freeze for a second longer than I probably should. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. That little voice in my head kicks in fast, warning me not to blur the lines. Not to give anyone even an inch closer than they need to be. But he's looking at me with that same steady patience I've watched him give to Archie all morning. Like I have a choice. Like he'll back off if I say no.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked to a blank contact screen. I take it carefully, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm. Calloused, like he works with his hands for real. I feel it all the way down to my wrist, like something I shouldn't notice but do anyway.

I stare at the screen longer than I need to. I could fake it. I could type a number off by one digit and let this stay exactly what it is. Professional. Detached. Easy to forget.

But my thumb moves before I can stop it. I type my real name—[Y/N]. My real number.

When I hand it back, Harry glances at the screen, then up at me again with that easy, unreadable smile.

"Perfect. Thanks [Y/N]." God help me, I don't trust myself not to read too much into it.

Archie shifts beside me, tugging lightly on the hem of my sleeve like he's working up to something. He's got that scrunched-up little look on his face—the one he gets when he's thinking too hard. His cheeks are still flushed from running around, curls sticking to his damp forehead, but his eyes are darting between me and Harry like he's trying to figure something out.

Harry tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and gives Archie one last ruffle of his hair, starting to turn back toward the rest of the kids when Archie blurts it out—loud enough for half the field to hear.

"Mama... can Coach Harry come to dinner sometime?"

The words hit me like a slap to the chest. Quick. Sharp. Immediate. My stomach drops. My throat closes. I freeze.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, really. His smile doesn't falter for a second. He just crouches down to Archie's level again, his voice dropping low and soft, like it's just for him.

"Maybe one day, little man," Harry says, reaching out to tap two fingers lightly against Archie's tiny fist. "Gotta keep practicin' those kicks first, yeah? That's the deal."

Archie beams like he's just been promised Disneyland. I, on the other hand, feel like my face is on fire. My heart slams so hard I swear I can hear it in my ears. I glance around like I'm half-expecting someone to be standing there listening, but no one is. No one's paying attention to us at all.

Except me. Except Harry. Except Archie, who's already moved on like it's the most normal thing in the world to invite a complete stranger to dinner.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.

"Alright, bud... let's grab your stuff."

Harry stands again, brushing his palms against his thighs like he's shaking off the grass. His eyes meet mine for one last second, and there's something there I can't quite name. Not teasing. Not pity. Just... something steady. Something that feels like he already knows I'm going to overthink this all night.

"See you next week?" I ask before I can stop myself, my voice tighter than I mean for it to be.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, he's gone—turning back toward the pile of equipment like the last five minutes didn't knock the air clean out of my lungs.

Archie talks the whole walk back to the car. Little bursts of excitement tumbling over each other—how he kicked the ball once, how Coach Harry let him carry the cones, how next week he's going to run even faster. He's out of breath before we even make it across the parking lot, his tiny hand swinging in mine like all the fear from earlier never happened.

I keep nodding, making all the right noises, but it feels like my head is full of static. Like I can't get my feet back under me, no matter how many steps I take.

I get him buckled into his booster seat, double-check the straps even though I know they're fine. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple like I always do, breathing him in for just a second longer than necessary. He giggles, pushing at my face with one small hand.

"Mamaaa," he laughs, like I'm embarrassing him. Like it's funny. Like his heart isn't still tangled up in my hands the way mine is in his.

I shut the door quietly and lean back against the car, staring out at the emptying parking lot. Most of the families are gone already. The folding chairs are packed up, the chatter's faded, and the breeze is colder now than it was an hour ago. I wrap my arms around myself, digging my nails into my sleeves like that might stop the way my chest feels like it's caving in.

I don't know what I expected today to be. But it wasn't this. It wasn't the way Archie actually stayed. The way he looked—pink-cheeked and almost proud—for the first time in God knows how long. And it sure as hell wasn't the way Harry spoke to him. Or to me. Like we weren't some charity case. Like he wasn't performing patience for points. Like he actually... saw us. Both of us.

I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a breath too long before I swipe it open and scroll to my contacts.

Harry.

I lock the screen again and stuff it deep into my jacket like I can hide from it if I don't look too long.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, pushing off the car and moving toward the driver's side.

I'm already overthinking it.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[baphometsss]

I don't wanna sit here and act like I'm a professional or anything, because I'm not, but as someone who has had to do a lot of work to overcome trauma and reconfigure my brain more or less from the ground up, there's a lot I have to say about Solas's mental state

We know that Solas was essentially used and abused by Mythal for millennia. Even if he wasn't under a geas, he was twisted from his purpose by being made to fight, and then created the Wolf's Fang which was used to make the Titans tranquil and started the Blights. He made those choices himself, but it's important to understand that no choice is ever made in a vacuum. She took advantage of his vulnerability when he was given a body after however long as a spirit semi-existing peacefully in the Fade, and moulded him into a weapon.

He is broken, because Mythal broke him. I'm not incapable of seeing why she did what she did because like I said, no one makes choices in a vacuum and I could write about her for a long time too (in a similar way to how I have had to do myself in my own life in understanding why others abused me). He was so traumatised by everything that happened and he was trauma bonded to Mythal pretty much from the minute he gained a body. Trauma bonds are not about love. He definitely interpreted it that way, as most people do, but that's the weapon abusers use to keep the victim under their control. Abuse abuse abuse show a scrap of love and then abuse some more. If I just take it, I'll get the love/attention I need. I will earn it, because love is suffering, and I have to suffer to earn getting my basic needs met from my family/friends. Mythal, as his creator, was the one who he would've attached to in a similar way to spirit Cole/human Cole.

Trauma bonds are pathological. Mythal made him believe that if he did as she asked, and kept supporting her, then eventually he would gain her favour and they would be able to free all the elves, and he'd be able to live according to his true nature, which is one where he doesn't have to fight. (Remember his personal quest in DAI? He actually kills the rebel mages for corrupting his friend--another Wisdom spirit--into Pride.) In reality, she was just using him. She always kept the bone just out of reach for her lapdog. The line from Rook where they say (paraphrasing here) 'you know, I was actually excited about getting your approval... That's how you do it, isn't it? Keep giving little scraps of approval to keep someone loyal, and then you turn around and betray them' is so telling too.

Where--or from whom--do you think he learned to do this?

It literally reeks of a pathological trauma bond and honestly, with how isolated, 'grim and fatalistic' Solas is, it is not a surprise that he's so broken.

Solas, essentially, is little more than a lap-dog to Mythal. He followed her like a lost puppy, because especially in his early days, that's kind of what he was. You have to remember that most of the insight we get about Mythal is from Solas's perspective, and he is not a reliable person when it comes to her after so long being repeatedly terrorised and twisted and manipulated. There are several instances where he describes being betrayed by her, and mentions some of the things she did, but he never quite holds her fully accountable and ends up directing his rage elsewhere. (The parallel between Mythal/Solas and the rebel mages/Wisdom is important here.)

This awesome post by @mythalism only reinforces this. He is so messed up in that scene, he is broken, he is holding the Wolf's Fang up, trying to give it to her because it symbolises the burden he has carried for thousands of years trying to avenge her death. He never wanted the Fang, like he never wanted a body. Mythal just stands over him, fully aware of what she did to him, and only getting him to stop because Rook petitioned her successfully, and the reunion with the more benevolent Mythal within Morrigan tempered her anger. She was a goddess, with the unequal power dynamic, right to the end.

As a side note, on the potential romance element between Mythal and Solas, I read an excellent breakdown of it on Reddit a while ago about how out of character it would've been for Solas to keep something like that from a romanced Lavellan, especially in Trespasser when he comes clean about his plan/past. I can't find it now because it was pre-Veilguard release, but it made a lot of sense to me. Solas and Lavellan never have a love scene in DAI because Solas didn't want to 'lay with them under false pretences'. Lying about who you are when sleeping with someone is nonconsensual. You can't consent to sleeping with someone if you don't know their true identity, and someone who knowingly lies about who they are to get into your pants is a sexual predator. For someone who led a slave rebellion (no doubt many of them being sex slaves), and a former spirit of Wisdom, Solas would've been well aware of this. In the unsent letter from Solas to Lavellan he says he came so close to breaking and desperately wanted to stay with them as Solas, with the implication being that that is where he planned to sleep with them once he'd come clean. But because he stops, because he's still unable to forgive himself or release himself from his trauma bond with Mythal, he breaks away, and they never have sex.

Bottom line: Solas would've been honest about it. Especially that. As the Inquisitor says, he can't lie about his heart.

And it's why the Solas/Lavellan romance is so powerful because quote, 'you change everything'. Solas thought he knew what love was, that love was loyalty, devotion, worship, etc. It's not just his plans or worldview that Lavellan changes. Lavellan sees him for who he is, without the mantle of Dread Wolf, and because of that he's able to express his true nature to her, even if he's not being totally honest in Inquisition. Lavellan got much closer to the real him than most, as he says, and changed his understanding of love completely. Unfortunately, he has unfinished business, an unresolved trauma bond, and his crushing sense of duty to the past is what keeps him from taking that final step towards letting go of it entirely. Trick also says Solas doesn't think he deserves love, which tbh is kind of a hallmark trait of people who have survived abuse.

And honestly? Call me a simp but I think he really was trying to get the Inquisitor to stop him. He saw himself being unable to let go because he was so broken and burdened by his guilt, and knew he couldn't save himself--was too proud to admit that he couldn't, because how pathetic does it make him look? And how could he stop now without rendering all the damage he'd wrought pointless? Yet here was someone who had changed him right down to his core, who understood him in a way few people ever had, whom he trusted, whom he loved in a way he hadn't loved anyone else before. It took him 'centuries' to build up rapport with the members of his rebellion. The man does not know how to form attachments without trauma, and suddenly he forms a strong one with someone who loves him completely and without condition. It's a jarring change.

Lavellan says that maybe they're being prideful themselves, refusing to see their own folly. But I think in admitting that they might be wrong, that it might be wishful thinking borne from misguided love to a truly terrible person, they've rendered the point moot. It shows self-awareness, which isn't folly.

If anyone can make Solas understand true love, it's Lavellan. Lavellan loved him when he was being his true self. Lavellan loved him after his betrayal was revealed. Lavellan loved him when his guilty conscience and terrible actions almost destroyed the world. Lavellan loved him because they knew the real him, and knew that his heart and spirit were broken, and knew that their love would endure, that their love would heal him.

And that's exactly where they end up. Healing the past, soothing the Blight, and loving one another completely.

[str4wb3rrysw3etheart]

Do you think you could write hcs of the boys at prom? 🥹 (post comic book store fire, since in the lore they didn’t go the first time)

OFCC!!!

Sfw ♡

Cw: suggestive in Petes and bills, bill needs to be pegged/j, usage of slut, Josh has a binge ed

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

Bill

♡Did not want to go.. his mom barely let him go, but decided he needed to hang out with someone ..

♡He stands with you in the corner at the food table, eating the occasional snack, and complaining that his tie was too tight (his mom made him dress up)

♡If you try to dance with him, he will blush from embarrassment and refuse, saying that it's dumb.. just make him he's pathetic (I love him)

♡Try to kiss him? Hes bright red. He chewed four packs of gum and brushed his teeth for 30 minutes to prepare for this, but still..

♡He stares.. a lot, he finds you so domestic in a dress, and he feels manly. He yaps about how good of a house wife you'd be..

♡He sulks in the corner if you go off to talk to someone else.. you're litterally his only friend there.

♡Will ask to go to the bathroom (to get lucky..) multiple times. Unless you say yes he gets whiner and whiner each time

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

Pete

♡Finds the whole thing stupid, but goes, he doesn't wanna upset the only women to EVER talk to him..

♡Dances with you, and tries to be romantic, but kinda sucks at it.. just making sexual (and slightly objectifying ..) remarks

♡Doesn't dress up at all. He's wearing his normal clothes..

♡Refuses to let you go off with your friends, following you around, not really interested in your friends in the slightest.. what good are they anyway?

♡Tries to ... well.. get lucky with you at the end of the dance (if you want more details thats another fic)

♡If you kiss him he's just a bit too into it.. he sucks at it though.. (teaching Pete how to kiss fic coming up??/hj)

calls you horrendous petnames the whole time (women , sugar, slut)

♡Lowkey he makes you leave early and watches a movie with you instead, complaing that there were too many normies there..

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

Josh

♡VERY nervous to go to prom.. he made his mom do his hair, spent two hours cleaning himself up, and practicing how to kiss and what to say in the mirror..

♡Forgets all that he practiced as he sees you, You're the prettiest thing he's ever seen..

♡Tends to eat a lot of food out of his nervousness, so best believe he is by that snack table..

♡When you try to dance with him, he sucks at it. Stepping on your feet and tripping the whole time.. he has clearly never done this before

♡When you kiss him, he doesn't reciprocate at first, freezing up, he eventually leans into it, I'll admit a bit messily, but he's okay at kissing

♡Nervous rambles the whole time, he can't shut up. Normally he goes silent from anxiety, but I guess if he can't give you a minute alone with your thoughts you won't decide to leave him because you can't think about it

♡Once he gets more comfortable, he sweats a bit less, still on edge, but trusts you.. happy to be there with someone he loves.

♡Definitely called you milady at least once. Wanting to cry from embarrassment when you laughed.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

Jerry

♡Actually went there mostly on his own accord , didn't take much convincing when you asked

♡He is still a bit awkward the whole time, but he tries to mask it, acting confident as if he didn't cry over his hair not looking right for you 20 minutes ago..

♡Is most familiar with dancing, he's been to plenty of weddings for family members he doesn't remember

♡When you kiss him, he kisses back almost immediately, but you can feel how sweaty his palms are

♡Actually makes an effort to seem.. normal? While there. Talking with your friends if you bring them over, and being respectful of you wanting space

♡Tries to drink the punch, and it ends up being spiked and is so wobbly is almost comical. He is a huge lightweight

♡Compliments your dress like 15 times, trying to cover up that's why he was staring, and not anything else... nooo...

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

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[chuluoyi]

I'm thinking about Megumi's sister, who went to magic school with him. who was trained by Gojo. who fell in love with Gojo. who dared to confess her feelings to him. and which Satoru rejected, saying that he was too old for her

it doesn't have to be something obscene… so if you like this idea, then please write something!

belong with me

- gojo satoru x reader

the strongest sorcerer is your savior. you know he is far from your reach... but is it so wrong to love him—after the years you spent by his side?

genre/warnings: angst to fluff, a bit slow burn, age gap, one-sided pining, mentions of injury, comfort, teacher!gojo x student!reader

notes: omg omg i actually really like this idea!! i had wanted to write this since you sent this ask but i was struggling with the setting, so i tweaked minor things so that it’ll fit the canon timeline—reader is megumi’s cousin rather than sister.

and *sigh* it somehow turned out into a 4k+ word🤧

general masterlist

What is Gojo Satoru to you?

If asked that, Megumi would definitely say that he owed both of your lives and his sister’s to him. Following the chaos too complicated for you to understand that left the three of you orphaned at the age of six, Gojo Satoru, who were just barely an adult himself then, was the one who stepped in to take all of you in.

But to you, he was more than just that. He was many things. Your savior, mentor, friend, and... you daresay, first love.

And because of that, you would never thought that there’d come a time when your heart was really broken by him.

At first, Gojo Satoru felt like a big brother to you. Megumi was suspicious of him since the very beginning—his skepticism was funny sometimes—but you and Tsumiki weren’t as much.

He easily became your friend. You would laugh for hours to end after he cracked the stupidest or lamest of jokes. He made the fact that curses exist and that you were somehow able to keep them at bay more bearable.

And when Tsumiki fell into her curse… Gojo was there to bring you comfort.

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Your hands were shaking as you frantically poked and nudged your kind cousin from her peaceful slumber at the hospital bed. The smell was suffocating—the sight was unbearable. Tsumiki was supposed to be bouncing up and keeping both you and Megumi at bay, not lifelessly lying here like this.

Facing Gojo, who had a tight-lipped expression beside you, you pleaded, "Gojo-sensei—" your glassy eyes welled up, voice choked with tears, "—make her wake up, please..."

And that was the first time he broke your heart. Even the strongest couldn’t lift this cruel curse posed upon your kind sister.

Your throat tightened, choked with painful whimpers as tears flowed uncontrollably. Sudden grief overwhelmed you, making you sway and shake like a leaf. At first, you didn’t notice how a pair of warm hands enveloped you, drawing you close for comfort.

Gojo allowed you to cry against him while you pounded on his chest. Not a word came out of his lips, a telltale sign that he was taking the situation seriously—something you, above anyone else, understood well.

From then on—ever since the tragedy that befell Tsumiki, it seemed like Gojo became even more protective of you but stricter with Megumi. The two of you eventually pursued the path of jujutsu, driven by one wishful thinking in mind—the possibility to break Tsumiki’s curse.

Encountering Gojo became a daily routine when you lived at the dormitory as a first year at Jujutsu High. He frequently dropped by just to greet you, or give you some things he got from his missions.

"Here," Gojo handed you the package of a popular kikufuku store. With that blindfold on and a shit-eating grin split his face, he actually looked so ridiculous. "I got you all their available flavors! Trust me, you'll like them!"

Against your own will, you felt rosy blush spreading across your cheeks. "Oh, thank you... I'll give some to Megumi as well, he's been working hard lately..."

"Ehh?" he pursed his lips. "No, no, no—they're for you! Don't give them to that emo kid!"

There was absolutely nothing significant about how he worded it. You were well aware of that—only a fool wouldn't be.

So why are you so giddy? Hah, why do you feel like you're... special?

"Don't call him emo," you chided, trying to suppress your smile.

"But he is! He's always grouchy with me without reason!"

Throughout your childhood, and now as you were entering adulthood yourself, Gojo's presence in your life still felt like a comforting, warm blanket—a dependable presence you could rely on, someone you could trust completely.

And apparently, someone you had unwittingly given your heart to.

It was a gradual process. You didn't fall for him at first sight or anything of the sort—it took years of being under his protection. Even as you watched him pursue one girl after another from the sidelines, you couldn't deny it—your heart was already his since then.

He always knew what to say, how to cheer you up.

"What's got you so down, huh?" Gojo asked, tousling your hair gently as you slouched. "Is it because of earlier? Don't be so down, you're doing great."

You fidgeted with your fingers, feeling the sting of failure twisting your gut. "I held everyone back, sensei. That's not great at all."

In the last mission, you nearly put Yuji and Nobara's lives in danger. You had taken the initiative to step into the cursed room, and had it not been for Megumi who came to your rescue, any one of you could have sustained significantly more severe injuries.

Gojo offered you a lopsided smile. "You couldn't have known that. Don't beat yourself up so much. The most important thing is that all of you are safe."

"But we might not, all because of my daring ass."

"Look."

He squatted to meet your eye level, and it dawned on you that he wasn't wearing that blindfold. "The fact is that everyone is good. And no, even if Megumi wasn't there, you wouldn't have been doomed. I would have been there, I always have, yeah?"

He was truly a sight, with that sparkling eyes even more so when he smiled unabashedly, voice not as playful as his tone usually was.

"That doesn't make me feel better," you replied, forcing out the words even as you were somewhat awestruck. "It doesn't change the fact that I'm inadequate."

"You're a first year," Gojo pointed out. "Everyone is bound to make mistakes. You just have to learn from them."

"In our line of work, those mistakes can cost us lives." You chewed your lip, looking down. "I—I don't want to be responsible for someone's death."

Your words left Gojo momentarily speechless. His blue eyes blinked several times as though he was taken aback, and you felt even more small—you had just revealed your deepest fear to him.

But suddenly, he laughed right in your face, prompting you to shoot him a glare. Just as you were about to retort, he rested his palm on your head.

"Do you seriously think I will allow that to happen?" Gojo queried with a wide grin and snarky tone. "To you, out of everyone else?"

You gazed at him in a daze, feeling self-conscious with his warm hand on your head. He'd likely done this a hundred times already, but you could never get past the sensation of his gentle touch on your skin. You yearned for more—for him to cradle your face, to caress you, to draw you closer—

“The obvious answer is, I won't,” he declared so surely, exuding unwavering confidence. You blinked, marveling at how his words made your heart soar and your breath catch. “So stop thinking about scary things. I'm here, remember?”

How was there a person who was such a perfect blend of the man of your dreams—smug, but also funny, caring and strong, like Gojo Satoru was?

Was it a sin to harbor these feelings for him? He has always been kind to you, and if you daresay it, fond of you as well. Is there a possibility—

Really, you should have known your boundaries.

"I think..."

And yet your heart screamed, for whatever it's worth—

"...I love you..."

Why couldn't you see that this was doomed right from the start?

"—Gojo-sensei."

You were breathless. Your wildly thumping heart drowned out almost everything else. Your hands were sweaty, and you braved yourself to meet his eyes.

And when you did, you knew heartbreak for the second time—

The way his smile faltered a bit, yet he forced it upwards, perhaps to spare your feelings.

Just as he always has. Ever since he rescued you back then, he would do these silly things so you would feel better.

"I'm flattered, you know?" Gojo gazed at you genially. "But I think—"

"You don't understand." What am I even insisting? "I... like you so much, Gojo-sensei. All this time."

It was supposed to be your final card. Baring everything to him. How grateful you were that he took you in, the kindness he showed you, Megumi and Tsumiki, those sleepless nights after Tsumiki fell into coma that he spent with you, sharing shaved ice on the hottest, cruelest summer...

"You're almost half my age," he stated matter-of-factly, and a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. "You're mistaking love for admiration. That's it."

"No! I know how I feel—"

"You should find someone your age," Gojo added while maintaining his smile. "There are good guys out there. Toge is nice—ah, but his cursed technique might be a little troublesome. Yuji is earnest and honest..."

You have never thought that there’d come a time where your heart was really broken by him. But he just did, as he listed all your friends without any regard to your feelings.

Suddenly, a wave of resentment surged within you, prompting you to hiss and cut him off.

"You're always like this," your eyes had started to well up with tears, but you ignored it. His puzzled expression only fueled your frustration.

"I hate how you constantly treat me like a child!"

You felt ashamed, but in hindsight you should've probably expected this. You didn't have anyone else to blame but yourself. You knew it wasn't fair to lay the blame on Gojo like now—he was merely on the receiving end of the brunt of your heartbreak.

You hated this. You hated yourself. And you couldn't help but to hate him too, despite knowing that you shouldn't.

With that, you dashed away, tucking away your first love to the furthermost part of your heart, swearing that you'd never, ever revisit that chapter of your life again.

Ain't that just the worst thing to hear?

Witnessing your tear-streaked face as you hurried past him left him stunned, rooted in place.

In no way was Gojo Satoru going to romance his own student. You were quite literally his protege and his other protege’s sister. That was simply out of the question. Not that he was the model of propriety, but even he knew that was not right.

And it didn’t have anything to do with the fact whether he did see you as a woman or not, because even if he did, it shouldn’t make a difference.

Right? It won’t change anything.

Because it was how it was supposed to be.

It was probably one of the forms of tantrum—or whatever it was labeled—in the end, it was simply a reaction to not achieving what you wanted.

For years, Gojo had shielded you and Megumi from the Zen’in clan. They were horrible people, and you were eternally grateful that Gojo went to great lengths for you, always swatting them away before they could get close to either of you.

Now that you thought about it, who they really wanted was Megumi. Your cousin held the quintessential Zen'in talent, while your modest Projection Sorcery wasn't particularly rare among the clan. Still, they sought you as well, merely to bolster their prestige with another member.

Normally, you wouldn't think such things. But you weren't in the best state of mind, muddled by your blind heartbreak. It skewed your mindset to one of the extremes.

And then you got this terrifyingly brilliant idea—what if you turned yourself to them? Surely the Zen’in would be sated for a while and stop bugging Megumi.

And you didn’t have to see Gojo as often too.

This went against everything he had done to ensure your safety. But that was the first thing that entered your mind when Zen’in Naoya accosted you by chance.

"We're family," he stated with a smirk, sending a shiver down your spine, an unsettling feeling washing over you. "We wouldn't harm you. Why waste your time being Gojo's little errand girl, huh?"

This was easier, or at least that was the illusion you attempted to persuade yourself with.

Naoya left with you with a meaningful "Think about it."

And the more you thought about it, the more you leaned towards the scenario you had thought to be unimaginable before—leaving Gojo behind.

Two months had passed since then, and it was time for the Kyoto Goodwill Exchange event. Gojo remembered this being one of the most exciting moments during his youth, and he sincerely wished that you would have fun too, even with all that had been going on between you.

He knew he was the one who said Yuji would be good. But he wanted to backtrack when he saw him getting punched by Todo. Nah, Yuji was too stupid, he wouldn’t want that for your match. Must be someone else… who was stronger, better.

And then he was even more beside himself when he saw you with Mechamaru.

Like really? That tin soldier? You could definitely have someone more human. He surely didn’t approve of the sight of you getting friendly with that suspicious scrap of metal!

"Hah," he grumbled to himself. Was it just him or were young boys these days simply too subpar?

Yuji is too risky, after all, he is also Sukuna's vessel. Todo... no way, he can crush you with one hand... Panda is a panda...

As if the roster wasn't bad enough, he was met with the most bewildering sight.

Never would have Gojo thought that someway or another, he would see you with that obnoxious Zen'in spawn who called himself the heir.

Before he could grasp his actions, he stomped right into the midst of where the two of you were—

. . .

You were a step away from agreeing to a whole load of new mess, until wind got knocked out of your lungs as you were harshly yanked from behind—

—and the next thing you knew, a broad back was in front of you.

“What do you want?” a low voice, almost foreign to your ears. But this man before you was Gojo Satoru himself, just way sterner than he usually was.

You were caught off guard by his tight grip on your wrist, his dark gaze fixed on the Naoya.

“Ah, don't be like that, please.” Naoya dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I'm just saying that it's been too long already for you to play the benefactor. She ought to be with the family, where she rightfully belongs."

Gojo seemed to grow more imposing, his sneer deepening. "And by family you mean you?"

The atmosphere grew tense as the exchange between them continued, each word laden with underlying tension.

"Hah, Gojo-sama, you really think you're so high and mighty, don't you? I'll have you know that she, and by extension, the Fushiguro boy, are Zen'ins. No matter how—"

Naoya's words seemed to falter as Gojo's presence intensified. There was this thick electricity in the air, and you almost shuddered when he spat, "Leave."

He couldn't possibly murder another great clan's heir, no matter how much he might have been able to. It would incite a strife that would make his eyes hurt. He just had to scare him off.

And he did. Naoya went with his tail tucked behind him, and that was one problem taken care of. Now Gojo just had one other thing to deal with—

"What were you thinking?" he asked, his tone sharp and accusing, before he even properly faced you. "Since when did you start meeting up with him?"

You hadn’t talked to him ever since your botched confession, but with the way it seemed, he was acting quite normal. It irked you.

"That's hardly your business," you retorted with a hiss.

Your responses seemed to grate him. "Oh? What do you mean it's not?"

"He is right, isn't he? I'm a Zen'in. There is no need for you to go out of your way to keep me under your wing. I can always go back to them."

"Are you—" His frustration was evident and it was quite possibly the first time you saw him direct this at you. "You can't go to them—"

"Sure," you mocked, wrenching your wrist away from his grasp. "I'm telling you, I'm not a child, Gojo-sensei. Please stop telling me what should and I should not do."

"That's not what I'm getting at. I've told you how horrible that place is, your place definitely isn't there."

"And? Where should I be?" you huffed challengingly. "Please, don't tell me that it's your cue to say that it's by your side. Because both of us know it's not."

Gojo didn't know what frustrated him more, the fact that you somehow fell into whatever it was that Naoya had whispered to your ear or how bratty you were being right now. Unwittingly, he let his own pettiness slip out, "You know what? You're being quite childish right now."

He convinced himself that, having practically raised you, he was entitled to have a say in major decisions in your life. He wouldn't let the Zen'in take Megumi away, let alone you.

Your face went scarlet with repressed anger. "So be it then."

With that, you stalked away, and just like how you went away from him the first time, Gojo could only stare at you in silence.

How had your relationship with him turned this sour? Was it the wrong thing to not acknowledge your confession before? He sincerely thought you would realize the implications behind your own words and snap out of that ideal version of him you had in mind—because he knew best that he wasn’t made for this.

Girls your age must want a taste of young love. He understood that, but it couldn’t be with him. It had to be someone else.

He resumed his musings earlier before he found you out with Naoya. And he finally came to a conclusion, that Yuta was the best match. Shame he was still away somewhere in Africa.

When Yuta got back, he would introduce him to you. Yuta was strong, kind, and he wouldn’t hurt you. And it would do him good too to have someone who cares about him.

Gojo Satoru never made flawed judgements. He knew this was the best approach, and yet why was there still this stifling feeling in his gut… at the idea of you being with someone—god forbid—who isn't him?

Not long after, a sinking feeling gnawed at him at the chaotic mess surrounding the Kyoto Goodwill event.

At first Gojo thought it was the standard worry. He chalked it up to all of his students were trapped inside this curtain that specifically forbid him to enter. Naturally, he would worry for his students; after all, he was their teacher.

But when he saw you fell on your knees with what seemed like a stem of cursed flower perched on your chest, he knew it was something else.

You were gasping for breath, clutching your chest in pain while Panda supported your weakened form, and seeing you like that apparently was too much for him. For the first time, Gojo regretted his decision. He shouldn't have pursued the enemy first. He should have gone to you first.

His instinct took over as he swiftly tore you away from Panda’s arms, drawing you close to his chest. His mind went blank, but he forced himself to focus on you, on what was causing you pain. "Y/N, calm down—"

"It hurts—!" you whimpered, digging your nails into his arm tightly, tears streaming down your face. "It hurts so much... I-I..."

For Gojo, this was a form of torture he hadn't realized before. For him, seeing you smile should have been the default, not this sobbing, injured, vulnerable state you were in now.

"I'll take you to Shoko. You'll be fine," he murmured decisively into your ear as you slumped against him. His grip around you tightened, and he repeated, "You'll be fine, I promise."

In the midst of your foggy mind, a realization struck—this was the second time you were ever held in his arms. And much like the first time, you felt an overwhelming sense of security.

Ah, but he had rejected you. You should know your place. You really should because pining on someone who didn't want you wasn't a wise thing to do.

But just this once...

Stupid. You were stupid indeed.

Because you chose to bask in this very short fantasy, fervently wishing that the heavens would grant you this sweet dream of him holding you in his arms like just this for a little longer.

As Gojo quietly observed you resting after being tended by Shoko, numerous thoughts swirled through his mind.

"I hate how you constantly treat me like a child!"

That was not true. He didn't mean to treat you like a child, because you were indeed not. You were a grown woman now, no longer the crying child consoled by Tsumiki and protected by Megumi as you were back then.

Once, you were this young bud he was meant to nurture into strength, but now despite himself, he saw you more as a woman rather than his protege. He wanted to see you bloom into this pretty girl he had always known you were, always innocent and protected—and a selfish part of himself would add: preferably by himself.

You were so serene. You looked so soft too as you laid there. Gojo thought this wasn't quite right and he couldn't quite get the image of you screaming in pain out of his peripheral thoughts.

Had he truly fallen? This strong urge to protect you, ensure your happiness, see you always smiling—it was as if these emotions were suddenly planted, but immediately establishing themselves like deep-rooted feelings that wouldn't fade away easily.

No, actually... who was he kidding? It was what he had kept to himself for a while now. He just refused to acknowledge these feelings out of the misguided sense of propriety.

It was all he could think of from the moment you passed out until you awakened. He pasted a smile on his face when you opened your eyes to his face.

"Ah, Gojo-sensei..." you mumbled, still disoriented. The way you looked at him was as if you were spooked, to say the least, and it bugged him. "Sorry, how long have I passed out?"

"Just a few hours. Are you okay? Do you still feel the pain?"

"Uh... a bit, but I'm okay..."

Normally, he never seemed to run out of things to talk about with you. This was too obvious. You were uncomfortable with him, and he noticed it.

You also seemed acutely aware of this immensely awkward situation. Having spent the majority of your life with him, you used to be open and at ease around him. But now, it wasn't the same. All because of your reckless confession before.

You spent the first few hours with occasional silence. Eventually, Gojo stepped away for a while, leaving behind a lingering sense of discomfort instilled within you.

You remembered the feeling of being in his arms. Once again, he saved you. The least you could do is to express your gratitude.

I don’t like this. It had been two months already. You had to put an end to this unbearable tension. You couldn't force him to return your feelings—you understood that now. And to make it to the way it used to be, you had to make it clear to Gojo too.

And so when he was back to your room, you braved yourself again. For the second and last time.

"Gojo-sensei," you breathed out, willing your shaky hands at bay. "I'm sorry to make you uncomfortable. Please forget what I said before."

What is this now? Gojo blinked, stopping right in his tracks, somehow hearing how you started with a "sorry" didn't sit well with him.

You continued. "Maybe you are right. I'm grateful for you, I look up to you... for the longest time, I might even have idolized you."

Wait...

"But it isn't love," you said with finality, looking away. "This is me admiring you, for all things you have done for me. And even if it is, I still can't force you to look at me in that way."

Gojo could only gaze at you in silence, a storm raging inside his chest. This was what he had hoped you would realize when you confessed your feelings back then, but now—

"I don't like how... we are now," you gulped. "And it's my fault. So I'm taking it back—"

“No, just—” This wasn’t right. Gojo knows it, but why is he saying this? “Just wait for a minute.”

You started as someone he wanted to protect, along with Megumi and Tsumiki. And then you grew up right in front of his eyes. Someone like you, who had gone through many horrors in life ever since young should have someone dependable and strong who could make you happy.

But then Gojo thought, he didn’t like how others looked at you. Heck, in his eyes, they were inadequate for you, if anything.

“Sensei?” you looked up to him with that doe eyes of yours, and Gojo Satoru felt like this was enough.

To hell with you finding someone your age.

He was strong—the strongest, and if it’s him, he most definitely could protect you far better than anyone.

He could make you laugh—had been for years already, and nothing would stop him now.

He would be damned should you somehow go to the grubby hands of the Zen’in.

“Keep your eyes on me,” his somber voice said then, causing your heart to skip a beat in response.

In short, he was better-suited for you more than anyone else ever could, in every possible aspect.

Apparently he was right. Your place was by his side, after all.

“…because from now, I might start looking at you too.”

[grandline-fics]

okay, so, it’s rainy and dark and i’ve got a nice scented candle burning—truly immaculate PEAK cozy vibes, basically, and it just made me think of how some of the older one piece dudes would enjoy spending some nice cozy quality time with an s/o. definitely mihawk, i think, but i’d also be very interested in croc, shanks, and/or smoker, if you have the inclination. love your work, have a great day, thank you for feeding us quality content

DESCRIPTION: Quiet, cosy quality time with them

WARNINGS: none, just fluff. small amount of insecurity in Smoker's

CHARACTERS: Mihawk, Shanks, Smoker

WORDS: 1,891

A/N: Thank you for this request! I love the cosy prompts so much and this was so nice to work on. I hope you like what I managed to come up with for this

First fic written with the new laptop. Guys it's such a relief to be able to write without fear it's all going to die and I'll lose everything. Here's some fluff and I hope you all enjoy! 💕

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

————————

MIHAWK

Mihawk thrives in the quiet, he knows the life of a pirate and the fighting will always bring noise and chaos and the constant sound of attacks and the song of his sword slicing through those that he’s deemed his prey. Since founding Cross Guild the noise has only seemed to grow, no thanks to the clown and his rowdy followers. In a way he is in a small part grateful to the increased noise because now in moments like these, in the time he spends with you, he savours the peace so much more. From the shared bathroom he looked up at the sound of the door opening and offered you a small, calm smile when you emerged. 

You’d been out on your own mission and had just returned but managed to get caught in the torrential rain on the walk back to the base. After a successful hunt and stretch of time away, the hot water, fresh change of clothes, and being back in your own sanctuary with Mihawk was already working wonders. Immediately you crossed the space and settled on the sofa beside him, curling up against his side and letting out a long content hum. The lazy smile on your lips grew when you felt Mihawk press a tender kiss against the side of your head. 

The heat from the shower still clung to your skin and he curled his arm around you, squeezing you just another fraction closer even though you were already as close as you possibly could but still he needed just a little bit more. You were always happy to comply, pressing more and wrapping your arm over his chest and laying your head against him. As the heavy rain fell against the windows you felt your body grow even more relaxed. After letting out a long yawn you rubbed your eyes and focussed on the book in Mihawk’s hand, your mind sharpening slightly to crane you head back enough to look at him.

“Is that one of my books?” You asked with a small smile while Mihawk turned the book to show the cover to you, in false, innocent curiosity. 

“It would seem so.” He mused idly, adjusting the book to continue reading while letting you see which part he was at. 

“Oh my favourite part’s coming up!” You softly gasped with as much enthusiasm as your sleepy, relaxed body could manage. You looked to Mihawk once more, not surprised to see he was already meeting your gaze. You never knew how it was possible but the sharp, shining gold in his gaze filled you with a reassuring warmth and steadiness. “Will you read to me?”

“Of course I will.” Mihawk’s simple compliance to your request was so soft but made you smile broadly and you settled back down. As Mihawk’s deep, comforting voice began to read to you and fill the room it melded perfectly with the sound of rainfall and pulled you into the purest and strongest feeling of calm and protection. Eventually Mihawk paused in his reading, gaze softening to see you were fast asleep. Gracing another loving kiss against your head Mihawk returned to reading aloud for you to ensure he honoured his promise to you and that you heard your favourite part.

SHANKS

There isn’t much time or opportunity for you and Shanks to enjoy one-on-one quality time where it’s simply just the two of you and didn’t include when you were in bed together. Without fail you’re both surrounded by the crew as you sail, when you fight your enemies, and when you’re settled on an island for the chance to party and resupply. Even on the quieter days on the open water the two of you were not left to your own devices, there would always be someone-usually most of the crew- wanting either of your attentions in some capacity. Neither of you felt annoyed by the dynamic and constant presence of the crew in your free time, both of you were used to it by now. It just meant that when those singular little moments did occur they were embraced and made the most of all the more.

You woke first, curled up on your side with Shanks’ arm curved around you protectively, holding you tight against his chest and his head pressed as close as possible in the curve of your neck. For just a moment as you felt the haze of sleep lift from your relaxed frame you enjoyed the warmth of Shanks’ body and soaked in as much as the peace and quiet as you could of the early morning. You listened keenly to the slow rock of the ship and gentle lapping of water but there was no other sign of life. Then you remembered that you’d docked on an island, so many of the crew had scattered the night before to make the most of all they could see, do, eat and drink so it was correct to assume they found other places on land to lay their heads. Knowing this was a safe harbour, very few remained on board. Which meant…

You blinked and a slow grin spread on your lips as the realisation dawned on you. Ordinarily you would have just laid as long as possible but this was your chance to have time with Shanks without it just being in bed or with the constant chance of interruptions. Slowly you adjusted your position and managed to push yourself up just enough to smile at Shanks, amusement growing when his calm expression immediately shifted into one of childish annoyance. Even asleep your presence was something he was keenly attuned to and the added distance-no matter how small- was felt. “Shanks, wake up.”

“Just five more minutes, love.” Shanks mumbled, trying to pull you back against him again. You let out a soft breathy laugh and leant in just to press a quick kiss against his cheek.

“Shanks,” you sang out pulling back a little more this time, grinning when he pouted and cracked his eyes open. “Listen, no crew.”

“No crew,” Shanks repeated, his eyes sharpening just enough to show you he was waking. You began to inch closer to the edge of the bed, smiling the more Shanks’ expression shifted as he watched your movements. He wasn’t ready to get out of bed just yet and if he was he needed convincing.

“Lucky’s not here to guard the kitchen.” You coaxed him softly and Shanks grinned at the sparkle in your eyes, already anticipating the words forming in your mouth. “Let’s make pancakes!”

With a grin Shanks immediately followed you out of bed and to the empty kitchen. Any time Lucky left his inner sanctum unsupervised you and Shanks took it upon yourselves to show you were capable cooks.

By the time the both of you managed to make an edible batch of pancakes there was flour and batter on your skin and dusted in your hair, and all over the kitchen. With the kitchen looking like a canon ball hit you you and Shanks sat happily together, at peace and smiling, only focussed on the other and already planning what else to do with the limited alone time together before the crew made their presences known again.

SMOKER

Everyone knew Smoker was a gruff, abrasive, typically no nonsense man. If anyone thought lighthearted, soft, calming his face usually wouldn’t be the first thing that came to mind. Smoker knew how he was perceived, he was aware fully of his personality. Which was why it left him confused at times in how it came to be that you reciprocated his feelings and gave him a chance. Even more puzzling to him was that you continued to stay with him, always smiling and enjoying his company. Enjoying him. You were both busy with your constant workloads. Smoker being on long missions more than you meant the quality time together was sparse and when he did have his paperwork caught up on and had a day off, more often than not he was tired. Still you never complained and as Smoker glanced at you as you made coffee for your both, his frown deepened.

You approached the sofa and handed him his coffee, made exactly how he liked it, smiling softly as you settled down to lounge beside him. Smoker immediately adjusted his own position to let you settle your back against his chest. Wordlessly he handed you the morning paper and a pen. This was the routine it seemed, you worked through the crossword and he let himself relax from a long mission. Now that he thought about it, really thought about it, the whole thing seemed unfair. Sometimes he barely made conversation with you, especially if the mission had been a long and stressful one. Smoker sighed and dropped his arm to rest loosely around you. You let out a soft hum and lay your head against him more, sipping on your drink and pen absently tapping against the paper as you read over the clues. After a while he spoke up. “Is this okay?”

“Hm?” You asked, turning your head to look at him gently. Then you smiled broadly. “More than okay. You’re very comfy to lean against. You’re like a fluffy, smokey cloud.”

“That’s…reassuring but that’s not what I meant.” Smoker cleared his throat, glancing away for a moment. When he looked back at you again, you’d sat up and turned to face him. Your smile now turned to worry. “I meant is this okay with us? Are you happy that this is how we spend our alone time?”

“What’s wrong with it?” You asked curiously and Smoker felt relief to see your worry had receded now that he had explained himself a little better. “How should it be?”

“Well I don’t know…I just don’t want you missing out on exciting dates like the others seem to constantly talk about.”

“Ah, you’ve been listening to your subordinates again.” You mused with a growing grin. “I think we live exciting enough lives as it is. Getting to just put our feet up and relax? That’s the best, Smoker and it’s made perfect when I have you here with me. I’m happy, are you?”

“Yes, very happy.” Smoker admitted with a small smile pulling at his lips, feeling like a weight had been lifted. With a small nod and satisfied smile you returned to your previous position while Smoker leant back and let his eyes close as the usual tranquility settled over you both again. “Oh, you should know this one: ‘another word for adorable’…What do you think?”

“Cute?” Smoker guessed, cracking an eye open to see you’d craned your head back to look at him with a playful grin.

“Nope…” You laughed, lifting your paper to show you’d already answered the clue, filling the spaces to read  ’S-M-O-K-E-R-♡‘

Smoker blinked at the answer and then at you, feeling the tips of his ears heat and tinge a light pink as he quickly grabbed a cushion and lightly hit you on the head with it as your giggles filled the room. He allowed himself a small chuckle of his own as he admitted to himself that yes, the time with you, no matter what it was you did was more than ‘okay.’

——————————————-

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[blueberrybeomgyu]

leehan edging himself? FANTASTIC ill have 14 of them

1/14 coming right up!!! I actually had two ideas for this one, so I’m gonna write about one here and the second one i think i'll turn into a full fic, so look out for that, nonnie <33 i feel like self-edging is a bit hard to write a drabble on, but i did it anyway, sorry if it's lacking!! i'm also sorry if this doesn’t make sense, they’re just ideas!

bsf!leehan who…

can’t stop thinking about you when he jerks off, even if he tries to push thoughts of you away

you always manage to cross his mind anyway, and the second you do, he’s cumming quicker than he’d care to admit

eventually gives in and indulges in all of his perverted fantasies of you sucking him off, riding his face, fucking him until he can’t think anymore

wants to spend more time with the image of you in his head, so he denies his own orgasms

like riwoo, i’d say he’s pretty good at holding out, not losing his mind, he’s able to stave off the first two or three orgasms easily

sometimes he doesn’t even let himself cum at all, he knows about your sassy/bratty personality well, and likes to think you’d be kinda mean to him in that way

he’s so desperate for your touch, always on edge, and when your eyes or hands linger on him a little too long, he’s using all of the energy in his body to no buck his hips up into the air

he’d be hanging over at your apartment one day, and it’s laundry day, and you're out of underwear!! you tell him with a pout :(

follows you around like a puppy on a normal day, and today isn’t any different, but when you bend over to switch your clothes over to the dryer, he can see the outline of your cunt pressing against your shorts, and he has to pinch himself so hard it bruises to prevent himself from cumming on the spot.

he swears you’re doing this on purpose, throwing him mischievous smiles when you catch him staring at you, but he can’t be sure, so he suffers in silence (definitely won’t admit that he enjoys the game you’re playing)

lingers by the laundry room even after you’ve left, and takes the opportunity to snag a pair of dirty underwear from the hamper of clothes you haven’t gotten to yet, stuffing them in his pocket and putting on his nonchalant act when he joins you on the couch again. 

spends the rest of the evening half-listening to what you’re saying bc his mind is so focused on your panties sitting in his pocket

immediately falls into bed when he gets home that night, stuffs your dirty underwear in his mouth and fucks up into his fist and he looks so stupid, bet you’d call him pathetic as you grind your clit against his nose

he spends hours like that, pulling his hand off of his cock whenever he’s close to the edge and imagining it’s you denying him

he’d whimper desperately around the cotton in his mouth when he finally gets the release he’s been chasing, and it hits him so hard he passes out

wakes up the next morning and is so embarrassed about the state he finds himself in that he doesn’t talk to you for the next four days

✧･ﾟ: *

[retroellie]

Daddy Dixon

Summary: Daryl dixon as a dad :)

A/N: Heyyyy pookies!! It's been a while <3 but it's my yearly upload, i have some others I'm working on but idk if I'll finish them. I've been very hyperfixated on writing lately, probably my period lol. But enjoy my stinky butts!! Miss y'all

Warnings: NSFW, Dirty talk and breeding kink

Word count: 3.5K

-Daryl Dixon has never seen himself as a father. He would much rather the process of making a kid than the actual kid itself. Considering his childhood, maybe it's for the best.

-However, this man definitely has a breeding kink idc

-He loves the intimacy of cumming inside you. The way your body reacts to him filling you up, the way your eyes roll back, and your legs start to shake

-He can't help but picture how pretty you'd look pregnant as well... but he never actually wants you pregnant, he can't be a father

-When you found out, you didn't know how he'd react... you weren't sure if his obsession with cumming inside you was just that or if he really wanted you knocked up

-You tried to drop hints to him, just trying to decide if he was cool with it.

-"Jesus... fucking love your tits." He would moan out while his face was stuffed against your chest.

-"You know... pregnancy makes a woman's boobs so much bigger... cause they fill with milk and shit."...

-You weren't too good at dropping hints clearly; you made a lot of foreplay awkward with it. But how does one go about this?

-You eventually told him, you could only hide the small bump and morning sickness for so long

-To your surprise... he was furious.

-You knew he would have a lot of different emotions coming out. Hell, you did too, but the way he snapped... the way he yelled at you.

-"Are you fucking serious?? Please tell me your fucking with me girl!!"

-You couldn't tell if your tears were because of him yelling or if it was the pregnancy hormones already coming out to play. 

-You were a puddle on the floor as you watched him pace back and forth. Yelling terrible things, things that you were never even sure he was capable of saying.

-The worst thing he said... the worst thing he accused you of... was cheating.

-"It ain't mine!!! That's for damn sure!!"

-"Daryl your the only one i've been with since the end of the fucking world!! Plus you don't don't how to fucking pull out!!"

-"Nah... you've been hanging out with Spencer for a while!! Following him around like a damn puppy!"

-The whole argument ended with punched walls, slammed doors, and a sobbing you curled up on the floor.

-You hated it... But you started to think maybe he was exactly like his father. He sure seemed to act like it

-The worst part is he thought it too... but the only difference between them was he couldn't rid this ache deep in his chest every time he thought of your tear-filled eyes as he screamed.

-He cooled off for 2 weeks... he needed to. He needed to gather his thoughts, he needed to clear his head and make sure he came up with the best damn apology he could

-He eventually did. He picked flowers for you, made dinner, got down on his knees, and ate you out right on the kitchen table.

-That night he apolgized so much it was ingraved in your brain, even after all the fucking you did. 

-"I'm really sorry, y/n. I just... this is all so new and 'm scared I'm going to be like my old man. Ya deserve a good guy to raise a kid with and that baby does too... I think I'm just a little bit scared... I'm going to fuck this kid up."

-It was the most vulnerable you've ever seen him. That alone just proves how different he was from his dad... or any man that would ever do the things he did to his child.

-After that, Daryl was always with you. He stopped going on runs and on long hunting trips. He was literally connected to you. It was almost suffocating, but it was nice to have him around and not run away every chance he got.

-The very rare times he did go on runs, it was just for you.

-The stores he would scope out, he made sure to go to the mommy/baby sections first and take whatever contraptions he could

-One time he brought home headphones that go around your stomach to play music for the baby.

-"Daryl... why does the baby need music?"

-"Guess it's supposed to increase brain waves or some shit?? I don't know a woman!"

-He made sure you were as comfortable as you could be. He ran baths for you and helped you bathe, he would give you massages, and he would allow you to use him as a body pillow.

-You had him wrapped around your finger... but he couldn't deny that he loved it

-Of course he was also your personal sex toy!! Even when you were all big and pregnant.

-Any and every time you needed him, he was there for you.

-Sometimes you could only ride him; that's the only position your big belly allowed you. So Daryl would just lie down, one hand on your hip and the other in yours so you could balance... He would just watch you thrust and buck down on him as if you were a goddess walking the earth.

-"Feel good, baby? Are you hurting?"

-"Mhhh... fuck! No, please... keep... f.... keep your hips like that!"

-Sometimes you couldn't even do all that you were so big. So Daryl would lay you down, a pillow underneath your hip, and he would thrust into you so softly. yet he would still have you cumming within minutes.

-You and Daryl both decorate the nursery. There wasn't much of a theme due to the lack of baby decorations in the end of the world. But you did your best, making sure it was gender neutral due to the lack of knowledge about the gender.

-You also had so much help from the community, like so much that it was kind of like the group's baby more than it was yours

-Carol was like your damn mentor, she made sure you knew what you were getting yourself into

-"Breastfeeding would probably be best for you, I mean there's only so much formula.... and if you're already leaking then that's a good sign!! But just in case, make sure you are massaging and lotioning your nipples every night... You can even have Daryl stimulate them during sex. Just to keep them flowing and not clogging up on you!"

-You just asked about baby bottles....

-Glenn, Maggie, Rick, and Michonne all gave you hand-me-downs from their kids. Like you had a mountain of clothes by the time you were 5 months.

-There were times when the pregnancy got so overwhelming for you... like just the exhaustion and the aches and pains and the insecurity, causing you to break down in tears.

-Daryl would hold you, rubbing your stomach softly while you cried into his neck.

-"Honey... you are doing so good. You will be such a good mom... This kid is lucky to have you, I know I couldn't carry a child the way you do."

-He was never good with words, never good with emotions... but something about seeing you all pregnant made him so vulnerable. Suddenly he was a damn poet...

-You were forbidden to set foot outside of Alexandria. Like literally forbidden... even from the group?!? As if you'd want to go out there...

-But of course, you complained about it, you couldn't let your pregnancy make you soft

-The birth was kind of crazy, very unexpected and very fucking crazy

-Your water broke, Daryl rushed you over to the medic. Suddenly, Michonne was holding one of your hands, and Daryl was holding the other. Rick was throwing instruments to Maggie, who for some reason, was delivering the baby. Carol was helping, then Eugene was in there, then Glenn, hell, why not have Abraham in there as well!

-But it didn't matter because 20 minutes into pushing, your baby was in your arms.

-You were very similar to Daryl in the "I don't think I'll be a good parent" department. But at that moment, looking down at your newborn... You knew you would do anything for them.

-For the first couple of days, you spent at the medic to make sure everything was good... in those first couple of days, Daryl refused to hold the kid.

-He seemed to think he would break them, they were so fragile and frail... his hands were so rough that he felt he would turn them to dust by simply touching them. However, he was always around, always watching and making sure they were okay.

-One day, you got frustrated with it, even if you were trying to be as understanding as you could. You had just pushed out a 7 pound baby with Daryl's big ass head, you needed Daryl to hold them when you needed to pee, okay??

-You pulled him over to your bed one day, sitting him down and handing him the baby.

-"Woah!! woah Y/N!!"

-"Shush!! You're gonna startle them... Here, just support their head... There you go..."

-He melted immediately, almost surprised that they didn't break from him merely holding them. It was a touching moment, almost like the world clicked for Daryl

-After that, the baby was attached to Daryl... you didn't mind, you got some good naps.

-Daryl was a good dad, no... he was a great fucking dad. Not to mention him being the best co-parent out there.

-Like you always got a full night's rest because Daryl refused to let you get up to get the baby.

-When you were stressed, almost crying on the floor because the baby would not stop crying, Daryl would take the baby from you, give you a soft kiss and tell you to take a nice shower.

-Daryl would make you meals while you tried to get the baby down for a nap or bedtime.

-It's almost like Daryl's years of hunting and living out in the forest prepared him for this in a weird way. Days without sleep, thrown-together meals, no time to focus on himself.

-Daryl talked so softly to the baby too, he was still very afraid to hurt them because of how small they were. So he used his softest voice when speaking to them.

-"You're a hungry little thing, huh?? Aren't you, sweetheart... yeah..."

-"Oohh Shhh... It's okay, honey. Daddy's here..."

-"Is that mommy?? yeah?? You wanna say hi to mommy??"

-He definitely calls the baby "Bug", "Bunny", and "honey"... and yes, "Sweetheart" as well. Idk it just fits him

-He loves calling himself daddy and you mommy. I feel like this is nonsexual too, like it just makes him giddy thinking y'all have a baby together.

-Unfortunately, he does need to leave on runs sometimes because he is like the only one who can track, so the group needs him. He hates it though, he hates being away from his kid.

-When he gets back, he won't put the kid down, man.... he makes sure to tell the baby all about his trips though. You could listen to him talk to the baby for hours.

-"Daddy rode his bike all the way back home with Uncle Rick on his bike!! Even though daddy almost flung him off the back of it many times.... what?" He said, watching you stare at him from afar.

"Nothing... nothing at all, Dixon." You said, smiling down at the dishes you were doing.

-Of course Daryl still makes time for you, no matter how busy he is... he doesn't care. He has to give the mother of his child love too.

-After the baby was asleep and he knew the baby would STAY asleep... he had you on that bed.

-Daryl was much softer now. Long drawn-out session with eye contact and soft caresses... he was a dad now, he was just softer in every aspect.

-However, daryl dixon is still the wild and dirty fucker he has always been. So if there ever is a time where you just need to be fucked nice and good, or even a time when daryl KNOWS you need to be fucked nice and good... trust he will.

-Like one time, you were so very stressed out. The baby would not go down for bed, the laundry needed to be folded, the dishes had piled up from dinner, one of your milk ducts was clogged, your hair hadn't been brushed for days... you were a tired mom.

-Daryl noticed it as soon as he got home; the stress just radiated off of you.

-He took the baby from you, rocking them gently as he ghosted his lips over your ear.

-"Go to the bedroom... I'll be there when I get the baby to sleep."

-It was not a suggestion, it was a demand, and you were not going to pass up on that.

-It was 2 hours of pure Daryl... a couple of breaks in between so Daryl could check on the baby, but other than that it was just him.

-I'm talking, rope, spankings, choking, praising mixed with some degradation, folding you in half, soft kisses, and face being pushed into the mattress so you wouldn't wake the baby.

-You were feeling much better after that :)

-I just want to draw some attention to domestic Daryl :) Like Daryl doing laundry or dishes while you take care of the baby.

-Watching the kid grow up was hard for Daryl, like really hard... because they were so small only a year ago?!?! Why are they talking and walking now?

-He would be so excited to show you how they walk or a new word he taught them.

-"Go on, bug!! tell mommy!!" He said, excitedly holding the baby up to you as you folded the never-ending laundry.

-"f... f... fr.. oog.. froog" your baby would struggle out.

-Fortunately, everyone loved the baby!! So you had babysitters for days.

-Sometimes, carols would come over just so y'all could get some actual sleep or just a decent shower.

-Birthdays are always big for the baby, since they are your first, obviously y'all are going full on out!

-Daryl made you dress up like a princess one year and, surprisingly, got Rick into a dinosaur costume another year!

-The baby had made you both so much softer around the edges, but that did not mean you two weren't still capable of the things you were before. I would say it made it even worse, the lengths you two would go to keep that baby safe...

-There was a raider you came in contact with on a run, it was all fun and games till he brought your kid up. A rage rushed over you, and you were this hungry monster, hitting and stabbing whatever you could because no one brings up your kid like that...

-The kid was NEVER allowed outside the walls until they hit 13... that was an agreement you both made very early on when you guys had seen the innocence the child radiated. You promised to keep them that way as long as you could.

-There were nights when Daryl would get quiet, like really quiet and you weren't used to that, especially now. So when you would ask if he was okay, he would kind of shrug it off... but when he eventually opened up, it left him a shaking mess.

-"I'm just thinking about my old man..."

-"Daryl, honey... You're nothing like that. You know that, right?"

-"Yeah... yeah, no I know. I just... I look at that baby and I think, how could anyone do that to a child? Did I do something? Was I made differently?"

-The whole him having a kid thing really sent him down a spiral of his abusive childhood. Not only was he scared of becoming his father, but he was scared of the things his father had done.

-When Daryl got frustrated or angry at your kid, he would have to walk away... not that he would ever hurt them, but the slight possibility that he could snap, even just yelling... he wasn't taking chances.

-Sometimes the thought of his father made him so paranoid that he would become distant, needing space to just clear his mind because he can't be a father if he feels like everything he touches will get burned...

-You just let him have his time, making sure to be soft with him when he comes around again.

-In conclusion, Daryl is very traumatized... he's hurt and sometimes it all gets too much for him but that doesn't mean he won't try to be the best damn father out there.

-The baby just does not stop growing and before you guys know it, they're now a child with thoughts and words.

-Of course they grow up to look exactly like Daryl, same blue eyes and brown hair.... asshole wouldn't let your kid have any of your genes.

-You would think having a baby would be harder than having a child, but you would be wrong.

-There is so much that comes with having a child!! They need constant stimulation or they go insane. So your house is always a mess, toys scattered everywhere, dirty clothes, snacks they forgot to eat... not to mention Daryl's crossbows.

-Daryl gets down on the floor to play with your kid, acting out funny little scenarios with they're action figures or letting them put makeup on him.

-Bedtime stories are a must! And luckily, Daryl is very good at telling a good story.

-Daryl being a good father gets all hot and bothered, like it makes your heart flutter and your stomach twists and turns...

-As soon as the kid falls asleep, you are on Daryl, man. Like a wild animal, probably even more eager and needy than before you had a kid.

-"Woah there.... I guess princess wizards and talking donkeys really get you going, huh?"

-"Jesus christ Dixon... shut up and fuck me."

-Even though quickies have been a more common occurrence nowadays, Daryl still loves his drawn-out love-making sessions. He likes to take his time on you, likes to worship the body that brought his favorite human into the world.

-He also makes sure you KNOW you're beautiful and he still loves you, stretch marks and baby fat and wider hips and all... he thinks you're the most sexy person ever.

-"So pretty... so fucking pretty baby... you're glowing..."

-"Look at those hips bunny... makes me wanna fill you up with another one..."

-"No, no... let me see that tummy baby... Look at that, so soft..."

-He's just very understanding surprisingly, like he just knows how your post-pregnancy body has you feeling. So he makes sure he does what he can to make you feel better.

-Daryl helps the kid with their homework, math and science... he tries to help at least. He usually gets frustrated because how did math change all of a sudden?

-"No, daddy! The triangle has 4 faces! but 3 sides...."

-"How the hell..." He sighs, throwing the pencil down in defeat. "Alright...You win kid, guess I owe you ice cream huh?"

-Daryl is very protective of his kid, man... I can not say this enough because this man will literally break someone's jaw for looking at his kid wrong.

-"A kid in my class told me I had weird teeth," your kid said sadly at dinner one night.

-"What?? Did you beat the shit out of them? You better have! What about their dad?? Can their dad fight? Cause I swear to god, when I get my h..."

-"Daryl!!" You had to step in because you knew he could go on and on with his threats.

-After that, Daryl taught your kid how to stand up for themselves... The "redneck way" he explained it. It was basically just throwing punches and bringing up their mother.

-School nights at the Dixon residence are never boring. Trying to get your kid to take a bath and get them in bed is almost more impossible than trying to get Daryl to do the same. Definitely their father's kid man...

-One night on a school night, you were making dinner while your kid did their homework. You were so focused on getting the recipe for "butter squash soup" that you didn't realize Daryl was coming up behind you.

-You giggled softly as his hands found your hips, his lips found your neck and he swayed you both softly. It was a romantic moment, the first slow moment you had all day it seemed... until you heard a squeaky, "EWWWW"

-You kid laughed out, covering their eyes as they jokingly gagged.

-"What?!? I can't love on mommy?!?"

-"No!! That's gross!! Mommy has cooties now!!"

-"Oh cooties huh?? Oh so daddy has cooties..." He said as he lunged at the kid, engulfing them into a hug and covering their little face with kisses.

-The night ended with you and Daryl sneaking out of your kid's room after they had fallen asleep, one last look just to make sure they were still asleep

-"Let's have another one..." You whispered to Daryl as you watched the kids soft breathing.

-"Well... what mommy wants, mommy gets." Daryl says, dragging you off into the bedroom.

[blaire-apricity]

Kitchen

ʟᴀᴅs ʙᴏʏs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᯓ❅ ┆ synopsis┆ : How does the LADS boys handle themselves in the kitchen?

ᯓ❅ ┆ tags┆ : prompt, soft, fluff & possible OOC

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𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫

Xavier in the kitchen was almost a disaster waiting to happen—no exaggeration. He had a knack for forgetting to turn off the stove or neglecting to set a timer, leaving his meals charred and inedible more often than not. While eliminating Wanderers with effortless precision was second nature to him, cooking seemed to be his weakness. Typically, Xavier gravitated toward quick, easy meals—cup noodles, ready-to-eat options—and never fussed over what he ate.

Despite his mishaps, he genuinely put in the effort to learn, committing to recipes and working to improve. With time, practice, and a few burned pans later, he eventually became efficient in the kitchen. Once he mastered the basics, he started preparing large meals, focusing on quantity so you’d never be short of options, making sure you had plenty of your favorites to choose from.

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𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

Zayne embodied the perfect image of husband material. Though his job as a Linkon doctor kept him busy with back-to-back surgeries and long hours at the hospital, he never failed to make time for you—especially if you were craving his cooking. Despite his demanding schedule, he made it a priority to prepare meals whenever he came home, often late into the night, just to see your face lit up with each bite.

Zayne was meticulous in the kitchen, his precise nature extending from surgery to the ingredients he handled. Aside from his disdain for carrots, he had an impressive knowledge of different vegetables and how to bring out their natural flavors in every dish. Whether he was baking or cooking, he always followed the recipes to a tee, ensuring every detail was perfect, particularly when trying something new. His care and precision in the kitchen mirrored the way he treated you—attentive, thoughtful, and deeply considerate.

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𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥

Rafayel may come off as bratty and spoiled, but beneath that exterior, he harbored surprising culinary talent. It wasn’t something he flaunted, considering that most of his meals were either prepared by Thomas, brought or ordered online. But when the mood struck him, Rafayel could whip up a dish with flair, though he often relied on instructions and recipes to guide him. His creativity shined through, however, as he loved experimenting and adding his personal touch to any recipe.

You were always his first taste-tester, the one he’d eagerly present his latest creation to—sometimes a surprisingly delicious innovation, other times an odd combination that left you questioning his choices.

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𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬

Sylus, much like Zayne, could easily be considered husband material, though he typically didn’t need to lift a finger in the kitchen thanks to his personal chef. Yet, when the occasion called for it, Sylus was more than capable of preparing a meal. Confident and knowledgeable, he rarely consulted recipes, instead relying on his sharp memory and expertise.

While patience wasn’t his strong suit, he made an exception when you were involved. If you were there to taste his dish, Sylus would put his full effort into crafting a meal that catered to your palate, making sure each seasoning and flavor hit the right notes. For someone who thrived on power and control, cooking was one of the few activities where he allowed himself to slow down, focusing intently on every detail. After all, he wanted it to be perfect for you.

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╰｡ Author's Note: There's significant parts that are definitely inspired by Infold's Special Chapter; "Ways Of Making Chocolate" chibi report on this prompt.

I'll be working on some requests (specifically a continuation of Grief) by next week since preliminaries are approaching soon, I'll be off from writing for a few days.

[moody-alcoholic]

Freaky Friday

+18 MDNI explicit content

Its Friday which means I try writing new things. This week ✨double penetration.✨ I really had a scene like this envisioned for the finale of missing piece but I couldn’t wrap my head round it. Anyway thought this week was the perfect opportunity to give it another go! I pulled what I had saved in my drafts folder and cleaned it up, it’s definitely something…

Summary: Ghoap x reader. 2.5k words. Johnny suggests some fun in the bedroom.

CW: +18 MDNI explicit content Smut, sex, threesome, double penetration (ass & vagina), oral (M&F receiving), overstimulation, PiV sex, anal, spanking (it’s like once), grinding/ dry humping, little bit of aftercare.

Masterlist - AO3

Enjoy ya filithy animals <3

“How ‘bout we try double penetration.” Johnny says over dinner one day. You almost choke on your carrot.

“Fitting conversation for the dinner table as ever Johnny.” Simon says shaking his head as he forks more food in his mouth. You chuckle as Johnny winks at you. 

“I’m serious though, if you want to of course?” He says tipping his head to the side looking at you. You look over at Simon who sips on his glass of wine.

“I don’t know maybe. It seems complicated.” You feel yourself blushing as reach for your wine glass.

“I’ve been doing some research and I think I've got it figured out.” Johnny say smiling and putting another fork of food in his mouth. 

“Watched an instructional video did you?” Simon asks raising an eyebrow.

“Many, and I think I've cracked it.” He says pointing his fork at Simon

“It would be easy, Si you can take the front I'll take the back. You wouldn't even have to do anything love, just sit there and take it.” Johnny explains bluntly. You think about it, it did sound interesting. Something you thought would come up eventually anyway given the situation of the relationship. You didn't expect it to be over Sunday dinner though. Maybe that’s why Johnny went to so much effort, to ease the blow of bringing it up.

“Okay, we could try. I have Tuesday off next week. How about then?” You look round the table. You feel like you could see a smile forming on Simon's lips. Maybe he was more up for it then he seemed to be.

“Its a date.” Johnny says raising his glass

—------------

When Tuesday rolls around you’re strangely nervous. You don’t want to be a disappointment, but if Johnny meant what he said that you would basically just have to hold onto Simon and they would do the rest. This is definitely the most adventurous thing you’d done with them so far. Also the thing that’s required the most ‘prep’ work.  

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Simon asks you quietly as you come out the bathroom.

“Yeah, are you?” You ask trying to hide the nervousness in your voice. 

“Yeah, just remember if you want to stop just say. You know how enthusiastic Johnny can get.” Simon says. You smile nodding and he wraps his arm round your shoulder as you walk with him into the bedroom. Johnny is stood in just his boxers patting down the sheets on the bed. This is the first time you’ve planned for sex. Most of the time its just spontaneous. 

“Okay Simon sit on the end of the bed.” Johnny says. 

“What no foreplay?” Simon asks pulling his shirt off. 

“Oh, they’ll be foreplay. I just need to see how this works.” Johnny says as Simon sits down on the end of the bed. You go over to him as Johnny instructs you to sit on his knees facing Simon. You follow the instructions Simon’s hands wrap round your back and he holds you in place. Its not the most comfortable position with Simon’s large thighs. He scoots back on the bed a bit and you straddle over his waist smiling at him as you feel his cock twitch between the layers of fabric.

Johnny comes up behind you standing between Simon’s legs his hands squeeze your ass. You hear Johnny hum as you look down at Simon laid back propped up on his elbows. You start grinding up against him, feeling his cock grow in his pants. You lean down to kiss him as Johnny runs his hands up your back under your shirt. You sit up letting Johnny take it off over your head and fling it to the side. Simon’s face lights up as your breasts fall free and you move off him so he can take his trousers off. You’re kneeling on the bed as Johnny strips his boxers off.  

“Why don’t you sit on his face?” Johnny asks. You look down at Simon who nods. Guess you’re trying two new things tonight. You pull your underwear off and straddling over Simon’s face. His hands reach up and grab your ass you look down as him smiling as you let him lower your body onto his mouth. His tongue licks from your entrance to your clit, you let out a moan reaching forward for something to grab. You don’t find anything instead digging your nails into your thighs. It feels weird, this new position. Simon’s strong his arms holding your legs securely in place. You move one of your hands to your breasts cupping one and squeezing the nipple, it sends waves of pleasure down to your already aching pussy.

You hear Johnny behind you, the guttural sounds coming from his throat as he pleasures Simon. It’s hot, the noises he’s making sending vibrations through your body, not helped by the fact Simon keeps moaning making your clit spasm with each suck. You wish you could turn and see, you stop trying to grind on Simon’s face as you moan feeling yourself getting closer to the edge. Your nails are dug deep in your legs as you tip your head back, thighs accidentally squeezing Simon’s head as you cum. You feel him groan under you as you loosen your legs hearing Johnny chuckle behind you. You’re still panting when you flop your body to the side hearing Simon suck in gasps of air. 

“Sorry.” You say between breaths. Simon smiles looking over at you laying next to him, the pulsating between your legs is fading but the ache is still there. You scoot yourself down the bed and roll over so you’re face to face with Simon, who’s propped himself back up on his elbows. You both look down at Johnny who has a smirk on his face, knelt between Simon’s legs watching you both with his hands still working Simon’s shaft. You give Simon a quick kiss then you sit up swinging your legs over his stomach.

You feel Johnny grip your waist pulling you down to meet Simon’s pelvis. You reach behind you feeling for his cock. Your thumb circles around the familiar tip, your hand thrusts down, already so wet with a mix of Johnny’s saliva and Simon’s precum. You kneel up and over him guiding the tip to your entrance. You look down at him he’s still up on his elbows as you ease yourself down on him. You watch his expression change as his eyes roll back and he lets his body flop down. You move up and down on him feeling Johnny come behind you, hands wrapping round to your breasts, squeezing your nipples. It makes you moan Johnny’s name and Simon’s hands find your thighs.

“Feel good?” Johnny asks breathing down your neck. You hum in response as he starts kissing your neck, tongue dancing over the sensitive spots. You don’t need anything else you don’t even need to play with your clit you could just ride Simon and let Johnny play with you until you cum. You said you would try this though and honestly how hard can it be.

Johnny gently angles your body forward a bit and Simon looks up feeling your change in pace. Your body now arched forward slightly means Simon’s cock is hitting a new spot that's making clench down on him, he can feel it too becoming more vocal his hands squeezing your thighs. Simon’s beautiful moans are making it harder to concentrate. You get distracted by the sound of a drawer opening behind you, and what sounds like a cap of something. 

“Lube,” Johnny says as he sees you trying to turn. You feel one of his hands on the bottom of your back as you hear the other rubbing lube over his cock. You stop bouncing when you feel Johnny’s hand run between your ass cheeks. You clench again you don’t mean to. Simon sits up one of his hands coming round your back. You don’t know how he can be comfortable but he presses his lips to yours as his tongue works in your mouth Johnny’s fingers press up against your hole. It feels strange but you're too distracted as you moan in Simon’s mouth. 

“So soft.” Johnny breaths his other hand running up your back. You pull away from Simon as you feel Johnny’s finger on your ass replaced with the tip of his cock. 

“You ready?” Johnny asks you look at Simon and feel him twitch inside you. You realise he's been doing all the work grinding his hips into you. 

“Yeah,” you reply. Your arms wrapping round Simon’s neck. Johnny presses his back up against you as he slowly pushes into you. You gasp, it feels like all the air is sucked out your lungs. Johnny pauses as you clench round them both. 

“Fuck love,” Simon says breathing into your neck. 

“Christ, you feel amazing.” Johnny says pushing in a little further. You let out a moan feeling shivers run up your body. Your hips start buck against Simon feeling his cock pulse against your dripping walls. You can feel yourself slipping round his hips. Johnny pushes up inside you with one last thrust. It feels good, you feel full like you’re almost too tight being able to feel each movement from them.

Johnny was right as soon as him and Simon got comfortable all you really has to do was sit there. It took a few seconds to get used to it but before you knew it you were a painting mess your head slumped in Simon’s neck. One of Johnny’s hands ran up your hair lightly gripping it as his fingers massaged your scalp. You feel each thrust they’re making as your bodies all become a hot sweaty mess.

Sometimes their thrusts are in sync and its like fucking fireworks as moan out. They’re getting faster and you’re being bounced around more. Hearing Simon and Johnny moaning while their both inside you is amazing, its almost too much you’re starting to feel overstimulated. You know Simon is close by his painting and tight grip on you. 

“Johnny..” you breath as you tip your head back. He turns his face to kiss your cheek. You try to move your head as you do his lips meet yours. Its hot and sloppy your lips trying to stay together while you’re bring moved around. You’re not going to last much longer. Johnny seems to be able to tell as he increases his speed as Simon struggles to match him. Now Johnny is almost picking you up in his arms and bouncing you on them both.  

“Christ, Johnny..” is the only warning you get from Simon before he cums, its a few thrusts later you feel yourself cuming too, the feeling of Simon’s cock throbbing inside you pushing you over the edge. You call Simon’s name as you cum feeling Johnny resting you down on him while he continues to fuck you from behind. Simon flops down on the bed. His hands still gripping your thighs, you watch his chest rising and falling as he takes deep breaths.  

“Did so fucking well taking us both.” Johnny says he's almost feral pushing down on your lower back bending you forward. You feel Simon’s spent cock slip out of you and he moans. Its a completely new feeling now having just Johnny inside you, you feel almost empty. You moan at the praise as your clit starts rocking against Simon’s half hard twitching member. He’s almost shaking from overstimulation maybe you should get off him. But it feels too good you’re still so sensitive if this keeps up you’re going to cum again.

You plant your hands on Simon’s chest, you can feel his heart racing as you try not to dig your nails into him. It just feels too good and you bend over completely your head resting on his chest. Simon’s arms rub round your back. You hear Johnny grunting behind you as you angle your hips to chase the pleasure building inside you. You’re incoherently moaning and calling names as Simon’s hands brush over you. You listen to Johnny’s moans, and praises telling you how good you’ve been.

The orgasm takes you by surprise you squeeze your eyes closed moaning into Simon’s chest. Johnny cums too as you’re clenched around him so tight he has to almost fight to keep inside you. You’re panting wet mess on Simon’s chest, Johnny bent over your back, you can feel his chest pressed up against you his heart racing. You both just lay there on top of Simon, Johnny feeling like a warm weighted blanket. 

“Move Johnny,” Simon says after a few seconds slapping Johnny’s thigh.

“In a second Si,” Johnny replies between breaths. You chuckle which makes him move you let out a yelp as he pulls out of you, your whole body tingling with overstimulation. Johnny slaps your ass which makes you jump and you go to sit up but Simon keeps his arms around you keeping you in place. 

“I’m going for a shower, there’s room for more.” Johnny says, you know he’s winking at Simon you can almost hear it. A shower does sound nice, you let out a long breath and Simon loosens his arms so you can sit up. You almost slip off him your thighs coated in your slick and cum.

You move to get off the bed Simon stands behind you. Your legs are wobbly as you both make your way to the bathroom. They have a big shower, maybe that was on purpose it means it’s perfectly comfortable for all three of you. You enjoy being pressed against their bodies as you wash each other. It’s a different kind of pleasure, feeling their hands run over you almost fighting each other for touch over your sensitive spots.

You let the steam make you sleepy your body always pressed against one of their chests, with the warm water splashing on your back you could nap right there. When you exit the shower your body feels heavy and you almost slip on the tiles. Someone grab's your arms pulling up up. It’s Simon he throws a towel over you and scoops you up in his arms. 

“Bedroom or sofa?” He asks.

“Bedroom.” You yawn. He puts you down and you dry yourself off as you pull on some underwear and a shirt. You crawl into bed as Simon grabs some clothes for him and Johnny.

“Don’t let me sleep too long, I have work tomorrow.” You say as your head hits the pillow. Simon chuckles.

“Okay, we’ll wake you up for dinner.” He says as he steps out the door. 

“I love you Simon.” You call. 

“I love you too.” He replies as he closes the door.  

——————————

I really don't know how I feel about this but I tried. XD

[eroscomet]

Make it Right

Chapter one- Love returned

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Pairing: Astrid Deetz x Fem!Ghost!reader

Context: Astrid and you have been dating two years before a tragic accident happened to you, ending your life. She spends a year alone somehow trying to contact you from the living as you're in the afterlife. When finding that all of her attempts are futile, she turned to her mother's ability but was quickly reminded of how her mother "somehow" could never see the people Astrid wished to see the most.

Warnings: Probably bad writing (I'm sorry), Death

Word count: 2.8k

A/N: I'm not so much familiar with tumblr other than reading. I'm not much of a writer either, this would be like the first piece I post ever. I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, I will correct as many as I see. Also, my brain was a bit foggy when remembering the new Beetlejuice Beetlejuice movie so if there's a mistake in that too, I'm sorry. Other than that, I hope you guys enjoy. I have been heavily inspired by many other amazing writers and I hope I really do capture all of the characters as correctly as I can. Also, I'm not expecting this series to blow up, i'll add another chapter if I see many people interact with this one.

Not proof read

╰┈➤Series Masterlist

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Letʼs be honest, Astrids life was definitely not one that usually someone finds themselves in. A ‘psychicʼ mother, who Astrid believes makes things up, an artist grandmother who seems to be an emotional wreck now that her husband is dead, and finally, a father who she no longer has. Astrid couldn't recall the last time her life was stable, from the beginning it had always be something with her family.

Now, with the passing of her grandfather and her mother suddenly marrying her manager who she is blindly following and clearly not seeing how he exploits her. She finds her world completely upside down and the one time she finds someone who makes her feel at least a bit normal, the universe seems to keep taking any form of normalcy from her. Once upon a time, it had been you and Astrid. The one person who kept her head straight as her world span.

Granted, you didn't come from the perfect family either but you always had found a way to excuse their actions despite Astridʼs constant nagging about your family and their almost pertinacious attitudes.

Your mother, a woman who almost seems to so desperately want to fit in with the women of the neighborhood. Your father who loved his image and his family's image. Your older sister who was always trying to somehow one-up you. Your family cared about the big things, you always found yourself content with the small things. You had always excused their behaviors with simple statements like,

“That's just how they are.” or, “No family is perfect.”

Astrid would cave eventually to your excuses but not with good attitude. Now remembering it, it felt like such a close but distant memory. It had only been a year, almost two, of your passing and yet Astrid finds herself dug in a hole the universe seemed to only bury her deeper in. Every memory had been bittersweet. Between every laugh shared, smiling in the middle of kisses, comforting smells theyʼd grow to find solace in, compliments, listening to music together, there had also been disagreements, comforting each other about things that neither of them had caused or been involved in, emotional damage, and trying to balance finding middle ground in each otherʼs crazy lives.

A year.

The thought of it makes Astrid almost wince, thoughts that seemed to be never ending and had loose ends. Why wasn't she there? She had always thought to herself. Why didn't she stop you? Questions to be left unanswered now that you were gone and she had no one to turn to. She had gone to her mother, who she had never believed was a ghost whisperer or paranormal insighter as everyone saw her, practically begging to have her somehow see you, hear you, feel you. But, like every attempt, they were once again futile.

This had made her more angry with her mother. First, she couldn't see her father and now she can't see you. Why is that every time she needs her mother to see a certain ghost for her, she never can but for others she can? It all felt stupid to her, how could people believe her mother?

Astrid found herself visiting Winter River frequently despite not liking staying with her grandmother and mother, especially when that daft man her mother called a “boyfriend” was around. She saw right through his act of the ‘caring, loving, and supportive’ boyfriend. Yet, she felt like she was the only one who could see that. How could someone propose to someone on the day of their father's wake?! She disliked the town, even more the people who foolishly believed her mother “abilities” to see paranormal phenomenons.

Yet, there she had spent most of her free time at the town during spring, summer, and winter break. Her relationship with Winter River had always been horrible yet she couldn't bring herself to say that she hated it there. How could she say that when it was this very same town that she had met you?

Standing there once again, in front of a grave that she became all too familiar with. Yours. It was almost comical how your parents had practically milked your death with every ounce they could get from it. Parading around the town, almost as if making it an excuse to gain from. They had quickly became the family in which everyone had gone to support when you had died. People would constantly go to your home, try to show their support, bring gifts even. Your parents loved every second of the attention.

No surprise that your mother had gained popularity among the women of your neighborhood's community. They only pitied her but masked it with sympathy as your mother would say, “She would've loved to be here” whenever someone had invited her to some so-called ‘important’ event among the other dull rich women. Your father had gotten a raise from his job after your death, again, out of pity of the poor family who had lost their ‘precious’ daughter. Your sister had gotten annoyed about how much you had been the focus after your death. She had expect people to move on after months but now seeing that it has been one, almost two, years of your passing and you being the center of attention, it had made her a bit bitter.

As Astrid stood in front of your grave and the flowers that adorned it, a small half-hearted smile on her lips. Many of the times that she had found herself in front of your grave, though she thought that somehow talking to the dead and getting a response back was stupid, she had always found herself talking out-loud to your grave, hoping for a sign or response that never really came.

“I miss you. Iʼm sorry that I havenʼt visited recently. My grandfather passed away, guess heʼd be with you now, right? Sometimes I wonder if youʼre with my dad or talk to him over there. I know if you were to be listening to me, you'd be rubbing it in my face how I always thought these kinds of things were stupid and now iʼm standing here like an idiot talking to myself and expecting a response from you.”

She smiled to herself as she thought about how youʼd tease her for this. She missed the banter between the two of you, her smile somewhat fading at the empty ache in her heart.

“I wish I could say that I hate you for leaving me here by myself, knowing that life is hard. We were supposed to be going through this life together, though. I wonʼt, I canʼt. I love you and my chest is aching every single day at this back and forth in my mind of memories that we should be looking back at together, happily, and now I just get this bittersweet feeling with the horrible reminder of your death. As much as I don't like it or believe it, I wish I had somehow gained this stupid ability my mother thinks she has.”

Astrids voice had faltered as she felt a frown tugging at her lips and her tears begin to faintly blur her vision. She took a deep breath, pulling herself together as she spoke again.

“I just want you to come home. I know that I always thought it was stupid how you had said ʻhome is where the heart isʼ, but truly I had just felt so bashful to think that someone like me could possibly be someone's home. The statement itself, I had always thought was a bit corny. Now, I find myself saying that I want to go home even while being at home. Funny, huh? You were always such a sap..”

With that and a sad smile, Astrid backed away from your grave. A soft sigh escaping her lips as she once again hoped that you had somehow received her words.

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Hours later, Astrid found herself, once again, in your room. She sneaks in through the window because she hates the idea of having to knock on the front door and have a conversation with your parents. They had been supportive of your relationship, yes, but like everything else, it was for their own personal gain. They had seen how other families were inclusive so they thought if they were too, theyʼd fit in more. Astrid had already known that they wouldn't dare to go into your room.

Your family had always hated the way that you decorated your room with endless posters, music, records and vinyls here and there, you loved your music. It was drastically differently from your sister and parents which preferred a more elegant and clean look. Thatʼs why whenever there were visitors, theyʼd never introduce your room to them. Yet, it was your safe haven and Astrid knew that.

After your death, she had taken it upon herself to take care of your vinyls, CDʼs, record player, and plants, all taken cared of. She felt that it made her feel like you were still here. As if she was staying in your room while you were out and about in the town. Her imagination took her far when it came to making up excuses for your absence rather than accepting the fact that you were dead.

She hummed to herself as she finished watering the last plant in your room. Once she was finished, she had gone over to your records, flipping through each of them, trying to find a song to play. Thatʼs when she had heard a small noise in the room. It was unusual to say the least, no one had ever dared to come into your room, it was just her. She shrugged it off as nothing or simply a noise coming from your window.

Then again, a small noise. The noise of a shoe squeaking from across the room. Her eyebrows had furrowed before she whipped her head around towards the direction of the noise. Upon landing her eyes on your face. She felt as if she was dreaming but it had startled her so that she felt her vision suddenly blacking out. When falling back, all she could remember was the feeling of someoneʼs cold hands catching her.

When Astrid awoke, she found herself lying on your bed despite having passed out almost across the room near your records. She almost dreaded waking up, she could have sworn she had seen you. Was it a dream? Did she make it up in her head because she missed you so much? Her vision blurred a bit before finally focusing, the feeling of a dip in the bed and a cold hand holding hers had startled her.

Quickly, she had shot up and off of your bed. Her eyes finally landing on you who had also shot up on the other side of the bed when she did.

“Where are we going?-” You had began speaking before you were cut off by Astrids loud exclaim.

“What the fuck!”

Your eyes scanned the room, your eyebrows furrowed as you turned around to see if there had been anyone behind you which earned a scoff from the other girl.

“Wait, you can see me now?” You asked as your eyebrows raised and your eyes returned to Astrid across the bed.

“Can I see you? Yeah, the better question is can I believe it? Is this another dream?” Astrid climbed over the bed and flung herself onto you. She clung onto your, now, cold body, that hadnʼt bothered her right now.

“What's the matter? You look like youʼve seen a ghost.” Your arms wrapped around the girl almost protectively, a soft laugh escaping you.

“Not funny.” Her words were flat, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She almost didnʼt know what to say as she stared at you. She had dreamed of you before, sure, but never like this. This felt too real. Your skin was more pale and less live as she had usually dreamed, your body cold, your chest was stilled, as if not taking air in or out. She hadnʼt noticed her bottom lip quivering or the tears in the corner of her eyes that had began to form.

“Hey, hey... Donʼt get all sappy on me now, iʼve been watching you this whole time! I hope you know that I followed you literally everywhere.” Your hands had gone to cup her cheeks, gently wiping away any tears as they fell from Astrid's eyes.

“Youʼd better have.” She had joked which earned another soft laugh from you. The sound of your laugh - so familiar - seemed to set her off. Her arms tightened around your shoulders as all of the feelings she bottled up over the past few months seemed to just burst out of her.

“I literally watched over you for a whole year. Trust me, I heard every word you were saying to the sky or my grave, hoping I was near to hear you. I was and I canʼt believe you've gotten all sappy, Deetz. You always told me that I was the sap and there you were spilling your guts and hoping my ghost was near.” One of her hands unconsciously moving from her cheek to her back, gently rubbing it.

“They were never one-sided conversations, I was always replying you just couldnʼt hear or see me. I did have some one-sided conversations, though. Like when youʼd be listening to my music or watching a movie and laying on my bed, moping, Iʼd be laid next to you and talk to you. I was always geeking out anyway, you know how I am about my passions.” You added and a snort escaped Astrid.

Her grip on you seemed to tighten as your voice registered in her ears. You were here, you were real.

“I know I sounded like an absolute idiot - I sounded like a broken record begging for you.” Her voice said as she buried her face into your shoulder.

“Come on, I never really left your side, Astrid. I was just hoping the entire time that what you had said about your momʼs ability being fake was real and that you'd somehow gain her ghost whispering abilities. I just wanted you to see me, hear me, feel me. Iʼve been so lonely. Sure, I hang out and laugh with you all the time but I missed actually talking to you and you bantering with me.” A frown tugged at your lips involuntarily.

“You didnʼt sound like a broken record. every word youʼd hope I had heard was beautiful - sappy - but beautiful. Gosh, you donʼt know how horrible it has been watching you cry about me and not being able to do anything about it. My ghosted body was always reaching for you but you wouldn't feel a thing. I promise you, I always held you and trying to do anything I can to get you to seem me but nothing was working.” You added as you buried your face into her shoulder, trying to get impossibly closer to her.

“Iʼm not a ghost whisperer. Don't think youʼre on the loose. I am mad at you, for the record.” Her hands balling the fabric of your shirt between her fist. She inhaled and exhaled deeply - as if your presence was the only thing keeping her grounded at the moment.

“I know, I know. I promise to make it up for the rest of my afterlife. Though, you gotta to admit, you have to believe your momʼs abilities now that you can see me. I know you said you hated the attention that your mom receives for being... Well, her. But they weren't fake after all!” You shook your head with a small laugh.

“Ghost whisperer.” You mumbled with a small smile, her hand immediately smacking you in the back of the head. Which had earned a small, ʻowʼ, from you.

“I donʼt-” She had began saying before her protest had been interrupted by a shuddering breath and a few silent tears falling from her eyes as she held onto tightly.

“I donʼt hate them.” She mumbled before sighing.

“I just-” Again, cutting herself off with a scoff. She wiped her tears as she pulled away from your embrace to scan your face with a soft smile.

“Gosh, I canʼt even remember what I was about to say. Iʼm so happy to see you and i'm a bumbling idiot and-”

“Iʼm so sorry. I've been trying everything, I swear. I even read that stupid ʻHandbook for the Recently Deceasedʼ from cover to cover many times. Only the strange and unusual could ever see me and I tried to reach for your mom but I couldn't for some reason. Slow down, we have so much to talk about.” You said as a frown tugged at your lips again. If you had a beating heart, it would have ached at Astridʼs tears. All you could find yourself doing was trying to make up for the lost time of not being able to comfort her.

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A/N: Hey, guys! I hope you enjoyed it. Should I continue writing this story? There could be multiple parts to this if you guys do enjoy this! Thank you so much for reading! Reqs and or comments, even questions, are all open on my profile! Thank you again! Also, I'd like to add that I understand that in the movie, ghosts are not permitted to leave their area of death or change their clothes. But, for the sake of this fic, let's pretend!

[nobodyknowsimalesbian777]

Anderson pt. 2 - Abby (Tlou2)

NSFW tags- pure filth, sub!abby, needy!abby, thigh-riding (a!receiving), finger-sucking (r!receiving), kind of public, i think thats it, 18+

authors note: short follow up for my previous abby fic!! gang i want to write for sevika again, lmk what we want to see and i'll make it happen 😼

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abby had been eyeing you all patrol,

her gaze was burning into your back while you joked with manny and checked for infected

you knew abby was still worked up, every time you spoke to her you saw her cheeks flash pink

and you absolutely loved it

you loved having her blubbering, knowing you had more power then her elated you

"no jokes today, abby?" you asked innocently, smirking over at manny

"shut up." her tone was intense, you for sure struck a nerve, and you definitely wanted to keep pushing it

"that's too bad, normally you're so loud"

suddenly, you felt her big hand wrap around your arm, pulling you into the closest room

mannys chuckles could be heard outside the door, and you heard his steps depart up the stairs, probably to keep watch

not that you cared, it was hard to care about anything except abbys hands desperately roaming your body,

her lips met yours, and her tounge aggressively explored your mouth,

normally, you would urge her to slow down, but you knew she needed it today considering how badly you'd denied her

that's why you weren't at all surprised with how needy she was being

abbys hands trailed down your arms, wrapping around yours, and bringing one of your hands down to her cunt

your fingers landed directly on a wet spot soaking through her jeans, much to your surprise

"jesus, anderson." you teased, wrapping your arm around her waist

"shut up, just fix it" she whined, sending a jolt straight to your own pussy

"that's not how we ask nicely, is it?" the condescension in your voice drove abby crazy, but she was too smart to deny you

"fix it..." she sighed, clamping her eyes shut "please."

the smirk plastered on your face would've pissed abby off if she wasn't so horny.

her back hit the wall as you pressed her up against it, slotting your thigh in-between hers

pleasure coarsed through her as your thigh rubbed perfectly on her clit,

the friction was just enough to pull needy mewls from the muscular woman

you felt your whole body shiver as she rested her forehead on your shoulder, bringing her lewd sounds that much closer

pawing hands landed on every inch of your body as abby tried to find purchase on you

eventually, her hands ended up in your hair, pulling it every time you moved your thigh

she took it upon herself to grind her hips down, desperately trying to increase the friction on her clothed cunt

abby was already close to her climax, her moans increasing in pitch as she moved her hips faster

"gonna cum for me, anderson?" you spoke into her ear, eliciting a particularly loud moan that you had to stiffle with your hand

her grip on your hair tightened as she pulled you back, choosing to smash your lips together aggressively

her hand traveled from your hair to your jaw, gripping it tight and pulling you back

she watched with furrowed brows as she moved her free hand up to your mouth, curiously placing her middle finger on your tounge

your eyes met hers as you wrapped your lips around her digit, starting to suck it into your mouth

abby swore she was going to cum right there, watching you suck her off while she rode your thigh

her finger moved in and out of your mouth, practically fucking your face,

so you made sure to put on a show, sloppily taking it all in your mouth and swirling your tounge

abbys eyes practically rolled to the back of her head at the sight, and you watched as she unraveled on you,

her pretty face twisted up as she came, feverishly grinding down on your thigh to get herself through it

her finger pulled out of your mouth with a pop, and abby made sure to maintain eye contact while she put her digit in her own mouth

"oh my god.." you whispered, too turned on at the sight to try and maintain the dynamic you had earlier reveled in

she smirked as a heavy hand landed on your ass, staying as she guided you out of the room

her lips tickled your ear as she whispered "im gonna need you to meet me in my room tonight"

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guys this was 3 am filth that i just now finished, i hope you love it. need a buff woman's fingers in my mouth while i fuck her whattt who said that

made a pt 2 for my gang : @ghgygd and @honeygiii123

[kaliforniahigh]

It had been a long day.

One of those where it's 8 am and you can already feel your body drained of all its energy. One of those where all you wanna do is sit alone in silence, so you can finally shut off, even if for mere fifteen minutes.

Lately, it feels like you've been having one of those days everyday of the week. And you can't help but feel like you need a break from everything and everyone.

But then, you come home. And as soon as you cross the front door, your senses are invaded with the faint smell of the candle burning on the living room coffee table, and the aroma of a simple, but comforting and reassuring homemade meal.

You don't have to say anything. Noah can see the slump on your shoulders. The tiredness in your eyes and how your head seems to hang low.

"Hi, sweet", he greets you, extending his arms for you to step into them. He feels so warm and solid against you. Soothing and refreshing.

You think about how it's too easy to forget that this is the entire point. Of everything.

"Go take a shower and I'll have the table ready for when you come back, ok?"

You only nod in response. He knows you're not very talkative when you're feeling the overstimulation of the day weighing down on you. It's why he usually keeps the house blanketed in an easy silence for when you arrive.

He can hear you shuffling in the bedroom, and a few seconds later, the shower turns on.

He goes about setting the table, like he said he would. Noah would be lying if he said he didn't love to step into this role. To take care of you. To be your anchor when you feel like the waves are pulling you under. To take over when you just wanna shut your brain off for a while.

It's not long before you make your presence known once again. The smell of your shampoo invading his senses, and he notices one of his hoodies is engulfing your small frame. He smiles at the sight. You look better already, and he can imagine the wonders a warm shower can do at the end of a tiring day.

He pulls out a chair for you and you both sit down to eat. A serene and peaceful silence fills the air, and Noah doesn't mind eating in the quiet.

Sure, he'd love to hear your voice, retelling the stories of everything that happened during the day. He loves to listen to the good and the bad equally.

But he knows you'll get there eventually.

Between the forkfuls of the delicious food, and the sips of the beverage in front of you, he feels your socked feet softly brush against his under the table.

He accepts the invitation and entangles his feet with yours. You give him a small, but reassuring smile, and he can see the gratitude permeating your features.

He smiles back and softly shakes his head. A quiet way of telling you that you don't have to thank him for any of this.

Setting the dirty dishes in the sink for him to deal with them later, he pulls you up by the hand, muttering a quiet "c'mon", and you follow him to the living room.

He lays down on his back first, and pats his chest for you to join him.

Once you're both settled, he starts to shuffle through all the movies and TV series until he finds one that's interesting and light enough for tonight.

Meanwhile, your ear is pressed to his chest, and you can feel the soft thrumming of his heartbeat. The soothing noise brings you even more peace, and you're finally able to fully rest. Body and mind.

Noah settles on a random episode of Abbott Elementary. A calculated choice, since he knows the show never fails to make you laugh.

"Quinta is such a mastermind for writing this series", you tell him, voice hushed and low, as your fingers play with a loose thread in his sweatshirt.

He tightens his arms around you, and one of them goes to card his fingers through your hair. He feels relieved for hearing your voice, even if it's still a little shy and reserved.

"It's definitely the funniest series in a long time", he observes, and you nod your head in agreement.

The time passes, and slowly, you get more comfortable. Shifting your body weight so you're tucked on his side.

"Thank you for this", you mutter into his neck, and he cranes his head to the side to try and look at you.

"You don't have to thank me", he reassures you, and as soon as he senses you're about to argue back, he places one finger on your lips, and you close your mouth. "I'm here to do exactly this. I'm happy to be here for you. And I'm happy that you let me be here for you. I'm the one who should be thankful."

"It'll get better, I promise. It's just a hard time right now", you tell him, somehow trying to justify your somber mood lately.

"I know. You're strong and I believe you can get through this. And even if it takes a while, I'll still be here. You won't ever have to get through anything alone"

Your heart that's been feeling cloudy and gloomy lately, suddenly opens up, and you swear you can feel the joy and bliss take over your whole body.

Giving him the first genuine smile of the day, you caress his cheek with your thumb. Tracing his lips, his nose, and his too adorable eyes that are looking at you as if you've given life to the universe and all its beings, even when you're not feeling very lively yourself

"I love you", you whisper into the space between you.

"I love you", he reciprocates, with reverence and tenderness filling his voice.

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