#Single Head Capping Machine

[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 :( )

[beloveds-embrace]

OK IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR A WHILE

so I keep seeing these ads for “pheromone perfume” pop up. the women in who advertise it say that it makes men go crazy, it smells amazing, they can’t get their bfs off of them whenever they put it on (and usually they put it on and then set up the camera and wait for their significant other to walk in the room and react to it)

and every time I see one of those ads, I think of designationless reader.

idk if that’s something they’d ever do, but I feel like it would be interesting for them to dab some of it on their wrists and behind their ears, as well as where their scent glands are and see how the guys react to it 🤭🤭

Anon i love you and I am smooching your brain so hard rn

The idea had been simmering in your mind for weeks, born from the endless pheromone perfume ads that flooded your late-night scrolling. People with bright smiles swore their perfumes were magic, capable of driving their partners wild with desire. But you weren’t like those people. You had no designation, no scent, no pheromones to speak of-

The ads made you feel like an outsider all over again. But they also left you wondering- what if there was a way to bridge that gap, just a little?

That’s how you found yourself at a specialized lab, the kind that catered to people willing to spend a small fortune for something deeply personal. It wasn’t easy. The process was invasive, awkward, and expensive. The technicians had taken a lot of samples of your body- skin oils, sweat, saliva- examining them under microscopes, running them through machines you didn’t understand, distilling your very essence into a single vial of concentrated potential.

When you walked out with the tiny glass bottle, your wallet was lighter, and your chest was tight with nerves.

What if this didn’t work?

What if it did?

Being scentless had always set you apart, a quiet absence in a world built on pheromones and instinct. You didn’t have the alluring pull of an omega’s sweetness or the steady, grounding weight of a beta’s calm. And you certainly didn’t have the commanding presence of an alpha’s dominance.

You were… nothing.

Not that your pack ever made you feel that way. Price, Soap, Ghost, and Gaz treated you like you hung the moon, their affection constant and overwhelming. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, you wondered what it would be like if you could scent them. If you could mark them the way they marked you. If you could pull them closer without relying on their instincts to protect what was theirs.

You’d dabbed the finished product on experimentally: just behind your ears, at the base of your throat, and along the faint line of your collarbone. You added drops to your wrists and even a little over your faulty scent glands, though you weren’t sure why. It had no scent for you, and you were almost worried that they might have scammed you.

But their reactions convinced you otherwise.

The moment he walked into the common area, his steps faltered. His broad shoulders stiffened, and his blue eyes sharpened, narrowing as if sensing something just out of reach. He sniffed once, subtly at first, but then again, deeper, his nostrils flaring, and his hands flexed at his sides.

“Something’s… different.” He muttered, almost to himself, but his voice was low enough to send a shiver through you.

“Something wrong, Cap?” You asked innocently, feigning ignorance as Soap entered behind him.

Soap stopped in his tracks, bright demeanor dimming as his eyes zeroed in on you. His head tilted, his mouth parting slightly as he breathed in deeply. “Lass,” he murmured, soft and careful. “What are you wearin’?”

“Clothes? What else would I be wearing, Soap?” You replied, voice dry just enough to be convincing. You raised an eyebrow, then, and crossed your arms. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Gaz appeared next, his movements slower than usual as he approached. Dark eyes narrowed, his focus razor-sharp as his body tensed. He didn’t speak immediately; instead, he circled you slightly, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know where to start.

Ghost entered last, his imposing frame cutting through the room’s tension like a blade. He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask, didn’t even hesitate. He simply stopped in front of you, his chest rising and falling steadily as his head dipped slightly, his masked face inches from yours. His gloved hands found your waist, and a low growl rumbled in his chest as he inhaled deeply.

“What?” you asked again, blinking at them with wide eyes, your voice lilting with carefully curated confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Price stepped closer as well, his boots heavy against the floor as he studied you. “You smell… different, love.” He said, voice like the distant rumble of thunder.

“Different how?” you asked, biting back a smile.

Johnny couldn’t hold himself back from you any longer, his hands sliding over your hips as he leaned in, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck. He let out a low hum, his warm breath skimming your skin. “Christ,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing your throat, “you smell good. Like somethin’ I can’t quite place.”

Gaz knelt at your side, his hands wrapping around your wrists. He brought one up to his face, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed a kiss to the soft skin. “Sweet,” he murmured softly. “Warm, like you’ve been wrapped in sunlight.”

Ghost growled again, deeper this time, the sound vibrating through his chest as his gloved fingers tightened on your waist. He pulled you closer, pressing his masked face against the other side of your neck, and the rumble in his throat sent a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to sell the performance. “I didn’t do anything.”

But the pack wasn’t buying it.

Price’s hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tilted your face up. Piercing blue eyes searched yours. “You sure about that, love?” he asked, a low grumble that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

Soap pressed a kiss to your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin lightly as his hands slid beneath your shirt. “Disnnae matter,” he murmured, voice thick with affection and something more primal, more hungry. “Whatever it is, it suits you.”

Gaz hummed in agreement, his lips trailing up the inside of your wrist to the sensitive skin of your palm. “Feels like it’s everywhere,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Can’t get enough of it. Can’t get enough of you, dove.”

Ghost was silent, but his actions spoke louder than words. He lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the edge of the table with a deliberate slowness that made your heart race. His hands found your thighs, his grip firm but gentle as he leaned in, his masked face pressing against your stomach. The low growl in his chest deepened, a possessive sound that sent a thrill through you.

They were relentless after that.

John claimed your lips, firm and demanding, his hands cupping the back of your neck as he tilted your head back. Soap followed, his kisses trailing along your jaw and down your throat, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made you shiver.

Gaz and Simon kissed the inside of your thighs, their teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as theirs hands held you steady and open, all theirs.

“Perfect girl,” Simon groaned against the back of your thighs, thick fingers digging into your skin. “Ours. Whatever you’d done- you don’t need it. You’ll always be ours.”

Hours passed in a haze of touch and heat, their attention unyielding as they marked every inch of you as their own. They murmured about your scent between kisses, their words a mix of worship and devotion. You played your part perfectly, letting soft, breathless sounds escape your lips as you clung to them, your innocence a carefully crafted mask.

By the time they were done with you, your were very sure they had rubbed off all the perfume off your body, and covered you with their own scents.

When they finally pulled back, in the nest, their bodies heavy with satisfaction, Price cupped your cheek with gaze still burning with intensity. “You don’t need anything to make us want you,” he said, low but steady. He stared straight at you, so that you would not have any reasons to doubt his words. “You’re already perfect.”

You smiled, letting the words wash over you, but said nothing. Your secret was safe, for now.

[cup1drul3z]

★ — I DONT KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ᴛʜᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ

ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋᴇʀ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 7.3ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : stalking, murder, dub con, toxic relationship, reader is humble, knife mentioned, gun mentioned, corruption, blood, gore?, age gap

A/N : i heart stalker fics

Summary : You’ve spent your life being walked over — at work, at home, even by the only guy who’s shown you attention. But when a man corners you in the dark, something inside you finally snaps. Now there’s blood on your hands… and Detective Sevika watching your every move.

The sun doesn’t wake you up. It never does. Not anymore.

It’s the silence that does it. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. The kind that hangs heavy in every room of the townhouse your parents bought before your dad left and your mom died. Three bedrooms, hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings—and not a single voice left inside. Not even yours.

You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. Still cracked from that time the upstairs tub overflowed. You never fixed it. You tell yourself you’ll call someone about it next week. You won’t.

Your blanket’s wrapped around your legs like a trap. You tug it off and sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. It’s too quiet. Again. Just like yesterday. Just like always.

You shuffle to the bathroom, feet cold against the tile. Your toothbrush is worn flat, toothpaste crusted at the cap. You brush anyway. Rinse. Spit. Stare at your reflection.

Your mouth moves like it might say something. You don’t.

You get dressed in silence—black skirt, button up, socks that don’t match. You never really outgrew that high school habit of disappearing into neutral colors. You don’t want attention. You just want… something.

Breakfast is a single slice of toast. Burnt. You scrape the black off with a butter knife, not because you care about the taste but because it’s what your mom used to do.

Your phone lights up on the counter. No notifications. You pretend you didn’t check. You grab your backpack and sling it over one shoulder, then double back to grab your keys. Almost forgot them. Again.

You lock the door behind you. Jiggle the knob three times. Habit.

The street is empty. The air is cold. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wails and fades. You don’t even flinch. You just pull your hoodie up over your head and walk.

What you don’t know—what you never notice—is the black SUV parked two houses down. Same one that’s been there every morning for a month. Same one with its engine off, windows tinted too dark for legality.

Inside, someone watches you walk. She’s seen your morning routine down to the minute.

You walk the four blocks to the newspaper office with your hood up and your eyes down, the wind nipping at your cheeks and making your eyes water. You don't bother wiping the tears. No one’s looking close enough to tell the difference.

The building is squat and gray—wedged between a liquor store and a vape shop, with a flickering sign above the door that says The Ledger. Half the letters don’t light up. It smells like stale coffee and printer toner before you even step inside.

You key in through the side entrance—front door’s jammed again, and no one’s fixed it. Not that anyone would. It’s not like they care if it’s broken. You don’t think anyone’s cared about much of anything here in a long time.

Except maybe making your life hell.

Your desk is in the front corner, tucked next to the always-jammed copy machine and the coffee pot that everyone uses but no one ever cleans. You take your coat off and sit down in your creaky chair, fingers already curling around the cold ceramic mug you forgot to wash out yesterday.

The phone rings. You pick it up on the second ring like you're supposed to.

“Ledger office, how can I help you?”

Click.

You stare at the receiver before gently setting it back in place.

“Morning, sugar.” It’s Paul, one of the middle-aged layout guys. He slaps a hand on your desk like he owns it. “Coffee machine’s empty again. Be a doll?”

You nod. “Of course.”

He’s already walking away.

You get up. Make the coffee. Answer the phones. Sort the mail. Repeat.

It goes on like that for hours. No breaks. No thanks. People call you hon, sweetie, babe. The sports editor calls you desk candy when he thinks you’re out of earshot. Sometimes when he knows you’re not.

You had dreams, once. Writing. Interning. Editing. Now you just take messages and print agendas. And smile.

Always smile.

By lunch, your hands are sore from sorting envelopes and your knees ache from crouching under desks fixing the damn printer again. You sit alone in the break room with a wilted salad and one plastic fork. A group of reporters walk in, mid-conversation, and don't even acknowledge you. Someone changes the radio. No one asks if you were listening.

You don’t say anything. You never do. Because sweet girls don’t make a fuss.

What you don’t see—what you can’t feel—is the gaze through the tinted car window parked across the street. She saw you unlock the side door. Saw you nod and smile and carry someone else’s lunch from the delivery box without complaint.

She knows your schedule. She knows how no one listens when you talk. She knows exactly how it feels to be stepped on.

And she’s not going to let it happen anymore.

You shouldn’t still be at work.

But you are—alone in the dim office, fluorescent lights buzzing above you like they’re taunting you. Your boss dumped a stack of last-minute paperwork on your desk ten minutes before closing and said, “I owe you one,” as he walked out the door. He doesn’t. He never has.

You finish filing the last form and shut down your computer. It’s almost 9 p.m.

The building is dead quiet when you leave. Even the coffee machine’s dark.

You zip your jacket up all the way to your chin, fingers trembling a little as you step out into the night. It’s colder than it was this morning. The kind of cold that creeps into your bones. You hug your arms around yourself and walk.

The bus stop is just a block away. The sidewalks are mostly empty. One drunk man yells something from across the street, but you keep walking. You always do.

You sit on the bench and tuck your bag under your legs. One streetlight overhead flickers. A bus should be coming. Eventually.

You hear boots on the pavement before you see her.

They’re slow. Steady. Heavy like they belong to someone who never hurries.

You glance up.

The woman who approaches isn’t wearing a uniform.

Long dark coat. Wide shoulders. Black boots. Badge clipped at her belt, half-concealed under the hem of her jacket. Not a patrol cop. Detective.

You glance at her, offer your usual courtesy smile. “Evening.”

She doesn’t smile back.

“You work over at the Ledger, don’t you?”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. Reception.”

“Hm.” She looks down the street, not at you. “Been hearing about a few incidents near this stop. People being followed. Harassed.”

Your stomach tightens. “I didn’t see anything.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t say you did.” Then, casually—too casually—“You walk home alone often?”

You shift in your seat. “Sometimes. I catch the bus.”

“People notice that kind of routine,” she says. Her eyes drag back to yours. “The wrong kind of people.”

You force another smile, more nervous this time. “I’ll be careful.”

There’s a pause. A little too long.

“You ever wonder what happens when someone gets pushed too far?” she asks suddenly. “Someone quiet. Sweet. The kind that always smiles.”

You look at her. She’s not smiling.

“They snap,” she says. “Usually without warning. And then it’s too late to take anything back.”

You don’t know what to say. You just sit there, frozen.

The bus pulls up, and she steps back to let you on.

“Have a good night, miss,” she says, with a voice that almost sounds genuine.

Almost.

The bus ride home feels longer than usual. The windows are fogged, the hum of the engine too loud, your seat just cold enough to keep you awake. You keep replaying the detective’s words in your head.

You ever wonder what happens when someone gets pushed too far?

The bus hisses to a stop a block from your townhouse. The streetlights flicker above you like dying stars as you walk. You don’t see anyone. But you still pull your hood tighter.

The key sticks in the lock like always. You jiggle it a little harder than necessary.

Inside, the townhouse is still. Quiet in a way that makes your skin itch. You turn on the entry light. Nothing’s moved. Everything is exactly how you left it.

You tell yourself the silence is normal. You tell yourself the tension in your spine is just leftover stress.

You toe off your shoes. Set your bag down beside the couch. Peel off your hoodie and drop it across the armrest. You move slow. Heavy. Like your body’s trying to catch up to your mind.

The bathroom’s cold, but the shower water is warm enough to make your shoulders drop. You stand under the stream for a long time, forehead pressed to the tile, breathing steam and letting it blur your thoughts.

By the time you wrap yourself in a towel, your fingers are wrinkled and your skin flushed pink.

You pull on your softest pajama set—faded flannel pants and a tank top that used to be your mom’s. You always wear it when you feel hollow. Something about it makes the house feel less empty.

In the kitchen, you pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine from the bottle you opened last week. You cradle it in both hands as you walk back through the living room, barefoot on the hardwood floors, yawning as you pass the darkened windows.

You don’t notice the curtain that’s been slightly shifted.

Not yet.

You push open your bedroom door with your elbow and step inside.

That’s when you see it.

Your laptop. Open on your desk. Screen still lit.

You stop in your tracks.

You don’t remember opening it. You definitely don’t remember leaving it on.

You set your wine down slowly on the nightstand and cross the room.

The glow from the screen throws strange shadows against the walls as you approach. Your fingers hover over the trackpad.

It’s already on a browser page.

Search bar: intern overtime laws state regulations unpaid work protections

Your breath catches.

You didn’t look that up.

Your eyes dart to the tabs—there are five open. All related. All citing federal labor laws. Your cursor drags across one article:

“If an intern is performing essential duties beyond the scope of learning, especially during overtime hours, they may be entitled to full compensation.”

You scroll. Slowly. Carefully.

A quote is highlighted:

“Unpaid overtime for interns is considered a violation in most states if the tasks performed directly benefit the employer without educational oversight.”

You furrow your brows, lips parting slightly.

You remember the stack of forms your boss dumped on you tonight. The ones he made you file while he went home.

You remember how late it was. How alone you were. How much of his job you were doing.

Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen.

Last accessed: 5:48 PM

You were still at your desk then. Filing documents. Sorting papers. Not home. Not here.

You step back slowly. The air in your room suddenly feels off. Like someone’s been breathing in it before you.

You glance at the window. Still shut. Still locked. But the curtains are off-center.

You didn’t open the laptop. You know you didn’t.

And yet… there it is. Waiting. Like a quiet whisper in the dark.

A warning? A favor? A threat?

You’re not sure which one scares you more.

You wake up with a tightness in your chest.

Not pain. Just… pressure. Like something heavy’s sitting on your sternum, refusing to let go. You blink up at the ceiling. The light leaking through the curtains is dull and gray, casting long shadows across your bed.

You roll onto your side and stare at your laptop.

Still open. Still glowing faintly.

You close it without looking at the screen.

The silence in your townhouse feels heavier than usual. Or maybe you’re just still thinking about last night. The detective. The search history. The feeling that your space isn’t really yours anymore.

You go through the motions of your morning routine like you’re on autopilot. Brush your teeth. Splash water on your face. Deodorant. You tie your hair back in a pony with a few pieces loose and pull on the same black skirt from yesterday and a button up with a small vest that smells like clean laundry but doesn’t feel comforting today.

Your stomach growls.

You shuffle to the kitchen. Open one cabinet. Then another. Then the fridge.

Empty. Still.

You forgot—again—to get groceries. Or maybe you remembered and just… couldn’t. Couldn’t afford it. Couldn’t deal with the fluorescent lights, the long lines, the judgmental looks at your half-full cart of clearance-brand basics.

You rub your face with both hands and sigh.

Fine.

You slip on your shoes, shove a few crumpled bills and coins into your pocket, and head out. It’s only a block to the corner shop. You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again.

The shop bell jingles as you push the door open. The warmth inside doesn’t reach your bones.

You grab a breakfast burrito from the hot case. If it can even be called that. The plastic wrapper is half melted against the heating element, and the label says it expired yesterday. You don’t care. It’s $2.39. It’ll keep you from passing out at your desk.

You carry it to the counter and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The cashier is a teenage girl with streaky mascara and airpods in both ears. She’s leaning against the gum rack, tapping away on her phone like you don’t exist. You don’t want to interrupt. You hate interrupting.

You hover politely. Smile. Clutch the burrito with both hands.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for her to even glance up.

When she finally does, she exhales dramatically. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t see you.” Her tone says she’s not sorry at all.

You offer your best polite smile. “No problem.”

She scans the burrito. The register beeps. You hand over the crumpled bills and coins, fingers slightly shaking as you try to count them out.

Behind you, the bell above the door jingles again.

Boots.

Heavy ones.

The air shifts.

You don’t turn at first. But you feel it. That pull. That heat. That attention pressing into the back of your neck like a hand.

You glance over your shoulder.

It’s her.

Detective.

Same long coat. Same unreadable face. Same sharp eyes that seem to see straight through your skin.

“Morning,” she says, voice low and even. She steps beside you, dropping a black coffee and a protein bar on the counter.

You freeze. Then swallow.

“Morning,” you say quietly.

The cashier rolls her eyes again, clearly unimpressed with both of you.

Sevika glances at her, then back at you.

“You’re out early.”

You force a little laugh, eyes dropping to your burrito. “I wanted to get something for breakfast before work.”

She nods once, watching you closely. “Those things’ll kill you.”

Your brows lift slightly. “Better than starving.”

Her mouth twitches at that. Almost a smile. Almost.

She shifts closer—too close for strangers. “You always walk here?”

You hesitate. “It’s just a block.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You blink. “I—yeah. I guess.”

She hums again. Then adds, almost idly, “You should be more careful. Routine makes you predictable. Predictable makes you easy.”

Your heart skips.

The cashier rolls her eyes again. “That’s $5.03,” she mumbles to Sevika.

Sevika doesn’t move right away. Just keeps watching you.

Then, slowly, she reaches into her coat and pulls out a ten. Hands it over. Doesn’t ask for change.

“Get something better next time,” she says, nodding toward the burrito in your hands.

You grip it tighter.

You don’t thank her. You don’t smile. You just nod and back away slowly toward the door, your body rigid with something that isn’t quite fear but isn’t far from it either.

Outside, the morning is colder than before.

You walk to work fast. You don’t look back.

But she does.

She watches until you disappear around the corner.

And she’s still smiling.

The morning at the Ledger crawls by the same way it always does.

Phone calls. Coffee runs. People brushing past you without a word. The faint, sour smell of burnt toner wafting from the copy machine.

Your half-expired breakfast burrito sits like a rock in your stomach. You try not to think about it. You answer the phones with the same practiced politeness. You file the same paperwork. You staple the same press releases.

No one really looks at you. No one ever does.

Until she walks in.

The front door creaks open—old hinges groaning under the weight—and you glance up automatically.

It takes a second to register her.

The coat. The boots. The height. The broad frame. The badge clipped casually at her belt, catching the light as she steps inside.

Your heart stutters.

The office hums behind you. Phones ringing. Printers whirring. Keyboard keys clacking. No one else notices her yet.

She walks straight to your desk, hands in the pockets of her coat, eyes locked on you like you're the only person in the building.

“Good morning,” she says, low and smooth. Like you’re old friends. Like this isn’t strange.

You blink, pulse jumping. “Hi…”

She pulls a small notebook from her pocket and flips it open. “Detective Sevika,” she says, flashing the badge briefly. “I’m following up on a report from this address.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“A report?” you repeat.

She nods once. “Yeah. Came through dispatch last night. Something about a break-in. Suspicious activity.”

Your brows furrow. Confusion prickles at your scalp. “I… no one here filed a report.”

“Hm.” Her eyes skim the room lazily, like she doesn’t care about the details. “Might’ve been anonymous. Happens all the time.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

Her attention snaps back to you.

“You work here, right?” she asks, though it’s not really a question. “Reception?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Your throat tightens. “Um… I guess not.”

She leans her hip against your desk, flipping the notebook closed but keeping it in her hand. “You ever stay late here?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. When there’s extra paperwork.”

“Alone?”

You nod again, slower this time. “Yeah. Usually.”

“Building locked up after?”

“Of course.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you. Or maybe like it doesn’t matter.

Her eyes drag down your frame—slow, calculated, lingering a fraction too long on the hollow of your throat, the curve of your shoulders in your oversized sweater.

Goosebumps crawl across your skin.

She tilts her head. “You live nearby?”

“...Yeah.”

“Walk to work?”

You shift in your chair. Your palms feel damp. “Sometimes.”

“Dangerous,” she says quietly. “Predictable.”

Your pulse jumps again. Didnt you already have this conversation at the bus stop…unless that whole conversation wasnt real, maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you 

Before you can speak, your boss rounds the corner, coffee in hand, oblivious to the undercurrent in the room. “Everything okay over here?”

Sevika straightens, cool and professional in an instant. “Just following up on a report.”

Your boss frowns. “What report?”

“Anonymous tip about suspicious activity at this address.”

He rolls his eyes. “Probably the damn kid from the sandwich shop playing with the phones again.”

“Could be.” Sevika shrugs. “But we take these things seriously.”

Your boss huffs, already bored. “Well, good luck with that.” He disappears down the hall.

You swallow hard.

Sevika’s eyes flick back to yours. “If anything… weird happens,” she says, voice dropping low again, “you should tell me.”

You stare at her, pulse pounding. “...Okay.”

She slides a card across your desk. Her name. A number. Personal cell. Not the department line.

“Stay safe, sweetheart,” she murmurs, stepping back.

You grip the card like it might burn through your skin.

The door creaks shut behind her.

And suddenly, you realize—

There was no report. There never was.

The fluorescent lights in the grocery store hum softly above your head as you clutch the plastic basket to your chest, trying to block out the noise.

It’s not a big store—just a cramped neighborhood market with dented produce bins and shelves that always look half-stocked—but it’s close. And cheap. And quiet enough after dark that no one really bothers you.

You drift down the aisles, scanning price tags, fingers brushing the cheapest pasta and off-brand cereal. You avoid the snack aisle entirely. Too expensive. The little bag of rice and canned beans in your basket already feel like a stretch.

Your stomach twists as you stare at the shelf of expired bread, weighing the cost against your bank balance.

That’s when you feel the nudge.

Not a shove. Not someone brushing past like you don’t exist.

A soft tap at your elbow.

You turn, startled.

A man stands beside you. Tall. Broad-shouldered, but not threatening. Messy brown hair, scruffy jaw, hoodie unzipped over a faded concert t-shirt. He offers a small, sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says, holding up a loaf of bread. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Your pulse flutters. Not fear—just… surprise.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, stepping aside.

He doesn’t push past. Doesn’t ignore you.

“Not much left, huh?” He gestures to the pitiful bread display. “Guess I missed the good stuff.”

You let out a quiet, awkward laugh. “Yeah. Happens a lot.”

He picks up a package, checks the date, grimaces. “Three days past. Not great, but edible.”

You smile politely, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Edible’s kind of the standard these days.”

That makes him chuckle. “Fair enough.”

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable, for once. Just… still.

He tilts his head, studying you. His gaze is warm. Friendly. Nothing like the usual dismissive glances or leering stares you’re used to.

“You live around here?” he asks.

You nod. “A few blocks.”

He smiles again, easier this time. “Small world. I just moved in a couple months ago.”

“That explains it,” you say softly.

“Explains what?”

“I haven’t seen you before.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Guess I’ll have to fix that.”

Your cheeks warm at the words. You duck your head, fingers tightening on your basket.

“I’m Mason,” he adds, offering a hand.

You hesitate only a second before shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”

Your voice is small, but steady.

For once, you feel… noticed. Not stepped over. Not invisible.

Neither of you sees the shadow watching from the end of the aisle.

Sevika leans against a metal support beam near the frozen foods, a hood drawn low over her dark hair, sharp eyes locked on you.

Her gaze tracks your every movement—the way your shoulders ease under the stranger’s attention, the way your shy little smile curls at the edges of your lips, the way your hand lingers just a second too long in his.

Her jaw tightens.

She watches the man—Mason—lean in, making you laugh again. Watches your expression soften. Watches something she doesn't like creeping into your eyes.

Hope.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not yet. It’s possession. It’s a quiet, simmering rage that someone else thinks they can see you when you’ve belonged to her from the start. Even if you don’t know it yet.

Sevika’s hand flexes at her side. She stays put. For now.

She won’t stop you tonight.

But she’s already memorizing his face.

Already planning.

Already deciding how to remind you—you’re hers.

The grocery bag is heavier than it should be, cutting into your fingers as you walk.

The streets are quiet. Streetlights buzzing faintly above. You keep your head down like always, but tonight… tonight your chest feels a little warmer. Lighter.

Mason walks beside you, easy and unbothered, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying the cheap loaf of bread he’d picked up.

You keep sneaking glances at him—the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He’s… nice. Normal. No sharp edges. No judgment.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you murmur as you reach your block, hugging your bag closer.

His lips twitch. “Couldn’t let you wander around with gourmet expired bread all by yourself.”

You laugh quietly, heat blooming under your skin.

You stop at your front door. Fumble for your keys.

He hesitates beside you. “Listen,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “this might sound forward, but… can I come in? Just for a little? I’ve had kind of a shitty week, and… it’s nice talking to someone who doesn’t suck.”

You chew your lip. Your heart flutters with nervousness and… something else. Hope. Maybe.

You glance at the empty street. The parked cars. The faint hum of the city still awake, but distant.

You nod. “Okay.”

Inside, the house feels smaller with him in it. His presence fills the space in a way no one else’s has. You drop the grocery bag on the counter, nerves buzzing in your fingertips.

He lingers by the door, eyes roaming the living room, the photos, the faint mess of papers on the coffee table.

“Cute place,” he says, stepping closer.

You smile faintly. “It’s old. Falling apart.”

“Yeah, but it’s… you.”

You duck your head, flustered.

The space between you shrinks with every second.

It doesn’t take long.

A few lingering glances. A quiet laugh. His hand brushing yours when you pass him a glass of water. The way his fingers curl at your wrist, gently tugging you closer.

The first kiss is soft. Testing.

The second… isn’t.

It’s awkward, fumbling, desperate in the way only two lonely people can be. You barely make it down the hall before clothes hit the floor, before his hands slide beneath your shirt, before your back hits the edge of your bed.

It’s not perfect. It’s rushed, messy, your heart racing so hard it feels like your ribs might crack. But for once, you feel wanted. Seen. The heat of his body, the way he whispers your name against your throat—it’s enough to make you forget the shadows outside your window.

For a little while.

Across the street, tucked beneath the branches of a tree, Sevika leans against the hood of an unmarked car. Hood up. Camera steady in her hand.

The lens clicks softly as she takes another photo.

Not of Mason. Not of the way his hands roam your body. Not of the cheap, peeling paint on your windowsill.

She captures your face.

The flush of your cheeks. The parted lips. The way your eyes squeeze shut like this is the only moment you’ve ever let yourself unravel.

She takes photo after photo.

Cataloging. Studying. Possessing.

Her jaw tightens as she watches Mason press his mouth to your skin, your fingers curling in his shirt, your body trembling beneath him.

Her hand flexes at her side, the camera strap creaking under her grip.

Enjoy it while it lasts, she thinks, eyes sharp with something dangerous. You won’t be his for long.

The sharp blaring of your alarm clock never comes.

Instead, the faint, pale glow of morning filters through your curtains, soft and quiet.

Your eyes flutter open. You stare at the ceiling. Something feels… wrong.

Your chest tightens as your gaze flicks to the clock on your nightstand.

7:52 AM.

Panic spikes through your bloodstream.

You have to be at the Ledger by 8:30. The bus comes in less than ten minutes. You were supposed to wake up over an hour ago.

Your heart pounds as you throw the blanket off, scrambling to sit up.

Mason stirs beside you, groaning softly. “What’s wrong?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“I—shit, I’m late—my alarm didn’t go off—” you stammer, already scrambling off the bed, yanking open your dresser drawers, tugging out clothes in frantic handfuls.

“Woah, hey, hey…” He props himself up on his elbow, blinking at you like you’re overreacting. His lips twitch in faint amusement. “It’s okay, breathe.”

You shoot him a look as you struggle into your jeans, hopping on one foot. “I can’t—I’m gonna miss the bus—I can’t afford another Uber—”

You grab a black sweater from the floor. The fabric slips over your head, cool against your flushed skin. You don’t notice the way the off-shoulder cut dips low across your collarbone, how the hem rides up just slightly when you stretch.

Your hands tremble as you fumble with your bag, your keys, your phone.

“Relax,” Mason chuckles, dragging his shirt over his head, slow and unhurried. “It’s not like your job’s life or death. You answer phones, right?”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze for half a second, lips parting.

But you don’t argue. You don’t have time.

You force a tight smile. “You… need to go.”

He raises a brow, pulling on his jeans. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

His amusement doesn’t fade. If anything, it deepens—the faint, degrading twist to his smile making your stomach knot tighter.

You don’t say goodbye. You don’t offer the awkward morning-after pleasantries. You just shove your shoes on and practically push him toward the door.

He chuckles again as he leaves. “You’re cute when you panic,” he calls over his shoulder.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Your chest aches with embarrassment, frustration, but you shove it down.

You don’t have time to think.

You lock the door behind you, grab your bag, and bolt down the sidewalk.

The streets blur around you—the cracked sidewalks, the empty porches, the faint smell of garbage lingering from the bins lining the curb.

You reach the bus stop in record time, chest heaving, the fabric of your sweater slipping slightly off your shoulder, exposing your skin to the cool morning air.

You don’t notice the dark SUV idling down the block. You don’t see the glint of a camera lens behind tinted glass. You don’t feel the eyes following your every movement.

The bus screeches to a stop. You climb aboard, head down, heart racing.

The ride is short—six blocks feel like sixty as your anxiety twists tighter with every turn.

When you finally step off at your stop, your legs feel weak. Your stomach churns as you power-walk the last stretch to the Ledger building.

Your mind races—why didn’t your alarm go off? You always set it. You checked it last night. You never oversleep.

Unless…

Unless someone else turned it off.

Your hand tightens around your bag strap as you rush up the steps to work, the growing, creeping paranoia already burrowing deep beneath your skin.

Across the street, parked under the shadow of a crumbling brick building, Sevika watches through the windshield.

Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile.

You looked so pretty in that little black sweater. So flustered. So exposed.

She taps her phone, scrolling through the photos from last night—the flushed desperation in your face, the raw vulnerability in your eyes, the quiet little betrayal you never saw coming.

She’s patient.

But your world?

It’s already hers.

The second you step through the glass doors of the Ledger building, you know you’re in for it.

Your boss’s voice cuts through the hum of the office like a blade. “Nice of you to show up, sweetheart.”

You flinch.

The receptionist desk feels miles away as you hurry toward it, head down, heart pounding. The overhead lights buzz faintly. Phones ring. Keyboards clack. And every pair of eyes seems to land on you at once.

You mumble an apology under your breath, fumbling with your bag.

Your boss—Mr. Dalca, mid-forties, smug, balding—leans against the corner of your desk, arms crossed. His assistant lingers a few feet behind, eyebrows raised in silent amusement.

“I thought you interns had alarms on those fancy phones,” Dalca says, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

“I—” Your voice catches. You swallow hard, forcing a shy little smile. “I must’ve slept through it. I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again—”

His eyes drop. Not to your bag. Not to your face.

Lower.

It’s only then that you remember what you’re wearing—the off-shoulder black sweater, slouchy and soft, slipping low across your collarbone. The neckline dips just enough to tease the curve of your chest. With your frantic morning, you hadn’t even thought about it.

But they did.

His gaze lingers for a beat too long.

The frustration in his expression fades. The disapproval softens. He exhales slowly through his nose and waves a hand. “Just… get caught up, yeah?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Yes, sir.”

He walks away without another word.

The office hums back to life.

You sink into your chair, heart pounding for a different reason now.

For once, it wasn’t just dismissal or irritation in his eyes. It was… something else. Something you’ve seen before. On the bus. At the store. In bars, on sidewalks, lurking in strangers’ stares.

You hate it.

But… you could use it.

You chew your lip, hands trembling faintly as you sort through the papers at your desk.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Mason [10:47 AM]: Hey. Don’t hate me, but I wanna corrupt you a little. Wanna come to my buddy’s place tonight? Few drinks, nothing crazy. You’ll have fun.

Your stomach twists.

You didn't have friends.

You think of the sweet, chatty moms from accounting, the grandmothers who sneak candy into the office, the invites you always politely decline.

Your lips press together.

Mason’s not perfect. His smirk last night, the way he chuckled at your panic—it still stings. But… you don’t have many friends. Not real ones.

And maybe—just maybe—this could be fun.

Your fingers hover over your screen. You type:

You [10:49 AM]: Okay. Text me the address.

You hit send.

Outside, the clouds roll low and gray over the city. The streets buzz with life.

And across the block, parked under a tree with her windows down, Sevika lights a cigarette, watching the Ledger entrance like a predator at rest.

She doesn’t need to be inside to know what’s happening.

She knows you’re learning.

She knows you’re starting to understand the currency of attention—the weight of a look, the power of a lowered neckline.

She exhales smoke through her nose, a dark smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

It’s starting. And by the time you finally break? You’ll be just like her.

The apartment smells like rot.

Blood stains the faded carpet, seeping into the cracks between warped floorboards. The body—a man, late thirties, average build—lies crumpled in the corner, eyes glassy, throat split wide open.

It’s not the first scene Sevika’s been called to this month. Won’t be the last.

The uniforms buzz around the room like flies, snapping photos, collecting evidence, muttering theories to each other under their breath. Most of them avoid looking at her for long. They know better.

She crouches beside the body, gloved fingers tracing the outline of the wound. Clean. Precise. Whoever did this wasn’t sloppy.

Her partner, Detective Mara Voss, stands nearby, flipping through her notebook. “Looks personal,” Mara mutters. “Neighbor says he had some gambling debts, but this? This feels different.”

Sevika barely hears her.

Her mind’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s not the blood pooling beneath the body that distracts her. It’s not the smell, or the broken lamp on the floor, or the sirens still wailing faintly down the block.

It’s you.

She exhales through her nose, lips curling faintly.

She keeps picturing it—you, standing in a room like this. Not with a dead man at your feet—yet��but covered in blood all the same. Trembling. Eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving.

Terrified.

Vulnerable.

Exactly how she wants you.

She can already hear it—your voice cracking as you whisper her name, as you beg her to help you, to fix it, to protect you from the consequences. From yourself. From the big, bad world that’s finally pushed you too far.

And she will.

She’ll hold you when you break. She’ll clean up the mess. She’ll be the only one left when everyone else turns their back on you.

You’ll have no one else. And you’ll be grateful. You’ll be hers.

“Sevika?” Mara’s voice cuts through the haze.

Sevika straightens, cracking her neck lightly. “Yeah?”

“You good? You zoned out.”

She wipes her gloves on a cloth, eyes sharp, expression blank. “Fine.” Her gaze drifts back to the body. “It’s clean work. No forced entry. Guy probably knew ‘em.”

Mara nods, jotting it down.

Soon enough… The only thing left for you to rely on will be her.

The apartment is loud. Too loud.

Music rattles the peeling walls, bass thumping through your chest as bodies press together in the cramped living room. Cheap beer. The sharp sting of weed smoke. Laughter that feels too sharp around the edges.

You shouldn’t have come.

The other girls lean against the kitchen counter, long legs tucked into tight jeans, flawless makeup catching the low, flickering light. They talk fast. Laugh faster. They look at you once—and never again.

You linger near the doorway, arms crossed tight, nursing a plastic cup you haven’t even sipped from. You try to smile. You try to listen. You try to fit in.

You fail.

It’s the same as always.

You fidget with the hem of your sweater, wishing you’d stayed home. Wishing you were invisible, like you usually are.

Then Mason’s arm snakes around your waist.

“Hey, don’t look so tense,” he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”

You force a polite smile. “I’m fine.”

His hand tightens slightly. His voice gets louder. “Yeah, you were fine last night too.”

The words hit like a slap. Your cheeks burn as a few people glance over, some snickering, others smirking. The girls across the room whisper behind their hands.

Your stomach churns.

You step out of his grip, voice low and tight. “Can I talk to you? Privately?”

Mason sighs like you’re exhausting. But he follows you down the narrow hall, away from the crowd.

You whirl on him. “Why would you say that? That’s… private.”

His eyes roll. “Relax. Everyone here’s slept with everyone else. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” you snap, your voice cracking with frustration.

His lips curl—not kindly. “Didn’t seem so shy when you were stripping for me last night.” He leans in, smug. “Or when you begged me to—”

“Stop.”

Your hands shake at your sides.

But he just smirks, straightening. “You’re cute when you pretend to be innocent.” His eyes drop to your waist, your thighs, your trembling hands. “You look like a slut, might as well act like one.”

The last thread of patience snaps.

You shove past him. You don’t care about the party, the whispers, the sting in your chest. You just need to get out.

The street outside feels colder than it should. The air bites at your skin, your breath fogging faintly in the glow of the streetlamps.

You walk fast. Arms crossed. Eyes down.

Your heart races.

The panic creeps in before you can stop it.

Your vision blurs. Your legs wobble. You stumble to the nearest alley wall, crouching down, pressing your back to the cool bricks as your chest heaves.

Breathe. Breathe. But you can’t.

Footsteps scuff the sidewalk nearby.

A man’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, snide and sharp. “Jesus. You should go home before someone takes that as an invitation.”

Your hands curl into fists.

Your chest burns.

You bite back, voice raw. “Fuck off.”

The man snorts. “Feisty for a drunk little thing.”

He steps closer.

Your breathing spikes. Your eyes dart for escape.

But he grabs you first.

Fingers twist in your hair, yanking you upright. Your back slams against the wall, your head spinning as his face looms close.

“Or maybe you like the attention,” he sneers.

Your scream cracks through the alley. Your fists pound at his chest, useless, weak.

Across the street, hidden behind the shadow of a parked car, Sevika watches.

Her gun’s already in her hand, thumb brushing the safety, eyes sharp and still.

She could intervene.

But then—

You reach into your purse.

The switchblade flicks open with a soft metallic click.

You don’t hesitate.

The blade sinks into the man’s eye, hot blood spraying your skin as he howls, stumbling back. You follow.

Something in you snaps. Shatters.

You stab him again.

And again.

And again.

The alley fills with wet, ugly sounds—flesh tearing, bones cracking, your own ragged breathing mixing with his gurgling screams.

You don’t stop.

Not until the body goes still.

Not until your arms ache. Your clothes drip. Your face is streaked with blood and tears.

Your chest heaves as you stare down at the mess—at the red pooling beneath your shoes, at the blade slick in your shaking hand.

Across the street, Sevika lowers the gun, sliding it back into her holster.

A dark smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

You finally broke.

And now?

Now you need her.

The adrenaline crashes through your system like a train.

One second, your heart pounds like a war drum, your vision a haze of red, your hand clenched tight around the blood-slick handle of the knife.

The next— Silence.

Cold, creeping silence as reality slams into your chest.

Your legs wobble.

Your hand shakes, still dripping crimson down your wrist. Your sweater—black, soft, slouched off your shoulder—is ruined, stained deep with blood. Splatter dots your chest, streaks across your neck, your face, your trembling lips.

The body lies crumpled at your feet.

Lifeless. Broken. Bleeding.

You stumble back a step, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Oh my god.

Your gaze snaps to your hands—the raw red staining your skin, dripping between your fingers. The knife clatters to the concrete with a sharp metallic echo as your knees threaten to buckle.

Oh my god.

You look at the body again—the ruined eye socket, the torn throat, the puddle seeping across the alley.

Your chest caves inward. Your breathing picks up. Panic claws up your throat as bile burns the back of your mouth.

You killed him. You actually— You killed—

Your foot slips as you stagger back, heartbeat deafening in your ears. You turn on shaky legs and bolt down the alley, ducking into the shadows, stumbling into the night, eyes burning with tears.

Across the street, Sevika lowers the camera, her thumb brushing over the screen as she flicks through the shots.

You—wild-eyed, drenched in red, the raw horror twisting your expression. You—running, vulnerable, terrified, beautifully broken.

Perfect.

She pockets the camera and steps across the street, boots crunching against the concrete. Her gaze sweeps the alley, the crumpled body, the blade glinting faintly under the streetlamp.

She doesn’t bother hiding it.

She doesn’t want to.

No… you need to see this.

You need to wake up tomorrow and catch his face on every screen, hear his name on every station, feel that fear coil around your throat like a leash.

And when the panic consumes you? When the walls close in? You’ll come running. To her. Exactly where you belong.

Sevika crouches beside the body, pulling out her phone. Her voice is low, steady, detached as she dials the station.

“Yeah, it’s Detective Sevika,” she says, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “I’ve got a body. Male, late twenties. Alley off Chandler and Fifth.” She pauses, fingers tapping the hilt of her holstered gun. “Send uniforms. I’ll keep the scene secure.”

She hangs up, sliding the phone back into her coat.

Her eyes linger on the blood-stained ground, the discarded switchblade, the splattered wall.

Her lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile.

Soon… The whole city will know.

comment to be added to the taglist!!

[rogersideup]

I'd like to drop a prompt:

The avengers have a night off in Las Vegas after a mission. Thor makes sure Cap has his fair share of Asgardian liquor so Steve ends up drunk and wanders off alone. He meets our dear reader who just got dumped by her friend group and is equally drunk. They hit it off and decide to get married. The next morning both of them are confused but decide to make it work as memories of the night before come back to them. (Surprise surprise dear reader is from New York too)

‧₊˚✧⚁⁠♧777♤⚄✧˚₊‧

Steve Rogers X Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Steve gets himself into some trouble while having a night off in the city of sin.

Word Count: 4,717

Warning: My blog is 18+ only. All minors or blogs without an age in bio will be blocked. Minors DNI.

"Miss?"

Flashing lights separated and splayed through the drying tears in your watery eyes, music and ringing from hundreds of slot machines overstimulated your senses as you simultaneously pulled your dress up and down in different places.

"Excuse me miss? Can I get you something to drink?"

Coming back to your senses, you turned around to face the bartender. "Yeah, uh..." really, you tried your hardest to think of something, literally anything to help move along the buzz you were already riding but no proper words made it to your brain. "Sorry. I'm not sure what I want. Can you just make it strong and fruity?"

"Sure thing." The bartender agreed, already grabbing bottles off the shelf.

Watching him masterfully work helped you zone out and relieved all of your overwhelmed senses. Pouring, shaking, more pouring, a garnish, then a fruity elixir of a bunch of liquids you most definitely could not pronounce was placed right in front of you atop a cocktail napkin. Not a single drop was spilled, even the ice was perfect.

Reaching into your purse, you handed the bartender your card and shouted to try and compete with the volume of drunken gamblers and rolling dice. "You can close the tab."

"Don't worry about it. This one's on the house, you look like you need it." He kindly denied your form of payment.

You chuckled to yourself. "That bad, huh?"

"No, but I know a sad chick when I see one." He noted. "Happens pretty often in Vegas."

"Well, thank you, I appreciate it." You raised the glass. "Cheers to you and all the bartenders making the world go round."

"Amen to that" He smiled before walking off to serve yet another drunken customer.

You sat at the bar on a little leather stool fully contemplating how you ended up in this situation as you looked out into the hotel casino and nursed your drink. It didn't take long for you to realize that the Vegas bartenders didn't take the word strong as a joke. Because every sip stung your throat and swirled your thoughts around in slow motion.

The speed at which your thoughts came at you didn't help the fact that every single one of them revolved around nothing but yourself.

What were you going to do now? Where should you go from here?

Drinking wasn't the answer, but not drinking wasn't the solution. Finding shelter in the Caesars Palace hotel was a good enough temporary fix to your problems, so you ignored that you were on the complete opposite side of the Las Vegas strip that you actually needed to be on.

However, getting to your hotel on the complete opposite side was the problem. Your shitty friends completely ditched you, or maybe you ditched them. The details were all so unclear, but the fact was they were all making stupid choices and you couldn't stand to stick around long enough to see the end results of them.

But now you were all done up in high heels and a small little dress in a city you had never been in before, notorious for sex, drugs and alcohol. Luckily, pepper spray in your purse and a back pocket full of self defense techniques that have been drilled into your head ever since you were a little girl were amongst some of the better choices you made tonight.

Then came along all of the dumber choices you would make tonight in the form of yet another fruity drink, and a tall, blonde man looking painfully confused at the roulette table right in front of you.

He was tall and broad, even more handsome than the massive statues of Roman men all around the hotel. But much like the statues around you, he looked like he was carved from marble. The muscles you could see sculpted through his suit jacket could've only been a result of a piece of fine art.

It was easy to pick up his wholesome sweetness behind his big blue eyes, that also did a lot to tell you how drunk the man was. He towered over the table and watched a few rounds, trying his hardest to understand what was happening. Much like him, you watched the ball spin round and round before landing in a slot.

Some of the players would moan and groan at their fate, while others would cheer happily and exchange loud laughter and high-fives.

Mesmerized by the game, you missed the glances the blonde man snuck of you. He really couldn't help it though. His friends had left him all alone while his capacity to make good decisions was at an all time low, and you were just so pretty and maybe a bit sad.

Another round was about to start, so the dealer started taking bets. Everyone around the table started placing their chips on a color and number, and the blonde was still confused.

He looked around again before his eyes met yours, and a stupid invasive smile smeared across your lips. When he noticed your friendly demeanor, he took a few stumbles over to you.

"Do you have any idea how to play this?" The man asked you.

Now you could smell the expensive yet deliciously pleasant cologne he was wearing, and you could take in all the details of his black suit.

Giggling at his cluelessness, you swallowed down the sip of cocktail in your mouth. "I do. Would you like some help?"

"I'm assuming you have to guess if the ball lands on red or black?" He asked as his lopsided smile and squinted eyes told you everything you needed to know about his sobriety... or lack there of.

"That's exactly it, good job." You nodded. "But you can also guess the number, or a group of numbers it'll land on. The payout at the end is based on how accurate your bet is."

"So what should I bet?" He asked you, having already built a strong sense of trust for you in the few minutes he had been observing.

"Oh no, that's not up to me." You shook your head before taking another sip of your drink. "You gotta trust your own gut."

The man's eyes darted around the table once more before his arms motioned to it. "But look around! All of these men have pretty girls telling them what to do, and that's why they're all winning money. You guys are so much smarter than us, and I'm alone so I need you to tell me. Red or black."

Usually, a statement like that from a man like him would have you rolling your eyes and cutting the conversation short. However, either your gut or the alcohol was telling you that he wasn't an asshole.

For some reason, you felt calm and comfortable in his presence all while being unable to wipe the dumb smile off your face. Something about his hair that was once perfectly styled now being a little jostled, and the twinge of pink in his cheeks made him seem so distantly familiar.

"Well thank you for that backhanded compliment." You laughed. "I think you should bet red."

He nodded, trusting your opinion far more than he trusted himself. "Should I place a more specific bet too?"

You thought for a moment, but you were in Vegas so... fuck it. "Yeah. Give me your chip"

The man happily placed the roulette chip into your hand, you stood up in one big sweep and started walking away from the bar. "Woah, don't leave your drink!"

Pleasantly surprised that he had your best interest in mind, you mumbled out a statement of gratitude as he handed the glass to you too. Approaching the table, looked at it for a few moments and tried your hardest to contemplate the best number to place a bet on, but once again no rational thoughts occupied the empty spaces of your brain.

So, you threw the chip on your favorite number, lucky 25.

"There ya go!" You used your free hand to pat the man's shoulder. "Good luck, Blondie."

"What happens if I win?" He asked you, smiling as you let your hand linger. Even with your highest heels on, you were nowhere near as tall as him.

"Then it's your lucky day, and you'll get a shit ton of money." You giggled at his question.

"And if I lose?"

"Then you're unlucky and you're about to lose some money." You snorted.

"That's not going to happen, you're my good luck charm." He declared.

"I don't think anything about my night tonight is radiating lucky energy, so I doubt that."

"What? No way! I feel like I've been the luckiest guy in the whole world today, so maybe I'm your good luck charm."

"I guess we will let the roulette wheel speak the truth of the universe tonight." You shrugged.

"Should we place our own bets on the bet?" The man asked.

"Like what?" You questioned, hoping this wasn't the moment the sweet stranger turned weird and pervy.

"I think if I lose I should probably call it a night and go back to my room because this is the drunkest I've been in probably 80 years." He stated. However, his words flew over your head figuring his drunken words were exaggerated, and you found yourself to be a little sad that your time with the stranger would be cut short so soon.

"I think if you win, you should stay out for a little while and have another drink with me." You smiled, going way out of your own comfort zone.

If you were sober, or maybe even drunk in a bar anywhere other than Las Vegas, you would've been caught dead before being caught to be so bold. But he was pulling you in faster than you've ever felt, and something about him felt so natural and warm.

"Deal." He agreed.

"Look, they're about to spin the wheel." You pointed at the table.

The dealer spun the wheel, and the ball was moving so fast that you could barely even follow it. Even as it slowed down and started to tease each individual slot, the motion of following the sphere going round and round was quite honestly making you a bit dizzy, so you squeezed your eyes shut in anticipation.

"No way." The blonde stated. "No fucking way!"

His arm wrapped around you from behind and his big warm hands very gently shook the tops of your arms. "Look! It's on red! I can't see the number, but it's on red!"

You giggled and tried your best to keep your balance as he shook you around. When you opened your eyes you could see that the drink in your hand was sloshing around and spilling over onto the impeccably maintained carpet beneath your feet. But the loss of some of your drink was a small price to pay when the dealer picked the ball up out of the wheel and announced "25 Red!"

Simultaneously, you and Blondie let out little screeches in surprise and joy when you realized you had actually placed a winning bet. In all your years on this planet, nothing like this had ever happened to you. You never even won $5 on a penny slot, let alone a fat wad of cash that was being placed into the man's hands.

After the cheering celebration and laughter died down, he turned to you. "See! I knew you were lucky!"

"You trusted your intuition, and you won!" You noted with a smile so big and long lasting it was starting to make your cheeks sore. "Good job."

"Here! This is yours." He placed the wad of cash in your hands.

"What? No. You bet your own money, it's yours." Not being able to accept it, especially when you saw it was all $100 bills.

"No it's yours! You placed the winning bet, you knew the magic number so I want you to have it." He explained kindly. "You said nothing about your night was lucky, so consider this your sign from the universe."

"I can't just accept all of this money from a complete stranger." You denied once more. "You're very sweet, I would feel so guilty taking this from you."

"Fine, if you can't accept the money for yourself, how about we go spend it together?" He offered. "I owe you another drink anyways, then after that the Las Vegas strip is our oyster!"

"That's a little better" You agreed with a smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't even get your name."

"O-oh!" The man seemed to be taken back by that statement for a second. A look of momentary confusion furrowed his eyebrows before a happy smile returned to his kind face. "Sorry, I'm Steve!"

You made a small mental note of his initial shock that you asked for his name, but your drunken brain didn't hold onto that for very long.

"Alright Steve, here's the plan." You rocked up on your tippy toes and kept yourself braced with a steady hand on his solid shoulder so he could hear you better in the loud and chaotic environment. "Half my drink just ended up on the floor when you won, so I'm going to order another one. Then after that, I somehow need to end the night at my hotel on the complete opposite end of the strip without getting taken or murdered. So if we can somehow make it from here to there while blowing through that money you just won, then I'd be more than happy to help you spend it."

Steve's eyes went wide in concern at your statement. "Where are you staying?"

You narrowed your eyes at him. "My gut is telling me not to tell a strange man where I'm staying."

"Smart girl, but I'm not letting you walk down the strip alone at night. The people here are crazy." He challenged. "No funny business. Pinky promise."

Steve raised his pinky for you with a genuine look of promise and concern on his face. "Do people often trust you to get them to safety?"

His cheeks turned pinker, and he let out an adorable giggle. "Yeah, I think most people find me to be very trustworthy."

"No funny business." You lifted your hand and wrapped your pinky around his with a quick handshake. "I'm staying at New York, New York."

"Oh wow, we have a long way to go with lots of chances to blow through that stack." He smiled. "What are you drinking? I'll order you another one."

"Honestly, I have no idea." You admitted, smile coming back to your face.

"Okay great! That helps me a lot" The blonde laughed.

"Excuse me" You politely flagged down the bartender. The same one from earlier coming back, you showed him your glass. "Can I get another one of these please? And whatever he wants?"

You looked to Steve who looked between you and the bartender. "Just two waters please."

"Sure thing." The bartender agreed.

"What? You're not going to have a drink?" You questioned.

He pulled a copper flask out of the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket. "I'll drink more, but this is stronger."

"Oh, nothing here is strong enough for you?" You raised a brow, your smile growing just as lopsided as his.

"Nope. This stuff is special, it comes straight from another realm."

Laughing at his joke, as you handed the bartender cash straight from the wad Steve gave you. "That's funny, because I hope this is strong enough to make me feel like I'm no longer in this realm, so cheers to that!"

You and Steve sat at that bar for a solid two hours as conversation topics flew at the two of you unexpectedly fast. Each one new topic was short lived as an enthusiastic response would happily slip off one of your tongues, so excited that the two of you had so much in common.

Then, Steve decided to start the shopping spree. He offered you a hand to help you off the stool, which quickly turned into a protective arm around you, or ushering you the entirety of your time together. He knew that the men on the Vegas strip were pigs, but he underestimated how bad it really was.

But the cat calls, whistles, and lingering eyes were drowned out by the city sounds and the big flashing marquee lights that littered the sides of every building you passed. It was just as mesmerizing as the night before, skipping down the streets in a drunken haze with your best friends.

Now you were mesmerized by not only sin city, but the mysterious man you were following around as if you'd known him your whole life.

With a sense of childlike wonder the two of you ended up in silly places like the M&M's store, and the Coca-Cola store, but you also ventured into more classy designer establishments where you convinced him to buy a lovely new belt at Louis Vuitton.

It looked good, he looked good. You had to work really hard to contain the drool in your mouth as you watched him take off his old belt to replace it with the new one.

He tried to buy you a new bag, but once again you were being stubborn and were having a hard time accepting such a generous offer.

So, you suggested another drink. Just one more.

More sitting and chatting with Steve, you swallowed down the liquid in your cup while he shot the rest of the liquid in his flask.

That last drink was the worst of your poor decision making that night, or so you thought.

Because the last memory you had was sitting at that bar and really admiring him.

The alcohol had turned his cheeks and the tip of his nose a rosy pink color that somehow made his blue eyes shine even brighter, and add to the wholesome energy you felt radiating from him.

Sweet, silly, carefree, handsome, safe.

Then, you woke up.

Slowly at first. Your eyes opened and the dull pounding at the back of your skull wasn't nearly at bad as you deserved. The air conditioning did wonders keeping you comfortable, the light peaked through the black out curtains, and your belongings scattered across the room confirmed that you were definitely in the right place.

You looked around more. M&m's bag, Louis Vuitton bag... Converse bag? You didn't remember buying shoes. Wait... how did you get here?

Only then did you wake up FAST. You sat up, and your heart pounded as you realized that Blondie was in your bed. The sudden movement made your head pound even harder, but the good news was that he was fully clothed and was sleeping above the covers.

You were also asleep and fully clothed, but both of you were in different clothes than you had on last night. That's probably what those shopping bags in the corner were...

Carefully rolling out of bed to try and make yourself somewhat presentable and aid along trying to process what happened last night, you walked into the bathroom.

Wash your face, brush your teeth, fix your hair.

By the time you came out, Blondie was sitting up in bed with his legs on the floor, shooting you an apologetic look. He was apprehensive, scared to gauge how sick and unenthusiastic you would be by his presence this morning.

"Good morning." He said quietly, voice deep and raspy from inhaling the dry air and residual cigarette smoke.

"Morning." You tried to be polite, clutching the side of your head. "What happened? How did we- how did any of this-"

"Nothing happened." Steve reassured you. "I would never take advantage-"

"Okay, okay." You nodded slowly, feeling slightly relieved. "Advil. I have Advil."

Waking over to the table in the hotel room, you grabbed the bottle of painkillers and a water. You opened both and popped two little pills in your mouth, washing them down with water.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember much either. It's been a really long time since I've gotten drunk. This is really out of the ordinary for me." He explained.

"I guess we're on the same boat then." You agreed with him before a couple pieces of paper catch your eye.

"I guess I should probably go?" Steve stated, but it was more of a question. This was the first time he ever found himself waking up next to a stranger.

"No, you stay right there." You insisted frantically, picking up the piece of paper.

Certificate of marriage.

Your name signed at the bottom next to another signature that read Steven G Rogers.

Your heart sank to the pit of your stomach.

You studied the signature, looked at his face, looked at the signature, then his face again.

In the table, there was a picture of the two of you kissing. Him in his suit, you in the dress you wore last night but also a veil.

"Oh my god" You exclaimed, so much information to process.

"What?" Steve questioned, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Oh my god!" You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

"What happened?"

"You didn't tell me..." You puffed out a breath, then an unexpected giggle left your throat. Of course, this would happen to you the one time in your life you didn't behave like a perfect angel. "Captain America?"

"Oh... Guilty?" Steve's shoulders sunk. "I introduced myself, no?"

"As Steve." You exaggerated.

"Yeah, I'm Steve." He agreed.

"Well, at least I was safe." Finding the benefit of the doubt. "Do you remember getting married last night, Steve?"

You passed the paper and the picture to him, and his face contorted into an expression you couldn't quite read. "...wow."

"Wow?" You questioned. "I unknowingly married Captain America last night and all you have for me is wow?"

"Holy shit." Steve looked up at you.

"That's better." You nodded.

"You don't look panicked" Steve noted.

"I'm not panicked because at least you're a superhero." You explained. "That counts for something right? Like people won't think I'm totally inane for marrying a stranger when they find out it's Captain America? And like... a superhero means you have people who come and clean up after you right? Someone can fix this right?"

You watched the gears turn in his head. "... I have to call Tony."

Tony. Who's Tony? Think. Superhero, avengers, Steve, Captain America. Tony... IRON MAN.

"Stark?" Your eyebrows raised. Steve nodded, pulling out his phone. "Now I'm freaking out. I'm really freaking out."

"It's okay, give me a second." Steve said calmly.

You nodded, the remembered you should check your phone too. As he spoke quietly to Tony, you looked around for your phone before finding it on the night stand, flooded with dozens of missed calls and texts from friends wondering where you were. You quickly sent off a text in a group chat saying you'd explain later, and that you were okay.

Eventually Steve ended the call. "He said he'll be here in a minute or two."

"Oh, okay great." You said exaggerating your nonchalance. "No biggie. Iron man coming over to read my marriage certificate to Captain America."

Steve giggled at the ridiculousness of the situation. "My mother would be over the moon to find out I'm married."

"My mom might have me 6 feet in a grave if she ever finds out about this." You sat back down on the bed next to him.

"When do you leave Vegas?" Steve questioned.

"My flight is at nine tonight. What about you?"

"Flying home at six thirty." He informed you. "Where do you live?"

"New York" You said simply. "Queens."

"We both live in New York and we’re staying in a New York themed hotel? What a small world." Steve noted. "Maybe we don't have to fit in a divorce before this evening."

"I mean... you are very handsome so I definitely wouldn't mind staying married to you for a few days until we get this figured out." You grinned.

A small blush stippled his cheeks at your compliment. “You’re so pretty I would’ve never had the courage to talk to you if I wasn’t drunk.”

Just like him, you blushed at his admission, and giggled at his words. “This doesn’t feel like real life.”

“Maybe I should’ve gotten you a ring instead of whatever the hell we bought last night.” Steve thought.

You looked down at your left hand, and sure enough, there was a pretty ring on your finger. You lifted it up to show him. “Looks like you were two steps ahead of yourself”

“Oh, good.” He chuckled. “At least there’s that.”

Then, there was a knock at the door.

You looked at Steve with wide eyes and nervousness building up in your tummy at the thought of being in the same room with one third of the Avengers.

“I’ll get it” He reassured you, standing up to answer the door.

Before you knew it, Tony Stark confidently barreled into the room. Firing some teasing words at Steve, you knew the poor guy would never hear the end of it.

“Oh look, here she is!” Tony announced.

“Nice to meet you Mr. Stark.” You shook his hand.

“Trust me, the pleasure is all mine Mrs. Rogers.” He smiled.

“Tony” Steve warned with a glare.

“Where’s the paper work?” Tony asked.

You quickly handed him the picture and the signed document that was on the table. Steve stood right next to you as you both watched him read over it, and evaluate the legitimacy.

Tony took out his phone snapped a few pictures, and made a weird face. Nervously, you his your face in Steve’s arm and he instinctively rubbed your back to comfort you.

Then, Tony started laughing. “Rogers you’re an idiot.”

“I’m aware, but what’s so funny?” Steve complained.

“It’s fake.” Tony said.

“What?” Your head popped up.

“Little white chapel, married by Elvis just for the gag type of thing. There’s no marriage license, it’s not a legal marriage.” He explained, handing you the papers back.

Both you and Steve let out a huge sigh of relief. “Maybe I’m not that much of an idiot after all.”

“No, you’re still stupid.” Tony denied. “Out of all the people in the world I would’ve never expected this from you, Cap.”

“This is Thor’s fault.” Steve pointed his finger.

You didn’t understand how the god of thunder had anything to do with this, but you had no mental capacity left to even ask.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter. Just be on time for the flight home and stay out of trouble.” Tony told him. “Hope to see you around again soon, Mrs. Rogers.”

And just like that, he was out faster than he came in.

“I know Tony made it seem like everything is okay, but it’s not and I have a giant mess to clean up with the team.” Steve explained to you.

“Yeah, I’d assume so.” You smiled.

“Which means I really should go.” He let you down. “But regardless of this fiasco, and from what I do remember, I had a lot of fun with you last night. Would you want to exchange phone numbers and maybe hang out again when we get home?”

“I would love that, Steve.” You agreed.

He handed you his phone and you handed him yours. Both putting in your phone numbers and names before swapping them back.

At the same time, you both burst out laughing at the contact names.

Unplanned, he put his name as Husband, and you put yours as Wife.

“Ridiculous!” You laughed, walking him to the door.

“Maybe we really were meant to be.” Steve pondered.

“Maybe.” You agreed. “But in all seriousness, thank you for getting me home safe last night. I was really lucky to run into the right person at the right time.”

“Of course.” Steve grinned. “Travel safe, and let me know when you get home so we can set something up.”

“You got it.” Rocking up on your tippy toes, you kissed his cheek. “Have fun cleaning up that mess, Husband.”

“Don’t tell your Mom about this, Wife.”

You locked your lips and threw away the key. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

‎‧₊˚✧⚀♡⚁⁠♧⚂♤⚄♢⚅✧˚₊‧‎‧₊˚✧⚀♡⚁⁠♧⚂♤⚄♢⚅✧˚₊‧

[the-kr8tor]

Two Slow Dancers

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 7.2k

Synopsis: It's the very first day of your first 'real' job, with new faces and names, you find yourself fumbling over a handsome coworker. Will you survive the day?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), a bit of loser! Hobie, The office AU, mockumentary AU, Coworkers AU, Coworker! Hobie, Reader has nicknames, one suggestive joke, CW food mentions, CW vomit mention, Fluff.

A/N: Special thanks to @pleaktale for the idea!

Navigation

The camera zooms in on your confused expression until the lenses can see every single one of your pores. The producer clears her throat, and the camera man immediately tries to fix the view. The camera lense whirrs for a second before focusing on you as you sit on an old office chair in the corner of the conference room together with the drab eggshell white painted walls and a single plastic plant placed right next to you.

All you can see are the same drab white walls with thirty year old motivational posters tacked on it. The rows of plastic chairs are lined up in front of the whiteboard where a rolling table with a small box tv sits and collects dust. You feel like you're in an uncanny side of the world where everything is all paperwork and the sound of the photocopying machine whirs in the background amidst the smell of old carpet.

This is being a full fledged adult, you thought. You're starting to hate it already.

“Is this necessary? I just got here.” You chuckle nervously, fingers fixing your collar that doesn't need to be fixed.

“Yes, we need everyone's point of view.” The muffled voice of the producer echoes in the boom mic. “And please stop fiddling with your collar, the mic will pick up the sound.”

“Sorry,” you give her a tight smile. “Um, I guess I should give you my name?” They all nod simultaneously, making you more nervous than you already are on your first day of work. Saying your name without stuttering, you mentally pat yourself on the back for your accomplishment. “I–I just started today, and I'm very excited to work here at Connor's and Jameson's.” You smile sweetly at the camera, a rough cough from someone on the crew makes your smile falter. “C–can I go now?”

A sudden deep rumble can be heard through the mic, shaking you in your seat as you hold on to the armchair. “Woah!” As quick as it came, it subsides. “I think that was an earthquake!” You say, eyes wide in panic, fingers fiddling with your collar as your nerves get to you.

“No,” the producer behind the camera sighs, “there's construction just starting next door.”

“Oh,” You wish the earth could swallow you right now. Way to embarrass yourself on your first day, and on camera too. “Right, sorry.”

The scene shifts to your new boss, Miguel, as he watches the bullpen from his office with his watchful eyes. His hands are tucked behind his back, his large frame practically blocking the sun from his window. He sees the camera crew zooming in on him, and he awkwardly straightens up, weight subtly shifting from side to side.

The camera follows his gaze, landing on Lyla, who's chewing on the cap of her pen as she chats you up while you're working quietly on your desk. She wears a cheerful yellow button up complete with the same yellow pants. You gotta admit, she wears business well.

“I'm just saying, it's eat or be eaten in this office.” The boom mic captures her voice. And the camera moves from her to the entire bullpen that's quiet except for the sound of tapping keyboards and clicking mice. “But I'm sure you'll be okay, we're just selling electric toothbrushes. It's not the end of the world of you commit one fuck up.”

You stare at the camera with a wide look before glancing at Lyla. “T–thanks for the tip.”

Lyla tilts her head with a genuine smile, “no problem, newbie. If you need any help, you know where my department is.” As you nod and glance quickly at Miguel, who's still standing still inside his office, Lyla notices your nervous demeanor. She narrows her gaze at Miguel before flipping him the bird.

“Lyla!” You whisper yell, while Miguel presumably huffs in his office and closes the blinds right after.

“What? It's just office banter!” She returns her gaze to you, eyes softening at your nervous glance. “Nice blouse by the way! Pink suits you.”

The scene changes and now Lyla is the one in your former seat inside the conference room. “Let's just say that I have… some information on him.” She smirks before the camera lense zooms in on the window in the background where Miguel stares heavily on Lyla’s back, his nose flaring, and mouth etched in a deep frown. Lyla feels the presence, brows pinching together before looking over her shoulder. “Hey, boss man!” She says without a care in the world (Or without a care for authority no doubt,) while she waves at him casually.

The scene cuts back to you struggling on the copy machine.

The machine keeps eating all the paper you feed it, making a strange and awful creaking sound whenever you press the button. You're sure that you did everything Lyla taught you. The stack of paper goes into the side, then the file you're going to copy is placed on the scanner. Pressing a few more buttons, it should've spat out an exact copy instead of giving you a jumbled mess of paper that looks like a demonic curse was printed on it.

“Damn it.” You curse under your breath. Eyes glancing to the side, you see the camera crew practically stalking you by the pillar. You quickly change your demeanor, back straightening up, shoulders straight but your huffing through the boom mic can still be picked up unbeknownst to you.

Yanking the half eaten paper away from the slot, you internally curse the photocopy god for giving you this trial for your first day. Looking around the bullpen, you see Lyla in Miguel's office, probably getting chewed on for what she did earlier. You definitely cannot ask her for help. Gazing at your right, your other co-workers are busy with their tasks, tip tapping away at their computers with their blank stares. Well, except for that one intern you hadn't had the pleasure of meeting, who's playing minesweeper on his computer. Amazingly, he looks like he's winning.

Hands balled into fists, you're contemplating whether or not you should start throwing punches at the machine. Lyla did tell you its temperamental, maybe a quick punch would make it think twice from giving you hell.

“Thinkin’ ‘bout squarin’ up with the xerox machine?” A sudden new voice startles you in place. His tone is smooth, confident and deep that it sends good shivers down your arms. “Sorry, thought you need some help.” he chuckles, backing away from you when he notices your shocked expression. “You new ‘ere, huh?”

“It's okay,” your nerves bust through your shaky tone. “Uh, yeah, new associate– on probation for the next six months.”

He smiles sweetly, silver lip piercing drawing your attention towards his lips which you immediately correct your gaze by staring at his brow piercing instead. It didn't help much with your nerves, he looks handsome in every angle. It's not like you're looking for an office romance, it's not illegal to stare, right?

Your new acquaintance has his wicks in a ponytail, silver charms clinking against each other whenever he moves his head. He wears a dark button up, untucked and without a necktie. You find him unbelievably charming.

“‘m sure you'll get it. Once you get ol’ Jerry ‘ere to work for you.” He pats the machine as it whirs and eats another piece of paper. His lithe hand grabs your attention, silver rings dotted along it like he's about to play on stage.

You swallow thickly, avoiding staring too long. “J–Jerry?”

“Yeah, we named it after this bloke who worked ‘ere.”

“That's kind of nice.”

“He's not with us anymore.”

“Oh–” you blink, lips already forming apologies.

“He’s retired, we got him a cake and everythin’” you can see that he's trying to tamp down a laugh by how his Adam's apple bops up and down and from how he subtly bites his lip piercing. “Did you think—?”

“No.” You immediately say. He gives you a teasing look, brilliant hazel eyes that are a beautiful mix of brown and green gazes at you playfully. “T–That’s what I thought too.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. “My offer of help still stands. But after this you have to tame the bloody beast on your own.”

You nod, “please, I'm starting to rationalize whether I should punch it or not.”

He gives you a genuine smile, “that could work actually. I've seen people do it a few times.”

“Really?” You say with raised brows and a hint of a hopeful smile.

“Nah.” He shakes his head with a smirk, smile widening when you frown at him with an annoyed look. With a chuckle, he reaches towards the half eaten paper stuck inside, fingers wrapping around it to pull away. “‘m Hobie, Hobie Brown. I work in the post room.” He gestures with his head towards the cart full of envelopes and small parcels. “Or what I like to call it in a fancy way, the logistics room.”

“It's nice to meet you, Hobie.” You smile at him, and Hobie smiles back as he finally rips the page away with a rough tug. The paper is suddenly released, the force almost topples him over if not for your quick reflexes. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, and you swear you felt his pulse quicken.

“You okay, Hobie?” As quick as you were, you retract your hand back to your side.

He nonchalantly clears his throat, fist gripping the paper in his palms. “Yeah, thank you…” he waits for your reply.

You give him your name, cheeks warm and palm suddenly clammy as you shift your feet from side to side to hide your bashfulness. With an inhale and your mind returning to the task at hand, you channel your bravery. “Care to teach me how to tame the beast?”

Hobie balls up the ruined paper all without leaving his eyes on you with a gentle smile. A bit unsure but definitely genuine. “Sure, I charge by the minute, by the way.” He jokes.

“Do you take lunch as payment?” You ride with his joke, hands placed inside your blazer pocket to again hide your shyness.

He grins, “I think we'll get along well, probie.”

You two have completely forgotten about the cameras. They got the whole interaction on film, complete with the lingering gazes and soft smiles you two seem to harbour.

—

“Hobie Brown.” He says while he's sitting on an office chair backwards, arms hugging the back of the chair and chin placed atop it casually. The producer eggs him on to continue with a single look. Hobie sighs, standing up swiftly before twirling the office chair away from him in one fluid and suave motion. “I work in the post room.” He crosses his arms on his chest, annoyed. “I've been ‘ere for three years. Don't like it, but it helps pay the bills, innit?”

“Can you tour us around the mailroom?” The producer asks in a hushed tone but loud enough to be captured by the boom mic.

“No.” He says flatly, already turning to leave the camera crew as he wheels his mail cart out of the room wordlessly.

The camera is left to just roam all over the organized chaos that is the mailroom. Everything seems to be in place but at the same time it's not. All the envelopes are in their correct spots on the large shelf on the far end of the wall, but all the boxes are shoved in a corner, all stacked up. It's a miracle that it's still standing without toppling over.

The mic picks up muffled chatter out in the hallway. Hurried footsteps can be heard as the crew follows the source of the sound. The camera peeks at the doorway, tilting to get a better look of you, who seems to be chatting Hobie up with a polite smile on your face.

“Mr. O’hara said that the shipping company messed up and gave us a different sample product.” You hold the box in your arms, clearly opened but was hastily closed off with masking tape. “He asked if you could send it back?” You ask sheepishly.

Hobie's whole demeanor seems to change as the white fluorescent light shines on your bashful eyes. “Sure, I know those blokes. I can even get it shipped for free.” He opens his arms, receiving the box from you, hands briefly brushing along his own. “They rarely fuck up, what's inside?”

“Uh,” you laugh nervously, cheeks aflame. “Something that is electric but definitely not a toothbrush—” before you could warn him, he shakes the box. It sets off numerous buzzing sounds inside. Hobie's neck snaps up towards you in a flash, with a smile slowly spreading across his amused face. “Yeah…” You wince, biting at your lower lip. “They're not toothbrushes.”

“Holy shit! It's—”

“Don't say it, Hobie!” You say through your grin. “Miguel was furious!”

His loud guffaw echoes down the hallway, making the boom mic pick up the sound, almost shattering the mic itself. Earning a high pitched sound emanate from it briefly. The poor sound tech had to take off his earphones lest he breaks his eardrums.

Hobie laughs harder. “I bet. I'd pay to see him all mad like that.” Shaking the box even more, the buzzing sound makes you chuckle, hand clasping over your mouth to tamp down your giggles. He mirrors your smile, finding your laughter contagious. After you've composed yourself, worthy of being your business self, he gestures towards the mailroom with his head. “You wanna see the post room, probie? It's not as glamorous as the bullpen but it's alright.”

“As long as you don't shake or god forbid, open the box.” You playfully gesture with your index at the box in his hands.

“Only if you ask.” He jokes back, or was it flirting on his end? Clearing his throat, he sees you widen your eyes, breath hitching in your throat. “I wouldn't, don't worry.” He immediately decides to remedy the awkwardness, feeling that he might've offended you. “There's a parcel ‘ere that's dated to be delivered in ten years. Don't ask why because I don't know.”

“In ten years? Weird, who's it addressed to?” You follow Hobie despite your thudding heart. He makes you feel like you're back in school again with all the crushes and lingering gazes across the classroom. Maybe it's not so bad to befriend someone else here that isn't Layla.

The camera crew immediately runs to the other end of the hallway to continue secretly filming the two of you, before you or Hobie could see them. Hobie opens the door for you, balancing his hold on the box and on the door.

“Yeah, it has your name on it.” You gasp right next to him. He smirks, eyes glancing at you teasingly. “Just fuckin' with you, probie.”

“I have a name, y’know.” You roll your eyes, seeing something move in your peripheral.

“You're probie until the lunch club says so.”

“The lunch club?” You ask, head tilting at the peeping camera from the corner of the hallway.

“You'll see,” Hobie shakes the box again to get your attention.

“You—! I told you not to shake it again!” Your giggles get muffled as you close the door behind you with a creak. The noise is followed by Hobie enthusiastically giving you a tour of the mailroom to the whole documentary crew’s amusement, and half disappointment.

—

You finally make it to lunch without a hitch. Without any more raunchy parcels and without you tripping over your own heels on the carpeted floors.

The camera follows right behind you, giving you enough space after you complained to Lyla in the HR department at how they've been too close to you, and hindering your work. (They haven't, you just find them annoying.) Hobie seems to have the same idea as you when he went to her office to tell them off too. According to him, ‘If I see another camera up in my face, I'll break their dodgy lenses.’ He said it with such gravitas that the documentary crew backed away immediately with their tails tucked in between their legs.

You grasp your lunch box in your hands, eyes roaming around the small break room with a few tables and chairs all grouped up. The vending machines on the side of the room whirr, its lights flickering in and out that has you suddenly creeped out. You blame Hobie for telling you a story about a night janitor that cleans the whole building even without its head attached to his neck.

Goosebumps appear on your arms when you remember how eerily he told it. Still, you were properly entertained before you had to go back to work, back to your drab computer with its boring programs and even more boring paperwork. Hobie makes it all bearable. You smile at the thought. Good thing that you're the only person in the breakroom, or your new coworkers would think that you're losing it. Then you remember the camera zeroing in on your face, you want to throw your lunch at them. If only it didn't cause you your job.

With a sigh, you claim the table nearest towards the vending machine. Sitting down your packed lunch, a bottle of your favourite iced tea grabs your attention inside the vending machine, begging to be let out of its glass confines.

Rummaging through your blazer, you could only find a stick of gum, and a button that magically flew out of your sleeve when you moved to grab a stapler earlier. You sigh, longingly staring at the sweetened tea. You bet that it'll help make your miserable first day a bit better. But alas, you're too lazy to go back to your desk to quickly grab your wallet.

Suddenly, an arm appears next to you, you almost screamed at the appearance if not for the recognizable rings around his fingers.

“Hobie, you scared me!” You clutch your imaginary pearls. “I thought you were—”

“The night janitor?” He smirks teasingly. You find him adorably infuriating. “D’you still need that change?” Glancing at his hand that's clutching the coin, it’s ready to be placed inside the coin slot, just waiting for your cue.

The camera crew backs away further into the corner, having the perfect view of the entire room and your interaction.

“I—” you wince when you pat down your other pocket, cursing at how your pencil skirt doesn't even have pockets. “— will you, please?” Great, your embarrassment will transcend through TV screens from now on.

Hobie smiles softly, coin clinking inside the machine as it falls. “Choose your poison, probie.”

Without a doubt, you press the number that correlates to your favourite drink. “Thanks, Hobie. I'll pay you back later. I'm supposed to be buying you lunch, remember?” You crouch down as the bottle tumbles down with a thud, falling right into your waiting hand. It's cold to the touch, the bee mascot on the packaging greets you with a cartoonish smile.

“Don't mind it, I have my own lunch. Save the IOU for another day.” he says as he sits down, setting his own lunch adjacent to yours. “Take it as a welcome gift.”

You turn around to face him, having a hard time opening the bottle cap. “And here I thought you wanted me out of here.”

Hobie scoffs without malice laced in it. The camera lense zooms in on his gentle smile. “Please, I don't give a tour to anyone in my post room just like that.” He gestures for the bottle wordlessly, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion.

“I thought you brought all the new girls in there.” Teasing, you sit down in front of him, handing him your drink which he opens for you without a struggle. “Thanks.” He hands it back, warm fingers unintentionally brushing along your own.

“Not all the new girls.” He shrugs. “Jus’ the ones with the weak wrists.”

“Hey!” You chuckle, “rude. The cap was screwed in too tightly.”

“Sure, probie.” He opens his lunchbox, the smell of savoury meat and sautéed vegetables makes your hastily made sandwich look like it came from a microwavable meal.

“Wow.” You blink at the perfectly cooked rice. “Is that turmeric in the rice?”

Puffing up his chest, he smugly smiles. “Yeah, Beef broccoli with oyster sauce.”

“Damn,” you look down at your regular white bread egg sandwich. “Wanna switch?”

He chuckles, “no.” He makes sure to enunciate.

“Worth a try.” You mirror his smile. “Did your girlfriend or partner make it?”

“Nope, no girlfriend. Made it myself.” He says the last sentence proudly.

No girlfriend, huh? “It's pretty amazing that you have time to prep meals.” You take a bite of your abysmal lunch.

“That's what gets you when you don't have a partner.” Hobie scoops out a decent amount of his meal with his spoon, “your sandwich is…”

“Shit, I know.”

Chuckling, Hobie looks at you through his shining hazel eyes. “I was gonna say alright, but that works too.”

You take a sip of your iced tea, letting the cool drink douse your obvious shyness and flustered state whenever you converse with him. Lyla's words during the orientation keep repeating in your head, ‘no office romance,’ she said. ‘It's too complicated,’ she said. Is it though?

“So what's the lunch club? Shouldn't they be meeting up right about now?” Just as you said it, the doors swing open, revealing three college aged kids in their business outfits.

“Sorry we're late. Pav here needed to finish something.”

“Don't blame me,” The one with the flowy hair and dark brown suit scrunches his nose. “You're the one who's playing minesweeper all day, Miles.”

“The fields aren't getting cleared all by themselves, y'know?”

The only girl in the group sighs and rolls her blue eyes, pausing in the doorway once she sees you sitting with Hobie. “Well, who do we have here?” Her voice puts a stop to the arguing.

“Meet the new girl. Gwen, meet Y/N. Y/N, meet Gwen.” Hobie gestures over to the blond then to you.

“Hi, it's a pleasure.” You say whilst quickly chewing your food to appear somewhat presentable when they caught you mid chew.

“Oho, so she's the one you've been yapping about, Hobie.” Gwen crosses the small distance, palm patting Hobie on his shoulder. “Now it's really nice to meet you.”

“You talk about me?” You tilt your head, eyes narrowed playfully.

“He will not shut up, trust me.” Pav waves towards you in greeting. “I'm Pavitr by the way! I wish you could meet Gyatri but she's out sick.” He sighs, sinking down on the chair.

“It's nice to meet you, Pavitr.” You smile genuinely at the seemingly lovestruck Pavitr.

“Don't mind him, he just misses his girlfriend.” The one in a white button up and black lopsided necktie holds out his hand to you. “I'm Miles Morales.”

“Pleasure,” you shake his hand briefly while Hobie watches you interact with three of them. The documentary crew fades in the background, practically a fly on the wall by now that the group has gotten used to their cameras and lights. “I'm guessing this is the lunch club?”

“That's what Hobie told you?” Gwen sits down next to you, sliding drinks she got from the vending machine towards each of her friends. “We're more like the gossiping slash complaining club.”

You chuckle, “you guys are interns?”

“Unpaid interns.” They all say simultaneously in the same monotonous tone.

“It should be Illegal.” Hobie says, elbows placed on the table to address you fully.

“Not being paid for work in the guise that it's just an internship therefore the ‘pay’ is experience?” You make quotation marks with your fingers. Hobie raises an amused brow while the three share a knowing look that you can't quite decipher.

“That and interns.” Hobie shrugs with a smile, you snort at his joke, gazes lingering for a second before returning to each of your meals.

Gwen smirks and nudges Hobie's leg with her foot. The camera picks up and records their wordless conversation before she turns towards you. “If not for me then the mailroom would be a complete mess.”

“It's organized, Gwendy.”

“Well you did a shit job at organizing it.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you.”

Miles leans towards you, “Hobie's technically her boss.”

“Doesn't look like it. They argue like siblings.” You watch them with amusement, eyes crinkling in the corners. You decide to save everyone's lunch, “so… the lunch club is just you guys chatting about?”

“It’s more than that!” Pav says while he quickly swallows his lunch, “it's a way of life!”

“We sometimes meet up to play a gig at some dinghy place, or to just hangout after work.” Gwen smiles at you, hand clasped around her drink after Miles tried to switch it with his. “Wait!” Her blue eyes sparkles, “you haven't told her that you're in a band, Hobie!”

The trio gives Hobie a wry smile. Mischief glimmering in their eyes. “Yeah, Hobie, tell her about that time you played for one thousand people.” Pav nudges him with his elbow with a wink that you missed.

“You're in a band?!” Your expression brightens. “That's so cool! My roommate’s in a band, what do you play?”

Hobie throws the trio a quick glare before clearing his throat. “The guitar—”

“Just don't ask him to serenade you— Ow!” Gwen flinches in her seat, gaze narrowed at Hobie.

Your smile gets brighter, “you must be good at it then, playing for a thousand souls isn't a walk in the park.”

“Pav’s exaggeratin’, it was only a hundred or so.”

“Please,” Miles scoffs with a raised eyebrow. “It was definitely more than ‘a hundred or so.’” He copies Hobie's accent imperfectly. “You should've seen him,” he points at Hobie with his thumb while animatedly talking and clearly gassing him up. “He was basically Freddie Mercury up there— Ow, what?!” He stares at Hobie as if his looks could burn a hole through his head.

“He has a show next week—” Pav suddenly exclaims. “don't you dare, Hobie!” He points accusingly at Hobie. A moment passes while the two have a stare off. Meanwhile, the camera zooms in under the table where Hobie's foot is threatening to kick at Pav's leg.

Hobie sighs, blinking away his annoyance, (and putting his foot down) “it's in the white horse pub, if you're free next weekend.”

“Drinks are on Hobie—!” Gwen quickly says before twisting in her seat, effectively dodging Hobie's attack. “You should go! The rest of the band will appreciate a new face in the crowd.”

“Are you guys sure?” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I don't want to impose.”

“Impose away, probie.” Hobie smiles at you, dimples in full display. “‘sides, the pub’s fish and chips are unmatched.” His eyes sparkle under the fluorescent light of the vending machines.

You nod bashfully. “Sure. You had me at fish and chips.”

The trio share a knowing look before side eyeing the camera simultaneously with the same expression while you and Hobie gaze at each other with slight trepidation.

—

Before your first day could end, Miguel O’Hara calls everyone in the conference room for a quick meeting. You highly doubt that it's a quick meeting though since there's only thirty minutes before the day could officially end. Couldn't he just email it instead? Or maybe this is about *that package. If it is, you don't want to go.

With a huff and a quick but tired look at the camera, you make your way towards the conference room. As you enter, Miguel stands at front, muscular arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the room.

You avoid his stare, finding that your new boss scares you just a tiny bit with his air of authority around him.

Leather shoes and heels shuffle on the floor as each employee finds their place on their seat. You find the farthest chair to sit on in hopes of staying invisible. The plastic chair squeaks as you sit, cringing at the sound, knowing that the mic probably picked it up. You're starting to hate this documentary crew following your every move. Who would even find an electric toothbrush company entertaining to watch? Moreso to film its day to day operations? It's a complete mystery to you.

The room slowly fills up with you sitting at the back, your fists bunch up at your skirt with your nerves bothering you as Miguel scans his brown eyes around the room. The man sitting in front of you twists in his seat, a smile etched on his face.

“You're the new kid, huh?” You nod at him sheepishly as he reaches for you in greeting. “I'm Peter B. Welcome to the shit show.”

“Nice to meet you?” You shake his hand despite what he said.

The woman next to him sighs audibly, curls bouncing as she looks over her shoulder over to Peter. “Don't depress the poor kid on her first day, Peter.” With a polite smile, she addresses you. “I'm Jessica, don't listen to him, he's nihilistic. And likes to scare the newbies.”

“Well, I couldn't do it to Harry, might as well do it to— what's your name again?” Peter raises a brow at you.

“I haven't given it to you yet.” Chuckling nervously, you give him your name, fists unfurling around your skirt as you find them weirdly comforting. Like your favourite aunt and uncle you only get to see during the holidays.

“And I'm that Harry.” Someone suddenly speaks on your right. You almost jump in place if not for his gentle and unassuming smile. “I was hired a month before you.”

You take his waiting hand and shake it politely, finding his hand warm and friendly. “Y/N. Got any advice?”

Harry chuckles, a strand of auburn hair falling over his eye which he quickly brushes away casually. “My advice?” You nod, “go with the flow, and don't take it too seriously. The world won't catch fire if you accidentally mess up your documents. Worst case is that someone won't be able to brush their teeth for a few days.”

“Thanks.” You utter with a chuckle.

“No problem, oh, and uh, stay away from the bathroom on the second floor.”

You blink, curiosity written all over your face. “Why? Did someone die there?” You whisper the last sentence.

Harry leans closer, whispering back, pausing for suspense as you wait with trepidation. “...No, the other workers in the building just like to take a dump in there.” With every word, his smile grows. “Why would you think someone died there?” He says teasingly.

Just as you laugh, Hobie finally enters the room with the trio in tow. Miguel gives them a sour look for being late. You glance at him, “I think someone gave me that idea.”

Harry shakes his head with a smile, leaning away as Hobie sits down on your left. Harry gives him a polite nod before glancing softly at you and returning his attention to the front of the room. The camera zeroes in on Hobie's colder gaze at the man right next to you.

“What'd I miss?” He crosses his leg over the other casually, foot nudging you gently.

“Not much, just a few introductions—” Miguel's voice suddenly calling your name interrupts you. You feel like a student again when a teacher scolds you for talking in class. “Yes— sorry?” You stand up lightning quick, hands sweaty and stomach plummeting down.

“I was going to ask if you want to introduce yourself.” Miguel blinks at you, suddenly, you feel the room shrinking and with everyone's eyes on your trembling form.

You want to run and hide somewhere. Maybe not in the second floor bathroom.

“Uh, yeah, s–sure.” You curse yourself internally for fumbling over your own words. Saying your name, your throat feels like it's about to close on you. Someone coughs within the crowd, you feel faint. Hobie notices, the back of his hand brushes atop yours. You look down at the source, and he nods and smiles at you, encouraging you gently. “And I— I'm excited to work with all of you.”

Miguel nods, satisfied, giving you a glance as he tells you to sit back down. You can see Lyla give you a thumbs up from her seat up front.

“Nice job,” Hobie whispers to you, shoulder nudging your own. You inhale deeply whilst the camera lens focuses on you and Hobie. Miguel's words drones on, fading in the background. “Oi,” he says gently, “just breathe, yeah? It's over, you did brilliantly.”

“I think I'm gonna vomit.” You huff, trying to inhale and exhale out your bundle of nerves. “I almost fucked that up.”

“But you didn't.” Smiling, he taps your hand with his pinky. “Keep breathin’ for me. Don't want you gettin' sick all over the floors. What would the night janitor think about you now.”

You clasp a hand over your mouth to quiet down your chuckles. “Thank you, Hobie. I'm sorry that you have to keep saving me.”

Your whispered words make him grin, hiding how his cheeks grow warmer atop his shoulder. “No problem, it's part of my job description—”

“Hobie Brown!” Miguel's voice echoes from the front towards the back of the room, you flinch at the sound. “What do you do during an earthquake?”

Hobie's brows pinch together in confusion. “Why?”

Miguel rubs at the skin in between his eyes. Cameras flicking over to him and over to Hobie, who's grinning mischievously. The trio, except for Gwen, mirrors his playful grin.

“Dios mio, it's because we've been talking about an earthquake drill for the past five minutes.” You can tell that Miguel’s holding back from swearing.

“Ah, that.” Hobie smirks, feigning confusion. You swear he was actually listening to Miguel while he was talking to you. “Get on the floor and roll over?”

You almost laughed, Pav does, which was immediately extinguished by Miguel's stern stare.

“No, that's for when there's a fire.” Miguel gestures towards Harry right next to you. “Osborne.”

“Duck, cover and hold.” He shrugs, glancing at you, or was he staring over you and towards Hobie instead?

“Good,” Miguel breathes out a sigh, “the company wants us to practice what to do in the event of an earthquake.”

Hobie snickers in place. While Miles raises a defiant hand. “But there hasn't been an earthquake in New York since 1884.”

Miguel pauses like he's also thinking on why the company would instruct him that. “They just want to cover all the bases.” He says confidently, you admire at how fast he came up with that. “Lyla here will show you how—”

The floor suddenly shakes, and you grip at the nearest thing near you, which is coincidentally, Hobie's hand.

“Earthquake!” Lyla yells atop her lungs, already running out of the room in haste, leaving everyone to fend for themselves. Everyone follows right behind her, panic settling in everyone.

Hobie glances at you, with a playful wink, he launches off his chair, hand clutching at your wrist gently. You follow a half second later, heels clicking against the floor as you try to keep up with his long strides.

“Wait! It's just the—” Miguel gets bumped by Peter, stumbling briefly before catching himself. “Lyla! It's just the construction next door!” Still, everyone sprints off, leaving him alone in the room.

With everyone either in a panic or just following the crowd without an ounce of haste, Hobie seems to be having the time of his life. Cackling above Lyla's high pitched screams whilst he holds onto your wrist.

“C’mon, probie! Don't want the buildin’ to fall on you now!” He says while running with measured steps on the stairs of the fire exit. You're sure that running out of a building during an earthquake isn't wise, but the shake wasn't technically an earthquake.

Your panic is replaced with something lighter, smiling as he holds onto you. “Do you know it's just the—?” Foot stumbling over the other whilst you two run down the stairs, he immediately twists around when he feels that you've become suddenly weightless right behind him. “Shit!”

“Got you!” Hobie's arms catch you mid air as you instinctively yelp and grab a hold of him. His back hits the wall in a groan, eyes briefly closing from the sudden ache. “You alright?”

“Me?! Are you okay?!” You actually panic now, scanning him for injuries, head craning to look at the back of his head. Thankfully, you don't find any injuries. “Oh thank fuck.” Thumping your head on his shoulder, he chuckles as his hands hovers above your back.

The rush of footsteps subside, and you two are left alone on the staircase. His shallow breaths echo while you lean away, but still near enough to see his dimples and how flustered you look in his gorgeous eyes.

“Sorry for draggin’ you around, love.” The new nickname has your head craning up to look at him at lightning speed. “Thought you could keep up.”

You two don't notice the lone cameraman atop the stairs, watching the scene unfold, all the while having a front row seat.

Your palms are on his chest, lips slightly agape, eyes gazing into his hazel eyes. “I did, you're not the one wearing heels, Hobie.”

“There you go, fight back, love.” His voice warms your chest as he smiles at you and only you.

Heart beating rapidly, you hear footsteps from behind, and you immediately unlatch yourself from Hobie. His warmth is left etched on your form, eyes glancing shyly at him, finding that he's already staring at you with the same softness.

“Good, you're still here.” Miguel huffs from the top of the stairs, “get the others back up here.”

The scene shifts to Miguel sitting alone in his office, looking disgruntled and tired. “I want to quit.” He says in a flat tone.

—

It's finally time to go home. You close your computer and grab your things, waving goodbye to Lyla, who's staying behind to work on paperwork. You guess that's her punishment for setting off panic in the whole office.

Mind recounting your whole day, you enter the elevator on auto pilot. The elevator door starts to close, but a hand reaches in between the closing doors, effectively opening it.

Hobie's expression brightens when he sees you.

“Hi, Hobie.” You smile, holding the door for him to give him time to enter.

“Love.” He tips his head to you, joining you in the elevator. He puts on his leather jacket filled with shiny spikes and buttons all around it, atop his button up, making him look like a tough businessman of sorts. “Headin’ home?”

“Yep,” you pop the letter ‘p’ whilst trying your best not to ogle him. “My roommate’s picking me up, we're gonna go celebrate with a couple pints of ice cream.”

“Cute.” He mumbles, quickly clearing his throat right after.

“Huh?” You glance at him, heart thudding, and hands clammy around your bag.

“I said that it's adorable, celebratin’ your first day.”

“You think it's childish?” Your brows pinch together.

“Didn't say that,” he backtracks, “I think it's nice to celebrate it.” You hum in reply. “I didn't mean—” Side eyeing him, you tamp down your laughter by biting down on your lip. He catches on immediately. Shaking his head with a fond smile, Hobie leans on the elevator wall, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Cheeky.”

“Learned from the best.” You shuffle on your feet to hide your shyness. “What happened to the camera crew?”

“They went home, they have regular hours too y’know. Why, you miss ‘em?”

“God, no.” The doors open with a ding as Hobie chuckles at your reply. You exit the elevator, shoulders aching from how much you've been sitting down today.

“Before I forget.” Stepping off, he opens the glass door for you, propping it open with his body as he rummages through his pockets. You wait for him patiently, watching as he pats all his pockets. “‘ere.” Handing you a piece of paper, he waits for you to read it.

“Is this?” Reading the contents written in his handwriting, complete with a little doodle of the iced tea you had for lunch. Your eyes soften under the orange sunset.

“The recipe for my beef broccoli I had for lunch.” He shrugs, hand scratching at the back of his head as he stares anywhere that isn't your shining eyes. “It's easier than you think it is. It only took me about 30 minutes to cook because I chopped everythin’ up and prepped it the night before. I stopped eatin’ at shitty fast food places when I learned to do it myself.” He rambles on nervously, hiding his sweet gesture with numerous explanations.

You pat his arm before pocketing the recipe for safekeeping. “Thank you, Hobie. I'll make sure to make extra for you.”

The corner of his lips tug up into a gentle smile. “Make sure you give me an extra serving of beef then, love.”

You nod, heart beating loudly against your chest. “Does this mean I'm part of the lunch club now?”

“‘Course.” He says it like it's the most obvious thing ever. “The council has approved your membership. That includes the rest of my band mates.”

“And here I thought the council only consisted of you and a trio of teenagers.” You take a jab at him in an effort to tease him.

“Fuckin' cheeky, you're hangin’ ‘round me too much—”

A familiar weight suddenly falls on your shoulders. “Who's this tall drink of—”

“MJ!” You immediately clamp her mouth shut with your hand to save yourself the embarrassment. “This is Hobie, my coworker.”

Hobie's brows furrow, the cogs in his head turn at the sight of the red haired. “I think I know you from somewhere.”

Mj moves your hand away before answering. “Wait, I think I know you too!”

Recognition flits over their faces, eyes widening. “You're in that band!” They say at the same time while pointing at eachother.

MJ leaves your side, and Hobie fist bumps her hand in greeting. You're standing in between them so you back away a little to give them space. You smile at their interaction, it's such a small world that they actually know each other. You're happy that your best friend is acquainted with your new friend.

“You're in ‘Mary Janes,’ right?” Hobie's smile grows bigger.

“Bitch, I am the Mary Jane!” She gestures in a ‘here I am’ pose, continuing to chat him up.

“Shit, I like your music, mate.”

“Dude, yours absolutely fucks hard!” Mj jumps on the balls of her feet excitedly. “I saw you guys play last month, the crowd was wild!”

“We have a gig next week at the white horse, wanna come with?”

“Fuck yeah, my guy!”

As they talk, you blend into the background. Your mouth opens to try to get a word in, but their enthusiastic words plow over your own. Your smile falters as they slowly forget about you standing on the side. So you wait, and wait like a kid waiting for their parent to stop talking to someone they bumped into at the grocery store.

Your first day wasn't so bad, right?

[grinnames]

SMG4 Godbox AU Chapter 1: Awakening, Overtakening

The inside of the spaceship was quiet, and the only thing that could be felt was overwhelming dread, and silent prayers that SMG4 and SMG3 were still alive.

It had been about an hour since SMG1 and SMG2 had blown up the Godbox and everything and everyone within it. It had been 20 minutes since the two of them regained consciousness and frantically got back into their damaged and dented ship, searching for any survivors. It had been 30 minutes since they had gotten a call from the Mushroom Kingdom, signaling that everyone was alright and accounted for, and that Mario had miraculously survived the blast, though the red plumber was still missing. It had been 10 minutes since they had found Melonie’s burned and unconscious body floating next to SMG0’s corpse. They had hastily pulled her into the ship and hooked her up to a convenient life-support machine, where she lay in a fitful rest, her divine magic whirring and buzzing to keep her alive.

SMG1’s eyes were laser-focused on the monitors, scanning for any signs of life. His hopes were thin, and he highly doubted that the two SMGs had survived the blast. But they were inside the Godbox when the meme-bomb hit, and the lid suddenly slamming shut could have at least shielded them from the worst of the blast. Immense guilt weighed on his heart, but he swallowed his feelings and pushed forward. He had to be strong. If they were dead, he would take full responsibility, and do whatever he could to make sure they were remembered.

SMG2 was the one piloting the ship, ever so often glancing back at his partner in concern. Guilt also weighed on his heart. He really saw SMG3 and SMG4 as his students. Being their teacher brought him so much joy. He loved that he could play a role in training the next generation of meme guardians that would protect the universe. He never wanted them to sacrifice their lives. He felt like he had failed them. If they were still alive, he hoped that they would forgive him, and that they could continue training and becoming stronger… together.

After several, long, anxiety-wracked minutes, the monitor suddenly let out a faint beep. SMG2 immediately perked up.

“They’re- THEY’RE ALIVE!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with a happy sob.

SMG1 was stunned, and slightly smiled in disbelief. “I… I don’t believe it! But they’ve got to be hurt! We have to hurry!” 

Without a second to spare, SMG2 slammed on the gas, and the ship zoomed in the direction of the life signal. 

...

SMG3 groggily opened his eyes. Every cell in his body felt… strange, almost unfamiliar. He knew that this was still his body, but it was as if someone had barged inside and rearranged all the furniture, and maybe also vandalized the walls with obscenities. He felt so, so cold, but he didn’t feel the need to curl in on himself. No, he didn’t need any warmth at all. 

He could hear the roar of an engine approaching. He turned his head to the side, and winced as bright lights blinded his vision. It was SMG1 and SMG2’s ship. 

...

SMG2 stared in shock and confusion at the sight before him. SMG1 also looked on in shock, but his eyebrows also furrowed in suspicion. 

Just outside their ship, illuminated by the ship’s headlights, were the sources of SMG3’s and SMG4’s life signals, fast asleep and adrift in the cosmos. 

“...Neither of them have any visible wounds…”  began SMG1, unsure of where to even start analyzing. 

“...Ahah, well at least they’re in one piece…?” SMG1 quipped, trying to stay optimistic. “Aside from the, um, random redesign? I think they’re gonna make it!” 

“Why are they… Asian? Actually no, that’s besides the point! How did this happen?!” SMG1 rubbed his head, growing more and more puzzled by the second. 

There was no evidence that they had just been hit with a nuke. Heck, even their clothes were unharmed, and not a single hair was out of place. They had the signature overalls, gloves, caps, and rotund frame of their avatar, but that was where the similarities ended. 

First of all… they were indeed Asian now. SMG4’s new face was smooth and lacked any facial hair. His face almost looked like a doll’s. SMG3 shared the same face, but a short black beard replaced his old mustache. 

SMG3’s color scheme had changed. He kept his black overalls, but his shirt and cap were a dark purple now. 

Their shoes now had pointed heels and toes. Their gloves were longer, and extended past their forearms and nearly reached their shoulders. And finally, each of them sported red, glowing rings that cuffed their wrists, ankles, and neck. 

SMG2 nudged the ship closer, reaching for the airlock. “Let’s hurry up and bring them home, we have to make sure that they’re really ok!” he chirped.

SMG1 grabbed SMG2’s shoulder. “Wait, 2, something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what it is, it’s just a gut feeling, but look at those rings-”

Before SMG1 could finish his sentence, SMG3 blinked awake and stared right at them. His eyes squinted in the bright light, and widened with recognition. 

SMG2 shook himself, and smiled reassuringly. He switched on the ship’s intercom. “SMG3! Hey… you’re ok! We’re not sure why, but we’re going to get you two home, and we’ll figure it out together!”

SMG3 said nothing. He only continued to stare, his expression hardening.

...

He remembered now. His name is SMG3. He was currently floating in the Great Beyond. He had just been dead. And now he was the vessel for an eldritch god. 

…Why had this happened to him? This was so… unfair. It was all because he had died. It was all because he had been killed. SMG1. SMG2. They had-

“...tried to kill us.” A dark and inhuman whisper rang out in his mind. White hot rage seized his heart. And then, he saw nothing but red.

...

“SMG3…?” SMG2 asked worriedly. “Please say something, you’re starting to freak me out-”

“2… something is horribly wrong.” SMG1 said, his throat tightening as he reached for the steering wheel.

SMG3’s eyes suddenly blazed red. The sclera lit up with the crimson, and the irises flashed white in the shape of a “0.” His lips pulled back and his mouth let out guttural roar, revealing rows of sharp red teeth. In the blink of an eye, he had rushed from his spot to the ship’s windshield, the force of his movement cracking the glass and shaking the ship. His fingers were curled into hooked black talons, digging into the window. 

“Murrrrrrgh… MURDERERRRRRRRRRR!” he roared.

SMG2 screamed, and SMG1's breath caught in his throat. As he and SMG3 locked eyes, SMG1 saw Eldritch 0. The Toytoy Kingdom. Spudnick screaming in agony as a slimy blue appendage squeezed out his essence. His own body burning with indescribable agony and losing its texture. Everything, everywhere falling to pieces and becoming corrupted-

Without thinking, SMG1 immediately put the ship in reverse and blasted backwards, throwing off SMG3… no, whatever that thing was. Fueled by adrenaline, SMG1 deftly put the ship back in forwards mode, spun around and hightailed it.

The vessel tumbled backwards through space before righting itself in vacuum. It glared at the retreating spaceship, unamused. “Meme guardians… always so annoying. They always think that they can put off the inevitable.”

Through SMG3’s eyes, it inspected his new hands. “Though… I didn’t expect this one’s rage to suddenly… spur us to such an irrational and premature move.” It would have been more advantageous to remain passive, and wait for the right moment to strike. It appeared that the purple-clad man's emotional impulses had worked a little too well.

No matter. It had been doing this for a very, very long time. It would adapt. Every movement its new vessels would make would be completely calculated, whether they were in control, or not. 

With no spaceship of its own, the vessel decided to use an old trick. This new body had some interesting code. The former-meme guardian had inherited it from the universe he was sent to. It was just tucked away, waiting to be used to its full potential. Red glitches flickered around its form. A familiar jingle of three uplifting 8-bit notes emitted from within itself, and a yellow cape materialized out of nowhere, wrapped neatly over the shoulders. 

Nearby, the other vessel stirred to life, also gazing in the direction of the spaceship. Its eyes also blazed red with white irises. Its cold and uncompromising frown on SMG4’s face contrasted with the twisted snarl on SMG3’s, but each of them shared the same intent. It joined its partner, reached within SMG4's code, and with some more flickers of red glitches, a pair of raccoon ears sprung forth from its head, and a long, striped tail from its rear. 

Their voices spoke in unison. “I won’t have complete control over these two for long. Our first order of business will be destroying those two meme guardians, like Niles should have done ALL those years ago.” 

“But this time, we will do it ourselves.”

In perfect sync, without even looking at each other, the two vessels reached for and clasped each other’s hands. They shot forward in hot pursuit, heading straight for a certain computer…

To be Continued...

Previous

Next

Just to clarify:

SMG3 is a he/his

SMG4 is a he/his

The Entity is an it/its

Can you tell who is in control?

[vesipha]

a seat away | jeon jungkook

summary: in a dark theater built for escape, jungkook becomes the one person who doesn't try to fix your grief—he just stays. content: angsty fluff ♡ 1197 words isla's notes: for my own light-in-the-dark friend; we are also a seat (a text) away. i love you, c.

Jungkook.

Thursdays are slow. Slower than the espresso machine in his uncle’s snack bar, slower than the flickering trailers that repeat before the first act of every film. And Jungkook likes it that way.

He likes the hum of the projector behind the walls, the hush that blankets the theater like freshly fallen snow. He likes sitting in the back row with one leg over the other, sneakers kicked halfway off, hoodie pulled up.

And he likes you.

You, who always come alone—same seat, middle row, slightly off-center. Always with that worn-out baseball cap pulled low and a paper cup of coca-cola you rarely drink. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t look at anyone. Least of all him.

But he notices everything.

Your deep eyes, which sometimes crinkle with laughter when a scene is unexpectedly funny. Your fingers, peppered with rings, always restless on your lap. The way you lean ever so slightly to the right, like you’re always ready to get up and leave.

He’s liked you for months. And he’s never said a word.

Until today.

Because today, you look like the world’s weight is sitting on your chest. And Jungkook, inexplicably, can feel it.

You walk into the cinema ten minutes late for Thunderbolts, a rare Thursday screening. Just you and him in the room. He knows this already because his uncle texts him like clockwork:

only 2 tickets sold. one of them is yours. come if u want.

You settle in your usual spot, cap even lower than usual, arms folded tight. And Jungkook doesn’t think. He just gets up and walks down the steps, quiet like a ghost, and drops into the seat one over from yours.

Just a chair between you.

The screen glows, colors dancing across your face. Yelena’s voice echoes across the empty space. “Grief makes you weird,” she says, and Jungkook watches you go still.

You shift. You press your lips together.

Then you close your eyes.

Not sleeping. Not watching. Just… gone. The kind of gone you only are when everything hurts too much to keep pretending you’re fine.

He can see your chin shaking. Tiny tremors. He hears you sniff, barely there. Then you bite your lip.

And he can’t do nothing anymore.

He leans in, gentle. Just enough that his voice won’t carry.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

You.

You open your eyes.

Not fully—just enough to see someone sitting next to you, one seat over. You’ve seen him before. The quiet and somewhat edgy one. The one who always gets to the cinema before you. Sometimes you’ve caught him looking, and you’d pretend not to notice.

Because it felt safer not to.

But now he’s here. And his voice… is soft. Not intruding. Just there, like a hand stretched out without asking for anything in return.

Surprisingly, you shake your head. No. You’re not okay.

He nods, slow. Like he knew the answer already. Like you were both used to confide in each other as old friends unspokenly do.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You blink hard, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

“No,” you whisper.

He shifts, and now he’s in the seat right next to you. Not touching. Not even close enough to brush elbows. But he’s there. And for some reason, it makes breathing a little easier.

The flickering light from the screen plays across your skin. You pretend to watch, but you’re not really seeing anything. There’s too much weight behind your eyes, pressing against the inside of your skull like a wave about to break.

A single tear escapes before you can stop it. Just one, but it betrays the whole dam.

Then his hand—steady, warm—lifts just slightly. It doesn’t rush to wipe it away. It just finds your cheek, the edge of it, his inked fingers grazing the path your tear took. Like he wants to understand it more than erase it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want you to sit here alone tonight.”

You don’t look at him, your eyes trailed firmly toward the big screen. Nor do you speak. Just sit in the quiet. Let the soft hum of the projector and the weight of the moment hold you both.

“You always sit over there,” you murmur after a moment. “Back row.”

It feels oddly okay admitting to a complete stranger you had noticed him before. He seemed rather comfortable implying the same. Like he too had watched you come and go from the darkness.

He breathes a soft laugh. “I watch a lot. Movies. People. I don’t usually say anything to anyone though.”

“Why now?”

“Felt like maybe… someone should.”

You laugh, but it comes out uneven. “You picked a great time. I’m really winning at life right now.”

He glances sideways, not smiling but not looking away either. “I don’t think we get points for winning. Just… surviving.”

Your eyes finally meet his.

There’s nothing flashy in his face. No grand heroism. Just quiet steadiness. That kind of calm you don’t notice until you need it.

“I come here when I can’t think straight,” you say, your voice no louder than the rustling of candy wrappers somewhere in a memory. “When the world feels too loud.”

“I come when it’s empty,” he replies, like a confession. His eyes twinkle like they hold a thousand stars. “When I can pretend I’m the only one in it.”

The silence stretches, but this time it doesn’t press in—it holds.

You ask, “Does it help?”

He shrugs, but it’s soft, almost careful. “Sometimes. Not always.”

“Same.” you sigh, taking your cap out and straightning your stray locks.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “You looked like you needed someone who doesn’t expect anything from you.”

The words land like a hand on your spine, steadying.

“Yeah,” you say, nearly breathless. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

You don’t know what this is. Who he really is. What any of it means. But it doesn’t feel strange.

It feels like finding a light in a room you forgot had windows.

“You know… You don’t even know me,” you whisper, when the intensity of his stare starts blooming something warm in your chest. "I don't even know your name."

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like you’re a film he’s been meaning to see.

“But I see you,” he says with a soft smile. "And you can call me Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook."

And somehow, that’s even better.

The tear you didn’t realize was forming slips down your cheek. You don’t wipe it. Neither does he. But his fingers find your cheek again—gentle, reverent. A soft graze like he’s saying I know without needing to say anything at all.

And in the hush of that half-lit theater, with the story on the screen lost to both of you, it feels like a beginning.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just right.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ♡

[aussie-engene]

Non idol!Jay x fem!reader

Gym love/strangers to lovers

Fluff

Warnings: a spine tattoo, kissing

You are rather a really sporty person. You go to the gym every day at exactly 7 pm. It was the time when most people were done with the machines you wanted to use. You never changed your time program since if you went earlier, there would be many people, and if you went later, you wouldn't have much time before the gym closes.

Today, you had a pretty tough program, but you were determined to pull it through. You had a pretty fir body that you were proud of. You didn’t show it much, tho unless it got really hot in the gym or the exercise was really hard. You finished your program and don't even remember in which set you took off your shirt.

You grabbed your stuff and left the gym to go home, take a shower and relax.

Jay loved going to the gym. If he could he would live there. He had a body which looked like one a Greek god would have. He also went to the gym everyday but at 8pm, enjoying the pretty much loneliness of the gym.

Today was no different. He entered the gym at 8pm as per usual. He reached out to the machine he wanted to use for the night and just as he was about to start his set he laid his set he couldn't help but stare at a specific figure. It wasn’t the body that made him look but a small detail that he swore it could drive him crazy. The figure had a spine tattoo one so dmsimple yet so addictive. He took in every single part of it. He was memorizing it at this point. Only after he was done with the tattoo he noticed the body of that said figure. Honey skin, high ponytail with a cap on covering it's face. A fit body embraced by tight leggings and a matching sport's bra. He couldn't resist looking. He snapped out of his thoughts when the figure left but he just sat there replaying the whole scene.

During the whole workout he had that picture in his head. That spine tattoo was too hot to handle. He didn't even know the person or even if he would see them again. He finished his work out and headed back home seeking the comfort of his bed.

After that day he saw the figure plenty of times but again in the same way. Back turned towards him,spine tattoo on full display, face barely visible.

One day you were running like crazy. Paperwork, tasks, getting to places. Everything had to be on the same day unfortunately. Luckily you managed to finish everything on time and even had a bit of time for yourself. You looked at your phone to check the time. It was 7pm the time you usually went to the gym. You were debating on whether to go or stay at home. The gym won. You immediately changed into your gym clothes and went straight to it.

It was 8pm and there weren't many people there. Some huge dudes flexing their muscles at the mirrors and some just minding their own business. You were wearing simple black leggings that hugged your body and an oversized tee shirt on top putting your hair in a loose low ponytail.

Today was your worst day of your workout program. Weights. And specially everything that had to do with the bench. You wanted to go and do legs but you stich to the program. Even if you were whining about how you couldn’t even bench press you could lift a lot of weight. Usually you had one of your gym friends help you with it but today you were alone. You looked around the gym in order to see someone that would be willing to help you. Scanning the gym your eyes landed on a guy pretty much the same age as you pretty good looking if you had to admit. You stood up and decided to ask his help.

You went up to him and it was obvious he had finished a tough set. Toned body that you could see through his compression shirt. Sharp jaw followed by sharp eyes. He looked like a nice guy even if his appearance said otherwise.

"Umm hello. Sorry for interrupting your workout but is there any chance you could spot me on the weights?" You said trying to sound normal as much as you could. You didn’t talk to hot guys everyday.

"Umm hello. Sorry for interrupting your workout but is there any chance you could spot me on the weights?" Jay heard a voice. It was sweet like melody to his ears. Looking up he saw an insanely good looking girl. She had a sweet smile and shining eyes. He was stunned. And what did she say? Something about spotting her? He was too shocked to understand what she had just said. He snapped out once she cleared her throat. Giving a sweet smile.

Once he smiled you melted. You just stared at him trying to find your words.

"Yeah, sure, gladly." Jay cursed in his mind for sounding too taken aback.

Once you both reached the bench, you positioned yourself and turned to him, grinning. "Please don't let me die." He laughed, you paused. 'Cute~', you thought. "I'll try my best to keep you alive," he continued your joke. The air was really warm and comfortable. You started your set, and Jay was a really good spotter. He even encouraged you to continue.

"I'm Jay by the way" he said once you finished the first set extending his hand for a handshake. "Y/n" You said trying not to blush at the contact of your hands.

The rest of the workout went really well. Jay also continued working out with you his own program long forgotten. He wanted to be close to you and he managed to do it perfectly. You cracked jokes and had a really nice time hanging out together. You never understood how the time went by so fast. You bid your goodbyes and left for your homes.

You got home and couldn't help but smile. You thought of his face and how you had fun. That's when it hit. You had a gym crush! Your eyes widened. It was just a small gym crush...right? You tried not to think about it but a mischevious idea came to your mind.

You were gonna change the time you went to the gym!

You internally cursed at the impact this 'small' crush had on you but you liked the idea of spending more time with him.

Jay crushed on the couch. How ironic. At this point he wasn’t only crushing on the couch but he was crushing on you! He found a gym crush and didn't complain about it. You were really pretty but most of all you seemed a really nice person. He wanted the other day to come so badly and hoped to see you at the gym again. He hadn't seen you before and that's what scared him and got him hoping for you to be there again the same time tomorrow.

Changing your gym time was the best thing you could have done! You and Jay hang out together every day, swapping phone numbers in case of 'emergency' as he said. You both developed huge gym crushes at this point.

It was about 3 weeks of working out together, and it was starting to get hot. Summer was around the corner, and the temperatures were rising more and more every day.

You went to the gym as per usual only to find Jay in a tank top, which made you stare. That was so not Jay coded. Yes, he wore tight shirts but tank tops? Never. And man, was he hot. You blinked and approached him. Once he saw you, he gave you his smile that you adored. You couldn’t help but smile back.

"Well, hello, my rival." it was a nickname you both used. You challenged each other as to who could lift the most. He always won, of course, but you never stopped teasing him about you being better. It was a daily routine now.

"Hello to you too. Are you ready to lose against me today again?" You said as a playful smirk grew on your face. He smirked back. 'Oh god' you thought.

"I'm so ready to watch you lose..."

"Ha! You wish! I'm gonna win just like every single time"

"We'll see about that..."

The workout was intense, and the heat wasn't helping at all. You put your hair up in a high ponytail because you were getting extra warm. Jay noticed this and stared at you. For some reason, he found it really hot, but his thoughts were harshly stopped when he saw something a bit lower than the back of your neck,your spine almost. You turned to him and took him to the next machine. What was that, tho? Maybe a tag from your shirt. Yeah, that must be it. After a bit, he didn't think much of it. Well, until the last machine stop... The rowing machine...

Jay was confident about it. He sat down and took the bar in his hands, bragging about how he was winning.

"As you can see, it's already the first set, and I'm obviously winning!" He grinned

You chuckled, and your rivalry spirit was turned on. It was your turn now.

"Well, let's do it the right way then"

He was confused. What did you mean by that?

As you were about to go to the machine, you took a hold of the hem of your shirt, taking it off, revealing your fit body. Jay's mouth fell right open. He looked at every part of your body. You were like you had been kissed by the sun, and he was getting jealous about it being able to kiss you. You saw his reaction and giggled. "You like what you see?" "Yeah" he didn't think. The words just came out of his mouth, his hand covering it really quickly. You couldn’t help but laugh at his words.

Little did he know that your body reveal wouldn't be his biggest surprise...

You turned your back at him, and you were about to start your exercise. But then you heard a loud gasp coming from behind you. You quickly turned around only to be met by a wide-eyed Jay.

"Umm are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost"

"It's you"

"Huh?"

"It's you!"

"What's me?" You were getting confused

"The girl with the tattoo"

"The girl with the what now?"

"You are the girl I was staring at!"

"Ughhh creepy but okay...Jay are you sure you're good?"

"I'm totally fine! You! You used to leave the gym at 8pm didn’t you?"

"You mean before we met? Yeah, I came at 7 and left at 8, but I still don't understand what you're talking about"

"It was really you! Before I met you, there was this girl, well you, with a spine tattoo that drove me crazy. She would leave at the time I came and I never saw her face properly. It was you, tho!" He was almost jumping up and sown from excitement.

"You mean that you had a crush on my spine tattoo " you teased him.

"Yeah! Wait, no! Well...kinda...Ughhhh, it's complicated!"

You laughed again, this time stepping closer.

"I guess I had a chokehold on you, huh?"

"You still do." He blurred out, covering his mouth again at the sudden confession

"Oh...I still do because of myself or... because of this?" You turned your back at him, and he almost died on the spot.

"You-yourself. The tat-tattoo just makes you extra hot. " At this point, he wasn't thinking properly. He just said whatever he was thinking without a filter. He was as red as a tomato and so cute.

"You're really cute." You said, making him even redder if that was even possible. You liked how you were controlling him. Stepping even closer now, you put your hands around his neck. He froze.

"You know except from you cute you are also very handsome and...hot..."

Something clicked inside him. He was no longer shy. A wave of boldness took over him.

"Hot?" He was smirking now. Your eyes widened at his sudden change. He rested his hands on his waist, and you were the one now to blush.

"Why are you blushing? Now you're shy? First, you take off your shirt in front of me, show your tattoo, and you're getting shy by a little contact?" He chuckled.

He took his hand from your waist and traced down your spine with his fingers, which made you shiver under his touch.

"I guess you're not the only one having an impact on me." You shook your head, and he slowly leaned down and cupped your lips in his.

"Wanted this in a while now"

"Me too." You smiled up at him as he leaned for another kiss.

After than night you continued going to the gym together but not as 'rivals' but as a couple. He was a really sweet and caring boyfriend. Addicted to you in every way possible and so were you.

[seaadc]

sshshshshsh heyhey could i have some uhh aqua hoshino x streamer!reader

I feel like such a genius for thinking about this my third eye has been opened

status | aqua hoshino x streamer!fem!reader

a/n: THIS IS SUCH A UNIQUE REQUEST??!!!??? THANK U SM ANON!!

summary: aqua being madly infatuated with you ever since he had saw you streaming.

- “If the world was against us, then I’m against the world.”

You are definitely in for a treat, definitely.

Before Aqua had met you, he was not that quite.. expressive? He had a cold demeanor, You can call him stern, but not too quite.

When Aqua was silently working on the little short trailer of a video that the team he was working with in “Love now” was gonna post, He came across you in the internet.

You were streaming in youtube, Your hair looked good and it looks recently brushed. You were talking to your fans since you were popular— heck, you even knew Mem-cho! You were slightly more popular than her which caused you to have a lot of viewers.

The girl was talking about her life and desires, how she’d want to be an idol someday. Aqua narrowed his eyes at the screen, staring deep into your galactic eyes.. How mesmerizing. He wouldn’t admit that

You were acting all so bubbly and giddy, showing your viewers some stuff in your room. And, to be honest, Aqua enjoyed watching you. Or was he just tired? He was tired from editing the short clip, he just laid his head down the table and using his arms as support while he looked at the laptop, gazing into your eyes that wasn’t even staring into his own.

He then sighed and closed the laptop, standing up while he went outside to grab the juice Yuki was going to gave him.

Aqua went out, Mem-cho went inside and opened the laptop, checking if the video had gotten more popular but she was greeted by a familiar face.

“Oh! It’s [Name]!” The blondie muttered to herself, wondering what was the tab doing in the laptop.

“Huh.. Aqua left the room last.”

Aqua decided to take a stroll outside the building, not too far but not too near. He was walking down the sidewalks when he felt like he should get a snack. He went to the nearest store and went inside, the bell on top of the door ringing.

Aqua sighed to himself and grabbed some chips, To his surprise there was a girl next to him.

She looked up at the shelf and grabbed the same chips Aqua had got but a different flavor, The girl smiled brightly to herself and adjusted her cap.

Aqua looked at her, He was 2 inches taller than her if he could presume.. She looked oddly familiar.

“Miss… Uh.. Have I seen you somewhere?” Aqua asked softly, his eyes narrowing at the girl’s cap which was colored white.

The girl looked up at him, Aqua widening his eyes at the realization it was the streamer had come across earlier.

“Well that’s interesting. People can still recognize me?” You mumbled, sighing in disbelief while you headed over at the cashier and placed your chips down at the counter.

Aqua hummed and followed, right behind you while he waited in line. It was awkward.. The only sound you could hear was the cashier’s machine clacking and doing such beeps.

The girl turned and looked at Aqua, smiling warmly. “[Name], At your service.” She introduced, and left while the bell rang.

Aqua stared off into the door, following your figure until it has dissipated. He looked down at the chips and put it down the counter.. Somehow, He felt.. attached. He couldn’t explain why, It was definitely not the universe playing tricks on both of you… right?

Ever since Aqua met you in real life, He couldn’t stop. As in, He couldn’t stop checking your profile everyday to see if you have a new video or stream. Truth be told, He watched every single video you had made and streams. Even if they were past streams, He still persevered to watch it.

Aqua felt comfortable and satisfied whenever he would rewatch a video of yours when you won’t post due to lack of motivation, but he would always check. Everyday, Everynight.

One day as you set up your computer, You thought of the fair blonde guy you met at the shop. You smiled at the thought, knowing it was the same guy you supported in the show “Love now” and the upcoming Tokyo Revenger live action.

You started streaming and viewers rushed in the stream, waiting for other viewers to arrive while a certain username joined.

“AquaHoshino… Are you a fan or the guy himself?” You chuckled, the viewers commenting of how cute and adorable your smile is while the user you had mentioned didn’t reply.

Meanwhile, through the other screen, Aqua couldn’t contain himself when his tongue slipped out of your mouth. He kept staring at your face, He didn’t know why, but the word that fits to what he kept on doing for the past few months was definitely ‘Infatuation’.

Considering he was a doctor before, ‘course he knew what this thing was. But it took him quite a long time to accept that he was inlove with you. A streamer who makes money off it.

Aqua just entered Strawberry Productions since Miyako called for him, only to find out that you, yes you, had signed a contract. Turns out Mem-cho had invited you and both of you were conversing with eachother on the green couch.

Miyako smiled and walked up to Aqua. “We have a new member.” She spoke with a soothing voice. Aqua flinched when he saw you, You both held eye contact until you smiled.

Oh shit, That was the best thing he ever saw. (except Ai’s smile) His heart melted, feeling it race like a sports car. Aqua cleared his throat and turned away, trying to hide the redness creeping up to his face while Mem-cho merely giggled. “Your so charismatic, [Name]-chan.” Mem-cho teased to which Aqua sighed at, He left the area to not get embarrassed any further and went to his room, leaving a very confused [Name]. and he would probably sabotage things a bit because he doesnt want you to be an idol, being a streamer is already making you tired and he doesn’t want that.

And since then, You would always talk to him with the most giddy-est personality ever. He would reply in short answers but he enjoyed your company, he wasn’t going to say that straightforwardly to you but might as well include it.

He would enjoy the peaceful silence you both shared in benches, school cafeterias, living rooms, and so many more places!

Aqua would probably be clingy to you in private, He isn’t a fan of PDA but he would gladly let you if you would do the first move or if he’s.. ehem.. jealous.

He once saw you conversing too much with a male employee at the cinema counter since you asked to join him in the mall which he couldn’t decline at. Only to find out another person was going to spend all your time with him.

Aqua approached with the popcorn he had bought and gave one to you, glaring at the employee. You thanked him while he simply nodded.

He took your hand and intertwined it with his, which made your heart pounding like some sort of wildebeest in a stampede.

And you both enjoyed that day.

bonus:

Aqua had confessed, inside the store you both first met. The cashier looked very amused while imaginary stars appeared beside her.

“W-what..?“ You stuttered, blushing a pink hue at the sudden confession Aqua had made, since he just kind of.. said that so fast.

Aqua sighed with the tip of his ears were flaming red while his cheeks were red too. “I’m not repeating that.” He blurted out, looking away while he kept a blank expression though the color of his cheeks say otherwise.

Being his girlfriend made you realize how hard is life is, how he would risk anything just to get justice for his mother. Which he told you after a few not a few months of dating. He got comfortable around you and you would always be there to comfort him during his nightmares, And he would always be there for you whenever you get a hate comment that gets you really insecure.

To be honest, You would probably wake up one day and getting the news of the person who kept on hating on you suddenly so quiet… I wonder what your lovely red flag boyfriend did.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: some more Nicky for the girlies.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Back to usual. 

You say goodbye to Joey with an especially clingy hug. She’ll be gone back to campus by the time you get home. Her short visits always leave you a bit sad.

You arrive at Nick’s place and let yourself in. The remnants of the prior day’s get together are still littered over the dining room table and throughout the front room. There’s more in the kitchen.

You gather the empty glasses and a few bottles with varying amounts of liquid still inside. You scrape plates into the pin and sweep napkins in after them. You fill the sink with warm soapy water to wash it all when you hear the soft but clumsy pad of feet on the stairs. They’re too light to be Nick.

You have the coffee brewing in anticipation of your boss’ hangover. The aroma wafts into the air as the machine clicks. A figure appears in the doorway and you turn to greet the woman in her sleek but wrinkled dress. This isn’t unexpected either.

“Good morning,” you greet her stunned eyes as she blanches.

“Um, I’m sorry, I was only–”

“Coffee?” You offer her as you open the cupboard, “look like you need it.”

“N-no, I… should go. Is there a Starbucks around here?” She croaks.

“No need, I can do lattes,” you offer, “he’s got this ridiculously expensive machine.”

“Er,” she looks down at the heels dangling from her hand then back to you, “sorry, are you… do you live…”

“I work for Mr. Fowler. Just the maid,” you assure her. Her assumption fills your chest with an unspent laugh. You’re far too old for Nick. Besides, the concept is ridiculous.

“Oh…” her single syllable dangles.

You pour her a cup and turn to offer it to her. Her mouth slants in a guilty smile. She shambles forward and accepts the mug.

“You take sugar, cream? Maybe some Advil?” You suggest.

“Oat milk? And yes please, my head is pounding.”

“Right, he has almond milk,” you open another cupboard and pluck out the ibuprofen, “or whole milk.”

“Almond is fine,” she accepts as you rattle the bottle.

“One or two, hon,” you ask as you approach her again.

“Two, please,” she inhales the scent of the coffee and sighs, rubbing her eye socket before extending her hand to take the tablet, “the whole bottle if I could.”

“Ugh, yeah, I don’t miss those days,” you hum and cap the bottle.

You put it away and go into the large fridge, taking out the carton of almond milk for the woman. You take it to her as she approaches the island to clink down the coffee. You watch as she adds the milk and takes a slender spoon from you to stir it in. She takes her first sip and moans before tossing back the pills.

“Coffee good?” You prompt proudly.

“Oh, yeah,” she looks up at you, “yeah, it’s great.”

“Took me a while to master the beast,” you point to the machine. “I finally got my ristretto down, too.”

She gives a nervous laugh and gulps again, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, “you’re nice… really nice. Why?”

You blink at her question. It makes you wonder, was Nick not nice? That’s not really any of your concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You shrug and turn to the full sink, “you’re a guest.” You plunge your hands in and scrub the porcelain, “plus, you kinda remind me of my daughter. I’d like someone to treat her nicely too.”

“Ah,” she accepts, “that’s really sweet.”

“It’s human, I hope,” you open up the dishwasher to slide in each plate.

“You really… didn’t have to make me coffee,” she murmurs.

You peek over at her as she stares into the depths. She seems sad but that might just be the hangover. You continue your work as you reply.

“It was already on. If you’re hungry–”

“Please, no, that’s okay,” she declines with a wave, “I think… I think I’ll just finish this and get an uber. Maybe go call my mom.”

“Well, you let me know if you need anything before you go,” you chime as you hook glasses into the top rack of the dishwasher.

You finish the dishes and grab a damp cloth to go wipe the table down. You stop by a few other surfaces to clear away rings from the finish and return to the kitchen. As you enter from the dining room, Nick appears in the other.

The woman faces him as she grabs her shoes, “hi.”

He growls and lumbers over to the coffee machine. He sees the mug waiting for him and peers into its empty body. You clutch the cloth in your hand as you watch his naked back tense. He wears nothing more than a pair of briefs. At most, you’ve seen him shirtless when he needs some stitches.

“More coffee?” You offer the woman.

“No, I should go,” she peeks at him nervously.

“Alright, well, you take care,” you bid her and take her cup.

“Thanks,” she says and skulks to the door, “bye, Nick.”

“Mmm,” he flicks his fingers at her as he pours himself a cup.

You narrow your eyes at his shoulder blades. That wasn’t very polite. Well, it isn’t your job to be his mother, even if it feels like it sometimes.

You put the almond milk away as he turns to lean in the corner of the counter. He presses the porcelain to his forehead and groans. You shake out the cloth over the sink and rinse it out.

“You have a daughter,” he states plainly. A question but not really.

“I do,” you answer evenly.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

You shrug, “guess it never came up.”

"You’ve worked for me for three years…” he mutters.

“You never asked,” you say lightly, “it’s fine.”

He lowers the cup and slurps loudly. He swishes the coffee around before he swallows thickly.

“Your husband okay with you working twelves?”

You chuckle, “sir, really, it’s fine.”

His curiosity is not usual. You stick to the expected, the manageable. You don’t stray outside the lines. You’re friendly but you’re not overfamiliar. He always seemed to prefer that. He enjoyed talking about himself far more.

“You were busy yesterday,” he shifts his weight to one foot, his muscled chest rippling.

“I suppose as busy as you,” you roll in the racks of the dishwasher and add soap before closing it up.

“I… interrupted your plans?”

“Sir, it’s fine, I had a good day off and now I’m back,” you insist, “are there any other messes I need to worry about?”

He tilts his head and exhales deeply. His cheek dimples as he considers you. The cut on his head is exposed but not as bad as it was, though the bruise under his eyes has only gotten darker.

He scoffs as a smirk slants his lips, “sure. You could change my bed sheets.”

“Sure,” you accept breezily, repressing the glimmer of concern at the base of your skull. 

Something about his response seems trite, as if he means to insult you. You’re an adult, you’re less than shocked at his after hours play. By now, you’re quite used to it. He’s in his prime, he’s well off, and he’s handsome by anyone’s measure.

“You could try some witch hazel,” you touch your cheek then point at his, “for the bruising.”

“I can handle it,” he retorts and pushes himself away from the counter, “enough chattering. Get to work.”

🥃

You knock on the office door and wait for an answer. The little device you keep clipped to your belt is still buzzing with Nick’s demand. He calls to you from within and you enter.

“Sir?” You greet him.

“What took you so long?” He growls.

He’s in a foul mood. He has been all day. He can be gruff, you’re used to that, but today, he just seems prickly. His romp must not have been much fun. Come to think of it, his partner had been all too eager to flee.

You shake away the intrusive thoughts and clear your throat, “I was in the laundry room. Sorry.”

“My head is pounding,” he rubs his temples.

“Right, sir, I’ll bring you Advil and some water–”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” he snarls.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure I’m a lot older than your daughter, so cut it out.”

“I wasn’t– sir, I’m sorry.”

“Go, get the pills,” he shoos you, “and call Rhonda.”

You nod and leave him. Wow. You don’t think he’s ever spoken to you like that. The mention of Joey also puts you off. Why is he so concerned? Most people could look at you and assume you have a kid or too. At your age, with your hips…

You go downstairs to retrieve the Advil and a tall glass of water. You climb back upstairs and follow the airy hall down to your office. As you enter, he sits with his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk. You don’t say a word as you set down the glass and pills.

He doesn’t move. You back away slowly and pull out your cell phone. You’ll call the masseuse, she should be able to work out the tension.

As you get to the door, he growls and his chair squeaks.

“You said something, about witch hazel,” he snarls.

“Uh, yes,” you face him, “it’ll take down the bruising.”

He narrows his eyes, the gesture tweaking his swollen cheek. Even battered, he isn’t unattractive. And the woman in his kitchen was just as gorgeous. So you find it hard to fathom why he’s in such a mood.

“Would you like me to get it for you, sir?” You ask, trying not to sound too pandering.

“Sure, whatever.”

You sweep away and go down the hall to the cabinet. You keep everything stocked well. Part of your job is inventory. You’ll have to go through the liquor bottles later and see what needs replenishing too.

You return to him with the witch hazel and a bag of cotton balls. You place them on his desk as he leans his head against the chairback, his eyes closed. You step back on your heel and his eyes pop open.

“Would you mind?” He motions to his face.

“Sure,” you take the cotton balls and pull one out.

You uncap the dark bottle and dampen the cotton with the liquid. His eyes close again as you sidle closer and you dab gently along his cheek. He flinches, just once, then stills. It must be cold. 

His eyes flick open again and startle you as you retract your touch. Awkwardly, you move away and gather up the bottle and bag of cotton balls. He’s quiet as he leans forward to grab the bottle of pills.

“I should’ve guessed,” he says as he shakes two tablets out, “that’s what I do. I read people. You’re a mother, for sure. She’s older, isn’t she? College? You had her young–”

“Sir,” you sniff, uncomfortable.

“Just the one. And you didn’t answer me when I talked about your husband so he must be out of the picture. Divorced. About the time you came around here, huh? You need the job after the messy break up,” he suggests as he wags his finger with a knowing grin, “probably another woman, huh?”

You blink. You’ll let him think what he wants. His opinion of your marriage isn’t important. It won’t do to correct him anyway. He doesn’t really seem to care, he just wants to wound. You just can’t figure out what you’ve done to deserve it.

[polo-drone-001]

The Golden Locker Room

The smell of fresh turf and sweat filled the air as Ethan walked into the locker room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’d heard whispers about the Golden Army—a soccer team that dominated every league they played in. Their victories weren’t just legendary; they were almost mythical. Some said it was their training regimen. Others credited their seamless teamwork. But Ethan felt there was something more.

The locker room was immaculate, gleaming under bright lights. Rows of polished golden jerseys hung on one side, their metallic sheen catching the light like treasure. The sight alone made his breath hitch. Each jersey was marked with a single name and number, a badge of belonging to something greater than oneself.

At the center of the room stood the captain—Brody. His golden eyes scanned Ethan, making the rookie feel both small and strangely aroused. Brody’s presence was magnetic, his perfectly sculpted physique emphasized by the golden jersey that clung to him like a second skin. The jersey didn’t just fit; it exalted him, every muscle and curve catching the light.

“You’re Ethan, right?” Brody asked, his voice deep and commanding. He extended a hand. Ethan shook it, his own hand trembling slightly.

“Yes, sir,” Ethan replied, the honorific slipping out instinctively.

Brody smirked. “Good. You’re about to be one of us. But first...” He gestured to the golden jersey hanging on the wall with Ethan’s name embroidered on the back. “Suit up.”

Ethan moved to the jersey, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was impossibly soft, yet sturdy, and seemed to hum faintly under his touch. He hesitated, unsure why he suddenly felt nervous. Brody was watching him intently, his golden eyes boring into him.

“Go on,” Brody said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ethan pulled the jersey over his head. As the fabric slid over his skin, a strange warmth spread through his body, radiating outward from his chest. His breathing slowed, his thoughts softening, focusing. The world seemed quieter, simpler. He flexed his fingers, feeling the material hug his body in a way that felt both empowering and... controlling.

“How does it feel?” Brody asked, his voice smooth like silk.

“...Incredible,” Ethan whispered. He looked down at himself, the jersey molding perfectly to his form, enhancing every line of his body. He felt strong. Confident. Yet, beneath that strength, he felt an urge he couldn’t explain—a desire to follow, to obey.

Brody stepped closer, his golden eyes glowing brighter. “Good. The jersey isn’t just a uniform. It’s a bond. A promise. When you wear it, you’re not just playing for yourself—you’re playing for the team, for me. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said automatically. The words felt right, natural, as if they’d been planted in his mind the moment he’d put on the jersey.

Brody smiled approvingly. “Then you’re ready.” He turned to the rest of the team, who had gathered silently, their golden jerseys gleaming under the lights. “Brothers, welcome our newest recruit.”

The room erupted in cheers, but Ethan barely heard them. He was too focused on the sensation coursing through him—a deep, submissive pleasure in belonging, in unity. He was no longer just Ethan; he was part of the Golden Army, a cog in a perfect machine.

As he looked around, every other player’s glowing eyes met his, their intensity sending a shiver down his spine. They were one, bound by their golden glory, and Ethan was ready to serve, to play, to obey.

Ready to embrace golden glory? Contact me @polo-drone-001, or our Caps, @brodygold and @goldenherc9, recruiter @hades-gold19, and take your first step into the Golden Army.

Unity. Strength. Victory awaits.

(Thanks for letting me use your name bro! @ethan49gold)

[sigh-tofm]

currently watching a reality/docu show about game wardens and i despise putting these men in us based scenarios but imagine…

… working in a 24/7 diner and regularly getting all sorts of law enforcement throughout the night, looking for a pick-me-up before they head back out again. your favourite is the big captain with a silver star and everything, who doesn’t really go on a patrols or calls anymore but still stops by your diner as often as he can. he’s ridiculously handsome in the rugged, brutish way, with a smiling lines around his eyes and impressive facial hair. always gets coffee and a slice of pie, always asks for a refill so he can watch your broad ass as you walk away when you retrieve the coffee pot. you kinda know what he’s about when he does that, but you don’t mind in the least letting him have his fun and wiggle your hips a little extra - he’s otherwise polite and a good tipper too. you don’t know it yet, but one of these days he’ll be waiting by your car for you to finish your shift and convince you to take him home with you.

… spending a summer day out on the lake, tanning in the back of bowrider you borrowed from your friend when you hear another boat coming up, motor idly working as the driver lets the waves bring him closer to you. you prepare to be annoyed at yet another guy who finds it hilarious to make fun of a fat girl in a bikini, but when you sit up you see it’s a game warden boat and aboard is the single most handsome man you have ever seen in your life, even though his face is shaded by his cap. he asks you all the important questions about boating licenses and life jackets, and you answer them all with a wavering voice, made a little nervous by this god of a man. he mistakes (on purpose) your hesitation as being under the influence and makes you do a breathalyser test. looks you straight in the eyes while you lock your lips around the tube to blow and taps your nose with his finger when the machine beeps and proclaims your innocence.

… being out hunting on the first day of the season and being stopped for a control by a game warden. you’re a good girl, you have everything in order, you tell him as he checks your gun, sticking his finger into the tube magazine to make sure that you don’t carry too many shotgun shells. he gives you a wry smile and asks for your hunting license and you pull out your wallet, only to find that you forgot it at home. he returns to his truck to check with dispatch to see if your story is true, if you really do have a hunting license in your name. proceeds to tell you your license is from last year and that you’re breaking multiple laws here. no license (even though you know you have one), lying to an officer (even though you’re speaking the truth) and hunting on private property (even though you’ve sure you didn’t see any signs about that coming in here). but you can’t prove any of that of course, not out here. seems you’re got yourself in quite the pickle, little lady. luckily warden mactavish is willing to let you make it right without giving you any fines.

… calling in about an owl that has gotten inside your house in the middle of the night. waiting in trepidation at the door so as not to agitate the animal further, only wearing your short dressing gown when there’s suddenly knocking. you open to find the biggest man you’ve ever seen standing on the porch, and you’re about to slam the door on him when he puts his foot in the door and announces he’s here about a bird. you nervously open the door again and he steps inside, having to turn sideways to fit his massive shoulders through the entryway. you point him to the living room where the owl is perched on your curtain rod. in less than three minutes he’s located it, caught it with his skeleton-gloved hands (not minding the talons at all) and taken it outside to release it. you’re ready to thank him and bid him adieu, but he shoulders his way back inside to straighten up the curtains again and sweep up the feathers, a service you didn’t know they provided. at last he stands up to his full height and looks you up and down, from your messy hair to your thick thighs. ‘now, about that bird…’

[choccy-zefirka]

"So..." Lumen drawls.

She's pushed closer to Abelard, petite yet commanding, the instant the carpeted stillness of her private chambers closed its embrace around them.

Here, now, they are fully cut off from the raucous crowd on the bridge below, as if by their very own tiny Maw. The entire bulk of the voidship has shrunk down to the water glass’s worth of air between them; warm and heady with the perfume the ever—elegant Lord Captain doused herself in before coming out to meet the crew.

"You had opinions about manhandling?"

Abelard swallows. Lumen's metal-capped fingers dance a little carefree waltz up his trusty breastplate, stopping to circle the sockets and cheekbones of the skull emblem just below his throat — yet he does not follow that dance. His eyes remain locked with hers.

"I was merely concerned for your safety, Lord Captain," he says, even as his hand twitches, fingers pointing, as if despite his conscious will, towards the curve of Lumen's bodice. Poised to rest there, at any moment now, by Her Ladyship's leave.

"Being carried by the Emperor's Angel is one thing, but a stunt like that —"

"Oh, look at you, darling!"

Abelard is not exactly a giant man (and downright tiny compared to the Emperor’s Angel Ulfar, even to the Lady Navigator); but Lumen would have struggled to reach his cheek, even in heels. Thus he graciously accommodates her, dipping his head down so she can caress his weathered skin.

"Look at Imperium's most concerned citizen! Whatever will ease your worries?"

She shifts her foot slightly so that their ankles press against each other. That is the signal Abelard has been waiting for: he cups his hand over Lumen's soft waistline; stirred by this motion, his coat flops off his shoulders and pools at his feet.

"I swear on the Golden Throne," he murmurs, his half-open mouth drinking in the last of that perfumed air, his beard scratching Lumen's cheek.

"Every single von Valancius was put in this galaxy to torment me, specifically."

Whatever clever response Lumen may have had to that — perhaps a callback to his longing for a quiet post at a magnetic coil warehouse; she found that endlessly entertaining — he reads it, unspoken, off the tip of her tongue.

The kiss lifts them up, weightless like pollen in the early days of Janusian summer, and carries them off into a spinning dance, deeper and deeper into the bedroom. They stop only when Lumen begins to struggle with the straps holding Abelard's breastplate in place. As clever as her fingers are, quick to crack any lock or rally any uncooperative machine spirit with just a few key presses, some of that cleverness seems to have melted in the heat of Abelard's mouth — against hers, then over the pulse in her throat, then back upon her lips again. Her motions turn sloppy, guided more by greed and impatience than precision; his roaming hands have to leave her bodice and help her unfasten the buckles. It is a slow process, as the sheer sensation of his touch distracts her: she weaves her fingers tighter through his, and her breath hitches, each exhale a whimper. Still, she tries to labor on.

Once she is done, the air around her momentarily ripples, and ribbons of purple light wrap flickering over her wrists. With a shove of telekinetic force, she sends Abelard's armor rocketing across the bedroom. It thunks against a chest of drawers and drops somewhere out of view. A prop, no longer needed on their little heretical stage.

There is a clattering noise in the distance. Abelard looks up, sobered by concern, but clearly, his Lord Captain is the only one allowed to get distracted.

She tugs at his sleeve so that he leans in again, and places his hand on the side of her chest, where her bodice is covered by the mantua: the flowing golden overgown embossed with an endless wreath of intertwining peach branches, somehow both in full bloom and heavy with fruit at the same time.

"My turn now, dear Seneschal," Lumen announces breathlessly. "You can even rip it off; I'll just donate the fabric to some deserving voidswoman. Let her sew something pretty for her planet leave."

Abelard stares — but does not move his hand away.

"Lord Captain! I couldn't possibly!"

Her eyes measure him up and down; a silent, smiling challenge.

'Surely, a little piece of harmless satin is not a more frightening foe than a warp horror, hmm my sweet?" she coos, before kissing him.

He melts into her, malleable, almost feverish. The dance resumes, growing ever faster, as the once-steadfast Seneschal grows ever dizzier. His grip on his Lord Captain tightens, fingers curling into claws; and at last, the call of something primal, something hungry, resonates within his ageing body, like it must have done in his youth... And he dares answer.

The old voidfarer's hands, callused by the chainsword's grip, rend the delicate satin apart, quick and merciless, dismantling the first of... multiple obstacles on the way to the prize. The bodice, with its embroidered, bow-adorned stomacher, is still there, complete with twin side hoops that would add extravagant volume to Her Ladyship's skirt; as the airy meringue of her undershirt; and the rustling, layered heap of her petticoats. But the mantua is gone, tossed aside, its intricate pattern disrupted by a zigzagging gash.

Clumsily unsealing the kiss, with a thin chain of saliva still glinting between her and her faithful vanguard, the Lord Captain moans softly, pleased with his handiwork. But before she can ravish his lips again, or before he can scorch her skin with more raw red marks along her neck or over her clavicle, the slippery fabric of what was once her overgown gathers up under her heel... She stumbles out of Abelard's grasp, tripping backwards into a most bothersome stray armchair, her gilded shoes flying off in polar directions.

He exclaims in alarm and, on sheer instinct — Protect, protect the Lord Captain! Everything else is irrelevant, inconsequential! — manages to grasp at her before her head makes painful contact with the floor. But still, the armchair lies on its side now, and she has draped herself over it, legs pointing outwards.

"Lord Captain! Are you all right?!"

She sighs with the affectation of a guardsman dying in service of the Imperium... in an amateur drama painstakingly cobbled together by Schola Progenita first—graders.

"Oh, I am terribly distressed, my darling! Look at all these skirts! However will I get up with them in the way!"

Abelard sighs, half-relieved, half-amused.

"Well, I dare say, Lord Captain... Perhaps it will do you some good to remain laying down for a while."

Lumen bites her lip, eyes alight with gleeful curiosity.

Abelard, now past having reservations, tears off the first of the petticoats, which would still have been visible under the overgown. The pleated bell of dark orange rains a chattering hail of tiny pearls all over the floor when he casts it off. Lumen makes a little trill at the back of her throat, and for a few seconds, snaps her thighs together, rubbing them up and down.

There are still numerous, frilly lower layers in the way, but they are, as so much else, inconsequential. Abelard plunges his hand deep into the froth of fabric, lifting up the next petticoat and the undershirt to clear the path to the treasure he was after: Her Ladyship's smallclothes. Not visibly soaked-through just yet, but the Seneschal will not stop until his battle stratagem is fully executed.

It is at this point that he suddenly decides to be reverent towards pieces of fabric once again. His fingers smooth over the broad golden ribbon fastened round one of Lumen's stockings; then, they flick idly at the pretty bow, as if in practice; then, move on to slowly, painstakingly, caress and knead her pillowy thigh.

Golden fingers sink into the plush upholstery of the capsized armchair, anchoring an arching body. A wet spot blooms on the pristine white undergarment.

"Who's tormenting who now, you impossible man!"  the indignant Lord Captain hisses through her teeth.

The Seneschal only quirks an eyebrow over his living eye, as he would when making some dryly sardonic remark about whichever new disaster of the week the retinue would stumble on. But composure slowly melts from his face when he pushes the smallclothes down, and makes his way within, first one finger, then two, pressed together in a sign of unholy prayer.

Like a star's glorious blaze is reflected off more modest rocky celestial bodies, scarred by asteroids and endless galactic warfare, creating moonlight, so do the burning waves of Her Ladyship's pleasure reach Abelard and ignite a fire under his own skin, a richer pink with every moan, every aria of gasps coaxed from her quivering mouth by his circling caresses. Soon, he begins to rub against the armchair in time with her voice, his remaining clothes too tight, too heavy.

By the time he extends a third finger, gentle strokes growing vigorous and then slowing down again, and his Lord Captain shudders, wet and warm and needy around his hand — the fire has already overtaken him fully, casting a glazed delirious pall over his eye. As Lumen tosses her head back, incoherent with bliss, staring at but not really seeing her chamber's ornate ceiling, Abelard raises his hand to his mouth. His fingers glint with her release, but in his fever, a mere dab of sex against his parched lips is not enough.

"Lord Captain," he slurs huskily, "I request a deeper taste."

The request is granted with a lazy "mhm", and he lifts her up against his heaving, cloth-trapped chest, shedding her second petticoat, and the sidehoops, and the stockings like wilted white petals on the way to the bed.

After the silly little armchair detour, her lays her down where she ought to rest, as befits the Rogue Trader: upon a throne of pillows, under the heavy canopy of red velvet. A beautiful, decadent thing of sweetest, most sinful pre-sunrise dreams. Her voluptuous chest rises and falls over the lone remaining stomacher, and the lovely pouch of her stomach is on full display... It still bears the jagged reminder of Kunrad's treachery, and it has gotten smaller after the hardships of Commorragh. But she is home now, she is safe, she will be taken care of.

Abelard spends a few moments in quiet contemplation, with one knee placed on the mattress' edge, allowing Lumen to catch a breath before her perfect body is played with again — and himself, to bask in the sight of her. Eventually, he starts to unbutton his uniform, which has long since become a burden. But Lumen's eyes flash: she does not approve.

"Let me do that, darling!" she demands, pushing herself up her pillow throne's slope.

He obliges. With a rather inelegant grunt of effort (which makes Lumen giggle, endeared to his old—man clumsiness), he climbs onto the bed's enormous springy raft. Everything around them may be padded with the down of rare birds, light as whipped cream — but she is still upon her throne, and he is still kneeling in front of her. Serving, as a Seneschal must, at her pleasure.

Perhaps still languid in her climax's aftermath, perhaps wanting to do better than with the armor, perhaps exacting her wicked revenge on Abelard for toying with her garters far too long, Lumen takes her time with each button. Each little skull needs to be admired and tapped at before she deigns release it.

A low growl brews within Abelard's chest.

"If it were not for the safety hazard, I would have asked you to just burn the blasted thing off me... Lord Captain."

She erupts into delighted laughter.

"Of course, we all know that the Inquisition sanctioned me precisely for this! But no, darling, I prefer to set you on fire in other ways... You can have a bit more telekinesis, though: as a treat."

He nods, and with a flick of her wrist, she unleashes the remaining buttons in a gunfire burst of flying brass. The skulls zoom off, ricocheting off distant furniture with a series of clangs. Something else comes crashing down. Inconsequential.

Having peeled back the rest of Abelard's uniform with ease, Lumen freezes, wide-eyed, studying the galactic map of scars that run across his torso, cutting through the glinting silvery nebulae of hair, which swirl the thickest on his broad chest and at the bottom of his stomach.

The lustful red mist that's engulfed his face and throat suddenly turns into a schoolboy's blush.

"I, uh, am a practical man, Lord Captain," he half-whispers apologetically. "There are rejuvenation surgeries that smoothen the skin in addition to extending the life span, but I never, hm, opted for the bonus service. It would have no bearing on my duties, and I thought — "

"Shush, my heart! If you thought my scars were not appalling, allow me to admire yours!"

Her fingers follow where her eyes journeyed just now. What were initially simple metal caps, in place of the fingerprints she'd sliced off during her smuggling days, were upgraded to more advanced augments, the best a Rogue Trader's thrones can buy. Through the gilded tips, she is able to feel some semblance of texture, as she would in a sheer glove. No ridge of raised pale tissue is left unexplored, and her wistful smile is imprinted deeper and deeper into her lips with each trail she follows across his body's map.

Abelard allows himself to close his eye and power down his implant, sinking into the darkness like into a warm bath. His lips still crack with thirst, and he flicks his tongue across them, yearning for Her Ladyship's rich musk to flood his mouth... But she needs to finish her journey first.

The grey and red flare to life again at the sound of Lumen's voice.

"Oh my, and you have tattoos as well! What a secret to hide from your Lord Captain, officer!"

Her hand is on his bicep, treading along the sword-sharp quills of the old Aquila, pausing over the ribbon with the High Gothic motto that encircles his forearm like a bracelet:

IMPERATOR GALAXIAE DOMINUS EST, SED NAVARCHUS NAVIS SUAE.

Then off the little explorator hand flits, butterfly-like, to his other arm, adorned with the I and ship's wheel of the Navis Imperialis.

Lumen smirks when she glances down at the skull on Abelard’s lower abdomen, but sighs in sympathy when she notices that the patch of inked skin has been mangled by a wound from an Ork's "choppa", and that the top of the skull has gotten chipped by scar tissue. After giving the skull a little pet, as if in comfort — which makes Abelard inhale sharply, suddenly painfully, chafingly aware that his pants are still on — and focuses on discerning the half-faded coils of warp monsters. Copied from the grotesque marginalia of archival maps, they once writhed, starkly black in fresh ink, all over Abelard's stomach, where a small cushion of fat protects the muscles, hardened over centuries of service.

And then there is the tattoo over his heart. Pale now, nigh lost in the cloud of hair, under a lattice of so many stab slashes and pock marks from bullets that nearly ended his life, but missed. But still visible to an eye as keen as Her Ladyship's. A lily blossom, held up by a curving stem with several twisting leaves that, when overlayed together, form the letter Q.

Abelard looks away, all playful warmth suddenly draining from him.

"Lord Captain, I apologize... This... This is not something you would wish to see... Not like this..."

"It's all right, darling. I understand," she murmurs tenderly, and raises her hand to the Aquila half-mask, which still adorns her brow, hiding the very scars that she showed Abelard, not too long ago.

"There was a girl, once... The sidekick on my very first heists, back on our hive world. She'd follow me everywhere, suffer through my wildest schemes — much like you, I suppose. We had such grand plans, her and I, of escaping the hive hand in hand, and being fearsome pirate queens together. Neither of us had names back then, not real human ones, just registration codes and nicknames that stuck."

She gathers the blankets around her, to hide from encroaching cold.

"I called her Birdie, because when I was not seducing her into a life of crime, she worked an honest job at an assembly line for Aquila molds. She's... gone now, but a part of her is always with me, in so many forms: on this mask, on my sword hilt, even on my keyring... Wherever there's an Aquila, there's Birdie. It's... painful to think about, sometimes — but I am also grateful to have had her. And I am grateful to have you, now."

"As am I," Abelard says, pressing his lips against her inner wrist.

His kiss seems to quicken her blood again, to bring back the warmth to them both.

"Frankly, Lord Captain, if you'd started teasing me in front of Quatharina, she would have taken your side," Abelard ponders, with a wistful chuckle. "You would have teamed up against me and I would have lost miserably."

"Truly, not only the Imperium's most concerned citizen, but most put-upon too!" Lumen clicks her tongue, as her tense pose relaxes, and the protective covers fall back, her half-nude body once again soft and inviting.

"Come here.''

The embrace that they share appears almost chaste, at first: two lost, lonely people, each clinging on to someone they found in the indifferent wasteland of outer space... But before long, their lips meet again, and much like when they bared their hearts to each other on Janus, one of Lumen's breasts spills over the stomacher, and Abelard sinks his fingertips into the pliant softness, kneading it until she whines and tugs its twin free. He falls upon it with a thirsty moan, as if it would feed him the finest vintage amasec.

Lumen jolts under his body, eyelids fluttering and jaw going slack. After a few long, parting half-kisses, half-bites all over her breast, Abelard moves on further and further down, loosening the ribbon that yet holds together the final bastion of her outfit, and devouring whatever bare flesh he can reach. All the while, he keeps his head slightly tilted to the side to that the metal frame of his implant does not cut into her; at one point, the complex tubing gets tangled up in her bodice's fastenings, and when Abelard jerks his head free, he has a ribbon dangling off the side of his face... The only response either of them has to this is a half-drunken laugh.

At last, he returns to those waiting folds, where her scent is building up again. He draws her legs apart, kissing both thighs in turn as appreciation for his Lord Captain's... cooperation, and feasts.

There is much work to be done; meticulous, thorough work — and his tongue is as diligent in the Lord Captain's service as his sword hand. He laps against her inner walls like he is sucking the last dregs of juice-soaked pulp off a peach pit, and then goes looking for more precious sweet droplets in its crevices. The finest tremor rocks through Lumen's thighs; her toes curl inward, and a new high-pitched song of pleasure soars from her throat.

And as before, he is her moon, turning her wild sunfire into a glow of his own. His crotch bulges, and while with one hand, he is grabbing hold of Lumen's plump buttocks, he fumbles blindly with the other to pull down his pants and release his straining flesh.

Lumen cranes her neck, struggling to assemble her half-melted body into something sentient. And whatever conscious reasoning she can muster, is definitely most interested in the outlines of the blood-gorged vein that runs along Abelard's thick, robust shaft, and the first clear droplets that swell upon the tip.

"Darling..." she croaks softly. "Darling, please... Go inside me."

Abelard emerges, his beard drenched, and huffs a low breath.

"I... Thank you for the honor, Lord Captain."

Carefully, he shifts her legs to be level with his hips, settles between her knees, and takes his length into his hand, trailing a wet, teasing circle around her peach-ripe entrance, absorbing every note in her voice as she pants impatiently... Then, and only then, does he make his first thrust. Followed by another, and another, hammering up an intense, beating speed, for such is the will of his Lord Captain.

"Oh, fuck, Abelard! Harder! Harder!"

Sweat runs down his neck; his sighted eye clouds over, his nostrils flare, and his teeth dig desperately into his lower lip.

"Lrdcap..." he attempts to say, but this close to apex, his words fail him; he gets tangled in them, and trips over his own heavy tongue like Her Ladyship tripped over her dress. So he mouths the word that is much easier to enunciate: her name. The nickname from the distant, long-purged hive, which became real. As real as the person it belongs to, a beautiful creature of flesh and blood held firmly in Abelard's arms, fragrant with arousal and traces of perfume.

"Lumen."

He comes shortly after she does, rocked by his rhythmic pounding into a disheveled trance much like his own. He comes with his mouth full of her: still tasting her sex, still shaping her name.

She reaches to kiss him, humming in soft contentment, and they both roll to the side, in a mess of twining limbs; lost amid the pillow sea.

"Lord Captain, I must clean both of us off..."

"And when you are done, will you stay?" Lumen asks, in no rush to raise her hand from there she rested it — on the right side of his chest, opposite the letter Q. Both of them with him now; and forever.

"Will you lay with me for the rest of the night, darling?"

"The bridge — " Abelard begins, but her golden eyes are huge and pleading.

"The bridge is probably finishing off the last of Danrok's prized amasec. If you came down there and asked those voidsmen what our names were, they'd just blink and say 'huh?'."

Abelard frowns.

"After all the disciplining I have to do around here!... Though I suppose that I am not the one to talk!"

"Talk to me," she purrs, laying his hand over hers.

"Tell me everything you wanted to tell me but thought you couldn't, because it was beneath me to care or some such. The planets you visited with Theodora. Funny stories about your children when they were little. What you got up to with the boys as a young officer. And I can tell you about my best heists. Or how I'd tried to get on the Inquisition agents' nerves when I became a psyker, and still kept my head. You know, more of the little things we'd get started with in between missions, before you'd clam up and I-apologize-Lord-Captain me away."

Abelard, who did slip away from under her touch, intending to fetch a wash cloth, clears his throat sheepishly... No doubt haunted by the image of himself starting a ramble about how proud he was of Clementia when she returned to Dargonus a decorated war hero, and then snapping his mouth shut... Because truly, what business was it of the Lord Captain's?

"Just for tonight," he concedes — but does nothing to hide the light of his affectionate smile.

[callalillywrites]

I Fell in Love But You Didn’t

This is an older story. It didn't need much in the way of editing, but I hated the title it originally had. So, it's back again with a new title and one that I think works better.

Steve Rogers Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Ex!Steve Rogers x Ex!Reader (female)

Word Count: ~700

Summary: Steve is returning the Infinity Stones. You know you won't be seeing him again.

Warning: bittersweet ending; breakup; light angst

A/N: This is the other piece I wrote based on the song, You Didn't by Brett Young. It's a great but sad song that I can't recommend highly enough.

I do not give permission to have my works copied, translated, reposted, or fed into an AI machine.

****

Steve was leaving.

You could feel it in your bones.

He stood near the platform Bruce had quickly assembled after Tony’s funeral. The Stones packed neatly and carefully in the briefcase Steve held. He’d just hugged Bucky. An inner joke shared between them.

Then, Steve stepped back, swiveling on his heels.

The distance between you had never felt longer though he covered it in a few steps.

A watery smile graced your features as you looked upon the man you loved for the last time.

“Hey, I’ll be back soon,” Steve said, the promise falling flat. His gaze never quite reached yours as he said the words. It confirmed the truth you’d known was a long time in coming.

You shook your head. “No, you’re not, and it’s okay, Steve.”

“But –”

“Steve, I love you. I think I’ve loved you since we met in New York six years ago,” you paused to gather yourself and retain what composure you had left, “but I’m not where you belong. I never was.”

“Angel, I…” Steve let the words die.

You could tell he wanted to lie to you. To tell you everything you wanted to hear.

A week ago, you would’ve wanted to hear the lies. You would’ve wanted to cling to him and believe them. But it wasn’t meant to be. It never was. His heart has and will always belong to Peggy Carter.

Before he could try and regroup, you pressed a hand to his mouth. “Please, I don’t want or need you to lie to me, Steve. This isn’t your fault, and I don’t need you to make this better. You didn’t do anything wrong. I won’t have you thinking you have.”

This time, you paused to swallow the emotion clogging your throat. It took you another minute to collect yourself and give him a genuine smile.

“Go and get your girl, Cap. She’s waiting for you. I just know it.”

You rose on your tiptoes one last time. With a soft kiss to his cheek, you whispered, “Be happy, Steve. You deserve everything this world has ever offered and taken from you. You’ve settled and compromised since you came out of the ice. It’s time for you to be a little bit selfish, even if that means you’re not mine.”

Steve stared at you for several moments, his eyes growing misty at your words.

Before you could step back, he’d set the briefcase down and grabbed you. His arms wrapped tightly around you while his cheek nuzzled against yours.

He didn’t say anything at first, but he finally whispered, “I really hope you find your one, Angel. You are not someone’s compromise or someone who should be settled for. I do love you, and I always will.”

A single tear streaked down your cheek. “I know. Maybe saying goodbye won’t be a bad thing. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”

His arms tightened around you, impossibly tight, then he slowly released you.

When he picked up the briefcase again, he tapped your chin like he was prone to do all the years you’ve known him. In the same soft voice, he said, “Don’t hate me too much, please.”

“I could never hate you, Steve. No matter how hard I might try to.”

With that, he turned toward the platform and suited up to return the stones to their rightful places along the timeline. He had some branches to nip before they took hold and created issues within the universe.

In a blink, he was gone.

Five seconds, Bruce had said.

Those seconds came and went without Steve’s return.

Then again, you knew they would.

He’d gone back to Peggy. Just like you knew he would.

Bruce and Sam argued on how to get him back and what to do with whatever had gone wrong.

Turning to Bucky, you nodded towards your car and asked, “Want a lift? I think there’s a bar in town, and I know I could use a drink.”

Bucky, forever a friend, fell into step beside you. After a moment, he asked, “You okay?”

You spared a glance at the platform, then met his gaze. “I will be.”

[fafnir19]

A swimming lesson

It was another typical day at school, and as usual, I found myself in the crosshairs of Mr. Coachman's disdain. My name is Tristan, and I am what one might call an "unsporty" student. Thin, nerdy, and full of useless facts, I was the kid who always got picked last in gym class. Mr Coachman, a former athlete turned sport and philosophy teacher, had no patience for my know-it-all attitude. He believed that my incessant need to correct everyone was hindering the class and, quite frankly, his sanity. One day, Mr. Coachman approached me after yet another unnecessary correction during PE. He offered me a chance to improve my abysmal grades in sports by taking extra swimming lessons with him. Reluctantly, I agreed, desperate to boost my overall GPA. At our first swimming session, Mr. Coachman handed me a peculiar-looking swimming cap. He claimed it would allow me to hear and see his instructions directly in my head. I thought he was out of his mind, but upon putting on the cap, I realized it actually worked. It was a surreal experience, feeling Mr. Coachman's voice and visual cues echoing in my mind as I swam. The instructions were crystal clear, making it easier to perfect my stroke and improve my technique in record time. Weeks later, Mr. Coachman, noticing my progress, approached me with a new pair of swim goggles. He said they would help me focus better in the pool. Skeptical yet willing to try anything, I put them on and dove in. As soon as the water enveloped me, I felt a heightened sense of concentration. The outside world disappeared, and all that mattered was the water beneath me. Mr. Coachman's voice became a distant echo, guiding me through each stroke and turn. It was as if the goggles had transformed me into a single-minded swimming machine.

Mr Coachman observed my newfound dedication and satisfaction. I was exhausted from the intense swim training, which left me with no energy to display my usual know-it-all tendencies in class.

Several weeks later, Mr Coachman's next request gave me pause. He presented me with a slim blue Speedo and promised that it would enhance my speed in the water. There was just one catch—I had to shave off all my body hair. He argued that professional swimmers did it all the time for better speed and reduced resistance. I protested vehemently. "Shave off all my body hair? Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed, my voice filled with disbelief. Mr Coachman, with a grin on his face, replied, "Of course not, Tristan! It's a small sacrifice in pursuit of greatness. Trust me, you'll thank me later." I crossed my arms stubbornly, determined to resist this outrageous demand. "Absolutely not! I'll wear the Speedo, but I draw the line at shaving my body hair. It's like asking a caterpillar to give up its fuzzy coat!" Mr Coachman's smile didn't falter, and he simply said, "Suit yourself, Tristan. But just remember, the pros do it for a reason." His words lingered in the air as an internal struggle waged within me. The temptation to conform and become the ultimate swimmer clashed with my natural inclination to rebel against such absurdity. In the end, though, curiosity won over. I figured, if I could endure the grueling training and wear these magical swimming items, what harm could a little body hair removal do? With a hesitant sigh, I finally agreed to Mr. Coachman's request. Trudging to the bathroom, I grabbed a razor, examining its gleaming blade with trepidation. As I stood before the mirror, thoughts of caterpillars and metamorphosis floated through my mind. I wondered if shaving off my body hair would truly transform me into a swimming powerhouse. With each stroke of the razor, I felt a mix of excitement and unease. Whiskers and hairs fell, leaving behind smooth, hairless skin. Trapped in my thoughts, I couldn't help but wonder what my friends would say or how they would react when they discovered my newfound aquatic obsession and hairless body. Finally, once all the hair was gone, I took a long look at my smooth reflection. It was a strange sight, almost otherworldly. I felt a mix of vulnerability and exhilaration, like a sea creature shedding its scales and emerging anew. Standing tall in my hairless glory, I slipped into the slim blue Speedo. Ready or not, I was about to dive into the next chapter of this bizarre journey, hoping that my shaved body would indeed prove to be a worthwhile sacrifice in the pursuit of greatness. Emerging from the water for the first time in my stylish Speedo, I had transformed. My physique resembled that of a Greek statue, not an ounce of body fat in sight. I was an athletic swimmer, a force to be reckoned with.

With my old clothes no longer fitting, Mr. Coachman outfitted me with a tight beige chino and a light blue shirt.

As I squeezed myself into the outfit, I couldn't help but complain about looking like a preppy dork. However, Mr. Coachman assured me that it was all about how I wore the clothes. Skillfully, he rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, unbuttoned the top buttons, and stood back to appraise his handiwork. "Aren't you a handsome devil?" he remarked with a satisfied grin.

Surprisingly, I found myself thanking him, swallowed by a sense of excitement and self-confidence that I had never experienced before. Something about Mr. Coachman's approval made me feel alive and validated, even if I couldn't pinpoint exactly why I had become so susceptible to his influence. And thus, Mr. Coachman's cunning plan had come to fruition. Those magical swimming accouterments had not only transformed me into a skilled swimmer but also had slowly but surely chipped away at my once-sturdy resistance. When I wore all three items—cap, goggles, and Speedo—I was utterly beholden to his every command, a true embodiment of the "perfect student-athlete" he had envisioned from the onset. Now a member of the swim team, I had gone from a nerdy outcast to a charming and good-looking athlete, the joy of all my teachers. But deep down, I couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Coachman's methods were entirely ethical. Regardless, I was living proof of his success, and the sensation of hearing Mr. Coachman's voice and visualizing his instructions while wearing the cap and goggles had left an indelible mark on my perception of swimming, forever changing the way I experienced the water.

[childish-dreams-utmv]

"Childish Dreams" [INTERACTIVE]

Chapter 4, 2767 words

Chapter summary:

Of course Dream wouldn't be able to mind his own damn business. Annoying brat. He had no good sense of personal space, as he lacked his own. And aaalways thought he was in the right. Everyone always permit him everything. Spoiled little thing. Nightmare always thought he ought to be disciplined at last. … Hm, well, now that is an idea.

Credits, content warnings and further information on ao3.

—

Nightmare was not a morning person. Quite frankly, he was more likely to be active during the dead of night than the early morning. Alas, here he was: awake and in the kitchen space, making himself a coffee.

As the coffee machine finished its work, he took the cup out and, using a wooden teaspoon, stirred in some honey. He did like to indulge in sweets, at least when it came to his coffee. He was a King. The least he deserved was a good cup of caffeine.

Strangely, though he'd woken earlier than usual and was displeased about it, he didn't feel much fatigue. Likely the effects from the yesterday's work.

Inversely, his recruits were shambling around the kitchen and yawning. Dust just sat at the table, head down. He could've fooled someone that he was sleeping.

Nightmare reached out a hand and Horror passed him the milk to pour some into his coffee. The man himself was shuffling around, slowly preparing breakfast, eyes half-lidded.

Nightmare capped the milk and returned it to the fridge. He leaned against the counter where he would not obstruct Horror's work (or endanger Horror with his touch), and sipped his coffee. It was excellent, naturally. Horror moved around him with the ease of familiarity, utensils clicking quietly.

(Which was… hm. Here was the Lord of Negativity, and yet, and yet.

The atmosphere felt… content and easy, dare he say.)

Only Killer was less sluggish than usual. Which was interesting. Most mornings of his started with dissociation that gradually abated.

Now, he sat at the table beside Dust, head leaned on one hand, rapidly tapping his fingers against the table with the other. There was a jittery quality to him.

Hm.

Well, his soul had destabilized. Nightmare had sensed it yesterday, including a mesh of negative emotions later in the evening. And yet nobody came to him to fix it, so he did not interfere in their business.

He'd assumed they'd had some argument or sparred to let the violence out, and that the issue had been dealt with. But perhaps that wasn't quite the case.

Hm.

Well, Nightmare would just give them a small break then. One day surely wouldn't be the end.

He was enthused to capitalize on the state his nemesis currently was in (i.e. a child locked in his own castle), yes, but he had to be careful to not oversaturate his employees with violence. They tended to… become unstable and burnt-out.

(Well, not anymore, at least. It had taken him a frankly embarrassing amount of time to both learn and admit he couldn't just push them to their limit every single time. It just wasn't productive.

…

…Or nice.)

Surely Dream was no threat like this. It was quite a perfect situation for Nightmare, really. He sipped at his coffee.

Dream was a persistent thorn in his side, and yet Nightmare was aware he couldn't just kill the man, unfortunately. The Multiverse might explode, or, something something. No; Dream had to remain alive, therefore, Nightmare would rather he be incapacitated. Ideally he would just turn back to stone! …Though he doubted that was possible to repeat.

So this, Nightmare was very happy with. Dream was no longer an obstacle like this. Perhaps, if he remained this way for a prolonged period of time, Nightmare would figure out how to shape him into something more preferable, hah.

And–

Hello Nightmare, if you don't mind me asking, how much do you know about killers soul? [@terahble]

–Nightmare blinked, cup raised halfway.

Quite frankly, he was about to completely ignore the sudden… ah, whatever that was.

However,

"Did–" Horror had paused, squinting at him. "…Why did you pause just now?"

Killer was staring at him.

Nightmare's eye narrowed.

Dust raised his head to blink blearily at them all.

They all had a minor stare-off, waiting for who would ask the question first.

Because every one of his recruits had history of bad mental states that include hallucinations. But that didn't sound like the words of a non-existent construct. Why would a hallucination ask that?

And what would happen if it came in contact with strong healing magic? [terahble]

"Why are you asking him about my soul?" it was Killer who dared to respond, flat.

"Oh shit, that wasn't just me," Dust muttered.

"Okay so we all heard it," Horror rubbed his face.

Nightmare mimicked the action, rubbing his nasal bridge. If it was not a hallucination and it was asking such questions, he had an inkling as to what was going on, and he wasn't happy about it.

Everybody knew of the almighty "Creators" — Ink and Error were both outspoken about their abstract existence. However, that's the thing — it was abstract. No body, no presence, no involvement. Usually only those two heard them.

Except for when something caught their attention.

Nightmare hoped this was a damn ghost instead.

"It would get healed," he deadpanned in response, sipping his coffee.

Except that gathered very subtle reactions from his team. Like Horror glancing away or a slight change to Killer's tapping.

Nightmare squinted at them again.

"What is this about?" he questioned.

"No clue," Killer shrugged.

killer, once you are in a better state (since we can't really see the events happening in a conventional way i have no way of knowing if you already are) please go appologise to dream, he feels quite guilty and thinks its his fault so i and the other voices would like him to be happy along side you and the others [Wise Villager (Guest)]

"Damn snitches–" Killer hissed quietly.

Well. That — 'since we can't really see the events happening in a conventional way' — confirmed one thing, at least: they weren't dealing with ghosts.

"What did that brat do?" Nightmare was quite unimpressed.

The other three exchanged looks for a moment or two, silently passing around the responsibility of answering him.

"Fuck off," Horror turned away.

"Not my mess," Dust raised his palms.

Killer threw his head back, groaning.

"Oh come on! You two insisted I go–"

"You let him try to–"

"How was I supposed to know–?!"

"This is not answering the question I asked," Nightmare interrupted them before they could really get going.

"Whatever," Killer rolled his head in lieu of rolling his eyes, "Pipsqueak just tried to– ugh, "heal" my soul," he made air quotes.

"I wasn't aware it was damaged,"

"My HP wasn't, yeah,"

Nightmare's brow ridges furrowed. Then what– ah.

Ahh. Yes. That would make sense. With so little to sense around here, Dream must've sensed the instability of Killer's soul. His soul was one of the reasons Nightmare was careful to not push too hard.

While Killer was most useful to him in Stage 2, going into Stage 3 or even Stage 4 could be too much. Killer preferred to handle it on his own, but sometimes Nightmare was forced to step in lest he self-destruct in those states.

"Why did you let him?" Dust muttered, leaning on a hand.

"Pardon me," Killer exaggerated, "My soft heart's weak to small children making demands," he deadpanned. "I didn't think he would try that!"

Of course Dream wouldn't be able to mind his own damn business. Annoying brat. He had no good sense of personal space, as he lacked his own. And aaalways thought he was in the right. Everyone always permit him everything. Spoiled little thing. Nightmare always thought he ought to be disciplined at last.

…

Hm, well, now that is an idea.

nightmare you should talk to dream– [Wise Villager [Guest])

"Oh I plan to," Nightmare agreed, placing his empty cup beside the sink.

His recruits glanced at him.

–he is worried about you and even if you don't want to he is saving grapes for you and you wouldn't want them to waist, maybe explain some stuff or lie a little bit just to give dream some comfort– [Wise Villager (Guest)]

(What– grapes–? Nevermind that, not important.)

No, no, he had no such plans. Instead, as Nightmare headed in the direction of Dream's room, he felt a sort of dark giddiness.

He held power and authority now. It was one of the high points of his life, really.

After some hesitation on their part, he sensed his crew also trailing after him. Curious, tentative.

Upon reaching the door, he swiftly unlocked it and opened it. (He hadn't doubted his workers, and yet he was pleased to find they had not forgotten to lock it.)

"Dreeamm," Nightmare drew out with a grin, as the other turned to face him. He was already awake, because of course he was.

Nightmare watched Dream's face break out into a bright grin, and he hopped off the bed to immediately rush over with a "Night!"

"Ah ah ah!" Nightmare chided, making Dream falter. "Do not touch me."

"Oh– okay!" Dream nodded easily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Oh– I saved some food for you!" he exclaimed, instead speeding over to the night stand.

What–? Mainly due to bafflement, Nightmare let the twerp stall.

Bizarrely enough, from the cupboard, Dream pulled out a bowl of stew, two pieces of bread, a small plate with dried meat slices and another bowl with… grapes. Ah, so this is what that was about.

"Oh– they're–" Dream paused at the grapes, and Nightmare sensed some disappointment from him. "Um. I didn't think they'd… go bad this quick," Dream admitted sheepishly. "But there's still other stuff!" he brightened up.

"What– where did you acquire this?"

Dream blinked. "…Huh?"

Nightmare rolled his eye.

"Where did you get this," he rephrased.

"Oh! Your, uh– Horror, Dust and Killer bring me breakfast and dinner!" stated with gratitude, but also with a touch of nerves. Like he was doing something wrong. A part of Nightmare wondered why Dream felt that way. Most of him didn't care about it.

(Dream had put aside parts of his own meal. For Nightmare.

…That…

…Meant nothing. It was a ridiculous, pointless gesture.)

Somewhere behind him, he heard Horror mutter something at this. He ignored it in favor of continuing what he came here for in the first place.

"Mm. And you repaid them by tampering with Killer's soul?" Nightmare stepped into the room properly now.

Dream stiffened, bowl of grapes still in his hands.

The golden child had messed up. And, personally, Nightmare was delighted.

"Is he okay?" Dream worried.

"N–"

DW DREAM HES OKAY TRUST (maybe) WORRY ABT URSELF 😞 [Azries]

Nightmare bristled slightly. Damn annoyances can't be shut up. No matter, he could work with this.

It’s not your fault Dream. People and monsters who are scared acts defensively to try to protect themselves from what hurt them. [@terahble]

"Oh–" Dream's shoulders loosened from the tension. Which is peculiar — if Nightmare was unable to quite literally feel it, he wouldn't have noticed its presence in the first place. How fun. "Yeah! Exactly! That's what I was say–"

"Yes," Nightmare interjected, "You cannot blame him for reacting harshly, hm?" he had gained enough details about the events to use. "What you did upset him very, very much,"

Slightly, Dream's eye's widened; slightly, he held the bowl of grapes tighter, before carefully placing it on the nightstand. Now instead he clutched at the ends of his sleeves.

(From behind, Killer was mildly amused.)

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't– I wanted to–"

"Tsk, excuses don't fix your failures,"

Nightmare savored the emotional lurch he was rewarded with. His grin crawled back over his face.

Dream, souls are a very special thing, it’s very rude for you to just do something to Killer’s soul. You should– [Alex_Magic]

"Indeed," Nightmare hummed, "Incredibly invasive and hurtful,"

His recruits, though they felt a range of things at the scene, didn't interject. Good. Nightmare doesn't tolerate disloyalty. And he was enjoying himself too much.

Over the years, he'd spat a great many things in Dream's face. Insults, cutting comments, manipulation tactics; he'd dug around for every scrap of weakness he could. It was personal. Over the years, Dream had learnt how to guard his emotions, aura locked away from Nightmare the same way Nightmare's was from him; he'd learnt to grit his teeth and hold tightly onto his emotional responses. A valiant warrior.

But it seems he had no such protections now. And Nightmare knew just which buttons to press.

Now he watched the pitiful thing clutch at his sleeves and stare, eyes wide. That's all he betrayed from the regret and guilt that rolled through him, but Nightmare felt it all.

And it tasted sweet, really. He'd barely said anything and it was getting to the emotional child already. It felt so good to finally be above.

Ahh, and he had so many options to pick from! Revenge was known to taste sweeter, after all — Nightmare should know.

There was hardly anything in the room, so no possessions to take away (the way his own had been stolen and destroyed). He considered leaving the brat without breakfast, maybe without dinner too — but that would likely anger Horror, a touchy matter.

Physical punishment was brutish and inelegant but…

Nightmare stepped forward, and Dream stood in place like a kid waiting for a scolding.

"Give me your hands,"

He held his hands up, staring up at Nightmare's face. No protest or complaint, not even a wince. He really was ridiculously trusting and naïve. Likely thinking his own "brother" would never hurt him. Nightmare had thought that too.

His first days-months-years of being Corrupted, the black tar that covered him would kill anybody he touched. He was seething with rage and hatred and bitterness and it physically streamed out of him. With time, however, though he did not lose those feelings, he gained power, and became more in tune with said power. If he so wished, the liquid hatred over his form would hardly sting upon being touched (though it could never be entirely painless).

Now he raised a tentacle, slowly wrapping it around both of Dream's palms (which were warm against the surface of the limb). And he squeezed. And he slowly increased the potency of the liquid negativity.

He watched as Dream initially didn't react. He watched as Dream suppressed his reaction. He watched as Dream began struggling to suppress his reaction, as the ooze physically burned his palms.

Nightmare wasn't ashamed to admit he felt satisfied as Dream's small hands began trembling with the burn. Still, the child only felt heaps of guilt and regret, and just a twinge of nervousness — no fear or panic or emotional hurt.

And yet the child was forcing his breathing to be measured to endure the pain.

At last, Nightmare uncurled the tentacle and withdrew it. He barely heard Dream let out a breath at that.

Marks remained on his palms, right over the middle, thick and harsh. Nightmare held no sympathy. He'd been through much worse. Dream would heal swiftly and forget all about it, no doubt.

"That's all," Nightmare hummed, pleased.

"Thank you,"

The whiplash of that response was like getting slapped across the face.

Just two words, timid, sincere.

Dream held no fear, no resentment, nothing. He just turned to, carefully, shakily, pick up the bowl of stew.

"Do you–"

"What the hell are you thanking me for?" Nightmare interrupted sharply. Behind him, likely hiding around the door to eavesdrop, his recruits were also in varying degrees of confused and baffled.

He received light confusion.

"For… my punishment…?" Dream replied like it was sensible and obvious. Like he'd ever been punished in his happy spoiled childhood. "Is Killer okay?" his worry was sincere, not even a moment longer spent on his punishment.

Nightmare stared at him. The child was still holding the bowl with stew, too.

"…Are you okay?" Dream asked a little quieter. "Does the goop hurt you? It's okay, we'll figure out how to get rid of it if that's the case," he offered a smile.

Nightmare stared. He was in disbelief. He was… growing to be irritated.

Of course Dream would respond like this. As a child, he never had the damn resolve to stand up to those bastards. Spineless people-pleaser. Even when the cost fell to Nightmare.

"Did… I say something wrong–?"

"Eat your food." Nightmare turned around to stride out the room, cold and bitterly seething. He closed the door and locked it. He ignored the shared glances between his crew — they knew better than to bother him when his aura was colder — and departed to his private workroom.

He'd wasted enough time and energy on that little attention seeker. He had work to do.