#but it is definitely something i think about

[sergle]

i feel like you guys only hear about the bad tiktok phenomenon, like Girl Math and stuff like that, bc it prompts more of a reaction. but i want to let you know that i keep seeing one that's called Dinosaur Time, and it's where you SHOVE fistfuls of raw spinach, straight out of the tub, into your mouth and eat it like you're a dinosaur ravenously devouring a delicious tree star. and then you've had a serving of greens. and all it took was 10 beautiful seconds.

[apatheticsunday]

Manifest Destiny

AKA "Danny knows about Bruce Wayne's little adoption habit, so he actively fights back by making digs at the older man's age. He doesn't realize he essentially adopted himself by calling Bruce 'grandpa'!" prompt idea!!

Okay, so 19-year-old Jazz moves to Gotham because Arkham has an psychiatrist internship that guarantees a job after graduation from Gotham-U. She takes a 12-13 year old Danny with because the "ghost attacks" (i.e., her parents are getting very obsessed with dissecting Phantom and it's genuinely worrying) are getting worse. Now Danny's in Gotham Prep... along with Damian Wayne.

They do not get along.

Damian stabs Danny with a pencil, Danny bites Damian so hard that he needs stitches, and the detentions only increase their bloodthirst because, "He started it!!" It comes to a head when Damian shoves Danny down the stairs (he wasn't really meaning to, he just pushed too hard), and Danny goes down hard. As in not-getting-back-up kind of hard. And Damian realizes he just killed a civilian. He's running through contingency plans, trying to figure out whether he can hide the body or if he should confess to Father, when the Fenton boy's broken neck... becomes un-broken?? And he sits up??

So, 13-year-old Damian makes a logical decision. Daniel Fenton is clearly his Arch Nemesis. He's undeniably a meta (perhaps with super-healing abilities?) so he can withstand Damian's too-enthusiastic violence. And Danny's like, this fucker just killed me. I'm going to beat his ass. Except Damian has a really high pain tolerance and is literally the heir to the League of Assassins. Long story short, Damian and Danny have "play dates" where they spend the entire time trying to kill/beat each other up. Jazz is just happy that Danny seems to have made a friend.

Bruce, on the other hand, takes one look at a scrawny, black-haired, blue-eyed kid who clearly has some childhood trauma, and mentally becomes Bat Dad. He tried to approach the subject once. Bruce carefully, tentatively asked, "Do you have a place to stay, son? We have plenty of rooms." To which Danny replied, "I'm not your son, I have a dad!! Why don't you go sit down before you break a hip, grandpa!!" (Tim choked on his tea, Damian nearly climbed across the table to strangle Danny, and Dick - who doesn't even live at the manor, he was just dropping off a case from Bludhaven PD - laughed so hard he cried.)

Except... Danny keeps coming over to the Wayne Manor (since Damian refuses to 'spar' at Jazz's one bedroom apartment, as it lacks a personal gymnasium). And Bruce is still kind, no matter how many times Danny makes fun of him for wearing bifocals or turtlenecks, or when he just straight up calls Bruce an old man. Plus, Damian's kind of mellowed out, too. He's teaching Danny actual sparring techniques, hand-to-hand combat, and explains different types of weapons/how to use them. Alfred brings the boys snacks. Occasionally Dick and Jason will visit for dinner, ruffling the boy's hair and joking about something or another. He's even introduced to Steph, Cass, and Barbara.

It dawns on Danny one evening, when Alfred is readying the car to take him back to his and Jazz's apartment. Bruce is scraping leftovers into a plastic container for Jazz to re-heat when he gets home and Danny's debating quietly with Damian about whether octopi are smarter than Superman. (Damian says yes, octopi are definitely smarter; he's seen Superman mutter to himself "lefty loosey, righty tighty" when trying to unscrew a water bottle cap.)

Then Bruce is handing Danny the leftovers, and Danny distractedly gives Bruce a side-hug, saying, "Thanks, grandpa."

Totally unironically. Danny's internal monologue is just what the fuck did I just say as Bruce slips him a $20 ("For a treat on the way home.") and escorts him to the front door. He thinks about it as Alfred drives him home. Thinks about it when he and Jazz curl up to watch a movie that night. Danny belatedly realizes that he's been unintentionally thinking of Bruce "Serial Adopter" Wayne as his grandfather??? For months now?? How could this happen??

Back at the Wayne Manor, Bruce is still in the kitchen, listening to Damian continue to debate Superman's intelligence while Tim scrolls on his work tablet. He'll probably take the kids, including the newest edition to the family, to the zoo this weekend.

[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 :( )

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 2: April 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

...I am definitely blown away by the reception this story got. I did not expect that AT ALL, so thank you very much...and here you have Chapter 2! Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Bad Real Estate decisions, Max being a simp for his girl, discussion of former toxic relationships...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

"Isabelle," Max murmured against her lips, his hands firm but steady on her waist.

She barely heard him. Not when he kissed her like this—slow and deep, his thumb brushing over her hip, his body warm and solid against hers. She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer, tilting her head to kiss him harder. When he groaned softly, she took it as encouragement, pressing up against him and reaching for the hem of his shirt.

But just as her fingers grazed the skin of his stomach, Max caught her wrist, pulling back slightly.

"Wait."

She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. "What?"

His hands slid from her waist to her arms, a soothing touch. "We don’t have to rush."

Isabelle frowned. "I know we don’t have to. But I want to."

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I don’t want you to think this is just about that."

She froze, her mind stuttering over his words. "What?"

He studied her carefully, thumb rubbing small circles into her skin. "I like you. A lot. And I want you to know that I’m serious about this."

Isabelle stared at him, something in her chest tightening. No one had ever said that to her before. Every other boyfriend had been eager, had expected, had—

She swallowed. "You don’t… want me?"

Max’s expression softened, his grip on her tightening just slightly, like he wanted to anchor her in place. "Of course I do," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "I just don’t want you to think that’s all I want."

Her breath hitched.

She had never been anyone’s priority. Never been someone who wasn’t easy to forget, easy to leave behind. But here was Max, the most wanted man on the grid, telling her he wanted her—but not just her body.

Something like disbelief flickered in her chest. "You’re serious."

Max huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his nose against hers. "Very."

Isabelle swallowed again, her throat tight, and let herself relax into him. She let herself believe him.

"Okay."

Max smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Good."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Max.

Max:  Good morning, Schatje.

Isabelle: Don’t start. Did you actually buy that penthouse?

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: And did you demand that I be the only architect allowed to work on it??

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: Do you have any idea how bad this looks?

Max: What’s bad about wanting the best?

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: Do you know what people at work are saying now??

Max: That I have excellent taste in architects?

Isabelle: They think I got this project because of Charles.

Max: … What?

Isabelle: Oh yeah. The rumors are great. Apparently, I’m here because I’m a Leclerc, not because I actually worked for it.

Max: … That’s stupid.

Isabelle: Tell that to my coworkers.

Max: You think I’d let Charles pick my architect?

Isabelle: No, but they don’t know that.

Max: Then tell them.

Isabelle: Oh sure, that’ll go well. “Actually, my brother had nothing to do with it, my boyfriend just demanded that I be the only one allowed to work on his project.” That sounds so much better.

Max: Ok, maybe that doesn’t help.

Isabelle: You think??

Max: I just wanted to work with you.

Isabelle: Yeah, and now people are whispering about nepotism and favoritism and how I’m only here because of my family name.

Max: They clearly don’t know you.

Isabelle: I KNOW. But it’s still frustrating. I’ve worked my ass off, Max. I didn’t want my name getting me jobs. I wanted my work to.

Max: And it has. That’s why I picked you. Not because of your name. Because I trust you.

Isabelle: You could have given me a heads-up, you know.

Max: And you would have said no.

Isabelle: That is not the point.

Max: But would you?

Isabelle:: …

Max: That’s what I thought.

Isabelle: You really bought that penthouse just so I could design it?

Max: I bought that penthouse because I liked it. But I only wanted you working on it.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: And you’re brilliant.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: Always.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe what Max did.

Emilie: That sentence could mean literally anything.

Isabelle: He bought the penthouse. THE penthouse. The one we talked about once in passing.

Emilie: …Okay, that’s insane, but also, congrats? You love that place.

Isabelle: THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is.

Isabelle: He also demanded that I be the architect working on it. Wouldn’t sign anything unless my name was on the project.

Emilie: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Isabelle: It’s not funny!

Emilie: No, it absolutely is.

Isabelle: People at work are already saying I only got the project because of Charles!

Emilie: Oh. Yeah, I can see that.

Isabelle: Which is wrong. Because I didn’t get it because of Charles. I got it because of my boyfriend, which is somehow worse.

Emilie: You say worse. I say deeply, deeply romantic.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Isabelle. 

Emilie: Your rich, lovesick boyfriend is out here spending millions just to have an excuse to see you every day, and you’re MAD?

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: He is trying to wife you.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now tell me—when’s the housewarming, and how much champagne should I bring?

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: You CANNOT keep doing this.

Max: Doing what?

Isabelle: Abusing your “professional client” status to drag me to fancy lunches.

Max: I’m not abusing anything. We have important business discussions to conduct.

Isabelle: You mean the penthouse where you’ve approved every single one of my plans without question?

Max: Exactly. We need to make sure I have no doubts.

Isabelle: You just want an excuse to take me to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Max: And?

Isabelle: That’s not how professional client-architect meetings work.

Max: It is when I’m the client.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: You don’t have to say yes.

Isabelle: …

Max: But you want to.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: Just think of it as me paying you for your excellent work.

Isabelle: That’s what your actual payments are for.

Max: But those aren’t fun.

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. Now you’re making it worse.

Max: First of all, you got this job because you’re brilliant.

Max: Second, if they think that, they’re idiots.

Max: Third, I booked a table with a view.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Don’t pretend you don’t want to come.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: You didn’t say no.

Isabelle: …

Max: I’ll see you at one.

Isabelle: I officially regret ever mentioning my favorite restaurants to you.

Max: That was your mistake, not mine.

Max: But I’ll make it up to you with dessert.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You will not believe what Max is doing.

Emilie: Oh, this is already good. Go on.

Isabelle: He’s using the penthouse project as an excuse to take me to fancy lunches.

Emilie: …And the problem is???

Isabelle: Emilie. People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. If they find out I’m going to Michelin-starred restaurants in the middle of the day with a client, I will NEVER hear the end of it.

Emilie: Okay, but is he actually talking about the penthouse during these lunches?

Isabelle: He pretends to for about five minutes. Then he just orders my favourite foods for me and acts like we’re on a date.

Emilie: …So you’re saying you’re mad because your boyfriend is taking you on nice dates and feeding you good food?

Isabelle: THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is the point.

Isabelle: I just—he’s impossible!

Emilie: What restaurant was it this time?

Isabelle: Le Louis XV.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle:

Emilie: You are sitting here complaining to me after being wined and dined at ALAIN DUCASSE’S RESTAURANT???

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: Shut up and tell me what you ate!

***

Isabelle laid out fabric swatches on the table, neatly arranging them in rows. “These are the options for the curtains,” she said, keeping her voice professional. “I’ve chosen materials that complement the lighting and textures in the space while also being durable.”

Max picked up a swatch at random, turning it over like he’s actually considering it. “Yeah… so which one do you like best?”

Isabelle sighed. “That’s not the point, Max.”

“But it kind of is,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “You know what looks good. I trust you.”

She exhaled, trying to keep the conversation on track. “My job isn’t to pick what I like, it’s to give you the best options based on your preferences and the space—”

“My preference,” Max interrupted, “is to not think too hard about curtain fabrics. So, tell me, which one would you put in your own place?”

She pressed her lips together but eventually pointed to a light cream fabric with a soft texture. “This one.”

Max immediately nodded. “Perfect. We’ll go with that.”

“That’s not how this works,” Isabelle protested.

“It is now.” He grinned, tapping the swatch like the decision is final.

She gave him a look but moves on, pulling out samples for the kitchen backsplash. “Alright, for the tiles—”

Max smirked. “What do you like best?”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You are impossible.”

Max chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I don’t see the problem. You have good taste. I want my place to look good. This seems like a win-win situation.”

Isabelle lifted her head, giving him a flat look. “Max.”

“Yes?”

“You are literally paying me to make these decisions for you based on your preferences, not mine.”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, but my main preference is trusting you.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is when I’m the client.” His grin was infuriatingly smug.

Isabelle sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn’t quite hide the small smile creeping onto her face. “Fine. But if you hate something later, I’m telling everyone this was your fault.”

“I won’t hate it,” Max said easily, glancing at the tile samples. “So… which one would you use in your own kitchen?”

Isabelle groaned dramatically. “You are impossible.”

Max just smirked. “You already said that.”

Isabelle rubbed her temples like she’s trying to ward off a headache. “You know, most clients want a functional, cohesive design that suits their lifestyle.”

Max leant back against the kitchen island, watching her with amused eyes. “And I want a functional, cohesive design that you think looks good.”

“That’s not—” She exhaled sharply. “Okay, fine. I’d go with the marble option for the counters. It’s classic, it won’t date badly, and it works with the natural light in here.”

Max nodded like that’s exactly what he was going to pick anyway. “Perfect. Marble it is.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re just agreeing with me so I stop arguing with you.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Or maybe I actually value your opinion.”

She huffed, flipping through the fabric swatches again. “Alright, what about your bedroom curtains? Darker shades are better for blocking light in the mornings.”

Max hummed, looking over the options. “Which one do you like?”

“Max.”

“What? You just said you’re designing for functionality. You clearly think one of these is the best choice.”

She muttered something under her breath, then points at a deep navy fabric. “This one. It’ll keep the room dark, and it’s not too heavy for the space.”

“Done.”

Isabelle levelled him with a suspicious look. “You’re making this way too easy.”

Max shrugged. “I told you. I trust you.” He gestures around the penthouse. “Besides, I plan to spend most of my time here with you. Might as well make sure you don’t hate it.”

She stilled for half a second, but then rolls her eyes like she’s not affected. “Professionalism, Max.”

Max just smirked, reaching for another set of samples. “Alright, Miss Leclerc, what’s next?”

Isabelle pointedly ignored the way her stomach does an annoying little flip at his words and refocuses on the task at hand. She flipped open her notebook, determined to keep things professional. "We still need to finalize your living room furniture. You said you wanted a sectional, right?"

Max nodded, leaning slightly over her shoulder to glance at her notes. "Yeah, something big enough to stretch out on. And for the cats."

She glanced up at him. "And for guests?"

Max blinked. "I mean, sure. If I have guests."

Isabelle sighed. "Do you ever think about designing your space for other people?"

"I am thinking about other people," he countered easily. "I’m thinking about you. You like to sit in the corner with a book, so we should get one with a deep chaise. And you like soft blankets, so whatever fabric we pick needs to feel nice."

She stared at him for a beat too long. "You—" She shakes her head. "You notice a lot more than you let on."

Max shrugged. "I like watching you."

Isabelle blinked rapidly and turned back to her samples before he could see the flush creeping up her neck. Professionalism. She needed to focus.

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat. "Fabric choices for the sectional—"

Max leant forward, already grinning. "Which one do you like?"

Isabelle groaned, slamming her notebook shut. "You are impossible."

Max just laughed. "I’m making sure my designer is happy with her work. That’s important, right?"

"That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he said breezily, nudging her shoulder with his. "If you think this place should feel like me, then I think it should feel like you, too."

Isabelle gripped her pen a little too tightly. "You’re insufferable."

Max grinned. "And yet, here you are."

Isabelle exhaled slowly, flipping through the swatches with more force than necessary. “Fine. You want my opinion? This one.” She pulled out a deep green fabric, soft under her fingers. “It’s comfortable, durable, and it won’t clash with anything else.”

Max reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s nice.” Then he grins. “You just like it because it’s your favourite colour.”

She paused. “That is not why I picked it.”

“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “But I remember you said you like green because it reminds you of home. And I want you to feel at home here.”

Isabelle’s fingers tighten around the fabric. “Max—”

“So, green it is,” he cut in before she can say anything else, grabbing the sample and setting it aside. Then he leans back, smug. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like this apartment is for both of us.”

Max tilted his head. “Well, you are spending a lot of time here.”

“That’s because I’m working.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “And when the project is done?”

Isabelle pressed her lips together, not wanting to answer that question. Because the truth is, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about finishing this penthouse and walking away.

Max must have sensed her hesitation because his expression softened. “You know, you don’t have to leave when it’s done.”

She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart pounds. “Max.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice light but eyes serious. “I don’t mind having you around.”

Isabelle forced herself to focus back on her notebook. Professionalism. Boundaries. She had to remember them.

But as she moved on to the next decision—choosing dining chairs—she couldn’t  help but feel like she’s already losing that battle.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is going to drive me insane.

Emilie: What did he do now?

Isabelle: He refuses to make a single decision about the penthouse. Not one.

Emilie: Oh, this is going to be good.

Isabelle: I showed him flooring samples, and he just said, “Which one do you like best, schatje?” I asked him about the kitchen walls, and he went, “I trust your taste.”

Emilie: He’s so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting.

Isabelle: EMILIE, I NEED HIM TO HAVE AN OPINION.

Emilie: He does. His opinion is that your opinion is the only one that matters.

Isabelle: That’s not how this works! He’s the one who has to live there!

Emilie: You will be the one living there with him, if he gets his way. He’s just pretending it’s not obvious.

Emilie: He’s setting up your future home together and letting you build it exactly the way you want. That man would let you paint the walls hot pink if it made you happy.

Emilie: He’s letting you pick everything because he wants you to feel at home.

Emilie: Tell me I’m wrong.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now, if you suggested, hypothetically, that the whole kitchen should be neon green, how fast do you think he’d say yes?

Isabelle: He wouldn’t even hesitate.

Emilie: This man is whipped.

Emilie: He’s so gone for you. It’s actually hilarious.

Isabelle: This is a nightmare.

Emilie: Just be glad he’s not insisting on Red Bull colors.

Isabelle: I take it back. It could be worse.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

****

"I think I’m falling in love with him."

Isabelle hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped out, quiet and uncertain, as she sat across from Emilie at their usual café.

Emilie, mid-sip of her drink, slowly set her cup down and arched an eyebrow. “No shit.”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I mean too fast,” she muttered. “It’s too fast.”

Emilie leaned back, unimpressed. “Define ‘too fast.’”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle exhaled, sitting up and fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “It’s like—I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. For him to change.”

Emilie just stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “Belle. He’s treating you better than your own family ever did. That’s not ‘too fast.’ That’s just right.”

“That’s not—” Isabelle started, but Emilie held up a hand.

“Let’s review,” she said, counting on her fingers. “He listens to you. He remembers things you like. He makes time for you. He prioritizes you. That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve, Belle. And you know damn well you’ve never had it before.”

Isabelle swallowed hard.

Emilie’s expression softened. “Look, I get it. It’s scary when someone actually cares about you, especially when you’re used to being the afterthought. But Max? He’s not going anywhere. And you? You’re not falling too fast. You’re just finally being caught.”

Isabelle exhaled, staring down at her coffee.

“Also,” Emilie added, smirking, “you’re absolutely screwed, because I think you’ve been in love with him for weeks.”

Isabelle groaned again, and Emilie just laughed.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. I think something is wrong with Max.

Emilie: Oh god, what happened??

Isabelle: He just gave me flowers.

Emilie: …And???

Isabelle: There’s no occasion. No reason. He just handed them to me and said, “Thought you’d like these.”

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And then he pulled out my favorite wine. Already chilled. Already opened. Just there.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: AND THEN he sat with me. No phone, no distractions, just me. He asked about my day. Actually listened.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING MY NAME.

Emilie: Because you’re being so stupidly loved and acting like it’s a problem.

Isabelle: I just don’t know what to do with it. I feel like I should be doing something in return??

Emilie: You are. You exist. You let him love you. That’s enough.

Isabelle: But I’ve never—no one’s ever—

Emilie: I know. But this is what it’s supposed to be like.

Isabelle: …It feels weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

Isabelle: Will I?

Emilie: Yeah. And then one day, it won’t feel weird at all. It’ll just feel like love.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: Huh, she says. Like I haven’t been telling her this for years.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Nope. Now go drink your fancy wine and let your boyfriend adore you.

Isabelle: …Fine.

Emilie: That’s my girl.

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? From who?

@/charles_leclerc: Since when do you get flowers??

@/emilie_abadie: 👀👀👀

@/F1GossipQueen: OMG IS ISABELLE SOFT LAUNCHING A BOYFRIEND???

↳@/paddockprincessx: We are watching this situation VERY closely.

@/leclercsiblingtea: The Leclerc brothers seem deeply unsettled by this turn of events. 

@/lorenzotl: Be honest. Did you buy these for yourself?

***

Isabelle wasn’t trying to snoop.

She was just tidying up a little while Max was in the kitchen—because, frankly, he lived like someone who was always on the road (which he was). That’s how she spotted the iPad on the coffee table, screen still on. She had only glanced at it in passing, but then something caught her eye.

French lessons.

Her first reaction was confusion. Then amusement. Then something warmer, something that made her heartbeat do something a little ridiculous in her chest.

“Max?” she called out, picking up the iPad.

“Yeah?” His voice floated back from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the fridge opening. “Do you want some water?”

She walked in, holding up the iPad like it was evidence in a trial. “Are you secretly moving to Paris?”

Max turned around, brow furrowing. “What?”

She waved the iPad at him. “Since when are you learning French?”

His face did not do a good job of hiding his guilt. His eyes flickered to the screen, then back to her, and he shifted on his feet like he was debating snatching it out of her hands. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Isabelle crossed her arms, fighting a smile. “What’s the story, Verstappen? Career change? Planning to start giving post-race interviews in French?”

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I live in Monaco. Figured it was time I actually learned, you know, the main language people speak here.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” He shrugged. “It makes sense.”

“It does make sense.” She took a step closer. “Except you’ve lived in Monaco for years and have never cared before.”

Max glanced at the iPad again, like it would somehow save him. When it didn’t, he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Maybe I had another reason.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “And that reason is?”

His ears were turning pink. “You.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“You switch to French when you’re with your family,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her. “Or when you’re distracted. Or when you get really excited about something. And I—I wanted to understand you better.”

Oh.

Oh.

Isabelle stared at him, warmth flooding her chest. “Max…”

He sighed again, clearly bracing himself for teasing. “Look, if you think it’s stupid—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice soft. “I think it’s… really sweet.”

Max relaxed slightly, still wary. “Yeah?”

She smiled. “Yeah.” Then she nudged him. “Okay, say something.”

He groaned. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Max hesitated. Then, after a deep breath, he said—slowly, carefully—“Je veux tout comprendre de toi.”

I want to understand everything about you.

Isabelle’s breath caught.

She looked up at him, and suddenly, the teasing was gone. Her heart was thudding, her fingers itching to reach for him. “Max.”

He shifted again. “Did I say it wrong?”

She shook her head. Then, without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him.

Max made a startled sound but recovered quickly, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. When she finally pulled away, his grin was dazed.

“So,” he said, slightly breathless. “That was because of the French, huh?”

She laughed, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to keep practicing.”

Max tightened his hold on her. “Done.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is learning French.

Emilie: ???

Emilie: Like YOUR Max? The one who has lived in Monaco forever and has survived just fine with English and Dutch?

Isabelle: Yes!!!

Isabelle: I found his iPad open with some French lesson on it, and when I asked, he said he lives in Monaco so it was about time he learned.

Emilie: That… does make sense.

Isabelle: But then I pressed him, and he admitted he’s actually doing it because of ME.

Emilie: Oh.

Emilie: Ohhhh.

Emilie: Isabelle. He’s in LOVE love.

Isabelle: I don’t even know what to do with this information.

Emilie: Girl, you kiss him stupid, that’s what.

Isabelle: I already did that!!!

Emilie: Good. Keep doing it.

Emilie: Good for him. He’s putting in the effort. He’s out here grinding on Duolingo just to impress.

Isabelle: That’s what’s shocking me the most… Nobody has ever done that for me before.

Emilie: Well, he’s not just anybody, is he?

Isabelle: No. He’s Max.

Emilie: Exactly. And Max Verstappen? He doesn’t do anything halfway.

***

Text Messages:Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Need your help.

GP: If this is about strategy on a Monday at 11 in the evening, I’m hanging up.

Max: It’s not.

GP: Then what?

Max: Isabelle’s birthday is coming up. I need a gift.

GP: …You do realize just because I’m married, I’m not a fountain of romantic wisdom, right?

Max: Who else am I supposed to ask?

GP: Literally anyone else?

Max: You’re the only one I trust not to be an idiot about this.

GP: I feel like that was a compliment and an insult at the same time.

Max: Just help me.

GP: Alright, what are you thinking?

Max: Something personal. Not just perfume or a handbag.

GP: Already doing better than most.

Max: That’s a low bar.

GP: True. Jewelry? Something meaningful?

Max: I was thinking emeralds. Her birthstone. And it matches her eyes.

GP: …Wow. You’re actually in deep.

Max: Not the point.

GP: Sure, sure. Bracelet? Necklace? Something she can wear every day?

Max: Yeah. Probably a bracelet.

GP: Go for it. But just so you know, if you keep setting the bar this high, you’re making the rest of us look bad.

Max: Not my problem.

GP: Yeah, that tracks. Let me know what you pick.

Max: Will do. Thanks.

GP: Anytime. Just remember, I’m charging a consulting fee next time.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: This is Max. Isabelle’s Max.

Emilie: …Hello, Isabelle’s Max. To what do I owe the honor?

Max: I need help. It’s about Isabelle’s birthday.

Emilie: Go on.

Max: I need Isabelle’s wrist size.

Emilie: …What.

Max: Her wrist size.

Emilie: That’s it? No explanation? No context? Just casually asking for her wrist size like that’s a normal thing?

Max: Yes.

Emilie: I don’t trust you.

Max: That feels unnecessary.

Emilie: UNNECESSARY? MAX, I HAVE SPENT YEARS FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST HER FAMILY’S COMPLETE INABILITY TO GET HER A DECENT GIFT.

Max: …

Emilie: Charles once got her a Ferrari-branded umbrella. ”In case you ever come to a race and it rains.”

Max: …

Emilie: Arthur once got her a stuffed animal from an airport gift shop, because he nearly forgot entirely one year. Just straight-up forgot Belle had a birthday.

Max: …

Emilie: Lorenzo got her candle last year. A SINGLE. GENERIC. VANILLA. CANDLE. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE VANILLLA; SHE GETS HEADACHES FROM IT.

Max: That’s actually embarrassing.

Emilie: Thank you. But I’m not done.

Max: Oh no.

Emilie: Their mother gave Isabelle a cookbook.

Max: That’s… not the worst?

Emilie: It was a diet cookbook.

Max: …

Max: What the hell.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: And you’re saying this happens every year?

Emilie: EVERY. YEAR. Max, I have a Google Doc. I have an entire spreadsheet dedicated to “How to Make Sure Isabelle Actually Gets Something Nice.” I am fighting for my life out here.

Max: Not anymore.

Emilie: Wait.

Max: Attachment: Image of three emerald bracelets

Max: I’m thinking emeralds. It’s her birthstone. Matches her eyes.

Emilie:

Emilie:

Emilie: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.

Max: What.

Emilie: YOU ALREADY PICKED OUT OPTIONS???

Max: I was narrowing it down.

Emilie: NARROWING IT DOWN. LIKE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN MAN. LIKE SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY PUTS THOUGHT INTO GIFTS. LIKE SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HER FAVORITE GEMSTONE AND HOW IT MATCHES HER EYES.

Max: …Yes?

Emilie: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INFURIATING THIS IS FOR ME. I HAVE BEEN CARRYING THIS FAMILY.

Max: So you don’t know her wrist size?

Emilie: FIFTEEN CENTIMETERS. 

Max: Appreciate the help.

Emilie: Oh, and just for future reference—her ring size is 50.

Max: …

Max: Just for future reference?

Emilie: Just saying. You never know.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: 🚨 UM. Just saw Max Verstappen in a jewelry store in Miami. He was looking at bracelets and asking about emeralds.

@/OversteerAndTears: Not me immediately googling “Max Verstappen girlfriend emerald jewelry” like I’m gonna find something.

@/SoftForMax: Max Verstappen. In a jewelry store. Asking about emeralds. Who is she.

@/F1GossipQueen: He was so serious about it too. Like asking the salesperson about different settings and cuts.

@/CheckeredHeart: SETTINGS??? DIFFERENT CUTS?!?!

@/F1GossipQueen: Yes!!! And he was like, “She likes emeralds, but I want something subtle.” Like WHO, MAX??

@/FastCarsAndDrama: “She likes emeralds.” SHE??? I’M GONNA THROW UP.

@/MaxIsMyGOAT: So we’re just casually learning that Max Verstappen not only has a girlfriend but knows her jewelry preferences well enough to mention them in a store???@/OrangeArmy82: Maybe it’s for his mom or sister. We don’t know it’s for a girlfriend.

[watchmegetobsessed]

RAW, NEXT QUESTION

A/N: saw a vid of all these dirty tiktok comments and just knew i had to write something like this hehe

WORD COUNT: 1k

WARNING: just some dirty talk i guess?

SUMMARY: You decide to get Harry hot and bothered with some of the most unhinged sayings you learned from Tiktok.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry has always joked about how chronically online you are and quite frankly, you can’t argue with him. You definitely enjoy rotting on the couch after a long and tiring day and just scrolling through Tiktok. Your For You Page is usually pretty on the spot and perfectly curated for your taste and humor. It’s like a treat after being an adult for a whole day. 

Harry spends quite some time on different apps as well, but it’s just different for him, he doesn’t really engage with all the trends and micro trends that happen online, while you live for those. You absolutely love the memes, the poorly edited videos, the funny lines that just stick with you and you even catch yourself using them in real life as well. 

And Harry loves teasing you for that. He often jokes about you being a teenager at the ripe age of twenty-eight, to which you just usually roll your eyes. But one instance kind of turns the tables. 

One morning, after you’ve been out with your girlfriends the night before you’re stumbling out of the bedroom quite late, finding your boyfriend in the kitchen, already making you the breakfast you usually crave after drinking a bit too much. But this time he is standing by the stove in a pair of light grey sweatpants and your pink apron, nothing else. His hair is tousled, his tattoos are on display and he just looks incredibly delicious as he cooks for you. 

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he smiles at you when he sees you climb onto a stool by the kitchen island.

“Mmm,” is all you can get out as you can’t take your eyes off of you. He catches you eyeing him, a pleased grin stretching across his face as he flips a piece of bacon in the pan. 

“Like what you see?” he asks teasingly and before you could think of your answer, the words spill out of you.

“Raw, next question.”

Harry chokes on his breath, his ears go red instantly as he gives you a wide-eyed look. 

“Uh what?” he asks with a laugh and you notice him shifting from one leg to the other a bit nervously. 

“What, caught you by surprise?” you grin at him.

“Where did that come from?”

“It’s a Tiktok thing,” you shrug, but the gears are already turning in your head. 

If this comment got him so hot and bothered, you’d love to try out all the other unhinged sayings that circulate on the app. So you got to work.

In your notes app, you collect a rather long list of them that you’d like to drop on him at the right moment and then you wait.

And the moments luckily come. 

A few days later you have a particularly bad day at work and Harry knew, because you texted him all day. So he welcomes you home with a nice, hot bath, candles around the tub and a bottle of wine already waiting for you with two glasses. Standing at the door you look at him with adoring eyes and then you drop a bomb.

“I mean, I’m not a waitress, but I would take your tip.”

You see his pupils grow instantly. 

“Y/N,” he growls as you just smirk at him. A moment later his hands are already peeling your clothes off. You don’t even make it into the tub, because you take more than just his tip on the counter. 

The next time happens when he cooks dinner for you, the pasta he makes so well and is one of your favorites. Sitting at the table you watch him fill your plate with the delicious looking, creamy pasta and you just say with a sigh: “Mm, but why is he filling my plate and not me?”

The spaghetti spoon drops from his hand, back into the pot and he almost drops the plate as well. You can’t hold back your laugh as he puts it down and leans back in his seat, raking through his hair with pink cheeks and a cheeky smirk that also reflects his disbelief that you just said that. 

“Everything alright, baby?” you ask with an innocent look. He shakes his head with a chuckle and goes back to the pasta, but you already know you’ll be his dessert. 

The best one however happens publicly. One of your friends has a grill party when the weather is finally warm enough and you split for a bit, engaging in different circles. Harry looks incredibly good, wearing a colorful shirt with a few buttons undone, so he is flaunting quite a bit of his chest. He is nursing a beer, sunglasses hiding his pretty eyes and he recently shaved, but left his mustache, so he looks… extraordinarily good in your opinion. 

But others notice it too, the girls you’re chatting with mention his new facial hair style and they share your view of it looking amazing. As if Harry could sense that you’re talking about him, he turns to you and then starts walking towards your little circle. 

“Woah, get a load of this guy!” one of the girls jokingly calls out and you reply instantly.

“Oh, I’m trying to!”

Harry stops in his tracks as the girls start cheering and whistling at your comment. Slowly, a smirk tugs on his mouth as he takes the last few steps towards you, curling an arm around your shoulders and tugging you close so only you can hear when he says: “Oh you will get more than just a load when we get home.”

And you can’t hold back the smirk when you turn to look at him, catching him arching an eyebrow at you. It’s certain he thinks he got you speechless, but then you up it one more.

“Hmm, but something is off,” you pretend to think deep and he gets serious as well.

“What–” He doesn’t get to finish before you look him in the eyes and continue.

“Ah, nevermind. It’s just my clothes.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle as he shakes his head. 

“You’re banned from using that app ever again,” he says, kissing into your hair and you just shrug with a triumphant smile. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[ivyyisbored22]

𝐒𝐨 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝—𝘏𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids one shot

Synopsis: If you're gonna eat something, at least check the wrapper before putting it in your mouth.

Warnings: Aphrodisiac chocolates. SMUT 🔞. Rough Dom Roommate!Hyunjin (is mentioned to be kind of a playboy). Unprotected hard sex, hair pulling, overstim, oral (f. recieving), multiple positions, orgasms, dirty talk, cussing, filthy, degradation, creampie, cum eating, name calling & pet names, mentions of the pill, confessions, to lovers at the end. Holy hell that's a lot—

Note: To be honest, idrk how this chocolate works fr. I wrote this after seeing a few review videos and some fics I read. But again, anything works in fiction so just let it feed your delulu.

Minors do not interact!!!

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count:5.5k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Work this week sucked.

So much to the point that you were begging for the weekend to come over as soon as possible every night since Monday.

Finally it's here.

And you like a weekend without plans because then you can just go back to your apartment, slip into your PJ's and binge Netflix with a tub of ice cream for 48 hours.

Your boss—who technically wasn't your boss but the director of another department—had you running around the office like a dog the entire week which increased your urge to punch him in the face.

What was he thinking?

But like the good employee you are, you did all the tasks at hand before slipping on your coat and bag and leaving the office as fast as you could.

Man you needed something sweet to wash this headache away.

You walked into the nearest supermarket, tapping away on your phone, texting your bestie about the new concert tickets you wanna buy later tonight.

The doors slid open and you knew the aisles by heart, you walked into the candy section and grabbed a few wrapped pieces of chocolate that was on the shelf.

Oh you dumb girl, read the label.

But you couldn't care less.

You slipped your phone between your neck and shoulder calling your bestie about the tickets as you walked over to the counter with the chocolates in your hand.

You didn't even bother to spare a glance at the cashier who watched you with equal amounts of genuine shock and horror as you unwrapped a piece and shoved it into your mouth, stuffing the wrapper in the pocket of your jacket.

Everything was fine but by the time you reached your apartment, something felt… off.

Your skin felt warmer than usual, your breath a little heavier. You tugged at the collar of your shirt, frowning. Maybe the stress was finally catching up with you?

Brushing it off, you unlocked the door, stepping inside—only to freeze in your tracks.

Hyunjin—your annoyingly handsome, sexy and single roommate—was sprawled on the couch, shirtless, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, scrolling on his phone, completely oblivious to your presence.

His hair was slightly damp, probably from a recent shower, strands falling effortlessly into his eyes.

It wasn’t as if you’d never seen him like this before. Living together meant accidental glimpses of bare skin and passing each other in various states of undress.

But right now? Right now, your body reacted differently.

Your mouth went dry, your stomach coiling with something unfamiliar. Your eyes traced the lines of his toned torso, the sharp definition of his abs, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips.

You clenched your fists at your sides.

Why did he have to look like that today, of all days?

He sensed you standing frozen near the doorway, looking up at from his phone, his lips parted in mild acknowledgment before his brows furrowed slightly.

“You good?” His voice was deep, casual, but you swore it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I—I’m fine,” you mumbled, forcing yourself to look away as you kicked off your shoes. The heat spreading through your body only intensified.

It was unbearable. Your fingers twitched, desperate for relief from an ache you barely understood.

Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sat up. “Are you sure? You look kinda... flushed.”

Of course, he would notice. Your annoying, perceptive roommate.

You turned away, removing your jacket and hanging it on the coat hanger, something falling out of the pocket but you didn't notice it.

“It’s just hot in here,” you muttered, heading toward the kitchen, needing something—anything—to distract yourself.

Hyunjin eyed you curiously for a few seconds, before looking back into his phone, you opened the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of water.

You twisted off the cap with slightly trembling fingers, taking a long gulp but it didn’t help one bit. Slowly you walked into your bedroom.

Hyunjin watched you disappear into your room before something at the doorway caught the corner of his eye.

He got up and picked up the wrapper on the floor, his eyes widening before he let out a sharp laugh.

Inside your room, you were going crazy. Your body buzzed, hot and bothered. You needed release, so badly that you turned to your nightstand, looking for your favourite toy.

You got on the bed, grabbing it, attempting to turn it on, only to realise the thing was out of battery. You stared at the lifeless toy in your hands, frustration curling in your stomach.

The ache between your thighs was unbearable, a deep, throbbing need that refused to be ignored.

A sudden knock on your door made you jolt. “Yo.” Hyunjin’s voice was muffled but clear, amusement laced in his tone. “You might wanna explain why you were eating aphrodisiac chocolates without knowing.”

Your entire body went rigid. What?!

Oh you absolute idiot.

Your silence made him twist the doorknob and enter your room, only for him to see you scrambling to shove the useless toy under your pillow and your not helpful little night fit that hardened his cock in an instant.

The lacy, flower patterned camisole top did absolutely nothing to hide those peaks that were straining the fabric, your exposed collarbones and neck sparking something utterly primal in his mind.

You clenched your thighs together, hoping that he would just drop it and leave.

But of course, he didn’t.

“So…” He paused for a moment, and then, in a voice laced with wicked amusement, “How’s that working out for you?”

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck as you pressed your thighs together even tighter.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, but the way your voice wavered completely sold you out. Hyunjin scoffed, stepping further into your room, completely unfazed by your flustered state.

He twirled the chocolate wrapper between his fingers, holding it up like evidence. “Really?”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your body, taking in the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, how your hands clenched into the sheets like you were fighting against your own urges.

Yeah, you were struggling.

He leaned down, so close you could count every lash of his beautiful eyes and feel his breath hover over your flushed face.

The scent of his skin, clean, fresh out of the shower, mixed with something undeniably him, invaded your senses, making your head spin.

You swallowed hard, refusing to look at him. But then, he reached up and traced a finger along your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

His voice dropped, smooth like silk. “Tell me what you need.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t need—”

“Liar.” His breath ghosted over your lips. You whimpered. Goddamn him.

"All you have to do is ask. If not, I'll just let you be and you can stay till it wears off." He said simply, shrugging while playing a devilish smirk on his lips.

You looked at him with glassy eyes, clogged throat and aching need throbbing between your legs that you seemed to intensify with every passing second.

Sensing your hesitation, Hyunjin got up before your hand wrapped around his wrist. He looked down at the contact then at your face which was now flushed hot, slight goosebumps pebbling your skin.

It's not that you didn't want him. God how couldn't you not want him?

It was a secret you'd take to your grave but the amount of times you've found yourself getting jealous of the girls who spent nights with him was countless.

You often wondered how—what—it would be like to feel him. All of him.

His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair off your face as he leaned down again. "Tell me what you want Y/N." he murmured, voice dangerously low.

"T—touch me Hyunjin."

His restraint snapped.

Before another breath could make it past your lungs, his mouth was on yours, your back against the headboard as his hands pressed on either side of your head.

His knees straddled you as you pushed forward, giving him plenty of access to claim you right there with the press of his lips alone, letting him slip his tongue through yours, kissing you hard, fast and desperate.

Hyunjin's hand wrapped around the edge of the blanket that was covering you beneath the waist, he yanked it away and no amount of restraint prepared him to see you completely bare underneath it.

"No panties..." he half threw the blanket, it dropped on the floor. "You're gorgeous when you're needy."

Hyunjin exhaled against your lips, his buzzed hair brushing against your cheek. His touch was all-consuming, his presence overwhelming in the best way possible.

Your breath broke when his slender fingers slid between your legs. He teased them along your entrance, collecting the wetness before sliding up to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You arched into him, a whimper slipping past your lips. “Look at you. You're soaked.” he murmured, eyes gleaming with something dark and possessive.

"Please...I..." you let out a breathy moan.

He dipped his head down following your plea, his breath ghosting over you. “I bet you taste as sweet as that chocolate.”

And then, without warning, his tongue flicked out, dragging through your folds in one slow, deliberate motion.

A strangled moan left your lips, your thighs clamping around his head, but Hyunjin only groaned in response, gripping your legs and pinning them against your chest.

And then you were taken to the heavens with his tongue alone.

He worked so expertly, licking and flicking, sucking and worshipping your cunt like it was the end of the world.

His teeth grazed your tender, erect clit and you bucked up, pushing your needy pussy up his face coating him in your arousal.

Every new spot he hit sent you spiralling, the noisy slurps mixing with your loud whimpers echoing off the walls like a sinful symphony.

Your hands found the way to his hair, wanting him closer, harder, faster until you couldn't breathe, until you couldn't think, just letting him give you everything he could do with his mouth.

It was hot, devastating, mind blowing, the way he ate you out like no tomorrow, the coil growing tighter and faster with each lick.

Hyunjin pulled back with a wet sound, his chin glistening. "You taste so fucking good, baby."

His fingers replaced his tongue, sliding inside you with ease, stretching you open as he scissored them, curling just right against your sweet spot while his lips wrapped around your clit.

"Fuck—Hyunjin—" Your hips bucked against his hand, chasing that friction, that high.

His long digits moved in and out, the squelching sounds spasming out of your cunt as he continued speeding up.

"Greedy little thing," he chuckled, adding a third finger. "You like being stuffed full, huh?"

You couldn't answer, couldn't form a thought. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your stomach tightening, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak.

"You're close, aren't you?" Hyunjin mused, pressing a kiss to your thigh as his fingers moved faster. "Go on, make a mess on my hand."

With a broken moan, your body tensed, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your walls pulsed around his fingers, a pool of liquid gushed out as he kept moving, working and drowning through your ecstasy until you were trembling.

He groaned, pulling his fingers out, watching as your arousal coated them. He brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum.

You watched him, catching your breath, not even halfway through before you got up and straddled him, your wet cunt landing on top of his now visible, hard bulge.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding against him as your hot breath fanned over his skin.

"I, I can't—fuck me— please."

His devilish grin grew wider. "You sure you won't regret it later baby?" He cooed but your brain was too fogged with lust, the chocolate you consumed now working on full power.

You grinded his clothed cock, letting your juices stain his sweats and his head fell back at the feeling.

Within a heartbeat, your camisole was lost and his sweatpants were gone, his arm scooped around your waist, guiding your body to meet his cock that was jutting up.

You sank in one smooth push of his hips, but had to force your walls to adjust to the sheer size of him, the tip of his long, veiny cock touching the sensitive spot in you that made you throw your head back, digging your nails into his shoulders.

You rocked your hips back and forth, meeting his upward thrusts as his lips connected with your bouncing breast, the other getting playing and kneaded under his big hand.

You rode him, chasing another orgasm, whimpering and moaning while he sucked on your breast, letting the sensitive bud end up swollen, slick and sore.

"Fuck yes, ride that dick like the slut you are," he gasped, releasing the peak with a pop!, holding your waist tight enough to leave marks that would last for days.

He filled you in the most delicious way ever, your gummy walls clamping him, driving every single logical sense out of his brain.

His thumb pressed on your chin as he cupped your face, touching his lips with yours, kissing you roughly but equally smoothly as you kept rolling your hips on top of him.

"Ha—oh god, Hyun—oh fu...I love your cock."

Your words were filthy, mind so clouded with lust that it sounded coherent to your ears.

Hyunjin's hand that was on your waist held you and pushed you on to your back, before pulling out and flipping you on your stomach, tangling your hair in one tight fist before he slammed into you in one punishing thrust.

He pulled your hair back, his other hand going down to cup your breast, pinching the erect peak. The pleasure of it all overlapped with pain as he continued to thrust into you with hard strokes again and again, your hands fisting the sheets below.

"You're such a fucking slut. With a pussy so tight." he slammed hard right as a stinging slap! landed on your ass that made you cry out loud. "I should have fucked you way earlier than this."

Did he perhaps eat the other piece of chocolate? Maybe he did—

Everything around ceased to exist in that moment, only the rhythmic sound of flesh against flesh, headboard banging against the wall and the loudest moans that were for sure to be heard by your neighbours filling the sex fogged air.

It was like that sweet—oh so you thought, 'didn't check the wrapper', harmless—chocolate dug through your senses bringing out carnal urges you never knew existed.

It wasn't not enough and too much to bear all at once.

Your face fell in the pillows as you let out a muffled scream when he hit that spot that shattered you into shards, making you flood around him.

He was close to snapping too, but he prided himself so much that he wasn't going to come until he's had you so utterly spent till you can't take it anymore.

His grip on your hair loosened, pulling back just till the velvet tip remained in your entrance. Just as you thought he was about to pull out entirely, his hands wrapped around your wrists, pinning them to your back as he slammed back into you once more.

"Don't think you're done yet you cockdrunk slut. I'm not stopping till I decide you've had enough. Got it?" He growled and you nodded senselessly against the pillows, sweat coating your bodies as he regained his pace.

You gasped up, needing air, breathing erratically as he pounded into you harder and harder—slam, slam, slam—your ass meeting with stinging slap!, slap!, slap!, skin now sore and red.

Tears ran down your cheeks relentlessly as he held your hands behind your back, continuing to fucking you from the behind.

You were never that into hardcore, rough sex but right now under the arms and getting wrecked by your 'how could he be single?' roommate and the effect of the aphrodisiac running through your veins, you wanted nothing but for him to just destroy you.

You didn't need to cry it out loud. Your aching, quivering body, greedy pussy basically engulfing his thick rod gave it away to him.

That small piece of candy was too powerful for its size. (Or maybe it's been quite while since you were fucked so good).

Right as you were about to come for the third time, he let go of your wrists, pulling out and turning you over, resting your legs on his shoulders and sank into you again.

He was so deep in, you could have sworn you felt him up your throat. You rasped his name, but he was so lost in the way your pussy swallowed his huge length that he lost all the sense in his brain.

He was consumed by the urge to just wreck your cunt and rearrange your guts.

"F—canf—Hyun, ah! More—!"

You were blabbering nonsense, your needy self just begging him to give you more and more.

"You're taking me so well," he praised, his grip tightening as he snapped his hips faster and deeper.

You clenched around him that made him hiss and come, making him spill his release in you before he could even process the thought of pulling out.

You felt his warm seed gather up inside you, painting you white, the continuous twitching of his cock making him pause and gently ease himself out, a long sticky string of his cum attaching from his tip on to your hole.

He watched as his release dripped from your spent core, his jaw clenching. "Fuck. Look at that."

You were completely wrecked—limbs heavy and body shaking. Hyunjin pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Hope you’re ready for round two, baby."

All that was round one?!

Because from the way his cock was already hardening again, you knew he wasn’t done with you yet.

Your eyes widened slightly, breath hitching as Hyunjin smirked down at you. He traced circles over your stomach before dipping lower, spreading your thighs wider.

His fingers brushed over your swollen clit, making you jolt, a whimper escaping your lips. "Hyunjin—" you gasped.

He hushed you with a kiss, deep and lazy, his tongue gliding against yours. "You can take one more for me, can’t you?" He whispered against your mouth.

Your body screamed in protest and anticipation at the same time. The aphrodisiac hadn’t fully worn off yet, leaving you sweaty, hot and needy despite your exhaustion.

You moaned breathlessly as Hyunjin guided himself back to your entrance, rubbing the tip against your hypersensitive core, teasing you.

"Please," you whispered, surprising even yourself with how desperate you sounded. He groaned, positioning himself at your channel again. "Good girl."

And then he pushed in.

The stretch was more intense this time, your walls still tight and sensitive from the last round. He took his time, slow and deep, groaning as he bottomed out inside you.

He rolled his hips gentler, dragging against your puffy walls, making you shudder beneath him. A salacious white ring formed around the base of his shaft, his huge hand sprawled over your tummy, massaging your skin, he could feel the bulge of his cock over your stomach.

The pleasure was overwhelming, crashing in ways beyond euphoria.

Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his ass forcing him in deeper until you felt the fat cockhead brush against your cervix. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and the moan you let out was borderline pornographic.

"Gonna make you come again," he gasped, as he continued his pace. "Will you come for me again sweetheart?"

His thrusts quickened, his grip tightening on your hips as he lost himself in you. Your nails raked down his back, desperate for something to hold onto as the pleasure built again just through his words.

"Come baby," he whispered, his hand pressing down harder on your stomach and then circled your clit, sending you spiraling into another release.

You screamed his name, your entire body arching as the climax ripped through you, leaving you trembling and reeling beneath him. His pace faltered, hips snapping erratically before he spilled inside you, filling and stuffing his load in you for the second time that night.

You gripped his muscled back as he fell on top of you, warm and comforting, both of you panting, drenched in sweat, breaths ragged and heavy.

Then, after a second of stretched silence, Hyunjin slowly lifted himself, gazing down at you. "You okay?" he murmured, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You nodded weakly, body still buzzing. Hyunjin pressed a kiss to your forehead before slipping out of you with a groan. He watched as his release seeped out from your drilled hole, and his jaw clenched.

"Fuck," he muttered, shaking his head. "I should clean you up."

You expected him to grab a towel and wipe you, but instead, he lowered himself between your legs again.

Before you could form his name, his tongue was on you, lapping up his own release, licking you clean with slow, precise strokes.

Your body jerked in overstimulation, but Hyunjin held you down, his grip firm as he cleaned every drop, humming in satisfaction.

Only when he was done did he finally pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You taste even sweeter mixed with me," he mused, grinning as he climbed back up.

He watched you as he let you catch a breath after the intense fucking, you could feel the frantic blood rush, your core pulsing and a drip of slick running down out of your pussy.

Hyunjin's hand cupped your cheek softly before he asked lowly.

"Are you on the pill?"

Even if he used condoms with other girls he has fucked with, for some reason he always asked them that question. But the mere idea of protection didn't cross either of your minds tonight.

You gave a jerky shake of your head. "I...I stopped..."

He watched you, chest rising and falling, in now even breaths, eyes softening.

"Okay, don't worry. Sleep now. Let's talk in the morning."

He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, pulling the blanket over your body, turning on the AC, reaching down to brush his lips on your closing eyelids, exhaling sharply as he walked out of your room.

His body was still buzzing from everything that had happened, but his mind was clouded with thoughts.

Without letting another creep up his head, he walked to the bathroom, turning on the water, taking the coldest shower, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the cold tiles.

***

The soft glow of the morning light seeped through the curtains, as you slowly stirred awake.

A dull ache pulsed between your legs, spreading through your thighs, and it took you a moment to register why.

Then it hit you.

The remnants of last night came back in flashes—the aphrodisiac chocolates, the way your body burned with unbearable heat, and… Hyunjin.

Your breath caught as the memories flooded back. The way he touched you. The way he took you. His dirty words and sweet praises.

You groaned, sitting up, feeling the slight stickiness between your legs. You looked down at your body, skin around your hips peppered with his fingerprint bruises, swollen nipples with a faint hickey on your breast.

Heat crept up your face at the realization. You slept with your roommate.

God...What happens now?

Before you could dwell on it too long, the door creaked open.

You glanced up, eyes widening slightly as Hyunjin stepped in. He was wearing a loose white tank top and black sweats, his hair tied in a mini ponytail. In his hands, he carried a tray.

Your heart stuttered at the sight.

You flushed as you felt him gaze at you, you pulled the sheets over your chest, suddenly feeling shy as if he hadn't already seen everything by now.

"Morning," he greeted casually, setting the tray on your nightstand. His gaze flickered to you, scanning your face for any signs of distress.

"How do you feel?"

You swallowed hard, glancing quickly at the tray before meeting his eyes. "Sore."

His lips quirked slightly. "Yeah... not surprised."

Heat rushed up your spine.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers drummed lightly against his thigh before he gestured to the tray.

“I made you breakfast. Figured you’d need the energy after last night.”

You glanced at the tray—toast, berries, coffee… and a small blister pack. Your stomach clenched at the sight of the morning-after pill.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket as you looked back up at him. "You think I should take it?" you asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "It's your choice. But I wanted you to have the option. Whatever you decide, I’ll be here.”

Something in his tone made your chest tighten. You couldn’t quite place it. Was it regret? Reassurance? Maybe a mix of both.

You hesitated but then took the pack, popping the pill into your mouth, washing it down with water before setting the glass aside and reaching for the coffee.

Silence stretched between you two.

Then, Hyunjin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… are we gonna talk about this?”

You set the mug down on your nightstand, glancing up at him. “Do we need to?”

His jaw tensed, but he nodded. “Yeah. We do.”

You swallowed. “Hyunjin, it was just the chocolate. That’s why it happened.”

His brows twitched slightly, and for a split second, you thought you saw something like disappointment flash across his face. But it was gone before you could process it.

“Right,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “Just the chocolate.” You weren’t sure why his reaction bothered you.

He let out a half frustration sigh, a faint tsk leaving his lips as he got up to walk towards the door.

You yanked away the blanket, ignoring the light sting in your crotch before he left completely, wrapping your arms around his middle making him freeze.

You pressed the side of your head against his back, heart pounding behind your ribcage.

"Tell me you don't feel the same and we can let this go like it never happened."

Hyunjin looked down at your arms around his body then glanced over his shoulder to look at you. His jaw clenched.

His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to hold you back. Silence stretched between you both, thick with something unsaid.

Finally, he exhaled, turning to you fully. His voice was low when he spoke, almost cautious.

“Do you really want me to say that?” he asked, voice lower than before.

Your throat felt tight.

Yes. No. You didn’t know.

Your fingers twitched against his shirt, gripping the fabric. “Just say it, Hyunjin.” His fingers sunk into your hair before he exhaled, the weight of his breath brushing against your forehead.

“I can’t,” he admitted.

Your chest constricted, the world around you growing small, only his piercing gaze and the cold air making you shiver.

He unclasped your hold, turning to your clothes rack and grabbed your robe, covering you up.

Why does he do this? Why is he doing this?

"Why didn't you tell me what you felt?" He asked cupping your face, thumb grazing your cheek. His eyes searched for yours, brows furrowing slightly as if he was trying to piece a puzzle he should have solved long ago.

Your arms wrapped around yourself, fingers gripping the fabric of your robe. "Because it never mattered." you mumbled.

Hyunjin's jaw ticked. "That's not an answer."

"Every time I thought about saying something, about asking if we were more than just roommates, I'd hear you come home late after a date," you admitted, your voice shaking. "And then not long after, I'd hear...them..."

Hyunjin's lips pressed into a thin line. You didn't need to elaborate more. He knew exactly what you meant.

The walls of this apartment weren't thick enough to drown out the sounds of the women he brought over. The laughter, the muffled words, the occasional soft moans that cut through the night like a blade straight to your heart.

So you never said anything. Because it was obvious to you. Hyunjin would never have feelings for you.

While he was out dating, bringing girls home, moving on with his life, you had been stuck. Stuck wanting something you knew you could never have.

Hyunjin inhaled deeply, his fingers twitching against your cheek before he finally asked, "Does it still bother you?"

You hesitated. He waited.

You could simply lie. Say that it was because of the chocolate, that last night was a mistake and go back to how things were before. But your heart, your dumb heart screamed at you to be honest.

So you nodded gently, biting your lip.

He sucked in a sharp, low breath, his hand dropping from your face as he took a step back, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip, processing your words.

"I see," he murmured.

The air between you felt thick. Too thick and heavy.

“I was trying to forget you.”

His words hit you like a slap. You blinked. “What?”

Hyunjin let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I wanted them?” He glanced at you, eyes dark. “I brought them home because I needed a distraction. Because every time I looked at you, I knew I couldn’t have you.”

Your stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened. “I caught feelings first,” he admitted.

“A long time ago. But I thought you only saw me as a roommate, as a friend. And if I told you, if I ruined everything, then what? If you didn’t feel the same, what would happen?”

He exhaled sharply. “So I tried to forget. I went on dates, I let them stay the night. But it never worked.”

Your breath was shaky now.

"Hyun," you started but he let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. Before you could blink, his mouth crashed on yours, hungry and desperate, as if he was scared you're going to vanish away if he lets go.

You melted into his mouth, letting out what was like a quiet sigh of relief, until you pulled away, the gentle "ch" sound escaping your departing lips, trembling against his hold.

"Can I be yours?" He asked, the question slipping past him as if he had been holding it in forever. Your eyes widened, his words echoing in your heart before it reached your head.

"You..." your words clogged in your throat.

He smiled the softest smile you've ever seen radiate off him. "Yeah," he nodded. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

Of all the things you expected to happen after last night, this was never one of them.

Could he?

Could he be yours?

His gaze softened when you stayed silent, thinking of your answer. "I'm not asking because of what we did yesterday or because I want you to forget what I did before." He murmured, his voice filled with honesty.

"I'm asking because I want you," he continued, his fingers grazing your jaw, grounding you in the weight of his words.

"Not just for a night. Not just because of that chocolate. I want you because...it's always been you."

Your eyes welled, the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache.

The answer had always been there, buried beneath the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the unspoken jealousy. Beneath every time your heart clenched when you saw him with someone else.

And now you were standing here, with Hyunjin telling you he had been feeling just as much as you had.

You swallowed hard, then nodded smiling. “I want you too.”

Relief flooded his face, followed by something brighter and softer. He let out a breathy laugh, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Yeah? You do?” he repeated, almost teasing.

You huffed, the corners of your lips curling. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Hyunjin didn’t need to hear it twice.

His hands cupped your face, his eyes glimmering with something new that made your chest bloom with warmth.

Then, his lips found yours again.

This time, the kiss wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or fleeting. It was slow, sweet, as if he was memorizing you, promising something without words.

You sighed into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer and closer, until there was no space left between you.

Hyunjin’s thumb brushed over your lips. “I guess we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

You smiled, tilting your chin up. “I guess we do.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

[mattsmedusa]

✎ 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 ✮ 𝐜.𝐬 『 +𝟏𝟖 』

ⓘ best friends? ᚐ sexual tension ᚐ blowjob ᚐ etc. + intended lowercase. 𝐰𝐜. 𝟐.𝟐𝐤

it had been an overall good day for you. you were out with a friend of yours, having gotten your nails done and now eating lunch with her. your friend started to talk about her recent little hook up. it wasn’t anything unusual, you were used to hearing your friends talk about stuff like that, but today... something in you was more curious than ever.

your friend went on and on about how good it was and how more guys should be like the one that she fucked at that party two days ago. she suddenly nudged your arm and leaned in to whisper in a hushed tone. "he was huge, like, quite literally choked me with it—it was definitely an experience." she laughed, immediately switching to a different topic but you couldn’t shake off the sudden flicker of curiosity.

blowjob. you had never done it before and all because you were intimidated by the idea of having a dick in your mouth. now though, the intimidation was gone, only leaving curiosity behind. the curiousity was persistent enough to keep lurking in the back of your mind, even as you stepped foot inside the triplets place later that day.

chris, your best friend, was sitting on his gaming chair—his back facing you—when you walked into his room. he was so concentrated on his game that he didn’t even notice you at first. you shrugged it off and immediately plopped on his bed, sprawled out like a starfish as you closed your eyes, relaxing on his bed like you owned it.

after a few minutes, chris stretched, taking off his headset and stood up to probably get something to drink and that’s when he noticed you. his eyes widened and he recoiled, putting a hand over his heart, not having expected to see you—or anyone in that matter—on his bed.

"kid- you fucking scared me, when did you even get here?" he shook his head, laughing despite his initial surprise. "laying on my bed like you own the shit, get up." he walked over to you with a silly grin, probably plotting something, but you sat up right as he approached the bed, making him jolt in surprise at your sudden movement.

"what’s wrong with you toda-" "how do you give someone a blowjob?" chris immediately paused, mouth still agape from the word he was about to say before you cut him off. he stared at you blankly and you stared back at him, determined. a part of you regretted your words, but you were too far gone into the curiosity to take it back. "what does it feel like?" you pressed on, leaning forward towards him.

"what did you say?" chris blinked at you, not sure if he heard it right or if he was just hearing shit. "did you just- did you seriously just ask me how to give someone head?" he burst out laughing, plopping on the bed beside you as he lost his shit—not believing what he was hearing.

"you didn’t just ask me that." he said in disbelief as his shoulders trembled with laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. but when he saw that you weren’t laughing along, he realised that you were dead serious. his laughter subsided, surprise flickering in his expression since you never brought something like this up—never sounded interested when he did.

"wait for real? you really wanna know?" he gave you a teasing grin, his eyebrows rising. "well, it’s not like i’ve sucked dick before so i can’t really tell you how, but i have gotten a blowjob before..." he trailed off, his grin widening as he leaned closer. "you want me to teach you or something?" he joked, but the joke fell flat as you nodded your head.

his eyes widened by a fraction before he let out a small chuckle, leaning back on his hands. he didn’t expect you to actually say yes, and well, why would he refuse? it’s nothing serious—or so he thinks.

chris swallowed down the worries and what if’s and slowly nodded, muttering a bit too breathless "alright" as he adjusted his position on the bed, watching your wide-eyed expression with a small smirk. "you wanna learn or no?" he teased putting a small pillow that he had on his bed on the floor in between his spread legs.

you blinked, staring at him for a good minute, not expecting him to actually go through with it. after a few seconds, you slowly stood up and walked towards him until you were right in front of him before kneeling down on the pillow. looking up at him, you noticed the way his pupils seemed slightly more enlarged than usual.

"you’ve a hairband or something?" he leaned back slightly, casually, trying to hide the fact that your proximity got his breath hitching. "so your hair won’t get in the way." he explained, watching as you leaned to the side to rummage through your bag, pulling out a hairband and tying your hair in a low ponytail with it.

"alright now..." he cursed internally at how breathless he sounded. he spread his legs wider, almost unconsciously as he felt his dick swell at the imagery his mind created of you sucking his dick with those doe eyes looking up at him. he was already half-hard and you hadn’t even done anything yet. you were just sitting in front of him looking so edible...

what is he thinking?

chris cleared his throat, finding his voice hoarse and undeniably needy. "you gotta, uh, get me fully hard first." he said. "don’t worry, i’ll guide you through it- just do what feels right." he reassured. he was starting to finally understand the gravity of the situation, but as per usual, he pushed the thoughts away.

you tentatively touched his boner straining against his sweatpants and your breath hitched at the warmth and hardness. your gaze flickered up to watch his reaction as you palmed his dick, swallowing thickly when you felt him swell further under your attention.

chris helped you pull down his sweatpants, his cock springing free and slapping his stomach before standing upright, precum already gathering on the tip. he stared down at his dick, then back at you, a small chuckle escaping when he saw your heated glance at his cock.

"staring at it like you wanna eat it." he mumbled with another chuckle. "huh?" you snapped out of your small trance and looked up at him. "you’re staring at my dick like you wanna eat it." he repeated, giving you a knowing smirk—which earned him a slap on his thigh, causing him to giggle.

"so do i just... lick it?" you questioned, ignoring the comment he made, tentatively reaching out to wrap your fingers around his base and feeling how girthy he was. he was big and long, causing you to feel that primal need to be filled. you shifted slightly, trying to will your body to behave, but fuck, he was easily bigger than any of the guys you’ve slept with before.

chris nodded subtly. "yeah... lick it like you would with an ice cream cone." he gently guided your head closer to his cock, the tip almost pulsing as a fresh bead of precum formed on the slit before slowly sliding down his shaft and onto your fingers.

you leaned closer and slowly licked up the underside of his length, from the base to the tip, with your tongue flattened—all while looking up at him with those doe eyes of yours. chris’ dick jumped in your hand, his breath hitching at the sudden warmth and wetness of your tongue. the way you were looking up at him so prettily got him feeling all types of ways.

you saw his reaction and interpreted it as you doing a good job and started to slowly become bolder, moving your hand in a twisting motion up and down his shaft while you kissed and licked his tip.

"f-fuck--" chris moaned quietly, his eyes closing briefly at the pleasure shooting through his whole body as your mouth focused solely on the head of his cock. his hand left your head to clutch onto the sheets beside his thigh. his hips twitched and jolted when you wrapped your lips around his cockhead, swirling your tongue around it.

you knew some things about a blowjob. the knowledge came from hearing about it from your friends, porn and some freaky reels you got recommended while doom scrolling on instagram. it’s not like you were completely innocent—you just hadn’t tried it out on anyone. but you were nervous nonetheless, seeking approval from him as you kept gazing up at him.

chris’ eyes snapped open when you took him deeper in your mouth. "wait- fuck, you sure this is your first time?" he breathed out, completely in awe at how good you were doing. he barely held himself back from rolling his eyes back when you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked up his length, letting it go with a wet pop.

"y-yeah, is it bad?" you asked panting softly, feeling insecure about your inexperience. your hand halted its motion on his dick, waiting for his reply.

chris quickly shook his head, "no, fuck no, you’re so fucking good at it... that’s why i asked," he explained, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, dick twitching subtly in your hand. he licked his lips subconsciously, eyes silently pleading with yours to keep going.

you let out a quiet sigh of relief and went back to what you were doing. getting bolder the more chris reacted. every small moan, whine or groan made your stomach flip. your panties were now uncomfortably wet, clinging to your pussy as you eased one more inch of his length into your mouth, gagging slightly before pulling off to pump him with your hand.

chris was so close to the edge already, finding it difficult to stay coherent so he simply stuck to letting you do your own thing as he leaned back on both hands. his head was thrown back, brows knitted together in pleasure and lips parted as soft moans fell freely from it.

you watched as chris’ breathing grew increasingly shallow, his hips jerking upwards and thighs trembling ever so slightly. that’s when you understood that he was about to come undone. the sudden realisation left your stomach doing somersaults and you immediately redoubled your efforts.

"wait, fuck- i’m gonna cum... if you don’t want—mmfhh—if you don’t want me to cum in your mouth then pull off." he said urgently. his breath hitched more frequently now as the bands in his stomach grew more and more taut.

you didn’t pull away though—you went faster, bobbing your head more enthusiastically as your hand took care of what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. you hollowed out your cheeks, sucking insistently before slowly going down and taking as much as you could.

that’s when chris suddenly held your head still between his hands, his hips giving a sharp thrust up and burying himself completely in your mouth as he came, eyes rolling back in ecstasy as breathy moans and profanities left his mouth. you felt his cock twitch and spurt out warm cum right down your throat.

chris’ hips jerked against your face, slowly riding out his high. he didn’t release your head until you slapped his thigh repeatedly, coughing as you tried your best to swallow down his release. he quickly let go of your head, mumbling a breathless "sorry" before slumping back on his bed. his chest heaved and body shuddered with aftershocks.

it took him a good minute to recover and when he did, he sat up, pulling his sweats up and looking at you like you had grown a second head. you simply chuckled at his surprised expression, wiping your mouth with a tissue from the tissue box beside his bed.

"you’re fucking insane." chris suddenly said. he was in disbelief that his inexperienced best friend just gave him the best blowjob he has ever received... and mind you, he has had his fair share of heads so when he thinks it’s good—it’s really fucking good.

"was it good?" you gave him a small grin, knowing the answer but not wanting to sound too full of yourself. your words made chris stare at you like you just told him something ridiculous.

"was it good?" he repeated your question with a laugh. "c’mon, you’re really gonna ask me that after making me moan and cum in like 2 minutes?" he teased, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he helped you stand up from your kneeling position in front of him.

"so, anything else you want me to teach you? ’cause i’m more than willing to be your personal instructor if you’re gonna do that good." he grinned shamelessly, laughing softly when you shoved him to the side.

"kid, don’t even try anything with me." you rolled your eyes, even as a small smile formed on your lips. you didn’t respond to his question, changing the subject as if nothing out of the ordinary happened, but you knew something shifted between you two after that. every little touch felt more than just a touch.

it’s probably just your imagination... right?

୨୧

✩ ˙˖˚᮫ ⁱˢᵃ ᮭ ᮭ.ᐟ i apologise for taking so long, hope you enjoy this nonetheless anon<3

[𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞!]

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @chaossturns @mels4ngel @lypsiiii @sydneyylainn @sturniolozbae @hearts4werka @strnilolover @matts-sidepiece @hearts4sturniolo @ivysturnss @bumbl3b34 @sophand4n4 @sagesturns @gwennybenny @whore4mattsturniolo @sturns-mermaid @il0vey0um0st @summersturni @ashleysturn @unknvhx @natesfavoritehoe @lizzymacdonald06 @sleepiibunniiii @plrlvssnz @patchy-icey @greekgirldreaming @moosegirl96 @sllutty-sturniolo @rinnsgalaxy @urfavvbilliemunch @pasteldreams @heartsonlyforchris @jas06sposts @elizabeth8483 @starkeysturniolo @chrisissobabygirl @emely9274 @matts-wife @courta13 @p1nkm6tter @jocelyncsblog @bamsblooming @malsmind

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

[sevsgiirl]

— sevika being needy when you’re mad at her

synopsis: sevika has very good self control, and she doesn’t usually cave in to most situations that bother her, but you giving her the silent treatment? well, that’s a whole different story.

note: this is just another sevika drabble because I can’t get the thought of her being needy out of my head.

sevika is straightforward. she doesn’t have the time nor patience when it comes to silent treatment, if she has a problem with someone she goes out of her way to tell them without sugarcoating it. romantic partners included.

there are perks to it but there is definitely a downside as well because oftentimes she can be too blunt for her own good.

you know she doesn’t mean it when she accidentally hurts your feelings or says something that catches you off guard, but then again you’re still human. so whenever you two end up disagreeing with each other, you try to be as understanding of her perspective as much as possible. but sometimes it doesn’t always work.

“where are you going?” she asked you late one night when she catches you dolling yourself up in your bedroom.

you spared her a glance from your cracked vanity mirror before rummaging through your makeup bag “I’m gonna go to the bar just to meet up with some friends. I’ll probably be back in two hours.”

you were expecting her to agree because you barely go out anyways. sevika could be a bit jealous and possessive but if there is one thing she isn’t, it’s controlling.

that’s why you were taken aback when you catch sight of her shaking her head on the mirror, a scowl on her face “no.”

you were quiet for a moment before you swiveled around to face her.

“excuse me?”

“I said no. it’s late. had you gone out earlier today I wouldn’t have minded but it’s dangerous to go out this time of night and I’m not gonna let you especially when you’re all dressed up like that.” she said.

you honestly couldn’t believe it as you stood up “well, if you’re so worried then you can just come with-“

“it’s a saturday and silco’s been on my ass the entire week. I was hoping we’d use this night to just unwind and stay in.”

you chuckled, a bitter sound “so wait, I can’t go to the last drop because it’s late but you can especially if it’s about work?”

“it’s not about where you’re going, it’s about the time. you can go out tomorrow morning or the afternoon but it’s 9:30 for crying out loud.”

“you’ve got to be kidding me. sev-“

“I’m not arguing with you.” she reprimanded “I mean it. you’re a grown adult and I got into a relationship with a grown adult. so I don’t get why you’re acting like a fucking child.”

perhaps it was the stress of her job getting to her that made her speak that way towards you, but you’d be lying if you said her harsh words didn’t get to you because they did. making your eyes well up but you refused to let her see you cry, instead you just shoved past her and into the bathroom where you took your makeup off and got undressed.

and she was glad you gave into what she wanted… or so she thought.

truth be told, she didn’t think much of what she said because in her mind she was just looking out for you. sure, if she thought about it she might’ve sounded a little harsh but it wasn’t personal. she just tends to be strict especially to those she cares about.

however, she didn’t think you’d take it to heart. that’s why in the following morning when she was cooking breakfast and heard the bedroom door open, she was surprised that instead of walking up to her and giving her a morning kiss like you always do, you aimed directly for the bathroom and slammed the door shut on your way in.

she couldn’t mask her surprise because not only did you ignore her, you didn’t sit down and have breakfast with her first. which is something you always do before showering and heading off to work.

“aren’t you going to eat?” she asked with a frown when she saw that you were already dressed and were about to head out.

without missing a beat, you replied in a dry tone “I’m not hungry,” before walking out of your apartment, again no kiss on her cheek or a goodbye. leaving her standing in the dining room alone, dumbstruck.

she thought you’d snap out of it soon but it only got worse when two days had passed and you still haven’t exchanged at least three sentences with her.

it was just the occasional ‘no’ ‘I’m fine’ and ‘nothing’s wrong’ even though you hadn’t been talking to her through dinners and had your back turned to her when you slept. no cuddling, no kissing, just pure silence.

sevika thought she was about to go crazy.

usually, she wouldn’t give in to this kind of pettiness but there’s only so much of you withholding affection from her that she could take before it started affecting her.

she didn’t even know what she did wrong but if she had to take a guess it was probably when she didn’t let you go out to meet your friends. but come on, really? she was just looking out for you.

but of course, she had to set her pride aside, and so without you expecting it, she cornered you while you were rummaging the fridge trying to find something to eat - not noticing her broad figure looming close behind.

you jumped when a pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped themselves around you “what the-“ you begun wiggling out of her hold “sevika, what are you-“

you were silenced when sevika nuzzled her face in the crook of your neck and only tightened her hold on your waist.

“can you please stop ignoring me? I’m sorry, okay? whatever it is I did, I’m sorry.”

it took you a second to process her words but when you did, you just rolled your eyes “you don’t even know what it is that you’re apologizing for.”

“is it because I didn’t let you go out to meet your friends the other night? I’m sorry but I just didn’t want you to go out while it was late. you know I’d never boss you around-“

“sev, it’s not that.” you sighed “it’s about the comment you said afterwards. about me acting like a child?”

she was quiet and you shook your head “it was such a shitty thing to say. I could’ve understood where you were coming from but you know how I hate it when people talk down on me and you’re the last person I expected that from.”

a pang of of guilt shot right through her chest when she realized her mistake, because you were right. perhaps she should’ve been more careful with how she phrased her words because no matter how much you two disagree on certain things, her intention is never to hurt you.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” she placed a soft kiss on your shoulder “you’re right. it’s my fault. I was a dick. maybe it’s because I was stressed but that still isn’t a good reason to have talked to you like that.”

you were about to make a snarky remark when out of nowhere, sevika dropped to her knees in front of you and pulled you forward by your hips. looking up at you with big puppy dog eyes and it was like all your self restraint flew right out the window because here she was, your big strong intimidating girlfriend who’s feared by many, acting needy and desperate for your forgiveness.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, just please stop with the silent treatment.” she said, lifting your shirt up to kiss your tummy and you let out a shuddering breath “please baby, I’m sorry. really I am.”

you bit your lip, taking her jaw in your hand as you examined her face “who would’ve thought you’d be the type to beg?”

she looked down sheepishly and you couldn’t help but laugh, amused.

“but fine,” you said, leaning down to kiss her and you made sure to slip your tongue in, making her groan because this was the first time in three days that you gave her any sort of physical affection.

so she didn’t stop not until you two found it hard to breathe.

you smirked “since you asked so nicely after all.”

[figthoughts]

hii fig, reading your stuff and having thots 😩

dean strikes me as the type to stick his fingers in your mouth. thoughts?

heheh hiii lot of thoughts! this accidentally turned into a lil rambling drabble lol so 18+

༄ ⋆ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

dean winchester is definitely a finger-sucking kinda guy, but i think there’s two sides to it.

the first is the sweet sensual version. when he’s in looove, he’s all about being gentle. he’s cupping your face, letting his thumb caress your cheeks as he stares at you in adoration, his green eyes flickering over your features like he’s learning your face again for the first time. just completely and utterly in love. and so naturally he’s tracing over your face, and when he starts rubbing over your lower lip, he’ll gently push his thumb into your mouth. and it’s such a tender yet sensual thing—there’s no force behind it. just a soft unspoken understanding that you’re his. and the way you take his thumb so obediently is his favourite part, along with your wide eyes staring back at him. he’d die a hundred deaths just to have that image burned into his brain forever.

buttt dean is also kinda a freak. and so when you’re fucking, he needs his hands everywhere. just feeling and groping and kneading all over. and when he sees your face all fucked out with your jaw dropped in pleasure, he takes it as an invite to shove his fingers in your mouth—to give you something to focus on, to bring you back to him. and so he gives you his index and middle finger, watching intently as you wrap your lips around them, almost mindlessly, like they’re exactly what you’ve been needing. he lets out a groan at the sight; you’re just so obedient for him every. single. time. and he’s absolutely praising you for it, “such a good girl. there we go. just like that.” sort of thing. it’s just a moment of connection that means a lot to him. and so yeah, he loves it. also because he thinks it’s hot as hell and makes his dick throb. but that’s just a given.

[mageofmadness]

◞♡ nsfw

caleb’s definitely a just the tip type of guy you cannot tell me he wouldn’t beg for it like anywhere and everywhere all the damn time. does not matter where you are, what time it is, etc. sometimes he doesn’t even care to come...he’s not trying to fuck you and fill you up, he just wants inside of your cunt because it’s been a long day and surely you missed him too and he can’t help it, it’s his favorite place to be. so warm and you’re always so wet and sweet and he’s got such a silver tongue “just the tip, honey. i’m sorry, you just look so good. i can’t stand it...can’t wait ‘til we get back home" so of course you agree because you did miss him, but you also know his tricks by now and it’s hardly ever just the tip.

sure, it might start that way. maybe you’re pressed up against the bathroom wall, having both slipped out during an important work gala because “i didn’t like the way they were looking at you. i haven’t left your side all night, who do they think they are?” and you know you don’t have enough time to fuck so you agree because caleb looks so handsome, how could you deny him anything? he hurriedly hikes your dress up and you give him some credit when he lifts your hip, notching the tip of his cock against your hole, but then he presses in and in and in until the tip he’d promised is so deep inside of you, your legs are starting to shake.

“im sorry, fuck. i-i'm sorry, i can't help it. fuck, how are you so tight? always so tight. it’s not my fault, baby. if you didn’t want me this deep, why are you trying to fuck yourself back on my cock, huh?” and you are. you're squirming and trying to adjust to his size and now you wish he’d move instead of pinning you against the wall with his cock splitting you open.

or maybe you’re on the couch, worn out after a long day, and he’s promising just the tip. nothing more this time...he swears.

“you don’t have to do anything, baby. i know you’re tired, i’m sorry. i know, it’s been so long, though, honey. please, pips. all i could think about all day was coming home to you and you smell so nice and and and…” and maybe caleb really does mean it this time, but either way, he always takes care of you. he can have whatever he wants.

his cock is so heavy when the tip rests against your hole, both of you already weeping for it, and he groans, sliding in just enough. he starts to jerk his cock as you whine on the couch, moving your hips because now you want more and right now is the time caleb decides to stick to his word?

“stop moving, baby. fuck, look at that…look at you. you want it that bad? but i promised, didn’t i?” he moans, and you writhe, feeling the jerky movements of the tip of his cock, your cunt begging for something to fill it but he doesn’t. caleb doesn’t give in this time, having to shush you because this is unfair. how dare he suddenly deprive you, and when he comes, he comes with his cock pressed just enough inside of you for nothing to spill out. admiring his work, panting, “thank you, fuck. missed you so much, baby. gonna make you come now, kay? don’t think i forgot about you...just needed to come in this pretty hole. what? i just gave you...oh, you want it it all? my whole cock? you’re the one always saying ‘just the tip’ sweetheart, you’ve gotta be more clear, then.”

you have half a mind to argue with him, opening your mouth to explain clearly you guys both have a moderation issue, but he’s sliding into you a moment later, filling you up in one swift thrust. his last load slicks the way, and you whine. you whimper. it’s so much more than just the tip, his entire cock filling you up as caleb grins, knowing he won this game that’s not really even a game.

“there you go, yeah? maybe you'll remember this moment the next time you roll your eyes, telling me 'just the tip,' and acting like you don’t want it, pips.”

[dragonbabes]

*F*cking Yap Warning; expect run ons and awful grammar and cursewords*

This is a super interesting thought. Cause I sorta agree. This isn’t to say that I’m upset that they gave the companions main character energy — cause they are, in a sense — and I adore all of their quirks and whatnot’s. But they put too little effort into Rook. From the very beginning.

I remember thinking that Rook is such a disposable character. I played a Shadow Dragon on my first playthrough, and I remember straight up snorting at Rook's response on why they couldn't navigate to Dumat Plaza: "Not my part of town." Seriously? But worry not, we have Harding, who can figure out something that Rook, who's probably lived in Minrathous for years, couldn't! (Lame)

Crow Rook: is assassin... Like Lucanis. Love this man to death but, why can't Rook do the stabby stab at Ghilan'nain? Does it have to be the sexy, coffee-obsessed man? Is Rook de Riva not sexy enough to brandish a weapon at the nefarious Ghilan'nain or the not-too-intimidating Elgar'nan? It was never explained it was just *shrug* Two's better than one ah-hyuck... When Neve was like "We need an assassin" to my very crow Rook, I was literally there like

( L a m e )

In my Shadow Dragon playthrough, I sacrificed Minrathous and I loved that Neve and the others are so much more critical than they are with other Rook origins, but literally no one on the team was like: how are you? That Lucanis - the soft, yearning, feeling man that he is - did not approach Shadow Dragon Rook that sacrificed their home, their city, their people, to protect his is so fucking wack to me. And - hot take, I think there's a lack of this throughout all of the games - no one ever checks in on the leader, because why? They're this amazingly unbreakable person that can face anything? No! Any hero worth their salt breaks, but they get back up. That's what makes em the hero. Iron Bull literally says "leaders are made of the people that can make the hard decisions, and live with them" but we never get to live with it, do we? They don't give us the chance to see them process that, and learn to hold it, because none of the companions bother to ask, "Hey I know you literally just had to sacrifice an entire city, how are you?" (Lame) If you want a player to feel immersed in your game and take joy in it, you give them the ability to affect the world. You make them feel the story by asking them "How do you feel after making this awful, awful decision?" Then, you let them choose how to answer the question... This was a huge fumble.

And oh my gawd the whole reason that Varric ever recruited Rook is just... Puzzling to me. He was just like "a-ha, yah, i want that one" because Rook is unpredictable? That's it? No actual purpose to the plot, they're just here to be like "haha he won't expect us to drop a building on him c'est la vie..." (l a m e)

Can we please also talk about how Rook can't have any side conversations with their companion outside of the cutscenes? In Inquisition, you could walk up to Solas and be like "what the fuq is up big dawg" then dap him up but in DATV? You're a sad loner sitting at your own lunchtable because they unfortunately don't have enough chairs at theirs (you can see an empty chair, but they need it for Neve's bag). You have to stand there like a creep and just be like "definitely not eavesdropping, nope nope nope. uh-uh, I merely entered this room that I really have no business in to stare into the void don't mind me carry on... Pleeeease I'm desperate to explore your character but can't outside of seeing how you talk to the others and plot-related developments."

And let me reiterate that I do love this game. It's fun to play and there are a bajillion things I do like about it... But how they handled Rook is very disappointing. Creating a character blank enough for a roleplay game is tricky, I get it, and i'm certain there are things I don't understand about it, but it's also the most important character in the game. Period. Let your players play their characters, is what i'm sayin.

If you got this far, I admire you.

What’s really jumping out at me on my second playthrough is that the writers of the first three games understood that your character was the main character. The Veilguard writers clearly thought that the main characters were their characters, the companions.

Every scene is about setting the companions up as cool or competent or sympathetic. Often, this is done at Rook’s expense. The companions get all the witty one-liners; Rook’s attempts at humor not only frequently fall flat, but are frequently called out for falling flat (even when they’re completely automatic and the player has no say in them).

The companions have all the knowledge and skills; Rook just brought them all together and gives them all pep talks so they can focus. I’m trying to edit out all of the comments where Rook is like “Um… what????” from my videos, and let me tell you, it takes WORK. There are A LOT of them. I can count on one hand the number of times when the Inquisitor or Hawke comes across as dumb, but it seems to be a built-in, unavoidable part of Rook’s character. I have not selected a single “purple” option in all of Act 1, and Rook is still coming across as the kid who tries to be the class clown to cover for the fact that he’s always confused. Rook’s role in most scenes is to say “Uhhh… what?” so that the companions look smart.

Rook is always the one offering sympathy and never the one getting it. No one actually comes to comfort you after Varric’s death. No one asks you how you’re feeling about having to lead the team now that Varric is gone. No one tries to reassure you or give you advice for dealing with the trickster god haunting your dreams. We’re told that Neve could keep Solas out of your head, but she never actually offers to do this for you. No one comforts a Shadow Dragon Rook when Minrathous is destroyed or a Grey Warden Rook when Weisshaupt is destroyed. Rook’s problems don’t matter. Only the problems of main characters matter.

Rook is a secondary character in their own story.

[cherryyluvs]

Little Notes, Big Feelings

Notes in your locker, simple, and anonymous. A little bit sweet. You never expected Mark Grayson confessing that he likes you. ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

It started with a note, neatly folded and tucked in between the vents of your locker. Just barely sticking out and impossible to miss.

You were half asleep still rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. grabbing the little slip of paper “Pop quiz in Johnson's class today. Hope you studied. (I didn't, Whoops.)"

You blinked at it, turning it over just to see no name, no clue on who wrote it. Just a simple, neat handwriting, and a tiny smiling doodle of Seance dog in the corner. You glanced around the busy hallway, scanning faces. But no one seemed to be watching you. Just students going to their class, laughing with their friends, and stuffing books into their bags.

Weird. But sweet.

After that notes kept coming, little messages that made you smile. “Did you see the new episode of Seance Dog? Crazy right?” Other times they would be personal. “You looked really happy today.” You kept every single one, tucking them into your notebook like they were little treasures. You found yourself looking forward to them, and you wanted to know them too. So one afternoon you decided to write back, slipping a note into your own locker. Leaving it right where the mysterious writer had been placing theirs. “Okay, secret admirer, your turn. Who are you?”

The next morning a reply was waiting. “If i tell you. It ruins the fun doesn't it?” You let out a huff, fine.

If they wanted to play, you’d play. The back and forth went on for weeks! You had asked what their favorite color was (Yellow but sometimes blue) . Some were rants about a new superhero sighting or how the cafeteria’s chicken nuggets are a danger to society. “The cafeteria nuggets are definitely a health hazard. Stay safe out there”

There's a response the next morning, “RIGHT?? I'm glad someone gets it. Also I can neither confirm or deny that I saw one of those nuggets move.” The messages became part of your daily routine, a little secret, something that made the school day a little brighter.

And one day you found a note that made your heart drop.

“Would it be weird if i said i kinda like you?” Your fingers trembled slightly as you held the small piece of paper. This wasn't just playful anymore, this is real. At this point you needed to know who it was.

You waited, keeping an eye out at your locker, hoping to catch them in the act. Whoever they were, they were good at being sneaky. So you tried a different approach.

You left a note in return, simple and direct. “Not weird. Kind of sweet, but I think i'd like it more if I knew who you were.”

The next day there was no note, and after that, nothing. Your heart sank, had you scared them off? Had they changed their mind? It gnawed at you, making you realize just how much these silly little notes meant to you.

And then it finally happened. You were at your locker, gathering books for your next class, when a voice behind you cleared their throat. “Uh… hey.” You turned around to face the stranger and there he was. Mark Grayson, moving nervously on his feet, his easygoing confidence nowhere to be found. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes but you could see the pink creeping on his cheeks.

It clicked instantly. The handwriting on the notes, the way he always looked in your direction in class when you weren't paying attention. Mark, who was sweet and awkward, always rambling about comics and superhero movies.

“You're-”

He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days. “Yeah it's me.” Your heart fluttered, warmth flooding into your chest.

Mark Grayson, you'd noticed him, you never thought if he had noticed you but he had. And for a long time apparently, “So.. was that too weird? He asked hesitantly. “I can stop if-” You shook your head, a small smile creeping onto your face.

Pulling out a pen from your purse and grabbing his wrist, before he could question it, you scribbled onto his palm.

“No, not weird at all.” When he read it, his entire face lit up.

[kxsagi]

heyyy how r u?? ^^

how would the blue lock characters react to seeing their s/o hurt by someone they don’t even know?? can you include rin, sae, kaiser and any others you want to add

thanks!!

“𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥”

a/n: hi hi! when you said blue lock players react to seeing their s/o hurt by someone they don’t even know, “hurt” was a bit vague, but because i definitely don’t write about abuse, i think being insulted(?) by a stranger would be more natural. i hope this is still within your expectations of me!

best believe these boys would stand up for you no matter what! + i always love writing for slursagi

ft. itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael

itoshi rin

stranger's comment: "what are you even doing with him? you’re clearly way out of his league." 

rin was already irritated that day. training had been rough, and he was running on little sleep. but the moment he heard the stranger’s words directed at you, his exhaustion was replaced with a sharp, simmering rage. 

his steps halted. his eyes, cold and piercing, locked onto the stranger. for a moment, he didn’t say anything, he just stared. hard. the kind of stare that could stop someone’s heart. his jaw tightened, hands slowly curling into fists at his sides. 

“say that again.” his voice was low, barely above a whisper, but laced with venom. 

the stranger, suddenly aware of the sheer presence rin held, took an instinctive step back. but rin was already closing the distance. his eyes narrowed with a deadly calm. "you think you’re funny?" he muttered, voice dangerously flat. "go ahead. say it again." 

he didn’t need to raise his voice. the intensity alone was enough to make the stranger shut their mouth and awkwardly stumble away. once they were gone, rin turned to you with a softened expression, his hand slipping into yours. he didn’t say much, just gave your hand a small, firm squeeze, his silent way of making sure you were okay. 

shidou ryusei

stranger's comment: "she’s pretty, but i bet she’s just another gold digger clinging to a rich athlete." 

oh. ohhhh. 

the stranger didn’t even get a chance to blink before shidou was already right in their face, sneering like a maniac. his eyes were wild, glinting with unrestrained fury and something far more dangerous: amusement. 

“gold digger? really?” he let out a sharp laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was seconds away from grabbing the guy by the collar. “hey. you wanna say that louder? or are you gonna piss yourself first?” 

the stranger tried to brush it off with a nervous chuckle, but shidou’s grin only widened, showing too many teeth. “nah, c’mon. you were real bold a second ago. keep talking.” his voice was sharp with mockery, but the way he took a half-step closer, towering over them, made it clear he was seconds away from making it physical. 

you quickly grabbed shidou’s wrist, tugging him back. his eyes flicked to you, and the moment he saw the slight furrow in your brows, his entire demeanor shifted. his jaw unclenched, and he released a long, annoyed sigh. 

“well lucky for you… she’s nicer than i am,” he spat, pointing a lazy finger at the stranger. then he turned, casually slipping an arm around your waist, and walked you away like nothing happened. his fingers drummed against your hip as he leaned down to mutter against your ear, voice low and playful. “you should let me kick someone’s ass for you at least once, babe.” 

itoshi sae

stranger's comment: "you sure you’re not just with him for the money? pretty girls like you don’t usually date guys like him unless there’s a price tag involved." 

sae’s entire body stilled. 

no eye-roll, no bored sigh, just a sharp, chilling stillness. slowly, he turned his head toward the stranger, his eyes narrowing with an unmistakable glint of disdain. he didn’t even bother with a witty remark. he just stared at them, completely blank-faced, expressionless. 

and then, in a low, unimpressed voice, he asked, “who the hell are you?” 

the stranger blinked, caught off guard. they opened their mouth to speak, but sae cut them off with a slight tilt of his head, his tone dipping further into icy condescension. 

“no, seriously. who even are you? you think you matter?” his voice dripped with disinterest, making the stranger feel microscopic. “if you’re gonna run your mouth, at least be someone relevant.” 

with a dismissive glance, he turned his back on them, clearly not sparing another second of his time. instead, he walked over to you, his hand naturally finding yours. his grip was firm, reassuring, but his eyes were still sharp with irritation. 

“they’re not worth it,” he muttered under his breath. then he kissed your temple, voice softer this time. “you okay?”

isagi yoichi

stranger's comment: "why are you with him? you could do so much better." 

at first, isagi doesn’t even catch it. he’s too busy laughing at something you said, his arm lazily draped around your shoulders, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. but when he sees the way your smile wavers, his expression immediately drops. 

his eyes flick toward the stranger, brows knitting slightly. 

“wait. what was that?” his voice is still calm. too calm. 

when the stranger repeats the insult, isagi’s lips press into a flat line. his entire posture stiffens slightly, but instead of glaring them down, he just blinks. once. twice. then he tilts his head ever so slightly and –

“are you actually braindead or do you just practice in the mirror?” he blurts out, blinking at the stranger with feigned concern. 

you freeze. the stranger’s eyes widen slightly. but isagi? he’s just getting started. 

“nah, i’m serious. do you eat glue for breakfast? maybe sniff paint for dessert?” his voice is light, almost curious, but the sharp edge of mockery makes it sting. “what are you on man?” 

the stranger scoffs, trying to brush it off, but isagi clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a disappointed sigh before letting him speak. “wow. full offense, but,” he gestures vaguely at them, “your parents really wasted their genes, huh?” 

the stranger mutters something under their breath, but isagi instantly fires back with a look of faux sympathy. “aw, you’re mad? go cry about it. i’m sure the two brain cells you’ve got left will keep you company.” 

and when the stranger finally storms off, defeated and red-faced, isagi slowly turns back to you with the softest, sweetest smile, as if he didn’t just verbally annihilate someone in public. 

his hands cup your face, thumbs gently brushing over your cheeks. “hey… you okay?” his voice is suddenly so tender, so gentle, you could almost believe he hadn’t just called someone a glue-sniffing crack addict. 

he leans in slightly, his forehead resting against yours, voice barely above a whisper. “you know they’re full of shit, right?” then, with a playful grin, he adds softly, “plus, they clearly don’t have taste if they can’t see how hot your boyfriend is.”

kaiser michael

stranger's comment: "i bet she’s only with you because you’re famous. girls like that are all the same, just gold diggers." 

kaiser’s lips immediately curl into a slow, cruel smirk. his eyes glimmer with something sharp, something almost gleeful. oh, this is going to be fun. 

he lets out a low chuckle – mocking, deliberate – before casually slipping his hands into his pockets. his tone is light, teasing, almost bored. 

“gold digger? huh.” he clicks his tongue. “that’s cute. you actually think you’re qualified to talk about her?” 

he takes a single step forward, eyes half-lidded with lazy superiority. the kind of gaze that makes people feel small. 

“you realize i could buy your entire existence, right?” he drawls, smirking. “but even if i lost it all tomorrow, she’d still choose me. every. single. time.” his voice dips lower with each word, turning into a slow, smug purr. 

and just for good measure, he adds with a cocky grin, “which is more than i can say for you.” 

the stranger is gone in seconds, and kaiser casually throws an arm around you, walking away without a second glance. but once you’re alone, he glances at you, voice dropping to something quieter, softer. 

“you alright, liebling?” his fingers brush over your knuckles, lacing them with his own. his eyes are steady, searching yours. “you know i don’t give a shit what they say, right? just you. always you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[satorus-princess]

she loves me not, she loves me

synopsis: gojo satoru - the oh-so-confident, strongest sorcerer - becoming a nervous wreck on his wedding day? no way. (one suggestive joke, but otherwise sfw)

fem!reader x gojo satoru, canon au but geto never defected 🥰

gojo thinks he's successful in being able to conceal the effect of his doubts and worries on his demeanour. but, obviously, his best man picks up on the way that he constantly fixes his pushed-back hair, straightens his tuxedo for the umpteenth time, and redoes his tie for a third time. well, honestly, anyone would be able to infer his fears from his behaviour, no matter how forced his smile is.

“are you nervous, satoru? you have no reason to be, you know,” geto says, sitting on a chair in his own suit as he observes his best friend standing in front of the mirror who brushes off atoms from the sleeves of his tux.

“hah, why would i be nervous? i'm hard to resist, and she loves me,” the tone and manner in which gojo says that sounds as if he's reassuring himself rather than trying to convince geto he isn't nervous.

“she does. i've seen you get into destructive relationships, but not this one. (y/n)'s perfect for you,”

“she's so perfect... what is she doing marrying me?” gojo groans, stepping backwards and slumping into an armchair behind him.

“she said yes for a reason,” geto reminds gojo.

“you're right, you're right. she said yes to me. she wants to marry me.” gojo's head is tilted back over the edge of the chair, trying to keep his thoughts under control. that lasts a minute before he's grumbling under his breath, “shit, i'm a mess.”

while gojo is consumed in his whirlwind of thoughts, he doesn't even hear geto calling someone on the phone and talking to them. that's until he scoots closer to the groom, holding out the phone to him with a short “here”.

“what are you doing?” he asks, lifting his head up, confused as to why his rambling is cut off and what could possibly be more important.

“‘toru?” your sweet voice chimes through the speaker, and suddenly, gojo feels as if his heart has stopped. he takes the phone from geto, who steps out of the room to let you two have your moment, knowing that the only person who can ease gojo's nerves is his future wife herself.

his fingers slightly tremble around the phone as he presses it against his ear. he swallows thickly before speaking, “(y/n)?”

“yeah, it's me, my love. are you okay?”

a gentle smile paints over his lips, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he lets out a sigh - subconsciously relieved. he nods, despite you not being able to see him. “yeah... yeah, i'm okay now that i've heard your voice. fuck, you sound so pretty through the phone, i might cry,” he jokes, but the choked-up laugh that tumbles out suggests that he might not be completely joking.

he hears you laugh on the other side of the phone and his heart signs up for a marathon. “hey, save the tears for when you see me.”

“oh, those aren't gonna be tears. that's gonna be full-on sobbing and snot everywhere,” his tone is light and playful, feeling much calmer now.

you laugh again, this time louder. “you're ridiculous. although i'm not sure i doubt you.”

“i'm definitely not joking. just thinking about you in your dress is bringing me to tears.”

“you love me,” you state simply in a quieter tone, but it's such a powerful affirmation.

“i do, with every fibre of my being. i can't wait to marry you and spend forever together.”

“me too. you know what else i can't wait for?” you ask playfully in an attempt to lift his mood, waiting for gojo to respond before continuing. he gives you a soft hum in question. “the honeymoon. spending lots of quality time together. in bed, especially.”

he lets out a surprised laugh, though his deep, ocean eyes soften into something more tranquil, like a fresh stream shimmering in the sun. “god, i love you. this is why you're my wife-to-be.”

“but seriously, you have nothing to be nervous about, you know? we're getting married because we love each other, there's no doubt about that.”

gojo releases a heavy, shaky sigh. “i know... you're not gonna leave me waiting at the altar, are you?” he jokes, but there's an underlying concern that's more serious than he lets on. but, of course, you sense it.

“that's the most ridiculous thing you've said in your life, my love. i wouldn't be here, dressed up to marry you if i was going to leave you. i'm not going anywhere or leaving you behind, no matter what, okay?”

he hums in understanding, and you assume he's chewing on the inside of his cheek to hold back his emotions.

you continue, “satoru, my heart belongs with you. if, in the craziest scenario you can think of, i leave you, my heart will still be with you. it'll always love you, and it'll never forget about you. i hope you know i love you more than anything.”

he swallows again before speaking, “i do know. that's why i can't believe you only want me; do i even deserve you?” he whispers, and the broken crack in his voice makes your heart crack along with it.

“hey, none of that. i don't think i can stress how much you deserve everything good in the world. and you were the one that taught me that i deserve only the best, that i should never settle for anything else. so, here i am, only marrying the best,” you say softly with a smile that you hope he can hear in your voice.

and you assume he can when you just about hear the hitch in his breath. “... thank you, (y/n),” he murmurs. it's a simple utterance, but it means everything to you, knowing you were able to reassure him in such a vulnerable moment. he didn't think his words could be used against him in the best possible way - if he believes that you deserve the best, then it must be true that you believe he deserves the best too. “who knew the strongest would be so nervous on his wedding day, huh?” he attempts to lighten the mood again, but this time, he isn't burying his emotions - he's overcome them thanks to you.

“ah, but you're the weakest when it comes to me, aren't you?” you tease. “i love this side of you, you know. the human side, the one that you only show to me.”

“alright, i get it, i get it. you don't need to make me cry again yet. we haven't even gotten to the vows yet,” he chuckles lightly, revealing the fact that he may have shed some tears while you were reassuring him.

“my sweet boy, you really are gonna be sobbing, huh?”

“without a doubt. continuously from the moment i see you.” his heart flutters when he hears your laugh ring through the phone, half filled with amusement and half with love.

“well, now that you aren't doubting anything, why don't you go out there and wait for me, hm?”

“mhm, yeah... i love you, sweet girl.”

“i love you, too, ‘toru. i'll see you out there, okay?” you confirm in a tender tone that is unreplicable, tugging at his heart strings that form a beautiful melody that only you manage to orchestrate.

“okay, mrs gojo.”

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ cute guy next door / caleb x reader

synopsis; you're woken up by your new neighbor moving in loud as hell on a saturday morning, but upon seeing his face, maybe you aren't that mad anymore.

🍎 pomme's notes — pushing my mark lee caleb agenda and experimenting because i have not written a series in a while but i think caleb boy next door/uni crush? the greatest thing ever. LET ME HAVE HIM

⋆ 700 words / fluff / fem reader / uni au (no evol!) / 2nd person

it was saturday early morning when you were brutally woken up by loud steps coming from the apartment next door.

god, your head was ringing. you had two ethics finals yesterday, and you couldn't even rest because your manager needed you to come in for a late night shift. today was supposed to be a sleeping-in kind of day, waking up at 12 or something — but instead, here you were, forced to listen to the steps of several movers at 7am on a saturday.

rough weekend start.

draping yourself in a cozy hoodie, you head out to check out all this commotion and provide your new neighbor with some strongly worded opinions about making so much noise on a weekend. when you swing your door open, though, you're met with resistance and a groan.

great. you just hit your stupidly loud new neighbor in the face with your damn door.

“oh my god, are you okay?? i'm so sorry!”

hands outstretched in the direction of the tall brunette in front of you, he peers at you with quite possibly the most gorgeous eyes you've ever seen. he waves you off with a bright smile, his hand still rubbing his reddening nose.

“all good, don't worry. i wanted to say hi and apologize for the noise — i'm caleb, your new neighbor.”

and man, was caleb a hottie.

clad in a sleeveless tank top and black sweatpants, you had to hold yourself back from ogling the guy you desperately wanted to tell off this morning. sweat trickled down his muscled arms from carrying boxes into his new place, and what a delightful sight it was. in his hands was a small glass container, which he handed over to you, and before you can even ask what's in it, you're interrupted.

"braised chicken wings. as an apology for all the noise," he laughs (and what a cute laugh it was, you think), “my specialty. hopefully, you aren't allergic?”

“no, no allergies at all. thank you, caleb.”

his name rolled off your tongue so nicely. you really needed to get to know him soon. maybe he attended the same uni you did? leaning against your doorframe, you look into his eyes again, and you thought the "getting lost in one's eyes" pickup line was a gross exaggeration until you met him. it's as if a million sunsets took place within his irises, and the way they'd close a bit when he smiled? was this love at first sight? after introducing yourself to him, you ask the question (to which you pray the answer is yes).

“are you here to attend skyhaven university? this place is pretty close, that's why i chose it.”

caleb gives you a nod, his face lighting up when you mentioned it. 

“yeah, aerospace engineering major! i transferred from linkon uni. will i see you around?”

oh my god, he's cute, he knows how to cook, AND he's smart. yep, you were definitely going to get closer to him — even if it's just as friends. the sight of that face was going to help you not end it all when your philosophy professor assigned you a horrible team for your group projects.

“mhmm, i'm a humanities major. pretty sure the departments are pretty close by, so we'll definitely see each other around!”

while you two talked, the movers were getting close to finishing the job. they glanced at caleb and motioned for him to come check if anything was missing — your conversation had to be cut short. he turns to you before stepping away, and he ends up being the one asking the question lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“can i have your number, dear neighbor? since we'll be seeing each other a bunch in the next few months.”

and with your number on his phone, you return to your bed, a wide grin on your face, your day significantly better than how it started. caleb was about to be the highlight of your uni experience.

— secretly, caleb was also looking forward to seeing you around. a pretty girl as his neighbor instead of an old man, and you attended the same place? he'd have to 'run out of sugar' soon and knock on your door again.

🍎 pomme's final notes — think of this as an appetizer.. i need to figure out a plot soon but i needed to put this idea out in the world before i fell asleep and lost it LOL

[skiesuconn]

all the ways i stay

paige bueckers & azzi fudd യ notes: it took me a while to find satisfaction with this, but i’ve finally settled on it. i figured i’d jot something down quickly while i work on chapter 3 of the argent. fic. it’s still in the making, but trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this quick blurb i had in mind. also, i highly recommend playing the song mentioned later on—it really brings the moment to life. happy reading, lovelies.

paige never thought she’d be sitting through a rom-com marathon with azzi, yet here they were, limbs tangled on the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl wedged between them. the air smelled like butter and whatever candle azzi had burning—something warm, vanilla, a little too cozy for a night where paige had fully intended to roast every movie choice.

but azzi was taking this seriously. too seriously.

the notebook had been playing for all of five minutes, and already, azzi was watching like it was a high-stakes thriller, arms crossed, one perfectly manicured hand occasionally reaching up to twist a curl between her fingers. paige, meanwhile, was sprawled out, one socked foot nudging azzi’s thigh, head tipped back against the armrest like she was suffering.

“this is the dumbest shit i’ve ever seen,” paige muttered, watching ryan gosling pull off some grand romantic gesture. “like, imagine a guy hanging off a ferris wheel, threatening to let go unless you agree to a date. that’s not romance, that’s blackmail.”

“he’s being dramatic. it’s supposed to be sweet,” azzi countered, eyes still locked on the screen.

paige huffed a laugh, shifting so her shoulder knocked against azzi’s. “oh, so if i dangle off a balcony and demand you take me to chipotle, that’s sweet? good to know.”

“you wouldn’t last five seconds. your upper body strength is—” azzi let her gaze flick down to paige’s arms, the definition obvious even under her hoodie. she cleared her throat. “never mind.”

paige smirked. “oh no, finish that thought, princess.”

“no.”

paige, who lived for this kind of thing, propped herself up on one elbow, getting close enough that azzi’s perfume curled around her senses. she smelled expensive, like warm florals and a hint of something soft, maybe honey. she should be paying attention to the movie, but instead, she was studying the way azzi’s lashes brushed her cheek when she blinked, the exact shade of brown in her eyes. totally normal. not a problem at all.

“admit it,” paige drawled. “you just got distracted by the guns.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

“i do. i hate you so much.” but azzi’s mouth twitched, and her hand, traitorous thing that it was, had found its way to paige’s wrist, fingers pressing absentmindedly into the skin there.

paige noticed, but didn’t comment. instead, she shifted again, nestling further into azzi’s space like she had every right to be there. “okay, but you have to admit this movie is trash. a seven-year breakup over a letter she never got? and then she gets engaged to some other dude just for funsies?”

“it’s about fate.”

“it’s about bad communication.”

“well, not everyone’s an oversharer like you.”

paige grinned. “first of all, rude. second of all, if you ever fell in love with me and wrote me letters for a year, i’d totally read them.”

“good to know,” azzi said dryly, but her fingers curled slightly around paige’s wrist, like she was holding on without thinking about it.

paige caught it this time. dragged her thumb over the inside of azzi’s wrist, slow, lazy. “you’re holding my hand, princess.”

“no, i’m not.”

paige laced their fingers together, making it undeniable. “yeah, you are.”

azzi let out a long, suffering sigh, but didn’t pull away. instead, she rested her head against paige’s shoulder, like it was easier than fighting whatever this was.

“shut up and watch the movie.”

paige smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

azzi groaned. “don’t call me that.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” paige turned her head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to azzi’s temple. it was casual, effortless, like second nature. azzi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. didn’t push paige away.

paige still thought the movie was ridiculous, but if it meant getting to sit like this, wrapped up in azzi’s space, maybe rom-coms weren’t so bad after all.

paige stretches out on the couch, head sinking into azzi’s lap like she owns the place. which, technically, she does. well—half of it, at least.

"story: five out of ten," paige announces, dragging a lazy hand through the air. "sure, it's the usual love story. boy meets girl, they fight, they make up, they cry… whatever."

azzi snorts, idly combing her fingers through paige's hair. "so poetic."

paige tilts her head up, grinning. "what can i say? i have a way with words."

"yeah," azzi deadpans. "like a drunk guy at karaoke."

paige gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "wow. that was personal."

azzi hums, twisting a strand of blonde between her fingers before flicking it back into place. "well, i’d give it an eight."

paige jerks up like azzi just said something blasphemous. "eight? for that?"

"it's a classic." azzi shrugs, like that explains everything.

paige squints. "so is canned tuna, but you don't see me crying over it."

"maybe because you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon," azzi muses, lips twitching.

"okay, rude." paige flops back down, arms crossed. "also, i think we’re ignoring the real issue here. you, azzi fudd, are a rom-com crybaby."

"i am not."

paige smirks. "oh, really? then explain why you sobbed over that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You last week?"

"because heath ledger was singing in the bleachers, and that’s a valid reason!"

paige hums, tapping her chin. "mm. i dunno. seems a little wimpy to me."

"i'm emotionally intelligent," azzi corrects, flicking paige’s forehead.

"mm. tomato, tomahto." paige closes her eyes, perfectly at peace, until—

"you know," azzi starts, voice all sweet and innocent, which immediately puts paige on edge, "when we're old, you’ll be the one looking for your eye contacts only to realize you’ve had glasses on this whole time."

paige's eyes snap open. "excuse me?"

"just saying." azzi grins, all dimples and mischief. "you give off that energy."

paige sits up, pretending to be offended. "i do not give off ‘losing my own glasses while they're on my face’ energy."

"you so do," azzi counters, biting back a laugh.

"i'm literally the most capable person you know."

azzi raises an eyebrow. "paige, last week you spent ten minutes looking for your phone while you were on a call."

paige squints. "…that proves nothing."

"and two days ago, you left your car keys in the fridge."

paige huffs. "that was one time."

"mm-hmm." azzi pats her cheek, eyes sparkling. "sure, babe."

paige flops back down, grumbling, but as azzi goes back to running her fingers through her hair, she lets the thought settle.

growing old with azzi.

being with her through all the ridiculous, mundane, beautiful little moments life throws their way.

paige isn't sentimental. not really. but the idea sticks, burrows into her chest in a way she can’t shake.

she smacks azzi’s thigh, lightly. "you're annoying."

azzi just laughs, warm and soft, and yeah—paige thinks—maybe she wouldn't mind losing her glasses if it means azzi’s the one to find them for her.

the room still smells like buttered popcorn and the faintest hint of azzi’s vanilla-scented lotion. the air’s a little stuffy from them being curled up on the couch for hours, so paige cracks a window while azzi smooths out the blankets, fluffing the pillows back into place.

"teamwork makes the dream work," paige announces, dramatically tossing a handful of snack bags into the trash like she’s steph curry sinking a three.

except—

clunk. one of them bounces off the rim and lands just outside the bin.

"except when you miss." azzi deadpans.

paige squints. "i meant to do that."

"mm-hmm." azzi picks up the stray bag, dropping it in as paige gathers up the cups. she takes a final glance around, making sure everything's set for the next movie marathon.

when she's satisfied, she turns to paige, a little smirk playing at her lips. "good job, partner."

paige barely has time to process before azzi leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to her lips. it’s barely a second, but it’s enough to make paige's brain short-circuit.

"oh." paige blinks, a slow grin creeping onto her face. "so i get kisses for cleaning? noted."

"don't push it." azzi nudges her toward the kitchen, but there’s no real bite to it.

paige busies herself grabbing the cupcake cups while azzi starts setting out ingredients. she fills a few with nuts—strictly for herself, since azzi's allergic and she’d rather not spend the night in the er. then she loads up the rest with fruit, especially kiwi, because azzi swears it tastes like happiness. she adds pineapple and strawberries too, then tosses in some dark chocolate and a generous amount of gummy bears.

azzi watches, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "so… you’re just making a personal charcuterie board of sweets?"

paige shrugs. "some of us like variety."

azzi snorts. "some of us just like sugar."

"pot, meet kettle." paige gestures at the chocolate chips azzi’s been sneakily snacking on.

azzi flicks a marshmallow at her, and paige, never one to back down from a challenge, pops it into her mouth midair with a smug look.

"show-off," azzi mutters, but her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

they settle into a rhythm, prepping ingredients for the ultimate snack session. paige, of course, insists on making s’mores, because what’s a cozy night without them?

azzi leans against the counter, watching paige work, arms brushing every so often. the night is easy, familiar, filled with little moments like this—bickering over snacks, stolen kisses, the kind of comfortable chaos that only comes with knowing someone like the back of your hand.

and honestly? paige wouldn’t trade it for anything.

azzi pads over to the kitchen, where stewie is curled up in his usual spot, breathing slow and steady. he looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single thought in that fluffy little head of his.

she crouches down, rubbing his ears, voice soft. "he’s literally perfect."

"mhmm." paige barely glances up, focused on skewering a marshmallow.

"paige, look at him," azzi insists.

paige, still hunched over the stove, murmurs, "kinda busy making s’moresess right now."

azzi squints. "s’moresess?"

"shhh." paige waves a hand, half-heartedly. "it’s a process."

azzi shakes her head, muttering something about her girlfriend being a lost cause, and moves behind paige, arms slipping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

paige stiffens slightly but doesn’t stop what she’s doing—at least, not until azzi exhales slow and warm against the shell of her ear.

paige’s brain? fried.

her grip on the skewer slips, and the marshmallow nearly meets a fiery demise.

"azzi." her voice comes out a little strangled.

"what?" azzi hums, feigning innocence as she straightens up, leaving paige standing there like a malfunctioning robot.

"you—" paige exhales sharply through her nose. "you almost made me burn the s’more."

"tragedy," azzi deadpans, already moving toward the kettle.

paige glares, but it’s weak at best. instead, she focuses on plating everything while azzi makes herself a cup of tea and grabs some coconut water.

the dorm is spotless, the only sound the occasional clink of dishes and the low hum of the kettle. the candles caroline gifted azzi flicker gently, their scents—vanilla and lavender—mixing in the air, making the whole space feel warm, intimate.

it’s just them. no distractions.

azzi leans against the counter, stirring her tea, watching paige with something unreadable in her eyes.

paige, finally done, turns to face her, a cocky little grin playing at her lips. "so, did you come over here just to sabotage my s’mores, or…?"

azzi takes a slow sip of her tea, gaze steady. "maybe."

paige squints. "that’s evil."

"you love it."

paige sighs, defeated, but she can’t hide the way her smile softens just a little.

azzi kneels beside stewie, fingers ghosting over his soft fur, careful not to wake him. his little chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, curled up on his uconn-themed dog bed—matching blanket and all. of course azzi had to go all out. paige swears this dog has more school spirit than half the team.

paige finishes up in the kitchen, setting the last plate down before making her way over, dropping onto the floor beside azzi. but while azzi’s watching stewie, paige is watching her.

azzi looks peaceful, more than she has in weeks. this semester drained the hell out of her—paige saw it firsthand, the late nights, the stress, the way azzi pushed herself through it all. and yet, right now, in this tiny little moment, she’s soft, calm, just existing.

paige leans back on her palms, studying her, a quiet sort of pride settling in her chest. that’s her girl. the girl she had all her firsts with.

and tonight? well, she’s about to have another first with her.

azzi really should stop making paige feel like her heart's a metronome—this can't be normal.

paige’s thoughts swirl for a second as she watches azzi, completely unaware of the storm brewing in paige’s head. “if Azzi asked me to climb a mountain right now, i'd probably do it just to see her smile. how much do I need to pay for her to stop being this cute?”

“this is why I’m not allowed near dogs,” paige thinks, watching stewie snooze. "one pet and suddenly I'm invested in a team of athletes who can't even talk."

azzi shifts, catching paige’s gaze. there’s that smile again—the kind that makes paige feel like the world stops for just a second. “Not that I mind,” she thinks, "but damn, this girl has me wrapped around her finger."

and honestly? paige is okay with it.

they’re talking about nothing and everything all at once, voices low, lazy, like the world outside doesn’t exist. sitting cross-legged on the floor, the snacks long forgotten, azzi’s hand moves in slow circles over stewie’s ear, careful not to wake him.

paige, propped up on one elbow, watches her with that look—soft, amused, completely gone. azzi catches it, and for a second, wonders if she needs to take notes because damn, paige's stare is next level.

azzi meets her gaze, smiles, something quiet passing between them.

paige leans in first, and azzi follows, her free hand slipping to paige’s side, fingers pressing just enough to ground them both. she smiles into the kiss before it deepens, slow and sure, like every time they kiss, it means something more. because it does. because it always does.

when they pull back, paige, still close enough that azzi can feel her breath, grins.

“hey az,” she murmurs, voice teasing. “remember that night a few years back when we slow danced on the porch and i stepped on your feet like… fifteen times?”

"of course i do, paige," azzi says, voice soft but sure. "that memory’s engraved in my brain."

she remembers everything—the exact date, the thick warmth of summer, the way the night unfolded like a scene straight out of one of her movies. “And honestly? The embarrassing foot stomping was just part of the charm,” she thinks. the way it led them here, to something that feels eerily similar to what’s about to unravel.

paige raises a brow. "woah, was i really that bad?"

azzi grins, playing with paige’s fingers absentmindedly. "kind of."

paige groans, leaning her head back dramatically. "well, i was nervous, okay? i was dancing with the girl of my dreams."

azzi snorts. "oh yeah?"

"yeah," paige says, eyes locked on hers now. "you were wearing your mom’s pearls that day. that dress i thought was pretty on you, though—let’s be real—all of them were. swear, you could wear a trash bag and i’d still go crazy." she shrugs, lips twitching. "doesn’t even matter what you wear. you are your outfit. if that makes sense."

azzi flushes, her smile growing. she tugs paige closer by her hoodie, pressing their lips together. paige grins into it, hands finding azzi’s waist as the kiss deepens.

when they break apart, azzi hums, eyes playful. "i think the romance movies really got to you, huh?"

paige scoffs. "hey, i’m not the one who wants to watch them."

"that’s true."

"but i wasn’t finished with my little speech, actually," paige adds, tilting her head.

azzi rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. "oh? go on, then."

paige squeezes her fingers, something shifting in her expression—something softer, something certain. "wanna dance?"

azzi’s face lights up instantly. "right here? right now?"

paige nods. "right here. right now."

“Oh god, we’re doing this,” azzi thinks, trying not to grin like an absolute fool.

without hesitation, azzi takes her hand. paige, playing the gentleman, offers it with a dramatic flair, one hand behind her back like she’s in some old-timey movie. “Oh yeah, I’m totally swooning now,” azzi thinks, trying to keep her cool. azzi laughs, but she takes it.

they step into the open space in the kitchen, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge. the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, filling the room with something unspoken. something warm. something that feels like them.

as they settle in, azzi tilts her head. "are we doing a silent slow dance, paige?"

paige blinks. "my bad." she pulls out her phone, scrolling for a second before pressing play. the soft, melancholic notes of my love mine all mine by mitski fill the air.

azzi raises a brow. "since when do you know this song?"

paige smirks. "since sarah put me on."

azzi laughs, shaking her head. as the first seconds of the song settle over them, paige—who’s just a little taller—takes azzi’s hands. azzi sighs, already knowing how this is going to go. "please don’t step on my feet."

paige grins. "can’t promise that."

azzi smiles, and they fall into place like they always do. her head finds paige’s shoulder, her hands finding her waist, and paige isn't forcing a thing. they just fit. like they were made to be here, in this moment, like this.

the song is calm, and so are they, just swaying together. the stillness, the trust, the years of knowing each other—it all settles between them like a quiet understanding. azzi closes her eyes, memorizing every movement, the way their breaths sync, the way their heartbeats seem to fall into rhythm.

paige looks down at her, eyes soft, full of something deeper than words. she presses a gentle kiss to azzi’s head and whispers, "i love you more than you’ll ever know."

azzi lifts her gaze, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. "i love you more than i ever thought i could love anybody."

paige swallows. their bodies are so close, and as the second verse starts, azzi wraps her arms around paige’s neck, resting her chin on her shoulder. her curls brush against paige’s face, tickling her cheek.

"you can put your feet on mine," paige murmurs. "i’ll lift you with ease."

azzi snorts. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, here you are, playing into it," paige teases.

but azzi does it, stepping onto paige’s feet, letting her take the lead. it’s ridiculous, yeah, but it’s them.

paige smiles, eyes slipping shut, and this time, azzi’s the one watching her. with nothing but love.

she presses a soft kiss to paige’s cheek, and paige’s lips curl into that cocky smile—the one that always makes azzi feel something she can't quite name.

the way paige’s whole face lights up just from being near her… that’s the kind of love scientists should be writing articles about.

as the song fades out, azzi’s fingers trace lazy circles on paige’s back. they haven’t moved, still molded into each other, warm from the dance, from the love they just shared. they were always meant for this moment.

"can we just stay like this forever?" azzi murmurs.

paige chuckles, looking down at her, at the soft smile on azzi’s face. "and who’s gonna break ankles if we do?"

"kamorea can handle that," azzi says, completely serious.

paige laughs, shaking her head. as azzi pulls her hands back, she really looks at paige. paige is holding her hands now, thumb brushing over her skin, absentmindedly tracing small circles—no, actually tracing azzi’s name on the back of her hand.

azzi bites her lip. "gotta say, you improved. you didn’t step on my foot once."

paige nods, all cocky. what azzi doesn’t know is that paige spent her free time watching dance tutorials. even asked tim—azzi’s father—for tips.

"thank you," paige smirks. "i’m a natural."

azzi scoffs. "sure."

"should we go back to the movies?" azzi asks.

paige stretches. "yeah, just gimme a sec. gotta use the bathroom."

"okay." azzi leans in, pressing a quick kiss to paige’s cheek before heading back to the room.

but paige doesn’t go to the bathroom. instead, she crouches by stewie’s bed, quietly filling his bowl with water, making sure he’s set for the night. she grabs a few dog treats and places them beside him, scratching behind his ear as she whispers—(keep in mind, it’s a dog):

"i’m gonna marry that pretty girl someday. i know you’re her #1, but i’m never gonna stop loving her."

stewie snores in response. paige grins, giving him one last pat before heading back.

when she walks in, azzi’s already curled up, waiting for her with a look of love and safety. paige jumps into bed, and azzi immediately rests her head on paige’s chest.

"let’s do frozen again," azzi mumbles.

paige laughs, pressing a kiss to azzi’s head. "i’m covering your eyes when olaf loses his head."

azzi gasps and smacks paige’s leg. "rude."

as the movie starts playing, the soft glow of the screen flickering against their faces, azzi reaches for a s’more, breaking off a piece for paige. she turns to her, eyes warm, lips curled into a soft smile.

“open,” she says, holding it up.

paige laughs, tilting her head back slightly, and obliges. azzi stuffs the piece in her mouth, giggling as paige tries to chew through the marshmallow, cracker, and chocolate all at once.

“i love you,” azzi murmurs, almost absentmindedly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. because it is.

paige, still chewing, looks at her with the kind of softness that makes azzi’s heart ache in the best way. she swallows, then leans in, brushing her nose against azzi’s.

“i’m right here,” paige whispers, voice thick with certainty, “not going anywhere. always gonna take care of you.”

azzi blinks, the words settling deep in her chest, something warm and overwhelming blooming inside her. she presses closer, burying herself into paige’s arms, where everything feels right.

paige holds her like she’s never letting go.