#me running from the angst i could be writing too rn

[inkoherentwriting]

WIP WEDNES-MAY!!!

Tagged back by @hannah-heartstrings ! (low pressure) Tagging @hannah-heartstrings back-back ( >:D ) , @thequeenofthewinter, @sylvienerevarine , @gwilin-stay-winnin , @dirty-bosmer , @azures-grace , @druidx , @avantegarda , @archangelsammy , and YOU dear tumblr-er!!

I don't want to share more match fit (even though I'm excited for it!) so I'll share more fluff. going into that silly dancing fic i half percolated last year

under the cut we go! no content warnings just unabashed post main game fluff between two idiots!!!

Guilbert laughed. "I know you think your brother is good at everything, but I don't--"

He stopped dancing and thus, so did Miraina. Guilbert then blinked, facing a peculiar sensation of his current thoughts stopping mid-sentence.

It wasn't something that happened to him often.

"You don't what?"

She looked at him not unlike a shadow of the frightful bandit that he had once feared her as. Looking back into her intense gaze, Guilbert blinked slowly again. She remained staring. Guilbert kept wondering what to do with the peculiar sensation. It was not unpleasant by any means but it grew stranger the longer he lingered on it. Finally though, he said--

"I don't want to dance with your brother anyway."

He watched but did not quite register as her face warmed to a red palette of color. "Y-yeah.... of course not..." Miraina stammered. "My brother ain't the hero of Cyrodiil. Champion. Whatever. Don't care about that."

"You should." Guilbert's voice softened. "You went from ransacking people's homes to saving all of Tamriel. Really, you could dance with anyone you wanted."

Miraina looked shy and tense. Guilbert felt strange again.

"And yet... you wanted to dance with me. That's why I will go to this party with you. You remembered me."

"I never forgot you." Miraina's voice, just as soft, felt like stones hitting Guilbert in the chest as she spoke.

[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 :( )

[bluebeary-jay]

A promise softly sung

Astarion x f!Reader/Tav

Summary: before the battle that will decide his fate, Astarion is terrified of losing you to Cazador. you comfort him after a nightmare. (set at the beginning of act 3)

Tags: hurt/comfort, BIG angst and some fluff, poor boy doesn't believe he's deserving of love :( let's hold him until he changes his mind

Warnings: mentions of trauma, self-deprecating thoughts, memories of past abuse and torture, c*zador, being unable to move (briefly), tadpoles mention (idk if that's a trigger)

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: hiiiiiiiii my darlings <33 soo this is something else from what i usually write but i finished bg3 recently and i LOVED IT but i'm on a trip rn so in the absence of my pc i found some inner inspiration to write something again. honestly i missed writing very much but i had the biggest block for almost a year now but maybe it'll get better now that my classes are starting again and i'll be needing a distraction lmao. anyway comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated and don't be shy to send in a request! and as always, happy reading!!! <3

He was there again.

Astarion loathed those hard, stone walls as much as he feared them. It was here that he once spent an entire night, having infernal script meticulously carved into his skin. It was here that he was punished every time he disappointed his master, every time he didn’t do well enough on his mission. It was here that he was reminded time and time again how worthless, pathetic and meaningless his existence was. It was here he returned in almost all of his nightmares.

But now you were here, too.

Astarion couldn’t believe this, but no matter how much he blinked or willed himself to wake up, the view before his eyes didn’t change. It was you, chained by the wrists to the ceiling where he was hanging so many times before, your toes just barely scraping the ground that was already splattered with your blood. Your clothes were ripped to shreds and cuts and bruises covered almost every inch of your skin. Astarion wanted to run up to you, to get you somewhere safe and far away from this place, but he found that he was unable to move. It wasn’t shock seizing up his limbs, but magical paralysis which he had experienced a couple of times during combat. Even though he knew it was a spell that was holding him in place, he still fought against it with all the strength he could muster – but to no avail.

Your eyes, full of tears and fear, met his briefly before you looked past him at someone else.

“Ah, my sweet, insolent boy,” whispered a voice straight from Astarion’s deepest, darkest nightmares, causing him to tense up in terror. A hand – pale, all too familiar in its deceptive tenderness – brushed his jaw from behind before grabbing his hair roughly. The vampire spawn could do nothing but watch as his head was tilted back and he came face to face with his master.

No, it can’t be… How was Cazador here? How were you here?!

“You’ve been a very bad boy, Astarion,” Cazador tutted, shaking his head. “Running away like that, not returning home for months… It’s no way to treat family, isn’t it?” Astarion felt a sharp sting of his master’s quarterstaff at his back, digging into the scars made by the same hand, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even scream. “But I’ll forgive you… eventually. After all, you brought me this delectable treat…”

Both him and Cazador looked up at you when Astarion realized what – or rather, who – that bastard was talking about. He tried shaking his head, tried begging for him not to hurt you, but he still couldn’t move, his voice was still stuck past his throat and no word or sound came out. In the meantime, Cazador stood up, walking around his spawn to stand in front of you.

“His own survival was always the most important thing to him,” Cazador said almost pitifully, and only after a moment Astarion realized that this time, he was speaking to you. “He’s a selfish, contemptuous creature, after all. Say, did he tell you he loved you before he lured you here like so many others before you? Did he lie, swearing how much you mean to him?”

“Yes, he… he did.”

Astarion prayed to any higher being that it was just the power of another spell compelling you to say that, and not what you were really thinking. He tried to struggle against his own magical restraints, but whatever scroll or verbal command was used, it was far too powerful for the vampire to beat it with sheer willpower alone. He was helpless again – but worse than that, he was forced to watch you being at Cazador’s mercy, too, all while he couldn’t do anything to save you.

“I honestly didn’t think poor Astarion had it in him,” Cazador continued calmly, gliding gracefully around you and disappearing behind your back. Your own eyes, now full of hurt and betrayal, were trained on Astarion’s. He couldn’t turn away, but in the corner of his vision the elf saw a flash of a blade against your bare skin. “To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him… But I’m so very proud of you, sweetling.” Cazador looked at him over your shoulder and licked his lips, so, so dangerously close to your neck. “You’ll live to serve me for centuries to come, and you can watch your lover take your place in my ritual… You did well, Astarion.”

No, Astarion cried in the prison of his own body, unable to reach you or to even stop Cazador from spilling lies into your ears. Not her, no, no, please–

“No!”

Cazador smiled widely and sank his teeth into your fragile neck, and you screamed, still looking at Astarion with this horrible hatred in your eyes…

“No, no, please! Take me, please, just don’t–”

“My love, it’s alright, you’re safe…”

“Stop! Please, just–!”

His body suddenly jerked painfully and his eyes shot open, darting around in confusion and trying to figure out where he was. Astarion wasn’t feeling the cold frigid air of the kennels anymore – instead his skin was almost hot, and damp from sweat, but there was something smooth and soft under his back… the sheets. He was in a bed, at an inn. Still panting heavily, he looked around, noting the details in his surroundings: the crooked chandelier, a little window with curtains drawn shut, his shirt hung neatly over the back of the chair… and your shoes right next to it.

At the memory of your battered and tortured body in Cazador’s dungeon, Astarion shot up with a belated sob, almost knocking you over in the process. Only when your warm hand left his cheek did he notice your presence. You were kneeling next to him on the mattress, expression worried and sorrowful, with the last traces of sleep just leaving the edge of your vision. His red eyes scanned your body, but there were no bruises, no cuts made by Cazador’s wretched blade, no burns on your wrists from the manacles he saw you in mere moments ago.

And there was no hatred in your gaze. Only love and care he didn’t deserve.

Astarion’s eyes filled with tears, but before he could run out of the room or hide under the bed, you opened your arms, gently offering him the solace within. And he, being the selfish, contemptuous creature that he was, didn’t deny himself what he wasn’t worthy of.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, petting his hair softly, while the other hand was – as always – mindful of the scars on his back. “It was a dream, my love. You’re safe here with us.”

His body shook with quiet sobs as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the soothing scent of your skin and your blood singing to him just beneath. He saw again before his eyes the way Cazador looked at him before he bit you, right in this place he was now so close to…

To give away one person who, for some strange reason, saw good in a filthy worm like him…

“I’m sorry,” Astarion choked out, finding his voice at last, which made you pause in your ministrations. “I’m so sorry f-for not doing anything… He…”

You were quiet for a couple of seconds, but then Astarion felt the most tender touch of your lips on the crown of his head, and he buried his face more into your chest.

“I’m here, darling,” you whispered. “Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.”

He didn’t answer, instead lifting his arm and tentatively brushing his fingers just underneath your shirt. He didn’t feel any scars mirroring his own, but could still see the blood flowing from your back and down your legs, could still hear your painful scream… It brought fresh tears to his eyes again.

“I… I swear, I would never do that,” he attempted to explain himself, but his words came out in a pathetic sob, and he shook his head again, curling in on himself. “He– he was lying. I’d never…”

A fresh wave of tears wetted your shirt, but you didn’t seem to mind as you gently rocked him back and forth, cradling him safe in your arms. Old Astarion would probably scoff at the condescending action of being treated like an infant, but he knew better now. He still found it difficult, but with you at his side he was learning what true care and affection looked like, and how to accept it. You were always so patient with him, so gentle, never rushing or angry when he couldn’t give you the closeness and intimacy you deserved. Astarion loved that about you – even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud just yet.

“My star…” you hesitated, but ultimately asked, “what did you dream about?”

The vampire took a shaky breath, unable to open his eyes or speak about what he saw. Instead, he called on the tadpole in his brain and nudged your mind with it, wordlessly asking for permission, which you immediately granted. There was at least one thing the tadpole was good for, he thought as you lived through the nightmare his weak, broken mind had conjured. If by the gods’ grace all of them managed to get rid of the tadpoles and survive this whole ordeal… and if by some miracle you still wanted to stay with him after all was done… Astarion knew he would have to learn how to communicate his feelings on his own. But not tonight. Not tonight.

You didn’t say anything for a long while, only continuing to hold him close to your chest. In this position he could hear the soothing beat of your heart, proving that he didn’t lead you to Cazador, that he didn’t turn you into a monster like him…

“We’re gonna kill him,” you finally said with your throat tight from emotions. “I promise you, as soon as we get to the Baldur’s Gate, we’ll find him and end him for good.”

Astarion knew what he should say – he should agree, or maybe jest that this is the most romantic thing you’ve ever said, or even argue that it’s not going to be that easy.

But all he could do right now was to continue clinging to you like a child, too afraid to face you.

“I’d never give you away,” he breathed, so quietly that he wasn’t sure you heard it, but he didn’t care. “Even if I had to suffer another two hundred years. I’d never–”

“I know, my darling,” you whispered back, and Astarion felt your own tears disappearing in his white locks. He still couldn’t believe why someone like you would waste your tears on him of all people, and it caused a new kind of pain to bloom in his chest. “And you’re not those things he told you. You’re… you’re everything to me, Astarion. Everything.”

Astarion wondered if he’d ever believe that. You proved to him time and time again that you can make anything possible, even change the worldview of someone like him… but with Cazador’s threat still looming, he didn’t have it in him to try and convince himself of your words.

Maybe after the bastard's dead, he concluded. Maybe then it’ll get easier and he can finally start becoming someone deserving of you.

You stirred slightly, breaking him out of his musings. Astarion hugged you tighter, sharply stopping you from moving away.

“Please. Don’t go.”

You just leaned back on the pillow and kissed his head gently again. Astarion felt the tension in his body melting away just a little, but the tears welled up again in his eyes.

“I won’t. Promise.”

And you kept your promise. Astarion didn’t fall asleep again, but your constant heartbeat under his cheek brought him some semblance of peace as he waited for the sun to rise. It didn’t feel right to let you care for him so much, to gift and envelop him with your love that he didn’t deserve… But it’d be even more wrong to take that choice away from you. He knew all about that, after all, and he'll be damned if he ever treats you the way he was treated.

So Astarion decided that he will let you love him and he will love you in return, for as long as you allow it.

Because, truth be told, he was nothing if not a selfish, contemptuous creature.

[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Part 1 | Part 2

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[floraisunwell]

Promise | s.r

who? post-prison!reid x ex gf reader (

category: angst

summary: Spencer left you 5 months ago without a word for undisclosed reasons but he comes teary eyed to your door after seeing a girl that looks a little too much like you.

based on (very loosely lol): promise by laufey. the fic does not follow the events of the song at all but i love the "if it weren't for the sight of a boy who looked just like you standing out on Melrose avenue" part right at the end so it's all on that line.

word count: 1.6k

a/n: my first fic ahhhhhhh, i'm so nervous and happy rn, this is my baby and ik there's a lot of space for improvement but i'm proud of my writing, this comunnity is full of amazing people and if it wasn't such a lovely space i would have never posted this. shoutout to @lilacsandlavenderhaze for being the first to hear my idea and telling me i should go ahead and write it; @spencersbabymama for telling me to cut the bullshit and self deprecation and post this; and to @esote-rika for being my first readerrrr. love y'all <3

dividers by @aquazero

English is not my first language pls tell me about any spelling and grammatical mistakes. enjoyy!

The air was cold and crisp, a light drizzle could be felt dampening the streets – a scene typical for this time of the year in Washington. Spencer had gone out with the team to get some drinks after a hard but successful case, he was happy, of course, the fact that they had caught the killer pleased him but everything inside the building felt overwhelming: the voices, and the drunk conversations, all the limbs touching a little too much, the overly loud music. He was out of it and to be honest he had been out of it for quite some time now, actually some months, everyone noticed how the breakup made him feel.

Funny, because he was the one to leave.

After you came back from a long shift at the hospital excited to cuddle with the love of your life (or so you thought) but the only remnant of him you found was a sticky note placed on the cover of a book you were reading at the time:

"I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore"

That was all he said before destroying everything you two had built over 3 years, 3 years of love, pain, and learning, 3 years of giving everything for each other, destroyed in less than 24 hours like nothing.

He hadn't been the same for a long time, though—not since prison. You didn't blame him; you tried to understand him, give him space, time, and everything one could need to heal. He was not the same, of course. You weren't expecting the same Spencer to come back, sure, but you also were not expecting whoever he had become: some cold and distant version of the person you used to know.

Your relationship with Spencer is divided into two eras: Before Millburn and After Millburn.

Before Millburn, you guys were somewhat happy. Both of you were overworked and stressed but happy. You would tell him about your work, and he would tell you about his. In the rare times, he got a day off work, he would hug you whenever he could, like he was making sure you wouldn't slip away.

After Millburn, you didn't talk much, not unless it was necessary, he didn't hug you a lot anymore, in fact, the last time he hugged you was when you went to pick him up at the correctional facility, all the emotions running high, you remember thinking he looked and smelled different, you didn't know he would be so different when you wrapped him in your arms, placed a kiss on his shoulder and whispered that everything would be fine. But everything was not fine. It was all so not fine and everyone around you two could tell. Yet you could have never imagined that Spencer, the man who made the hopeless romantic in you thrive would leave in such a disheartening way.

Back at O’Keeffe’s, the team was still at it. The count of how many rounds of drinks Rossi had paid long lost, Emily and JJ leaning suspiciously close to each other, Rossi nursing some unnecessarily extravagant drink, Garcia and Morgan somewhere on the dance floor and Hotch nowhere to be seen. Spencer had gone outside, hoping the sensory overload would ease with the fresh air, it did slightly but the agglomerate of people was no better than the one inside, so many people, reeking of alcohol, walking like zombies, and saying nonsensical things. As he was standing near the entrance, hands stuffed into his pockets, the soft rain dampening his hair, Spencer let his mind wander and it ended up where it always does: him contemplating if leaving was the right decision.

He was so deep in this thought that didn't even notice the man approaching until it happened- a hard shoulder bump that took him away from his thoughts.

"Sorry dude" the man muttered not even caring to glance back as he moved past. Spencer blinked, shocked as he watched the man move swiftly toward a small group of people nearby. A group that included you.

His heart jumped to his mouth. No - not you. But she looked like you, uncannily so. She even acted like you, the way she threw her back when she laughed or how she scrunched her nose in an attempt to put her sliding glasses in place - he could've sworn it was you.

For a fraction of a minute, he actually thought it was you. His breath caught in his throat and he took a step forward before reality sank in and he retreated. It wasn't you; it was never you.

But as he watched her wrapping her arms around the man's neck, as his hands almost automatically moved to her waist, and they both smiled like idiots in love. He couldn't help but feel like he had been stabbed and the knife was being twisted inside him. Was this some type of fucked up joke by the universe? "This could be you, bad thing you lost her" The thing is, he didn't lose you- he gave up on you which was worse because maybe if he had stayed, and tried a little harder, you would still be together.

He staggered back a few steps, and if he hadn't reached the wall, he would've fallen considering he already felt his knees buckle as all the bottled-up emotions from the past five months came crashing onto him; he was overwhelmed by his own feelings, eyes blurry with tears as a lump formed in his throat and the weight on his chest got heavier.

Blindly, almost unconsciously, he reached for his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket. His thumb hovered above your name in the contacts list. The message he typed was brief:

"Are you home?"

He didn't get a reply, he wasn't waiting for one. The moment he hit send his legs were already moving, practically running towards the street to hail a cab. He gave the driver your address, and it came out of his mouth easily, as if he had never stopped saying it.

You were in the shower when his message came through, you didn't pay the loud notification much attention, not even caring to glance at the device when you heard the familiar ding. You prioritized the small occasions you got to take care of yourself when your job is to take care of others.

Now freshly showered and in the kitchen making tea- the next step on your little routine- you hear a knock on the door, a distinct knock, a knock you could never forget, not even a billion years from now. Your heart stopped for a moment, heartbeat pounding in your ears, you didn't quite register you were moving towards the door until it was open and he was standing there, his brown eyes open wide once he registered your presence, reacting as though you opening the door was the last thing he expected. You just stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other until Spencer wrapped you in his arms like he used to, his nostrils flooding with the smell of your shampoo and body wash, smells he recognized all too well, smells that felt like home.

You pushed him away, shattering the brief feeling of happiness he had started to feel.

"What are you doing here?" You asked almost a little too loud in an attempt to hide the hurt in your voice

"I miss you" he replied eyes searching for yours.

You stood there, arms folded, trying to hide how weak those words made you feel. He had no right to miss you, not after leaving the way he did.

Why should I care? You thought to yourself. He made it clear that he didn’t care about you, but you cared, you cared so deeply that it made your heart ache.

You were not going to let him in.

"You can't just stop talking to me and then come here like nothing happened, Spence." You couldn't help using the nickname, your voice falsely steady, trying to hide the pain.

"I know, I just-can I come in?" No reply "Please"

You hesitated, gripping the door handle tighter as a tornado of emotions swirled on your chest. Anger. Hurt. Loneliness. You wanted to slam the door in his face, make him feel a small fraction of what you felt over the past 5 months. But buried beneath all these harsh feelings, there was something softer, something you felt ashamed to acknowledge: the echo of all the nights you stayed up worrying about him and what could happen in his work, all the mornings you woke up without the smell of coffee lingering through the apartment.

You let him in.

You tried to convince yourself that letting him in was about answers- you deserved an explanation, some sort of closure at least. But as you stepped aside and watched him walk past you knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

Because no matter how much he’d hurt you, part of you still longed for the man he used to be.

“This doesn’t change anything.” You muttered, as much to yourself as to him. He gave a slight nod in reply, eyes watering. Damn him and his big brown eyes.

 As you were turning around after closing the door behind you, he captured you in a hug again and you couldn't help but wrap your arms around him too.

★

Somehow, he ended up asleep in your bed and as you gaze at his peaceful resting face, your mind tells you to wake him up, tell him to go home and never come back, tell him that he doesn't get to leave and reappear whenever it suits him, tell him that he can fuck off for breaking your heart like that. Yet, you don't do any of that, because your heart tells you not to.

tysm for reading, likes and reblogs are always deeply appreciated

@angellic4l it's finally here bestieee!

[taintedcigs]

i slept with someone from corroded coffin and all i got was this stupid song written about me.

ROCKSTAR!FBOY!EDDIE X READER

summary: fooling around with a famous rockstar who's a notorious playboy sounds perfect on paper, until you catch feelings for him. that's why you decide to end things, to not get your feelings get hurt, and its all going perfectly, until eddie releases a song, written all about you.

warnings: smut, p in v, MINORS DNI!!!!, pet names, praising?, lovey dovey, kinda angst and arguments, drgs & alcohol mention, swearing? idk this is kinda cheesy n cute with a mix of fluff sprinkled honestly!

author's note: the indented parts are texts between steve and reader and thenn reader and eddie. they look confusing as fuck im sorry i just wanted to make them look unique but they look stupid. also yes. i patted myself in the back after i found this title (thank you fob). and yes the lyrics are inspired by i don't care im on a fob kick sue me! and ofc fboy!eddie isn't actually that much of a fboy bc if i can't write lovesick eddie ill die. this is super cheesy so i still struggled a lot but UGH. not proof-read ignore all mistakes

also credits to @dumplingsjinson for the prompts! (i changed them but still!) and @saradika for the dividers! pls like + rb + interact w me in anyway to support my writings!! ty!!

DINGUS sent you a spotify link. did you listen to this? yeah. its kinda romantic. no. the lyrics are insane. n all about u okay? are u at the party rn? yeah. u comin? soon he’s there too u already knew that, didn’t u?  false accusations r rude, steve.

You click your phone off with a groan, but he was right. You couldn’t stay away from him, and maybe, just maybe, this was your way of running into him, accidentally. 

Because ever since he released the song, the tabloids had gone crazy with it, half of the lyrics screamed you and all of the old headlines pointed at you, the mystery girl Eddie used to be seen with, and you really were growing tired of seeing your name next to “Munson’s new girl.” 

Because you weren’t his new girl, you weren’t his anything. He was a cocky asshole who was good with a guitar and was even better at fucking. And that was something both of you could relate to, the only thing you had in common with him. Or, so you thought. 

But of course, as with everything else, the things between you changed, you started staying over, he started staying over, and the two of you even went on fucking dates, disguising them under ‘we were just hungry, is all.’ 

You tried to keep up the cool girl act, like you could fuck someone and not catch feelings. Every inch of you itched not to care, to act like it was all fine, but it was all fucking bullshit, you cared, so fucking much that your chest ached. The more you got to know him, the more you fell for him, and the more you fell for him, the more you realized there was no fucking way this would work. 

Cocky rockstar who spent more time doing drugs than sleeping, with girls all over him? The imaginary red flag bells rang in your ear, even now. He wasn’t looking for a relationship and you knew that. That’s why you ended it two months ago. Or at least, you started ignoring him two months ago. 

Yet, he had been calling and texting you, wanting to meet up, drunken slurs of nonsense, gibberish voicemails, and yet you never answered, because if you did, you knew you’d be back to pathetically swooning over him.

Until today, just because of that stupid song, like it meant anything. That douchebag probably wrote songs about every girl he fucked. 

You weren’t special. 

Another ding sound from your phone almost startled you, the contact name made you groan even louder. “don’t FUCKING answer.” That didn’t mean shit. It was just something stupid to make you feel better that you couldn’t stay away from him, because you knew, deep down that if you really didn’t want him to contact you, you would’ve deleted his number, and blocked him. You were too chicken shit to do that, and still desperately wanted to hear from him. 

So you settled on that contact name. Like it made a difference, like it changed anything. 

DONT FUCKING ANSWER did you listen to the song?

Don’t fucking answer. The contact name should be enough to convince yourself that.

Too late.

                                                                   no. don’t lie to me, sweetheart.                                                                            why would i lie?

You sink into the couch, a much quieter corner of the party, not even bothering to socialize. Your brows furrow, index finger flying to your lips anxiously, as you chew on it to patiently wait for an answer.

You sip on your drink with a nervous gaze on your screen, barely noticing the way the couch sink further when someone else took a seat next to you. 

“Hi.” The gravelly voice pulls your attention away from the screen, making you set your drink aside as you look up, finding yourself face-to-face with him. 

Shaggy bangs cascade onto his forehead, and with your exaggeration, it looks longer than the last time you saw him. Black jeans cladded with chains. A graphic tee messily thrown over his heavily tatted chest, that you could still imagine right about now—pathetic. He looked just about the same, the deep dimple adorning his soft cheeks had seemed to disappear, wearing a scowl instead, that tiny voice in your head told you that was your doing, that maybe he was just as miserable as you. Maybe your feelings weren’t fully one-sided.  

Shit. 

“Eddie?” Squeaky, and annoying, you were sure that’s how your tone sounded, yet he didn’t seem to comment on it.

“‘m glad you remember my name, sweetheart,” he scoffs sarcastically, leaning further into the plush couch, elbow propped at the side, eyeing you with frustration. 

“W—what the hell are you doing here?” You stutter as if you weren’t expecting to run into him. Full of bullshit. 

“Did ya really think you could ignore me forever, huh?” He tilts his head slightly, almost expectedly, earning an eye roll from you. 

“I wasn’t ignoring yo—”

Eddie tuts quickly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that cuts through the ambient noise of the party, “I thought we said no more lies, huh?” 

With a huff, “Why are you here, Eddie?” you mumble.

“Am I not allowed to party?” He banters, brows slightly raised, making you huff out an exasperated breath, your eyes bore into him, almost to signal him ‘Take this seriously.’

“I wanted to know what you thought.” He shrugs like it was normal to just come running after everything just to know what you thought of the song. 

“The song?” He nods in confirmation.

“Didn’t like it,” you confess, avoiding his gaze, but your brows betray you, lifting ever so slightly.

He tsks, shutting you off quickly, “You see that little quirk your brow did? That only happens when you lie, you can’t help it. You do that when I ask you if you ate the last pizza slice, or when I ask if you watched the next episode of the show we were supposed to watch together, or when you—” 

“Fine, fine! I liked it,” you groan, interrupting him and suddenly standing up from the comfort of the couch, being so face-to-face with him immediately making your nerves bubble.

“Just liked?” He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curving on his lips. 

A deep sigh of breath, “what do you want, Munson?”

He stands up with you, making you back away from him with a heavy footstep, the entire party was too loud and crowded, yet, in this stupid corner, it was just the two of you. “For you to admit that you loooved the song, and how much you missed me,” he sing-songs, taking a step closer to you, musky smell invading your senses, making you take a deep breath.

Both of you stand near the wall, and it should be awkward, it should be enough to make you leave, but all it does is draw you closer to him.

“You’re annoying.” 

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding—” He tuts, with his stupid index finger up, rejecting your lie.

“I—I don’t know what you expected.” You shrug, so nonchalantly that his gaze narrows, chest aching with the implications of your words.

“We both knew this wouldn’t last forever, didn’t we?” You chew the inside of your lip to stop those tears that had been begging to flow ever since you listened to the song, wiping off that smirk on Eddie’s lips. 

“Would’ve been nice if I got a reminder, and not have been just fully ghosted, huh?” The brunette grumbles with a downturn of his lips, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Oh, don’t act all high and mighty, isn’t that what you do all the fucking time?” you snap, gaze narrowed, and arms crossed against your chest. 

“Fuck girls and then leave them? Did it crush your ego this fucking much that I did before you could?” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” He retaliates. 

“It means I was smart enough to pull myself away from your bullshit,” you rasp, disdain written all over your face.The room seems to shrink as the distance between you decreases. 

Another step closer to you, and you didn’t realize your back had hit the wall now. “My bullshit? God, that’s fucking rich, if I seem to recall correctly sweetheart, you were in this as much as I fucking was!”

“Oh, was I?” You bark out a chuckle, cruel, mocking, “I don’t remember being okay with you fucking half the city.” Realization of how bitter and jealous that sounds, dawns on you much later than the words leave your lips, and thankfully, Eddie’s too fucking immersed to realize the double meaning of your words. 

“Are you fucking kidding? No strings attached! Non-exclusive! That’s what you fuckin’ signed up for!” His voice echoes, mirroring his frustration, and you open your mouth.

But he doesn’t let you speak further, cutting you off sharply. “Is this all because of that new guy you’re seein’?” 

“What? What guy?” 

“The one who was all over you earlier,” he bites out, jaw clenched, and you can almost taste his bitterness in the air.  

“The same one you fucked at Jeff’s party.”

“Are you stalking me, Munson?” 

“Did you just want an excuse to end things? Are the two of you serious or somethin’?” His voice wavered between anger and desperation, gaze pathetically searching for yours, to gauge your reaction.

You scoff. Did he really think you’d end things because of a stupid fling you had which in the first place occurred just so you could forget him? He was so goddamn clueless it drove you insane. 

But what you didn’t realize was that you were just as clueless, if not more, because why would he write a song all about you, if this was just about sex? Because who would get so jealous of someone they didn’t care about? 

Say my name and his in the same breath.

I dare you to say they taste the same. 

The lyrics from his stupid song swirled your thoughts, yet you were still too stupid to see it, weren’t you?

Another step closer to you, a dangerous game the two of you liked to play. He smelled alluring, a fucked up mix of nicotine, his musky cologne, and that damn leather jacket. “Do you really think, he could compare to me, sweetheart?” 

Say my name and his in the same breath.

“Tell me he’s fucking better, and he’s actually what you want, and I’ll fucking leave, I’ll bury all the other songs I wrote, tell me, and I’ll be out of your hair forever.”

I dare you to say they taste the same. 

And just like that, all the defenses you put up, all the times you ignored him, they are cracked, disappearing into thin air. You hate it, you hate that he has this effect on you, you can feel your mind getting hazier, eyes blinking rapidly to process what the fuck is going on, and his face is mere inches away from yours. You knew their names didn’t taste the same. And you knew he could never ever compare to Eddie.

“Tell me,” he encourages, dares you to. You fail to notice how much emotion his gaze carries, how the corners of his lips twitch, just at the thought of you finally admitting you don’t want him. His stomach turns at the thought, this is his last chance, he knows that, and he can’t fucking lose you. He can’t. 

And you don’t know any of that, but you knew, know that no one else could compare to him. And you hate yourself for thinking that, you hate yourself for falling for him, the world stops rotating on its axis when he’s in your peripheral vision, and it’s fucking disgusting. Pathetic. Stupid. Because you know the two of you have no chance. But here you are. 

“H—he is b—” Of course, your brow quirks up almost immediately, betraying you quicker than you can even attempt to lie. 

That dawning smirk appears on his lips again, it’s mocking, and just as much smug. You want to wipe it off of his stupidly pretty face. “Tell me,” he dares you, again. This time much cockier and confident, and you suddenly realize how small you feel under him.

“He isn’t,” your meek voice is barely audible.

And you don’t register the shaky breath he draws when the words leave your lips, giving him the confirmation he needs. You wanted him, he had no fucking clue why you ghosted him, yet you still wanted him. Just as much as he wanted you. 

Both of his hands were placed on the wall now, towering over you, making your breath get caught up in your throat. “Speak up.”

“No, fuck! You know he’s not, you know he could never fucking compare to you, you fucking know tha—” He shuts you up with a rough kiss, lips pressed against yours messily, letting the petty comments die down your throat. Because this is all he wanted, needed to hear anyway. 

“Up,” he grunts into the kiss, tapping your thighs, hoisting you up from your waist to help you wrap your legs around him, tight, he wants you at his mercy, locked to him. 

You wrap your legs around him, barely, the melty sensation in your knees making you so shaky that he barks out a laugh into your lips, holding you close, firm, the butterflies in your stomach traveling all across your body.

He lifts you up as if you are weightless, arms wrapped around you strongly as he carries you to the nearest empty bedroom, impressively without hitting your back anywhere, so roughly that your core throbs at the feeling of his arms around you.

“Baby,” he mutters as he lowers you down on the bed swiftly, smooth, gaze darkened and pupils blown wide, all the pent up desire waiting to explode. 

“Eddie,” you beg, shaky voice sounding purely angelic to his ears once he got rid of his shirt, shrugging it off with a huff, his fingertips grazing against your top, feeling your hardened nipples, causing gasps out of you, he’s quick to pull it over your head while you run your fingers up the grooves of his stomach, the tip of your fingertips almost burns everywhere you touch. 

He groans at the sight of your bare breasts, “missed thi-you,” he corrects himself, because that’s all he wanted anyways, you. 

He nips at your nipples, tongue good at giving attention to both of them, all wet and warm, making you squirm under his touch, you’re quick to get rid of everything else, leaving you in your panties, making him grunt. 

The pad of his thumb rubs against your left nipple, leaving goosebumps in its wake, while his other hand travels down your chest, then your stomach, finally drawing circles when it stops between your thighs, ghosting over your panties before he tugs them down your legs, spreading them apart with a slight hum, pupils blown so wide that you can’t admire those chocolate hues anymore. 

He visually drinks in that sight of you, laid down on the couch, eyes squeezed shut, back arched, and he hasn’t even touched you yet. You’re completely at his mercy and his chest aches with need. “So pretty like this f’me,” he coos into your chest, pushing his middle finger inside of you. Making you feel so good that you can’t stop the gasps coming out of your lips.   

Pleasure shivers through everywhere he sucks and touches, his finger eases into you when he adds another one, a moan escaping you quickly. “Need to be in here, sweetheart, d’ya have any idea how much I missed this?” 

You don’t. You don’t know about the sleepless nights, the drunken ones, the drug-induced ones in an attempt to recreate the high you gave him. It’s fucked up, it’s insanely toxic. Yet, he can’t get enough of you. 

His gaze upon you is dangerous, maybe it’s because he had missed you so goddamn much, or maybe because he didn’t know where this would lead, but it felt fucking sentimental, different somehow, and he could feel you, everywhere on his skin.

Your hips start rocking up against him when the pad of his thumb flicks over your clit, making you arch your back, whines, mumbles leaving your lips. And all he can muster is, “so goddamn beautiful, look at you whining for me.”

You can feel his bulge rub against your thigh every now and then, it’s distracting, almost agonizing. You desperately need it inside of you, you had missed him, missed his touch, missed the feeling of him filling you to the brim, you missed seeing his face contort in pleasure when he was inside of you, you wanted him to never forget you again. 

That’s why you feel so numb, can barely speak, and of course, Eddie notices, how unusually quiet you are, and he wants to make this unforgettable, just so you have another reason to come back to him. Just so you don’t leave him, just so you stay forever. 

“Gone too quiet on me, honey, tell me what you need,” he coos down at you, thumb still caressing your pussy, and all you can fucking do is chew down on your bottom lips, eyeing his bulge that was begging to get out. And he barks out a goddamn chuckle, “P—please, Eddie.” Pathetically leaves your lips. 

And normally he would make you beg, tease further, but he reaches to tug down his pants quickly, because fuck, he had missed you. And he can’t bear the thought of not being inside of you any longer. 

Thinking is not your strongest suit right now either, your brain is mushy, all the nights and days spent thinking about him, about this explodes into your body. Your pussy aches when you finally see his cock again, a sound of need leaving your lips as you eye his length, so big that pleasure ripples through you, especially when you see his gushy tip, glistening with pre-cum. 

You want every fucking inch inside of you, and Eddie’s more than ready to oblige, “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

“Need you, Eddie,” you moan, all fucked out, his fingers slip in and out of you still, but it isn’t enough for him. He needs more, he craves your validation like he never has before. 

“God, you’re soakin’ my fingers, princess,” he grunts, wedging himself between your thighs, weeping cock drips onto your inner thighs, making you moan breathlessly. “Tell me exactly what you fuckin’ want, honey.”

“Eddie.” His name sounds like silk, even when it’s so lewd, Eddie decides, and it makes him let out an impatient huff. “P—please. Need you to fuck me.” It’s so goddamn desperate that you can feel heat rise to your cheeks, but it’s everything to him.

“Want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

“Oh, that’s easy, sweetheart,” he grunts, lining his cock through your entrance, coating himself in your slick, enjoying your mewls before he doesn’t hesitate to push his cock inside of you, inch by inch, relishing the way you cry out for him. 

Greedily, you rock your hips into him, making him let out a frustrated groan. “Have no fuckin’ idea how much I missed this greedy cunt, sweetheart, shit.” He thrusts in a few more inches, and breathless moans and babbles of his name fill the air.

“Suckin’ me right in, baby, fuck, you’re so pretty like this, mhmm.” His cock moves inside of you, and your hands are wrapped around his back, desperately clawing at it, the fullness making you want more, “you like that, baby, like bein’ full of me?” A heavy sound leaves his lips, pathetic and you pulse around him. 

“S’so good Eddie, and s’big,” you barely manage to let out, and he watches you with that burning amber gaze, thrusting all the way in without hesitation. Those plushy lips that hang open, that filthy mouth, the prettiest fucking features—you, were going to be the death of him. 

Maybe it’s because you had missed him, or maybe because you hadn’t experienced this in a long time, or fuck, maybe, just maybe that the song had created a new type of need between the two of you. Using sex as a sort of connection that the both of you desperately needed. But, shit, was it this different this time. 

He felt different—his lips, touch, skin as it slapped against yours, it was different. 

Full. You feel so fucking full that your back involuntarily arches against him, fingers clenching desperately, your screams and cries filling the room the more he plunges inside of you, deeper, hungry, and just as greedy as you. 

“Yeah, better than that asshole?” It rolls off his lips so bitter and jealous that you can barely register it. Not being used to this possessive side of him, and it’s glorious, especially when he’s pounding his frustrations and insecurities into you. 

“Mhmm, so much better.” You clawed at his back, every thrust of his hip making you feel higher and higher, mind filled with nothing but him. 

“So pretty like this when you say my name, sweetheart… so goddamn beautiful, and all mine, yea?” He wants a confirmation, and wants to hear you say it, his head ducking between your breasts again to kiss, taste, suckle them. Make sure he never forgets it. 

“Wanna hear you say it.” He hums, the vibrations reverberating through your chest straight into your core, cock plowed so deep inside of you that you can barely speak through your cries, hitting that sweet spot that every other asshole misses. 

You’re too scared to give him what he wants. But you feel him, everywhere, and you still want more, of course, you’re his. That’s all you fucking wanted anyway. Plushy lips shake as you gaze up at him, his amber hues are so sticky-sweet that you still struggle to process it, words come out in a ramble “All yours, Eddie.”

His mouth crashes onto yours roughly, desire coursing through both of your bodies, almost interconnected. “Shit, fuckin’ hell sweetheart, ‘m not gonna last long.” His thrusts are getting sloppier, yet you feel the ravaging desire coursing through your veins. 

“So perfect,” he murmurs, the kiss he lays on your lips just as relentless, not letting you breathe or think for a goddamn second, you’re so goddamn close.

And you wonder, how the fuck did you even go two months without this? Without him?

“Eddie!” You cry out once you feel the pad of his thumb rubbing against your clit, eyes squeezed shut as your orgasm washes over you. Pure bliss overtakes you while you claw at his back, his body tenses, and cock flexes as he cums inside of you, groans and curses left in your hair. 

Minutes pass of you lying next to each other, breathless, processing everything that just transpired. And you should feel guilty, embarrassed, and should run to the hills for doing this with him again. 

But you’re obsessed, addicted. He’s like an excitement that you’re sure you’ve never felt before, running through your veins, like a fucking drug. 

Both of you get dressed in silence, the party booming outside is quick to bring the two of you back to reality, and out of the trance that he pulled you in. 

He breaks your bewilderment with a slight “Fuck.” Standing on the opposite side of the bed before he fully turns to you. “This wasn’t—I was supposed to talk to you.” He mutters, fingertips anxiously running through his tousled hair.

Caught off guard and awfully curious, you mumble, “About what?”

“The song…”

“I told you I liked it.”

His brow furrows deeper, and he shakes his head in frustration. “No, that’s not it—uh, did you not listen to the lyrics?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Your face searches his for some clarity, you take a step closer to him, the distance between the two of you was still awfully much according to him. “What are you asking of me, Eddie? Did you really think one song would just solve everything?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“W—what am I supposed to get Eddie? You wanna have your cake and eat it too! And I just can’t fucking do that, not anymore.”

“That’s—that’s not it!” His voice wavers, with urgency, and desperation in his tone. He takes a step forward, attempting to bridge the emotional gap, feeling so fucking frustrated that he wants to rip his hair out.

“Then fucking explain it to me!” You plead. 

“You want an explanation, fine! Fucking fine!” His frustration echoed through the room, pacing back and forth, making you take a deep breath. 

Was he… actually gonna do this? 

“You wanna know what the fuck I’ve been doing ever since you ghosted me?” He ran a hand through his hair, scared, gaze all mellow and vulnerable in a way you have never seen before. It makes your shoulders slump when you nod. 

“I go to those stupid Hollywood parties, meet asshole rockstars—the most interesting shit, yet somehow someway the thought of you will pop up in my mind, uncalled for, might I add, and then I can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop thinking about you the whole fucking day.” Your eyes widen, trying to absorb his revelation, yet he won’t stop rambling and you feel your chest tighten with each word, fuck, he’s finally doing it.

“I—I never—shit! I never thought myself capable of feeling things like this, but fuck, you came along, with that goddamn smile, throwing a manicured middle finger right in my face, a—and just put up with my bullshit.” His voice softened, and he couldn’t help but trace the contours of your face, to desperately know if you were on the same boat, and you look at him with such glistened eyes that his heart leaps to his stomach. 

“My world flipped upside down, and you have proven me, so goddamn wrong that I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore!” The tears almost welled in your eyes, because, fuck, there was no way this was real.  

You reached out instinctively, the corner of your mouth twitching uncontrollably. “E—Eddie, please… please stop saying things you don’t fucking mean.” 

“Things I don’t mean?” He gives you a breathy chuckle, ironic, and nowhere near funny. His eyes bore into yours, intense and searching. “Do you think I like feeling whatever the hell this is? I fucking don’t, you have me acting like someone I’m so unfamiliar with, to the point where it scares me. All I can think about is you, you, you, because you occupy every single space of my mind.” Your eyes soften, the room seemingly pulsing with his emotions, making you feel hot everywhere on your body. 

He felt the same way.

Eddie felt the same way. 

“B—but fuck I’m scared, honey, I’m so goddamn scared,” He admits, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through the tension before he’s at your side, calloused hands grabbing you by the shoulder, so softly that you melt into him.

“Because what if—what if all of this comes crashing down one day?” His voice trembles, gaze avoiding yours, he was scared, so goddamn scared of losing you. Forever. He doesn’t want that, he couldn’t afford that. 

“Just two months away from you fucking sucked. I didn’t—I don’t wanna feel these things, but you make it so hard not to.”  His forehead rests against yours, making you suck in a deep breath, it’s all so fucking sentimental, and all you wanna do this kiss him, tell him you feel the exact same way. Tell him about your fears. 

“And now I can’t fucking stop, fuck,” He confesses, admission punctuated by a frustrated sigh. 

“I wrote you a song,” he gently caresses your cheek, and you’re so scared to look up at him, to meet his tender gaze, because you know you can’t hold yourself back. 

“I came over to this party in a frenzy when I found out you’d be here,” he continued, his fingers tracing a delicate pattern along your jawline. “I—I just I haven’t even been able to touch another girl.” Your eyes snap open, you’re sure they’re almost heart-shaped now, with the adoration you look at him.

“And, do you actually fucking think I'd write songs for just anyone—” His question lingers in the air before you shut him up with a kiss, rough, sweet, and making Eddie feel dizzy all over, his head struggles to comprehend it all, breathless but he manages to react just in time.

The booming music becoming a mere background noise when he had you, mind swirling with all the possibilities and mouth begging to never stop tasting you. He wants to let you completely engulf him, feel you everywhere.

Everything he wanted and more.

He fucking hates himself for doing this, but he pulls away, mesmerized, eyes so wide that you can’t believe this is Eddie, he’s all flustered, salmon pink. And it makes a wider grin sit on your lips. “So… you—uh, what does this mean?”

You smile at him, lips widely stretching into a grin, as you shrug. “It means I feel the same, Eddie.” you admit, tone a tender reassurance. “That’s why I tried to shut you out… to try to move on, because I was scared—fuck, but I feel the same way.”

“So, does that mean we're dating now?”

“We can take things slow, figure everything out?” you mutter with a shy gaze, lips itching to twitch into a smile, again. “But I—uh—I like you, I really, really like you.”

“Gone soft on me already, sweetheart?” he mumbles with a stupid grin, making you elbow him softly, with an exaggerated playful huff. 

He’s quick to flinch, rubbing his arm as if you even delivered a powerful blow. “Ow—what the hell is wrong with you?”

“You think I’m going soft? You’re the one who wrote his feelings as an exaggerated love song!” 

He leans further slightly, his grin widening when you gave him those adorable eyes, finding you both equally amusing and endearing. “Oh… just you wait.”

You arched a brow, curiosity piqued, “What the hell does that mean?”

“The album is coming out soon, sweetheart. If you think this was an exaggeration, you should hear the whole fucking thing.”

That glint re-appears in your eyes just as quickly, gaze softening as you melt into his embrace.

“You’re an idiot, Eddie Munson.” You tease, scrunching your nose at him, so adorably that he leans down and presses a gentle kiss onto your hair.

He's an idiot, a total complete fucking idiot, but he's all yours.

[msmk11]

Heyyy, I just saw that you were taking requests for Tangerine x Readers, and I was wondering if you could write something like Tangerine and reader being fwb before the whole bullet train thingy, and she catches feelings but he's super distant (bro has serious attachment issues) so he pushes her away and is a bitchy manchild about it (LOTS AND LOTS OF ANGST but it has a fluffy ending) (smutty too if ur comfortable with it) ofc u can ignore this request if u don't want to, and I'd write it myself but I have zero motivation rn and I js wanna cry and then giggle😭🫶

And I Have To Live With It, For the Rest of My Life

Tangerine x fem!reader

WC: 3.4k

CW: HEAVY ANGST; slut shaming; booze/being drunk; fighting; cursing; lack of aftercare; mentions of sex; Tangerine is a HUGE asshole. Tiny fluff ending.

A/n: Hi love! Thanks for requesting! Sorry this took so long I just needed to find inspo. I’m also sorry for the lack of smut (and fluff tbh,) I just don’t take smut requests. As for fluff, I did want a “happy ending” but it felt cheap to try and go from ANGST to “everything is perfect again” in such few words. Maybe I’m just traumatized, but I have a hard time forgiving quickly lol and I think that shows here.

Everything was really, really good.

So of course you had to go and ruin it.

People say you can’t control matters of the heart and you think that it’s a load of bullcrap. Why not? Why couldn’t you have control over your heart?

And why did you have to catch feelings for Tangerine?

It isn’t part of the deal. Tangerine is a business partner. An acquaintance. A friend. A friend you occasionally fuck.

Your relationship with Tangerine was always supposed to be casual. No strings attached- business was simply business and fucking simply fucking. But then your heart got involved.

What’s one supposed to do?

Certainly not keep going back to the captor of one’s heart.

So of course that’s exactly what you do.

You’re laying in your hotel bed, completely naked, covers pooled around your waist. You and Tangerine just finished having sex and he’s already up and moving about, throwing on his clothes that had been discarded on the floor somewhere in your flurry of lust. Instead of saying anything, you just watch him in all his glory. You admire his tousled post-sex hair, curls askew, the way his back muscles ripple as he bends down to sweep his shirt up off the ground, and the way his fingers deftly button up his shirt.

“Got a meeting to head off to?” You ask casually.

Translation: Please don’t run off so soon if you don’t have to. Stay.

Tangerine’s eyes flit to yours briefly before he bends down to tie his shoes, “something like that.”

“Mhmm.”

You pull the covers up to your neck, suddenly feeling very vulnerable so bare and exposed to Tangerine who’s nearly fully dressed.

“You got a comb?” the brunette asks you gruffly as he straightens his suit jacket.

You nod towards the bathroom, “yeah, in there.”

He gives you no reply, only walking into the bathroom and shutting the door with a resounding thud.

Your stomach clenches painfully and your heart aches. The indifference with which Tangerine treats you hurts so badly. You’d rather him hate you then act like this. At least you’d know that he felt something, anything.

Is it too early for a drink?

The bathroom door opens again and Tangerine walks out, looking as though nothing ever happened. To him, nothing probably has. Nothing of consequence, at least.

“Well, I’m heading out. See you for our debrief tonight at nine.”

Tangerine begins to walk towards the door.

“Wait!” you call out.

You stop him just in time, his hand frozen on the handle. You swear he visibly tenses at your words, “what?”

“Could- could you at least get me a towel? Please?”

He doesn’t even look at you before nodding, “Yeah.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a moment before reappearing with a towel in hand. Tangerine, it seems, doesn’t even have the decency to walk the towel over to you. Instead, he tosses it across the room, almost hitting you in the face.

“Thanks.”

Shame pools in your stomach and you keep your gaze on the towel in your hands.

Tangerine grumbles a reply and then makes for the door so quickly that there’s no chance for you to say anything more.

Your heart sinks at the possibility that Tangerine might know you have feelings for him.

*****

You’ve already found a secluded spot in the hotel lounge and have a drink in hand when the twins appear downstairs. They take a seat across from you wordlessly and Tangerine lifts his hand in the air gracefully, motioning for a cocktail waitress to come take his order. Lemon and him order their drinks, and you ask for a second. It bothers you severely when you catch Tangerine winking at the waitress out of the corner of your eye.

You down the rest of your drink in one gulp and ignore how it burns your throat.

“Right, so the job’s done. When are we getting out of here?” Lemon asks tiredly.

“We,” Tangerine says, pointing between him and his brother, “are out of here first thing in the morning, “I’ve booked our tickets for a 5 am flight.”

“And her?” Lemon responds, pointing to you.

Tangerine barely glances at you, but you can see his jaw tense, “the job’s done. Figured she’s a fucking big girl who can handle getting herself home. Isn’t that right, love?”

Condescension drips from Tangerine’s words and it makes your stomach drop. You refrain from saying what you really want to and instead assume a relaxed persona, “mhmm, always right you are. I arranged for my travel last night.”

You, luckily, weren’t lying, though you had ordered a car big enough for three. More room for you, you guess.

The waitress comes back with your drinks and you eagerly take yours. When she asks if you need anything else, you can tell that she’s really only talking to Tangerine. Still, you tell her yes, asking for a third drink.

Lemon eyes you, “you haven’t even touched your second drink and now you’re ordering a third?”

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly and lean back in your chair, “I’ve got the money to spend on it now that we each just made what, nearly 12,000 pounds?”

Lemon smirks in celebration and holds out his drink to you, “cheers.”

You clink glasses but Tangerine doesn’t join in, a perpetual frown gracing his face.

“Ya really wanna get fucking sloshed before ya travel tomorrow?” the brunette suddenly chimes in- rather judgmentally, you might add.

“Who said anything about sloshed, Tangerine? I can hold more than you think.”

While your answer is confident, even combative, on the inside, your heart leaps into your throat and pounds desperately. You think you might explode.

“Still, ya certainly don’t have any self-control. Not over ya drinks, your mouth, and most importantly….” Tangerine’s eyes narrow at you, “not over ya emotions.”

Your heart sinks in your chest.

So Tangerine did know about your feelings. Worse? He’s being a right fucking prick about it too. There’s no emotional sensitivity, no respect for privacy, nothing. Serves you right for fucking a cold-blooded assassin.

Unfortunately for you, tears spring to your eyes despite the fury boiling in your stomach, “you wanna talk about control, Tangerine? Let’s talk about how you have so little control over your own feelings that you lash out at others and make them feel like shit, even your own brother, so that you feel better. Let’s talk about how you can’t keep your dick in your pants because you’d rather fuck anything that looks at you than deal with anything real. Let’s talk about how what’s happened between us has made you feel so out of control that you’re willing to go low enough to hash this out in fucking public. You’re a walking disaster, Tangerine, and I feel right fucking sorry for you, I really do.”

You stand up harshly and purposely knock his drink onto his expensive suit. You start to walk away and then turn back, batting your eyelashes innocently, “oh wait, should I get you a fucking towel to clean up? Or would you rather beg me for it?”

You don’t wait for a response and grab a dry towel off a random cleaning rack, throwing it right in his fucking face.

*****

Tangerine glares after you as you storm off.

“What the bloody fuck was that all about?” Lemon protests.

Tangerine ignores Lemon and instead curses loudly before chasing after you. He could not let you have the last fucking word. He catches you right in time, hand stopping the doors of the elevator you’re in.

You look up at him startled, and your shocked expression is quickly replaced with an angry one.

“What the fuck, Tangerine? Get out of here!”

“Ya don’t get to fucking talk to me like that and spill my drink all over me and then just walk away.”

“Why not,” you scoff, “you ran away as soon as you were done using me to jack off. It only seems fair.”

The elevator doors slide shut and the car begins to move upwards slowly.

“Yeah, well that’s usually what happens when ya casually fuck someone. But I don’t think ya have a casual bone in your body- always stomping around being a dramatic attention-whore.”

Tangerine watches your eyes narrow and jaw harden, “there’s a difference between being causal and being a huge dick, Tangerine. I should’ve known you’d be the latter.”

“And I should’ve known not to mess around with a fucking slut like you.”

Your eyes widen in shock and even Tangerine knows that he’s taken things a little too far. While your effort to fight back your tears is valiant, it’s fruitless, and they begin to stream down your face.

“Fuck you, Tangerine. You know, I never expected you to return my feelings, and I’m sorry I crossed a line by falling for you. Swear to fucking god I wish I didn’t. But you- you’ve just crossed an unforgivable line, and I never want to see you again. Have a fucking nice life.”

The elevator doors slide open and you scurry out. This time, Tangerine doesn’t follow you.

*****

After everything that happened with Tangerine on your last mission, you decided to take an indefinite hiatus from work and just focus on yourself.

One of your goals? Fuck your feelings for Tangerine out of you. So of course, you’d been spending a lot of nights out at the bars, seducing all the eligible bachelors of the city into your bed.

You hope that it’s working.

Tonight is no different from the rest- you dressed up in one of your sexy outfits sitting at the bar of some new local pub. You’ve already eyed a muscular blonde about your age from across the bar and motion for him to come over.

He complies and makes his way to you, a cocky smirk on his face.

“Hey gorgeous,” you tease, looking him up and down.

The man takes a seat next to you, “Hullo, love. What’s a pretty girl like you doing sitting at the bar all by herself?”

You shrug nonchalantly, “looking for a handsome man. Like you, I suppose.”

He cocks his eyebrow at you, “you suppose?”

“Always hard to tell in this type of lighting.”

The blonde bites his lip and eyes you, “I can promise you I’m handsome.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m Matt,” he says, extending his hand.

You respond with your name and grasp his hand. You’re expecting a handshake, but instead he brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Damn this man is smooth.

“Really, the pleasure is all mine, Matt,” you respond, trying not to appear too flustered.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah, sure. Surprise me though.”

Matt orders the two of you drinks and you take the time to ogle him. He’s perfect.

But not as per-

Nope.

No, you don’t have time to think about him.

Matt hands you the mysterious concoction and you eye him, “what is it?”

“Just drink,” he nods, “promise it’s good.”

You take a small sip and it’s sweet. It’s yummy, and you take another, larger sip.

“Oh shit, this is good.”

“Told you.”

“Can I know what it is now?”

“No way. Need to hold this above you so you keep coming back to me to ask for another.”

You chuckle and look down, “okay Mr. Smooth-Talker. That was pretty good.”

“I can do a lot more than that,” he says seductively. His hand slides out casually and finds a home on your thigh.

You inhale sharply in pleasant surprise and lean towards him, “oh really?”

Matt leans in towards you too, “yeah, like-“

Just as you’re about to kiss him you hear a loud shout.

“Hey, get your hands off her!”

You startle at the sound and turn to see who could possibly be yelling like a maniac inside this bar. You’re also curious to know who’s the one getting yelled at.

Your stomach drops when you realize that you’re the target. And the yeller?

Tangerine.

“Oh my fucking God,” you curse, resting your forehead in your hands.

Tangerine comes stalking towards you.

“Uh, who the fuck is that?” Matt asks warily.

“My ex….fuck-buddy? Friend-with-benefits? I don’t know, it was complicated. But a piece of shit- that’s what he is.”

“What the fuck are you doing, mate?” Tangerine yells at Matt when he approaches you two. His words slur together and you can tell he’s really, really drunk.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Matt says gruffly.

“I’m not the one getting handsy with someone else’s girl,” the brunette snarls.

You scoff loudly, “Your girl? That’s rich Tangerine. Last I recall I was just a slut you fucked.”

Tangerine’s expression softens just the slightest and you almost think you clock regret in his eyes.

“Look, mate, you’re drunk. So get your ass out of here before I hand it to you,” Matt threatens.

Tangerine is sent back into his rage and steps toward Matt menacingly, “you little fucking,”

“Okay,” you shout, stepping in between them and putting a hand on each of their chests, “that’s enough.”

“Tangerine, go. home,” you growl.

“Yeah fucking right I-“

“Just let me take him,” Matt interrupts.

You scan his tense body, “Look, I appreciate it, but you’re not gonna win. Tangerine here is, well, trained. And I don’t want anything to happen to your pretty face. I’ll take care of him.”

“But he’s definitely stronger than you,” Matt protests.

You side eye Tangerine, “he won’t hurt me.”

The blonde’s eyes narrow.

“Physically, at least.”

Matt finally sighs and steps back, “I’ll be waiting here for you.”

You send him a half smile and then turn to the brunette with a glare, “Let’s. Go.”

Then, you literally grab him by the ear and drag him outside the bar. Tangerine lets out a string of curses and tries to fight back a little before he finally gives up.

When you get outside you let go of his ear and shove him, “What the fuck was that, Tangerine?”

“I was trying to protect you from that git,” he slurs.

“Tangerine, you’re the git. You’re the one that hurt me. It’s you I need protection from.”

Tangerine’s tough guy facade crumbles right before your eyes into one of remorse. He suddenly looks years beyond his age and crumples down onto the sidewalk, back pressed to the wall.

You look down at him with disgust. His hair is all over the place, his clothes are a complete mess, and he reeks of booze.

“I’m calling Lemon.”

With shaky hands you dial his number.

He picks up rather quickly and you can hear the confusion in his voice when he answers, “uh, hello?”

“Lemon, come get your fucking brother.”

*****

Although Matt was everything you could’ve hoped for, your night was ruined after Tangerine left. Luckily, Matt was understanding, and you’d exchanged numbers to meet up another day.

When you’d gotten home from the bar, you’d broken down completely. All of the anger, betrayal, frustration and sadness that had been pent up within you for weeks burst forth like a raging storm. You’d sobbed and screamed and even pitched a picture frame of you, Tangerine, and Lemon across the room, shattering it. The broken glass was a problem for later-you, and you’d ended up falling asleep on your couch, still in your bar clothes.

Loud bangs are what startle you awake hours later, and you curse as you flail off the couch. You hit the floor with a thud and groan. Now, not only is your head pounding, but your back will be all beat up too.

The pounding on your door continues and you curse whoever is making a ruckus this early.

You yank the door open, “what the fuck do you want?”

The last person you expect to see is on the other side.

Tangerine.

“Fuck off,” you spit before swinging the door shut resoundly.

Except the door doesn’t close because Tangerine’s foot catches it.

“Fuck me,” he groans in pain.

The brunette shoves the door back open and you smirk, “that’s what you get for being in places you don’t belong. Now get the hell out of my apartment.”

“Wait, wait. Please, just give me a chance to talk to ya. And then, if ya want, you never have to fucking see my face again.”

You don’t reward him with a response and instead just walk away, sighing.

Tangerine takes this as an invitation and walks inside your apartment, letting the door shut gently behind him. You beeline straight to where you left off on the couch, paying him no mind.

The idiot must not be paying attention because you hear the crackle of glass beneath his shoes and a quiet curse.

Tangerine goes silent and you stiffen, listening closely. You hear the pings of shattered glass being sifted through and then his footsteps as he nears your spot on the couch.

“I forgot about this picture,” he rasps.

“Well you can fucking have it. I don’t want it anymore.”

“Can I- can I sit?”

You briefly glance over at Tangerine and look him up and down. You don’t respond, only nodding.

Though he, like you, is still in his clothes from last night, he looks ten times worse. The purple bags under his eyes are heavy and dark, his hair and mustache aren’t groomed, his button up is missing a few buttons, and his shoes are untied. Maybe it’s bad to say, but you revel in how miserable and pathetic he looks.

“You look fucking awful,” you remark, venom heavy in your tone.

“And ya look like you’ve been crying.”

“Well no shit, Tangerine. Sort of happens when someone you thought was your friend turns out to be a big fucking prick. “

He looks down at his feet and shuffles awkwardly, “I know. I’ve uh, that’s why I came here to talk to ya. To apologize.”

You scoff and look at him with disbelief, “okay now you want to apologize? Only when you’ve fucking hit rock bottom you wanna mend things?”

“Love, no I, I’ve been wanting to since that night in the fucking elevator I-“

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper angrily, lip wobbling in spite of yourself.

“I’m not your love, I’m not your friend, I’m not your anything anymore. We’re done Tangerine, this is over.”

It’s then that the boy you’ve known for almost five years does something you never would have imagined.

He grovels.

He literally gets on his knees before you and grabs your hands tightly, looking up at you with pleading eyes.

“Just listen to me for a second. Please. I want ya to know how fucking sorry I am. Not just for last night, but for everything. I’m sorry I called ya a slut. I’m sorry I was rude, and distant, and an asshole. I’m sorry for fucking you like some piece of meat and then just leaving you behind with no aftercare, no attention, nothing. I’m sorry for being a terrible friend and I’m sorry for not telling you that I love you sooner.”

Tears shine in Tangerine’s blue eyes and he chokes on his next words, “Christ, I love ya so fucking much. And I know I’ve gone and fucked things up now, and that it’s too late. And I have to accept every day for the rest of my life that it’s my fault. I have to live with that. And I will, even though it could kill me. But I don’t know what I would’ve done if I couldn’t tell ya at least once.”

Tangerine’s forehead falls to your knees and his body begins to shake in quiet sobs.

He inhales sharply through his nose, trying to hold back more tears, and looks up at you so sadly. “You’re the best girl out there, and you deserve the best. You deserve to find that with someone. Someone who isn’t me.”

Tears of your own begin to drip from your face and your heart throbs in your chest.

You reach out and cup Tangerine’s jaw so gently it’s as if he could crumble under your fingertips at any second.

“Tangerine,” you whisper.

You search his eyes for any sign of insincerity, of some sign that he’s going to break your heart again. But all you see is true, genuine adoration and vulnerability. Consciously or not, your heart returns to the hands of the one who holds and you pull him in, kissing him softly.

The kiss is sloppy, and salty and wet, but you don’t care, because every peck and sigh and bite is punctuated by what you both know- I love you. I love you. I love you.

[aemondapologistfrfr]

Lemon Cakes

aegon x niece!reader (rhaenyras first born no mention of the dad)

anon request - i feel like i made this way more angsty than you requested but im just angsty rn but im hoping this works for you 

Summary: Aegon had come close to having everything he wanted until it was all taken away. When the opportunity arises he takes swift actions to try and get everything back that he had lost. 

Warnings: 18+ swearing, driftmark scene but i don’t touch on the eye situation, forced drinking of moon tea, alicent hitting aegon, larys mention and dialogue, a quick death(not mc), alicents a meanie in this one, just angst all over but happy ending, fingering, p in v

Authors Note: hey 👋🏼 how yall doing 🙂 um i dunno my brain decided to have no inspo to write so yeah! but im dipping my toes in again so anyways.. here’s a different kind of aegon than how i’ve written him before and i loved this request and im sorry it took me forever

Word Count: 6.9k

                                         ᓚ��ᗢ

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

Driftmark - Laena’s Funeral

Aegon had only ever felt loved around two beings. Sunfyre and you. This weekend he had both of you. He didn’t care that it was for a funeral. He could sneak you away and keep you in his chambers with wine. Then before daybreak you could go flying with him. The perfect weekend while everyone was distracted with the Stranger. He comes to your side and clasps your hand in his. 

“Might I offer you some comfort in my chambers.” you scoff at his words but you can’t help when the corners of your mouth turn up. 

“It would be uncomely of us.” you squeeze his hand. 

“We all grieve in our own ways.” he steps closer to you. 

“Why would I seek your comfort?” your words low as you glance up at him. 

“You want to play this game at a funeral?” he brushes your hair back as he whispers next to your ear. 

“What game?” you blink up at him. 

“My Gods just come to my chambers.” he breaks into a smile. “I have wine,” his breath fans across your neck. “And of course my cock.” he chuckles when you lean against him. “I could arrange to have lemon cakes delivered too.”

“You’ve convinced me.” you nod your head and he’s pulling you down the back steps a moment later. 

                                         ᓚᘏᗢ

You and Aegon gasp and pull apart as the doors to his chambers are ripped open beholding both of your guards and an angry looking Alicent. She looks over you both in horror before hissing at you both to dress and meet her in the hall. After untangling you both hastily dress and stumble to the door. When you open the door you're greeted by Alicent whispering to the maester and looking over you both. 

She starts down the hall and you both follow with your guards a step behind you. As you enter the hall you’re greeted by absolute uproar. Is this all because you and Aegon were found together? Surely that wouldn’t cause for everyone to be awake. Your eyes land on your younger brothers and gasp at their cuts and flock to their sides. Aegon watches you run to them and turns to his mother only to be greeted with her hand across his face. 

Everything happens so quickly after that Rhaenyra and Daemon push through doors then followed by Corlys and Rhaenys. Everyone is yelling and you gasp when Aemond turns towards your brothers. Viserys yells over everyone and the hall goes silent. Whispers are heard from all corners and he slams his cane on the ground. 

“It was a planned attack. While her daughter seduced and distracted Aegon.” your face crumples at her words. “I’ve had the maester brew her a tea.” the maester pushes through the crowd with weary eyes. 

“I-

“No.” Aegon shakes his head. “She will not drink that.” Alicent turns and glares at him. “I’ll take her hand.” there are muffled laughs across the hall. Your heart is racing as you’re staring from the maester to Aegon then to Alicent. 

“No.” you shake your head as the maester continues to approach you. “I won’t drink that.” 

“You won’t.” Aegon pushes down the steps. 

The next ten minutes are engraved in Aegon’s head. His father forcing you to drink the tea as you cry. Your mother not stopping it no matter how hard you cried and pleaded. His mother hitting him in the face for leaving Aemond. He felt as if his future, his happiness was taken from him that night. He watched as your mother dragged you out of the hall with your brothers behind her and he never got an opportunity to speak to you since. 

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The day after Aegon’s coronation

Aegon flares his nostrils as his counsel members repeat the same thing he’s been hearing for well over a decade now. He must marry but he refuses to do so. There has only been one for him and everyone knows it. Every time he utters your name his mother groans and slams her hands on the table saying she’ll hear no more. His counselors sigh and quickly shuffle out of the hall. 

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” his mother puts her head in her hands. 

“I didn’t want the crown, the throne, any of this. I just want her.” he sighs. “Leave me here.” she scoffs at his dismissal but leaves nonetheless. 

“Your Grace,” he tosses his head back at that voice. 

“Yes, Larys?” he cracks his eyes open. 

“I have heard some whispers.” Larys himself whispers across the table. 

“Regarding what?” Aegon drawls. 

“Your beloved. They say she’s been sent off to the Eyrie.” Aegon's brows furrow. “Her hand in exchange for some thousand men.” he watches as Aegon white knuckles the marble ball in front of him. 

“She’s in the Eyrie now?” he snaps his eyes over to Larys. “You know this for certain?” 

“I would never dream of troubling you with false rumors, Your Grace.” Larys nods his head once. 

“Do you have passage for me?” Aegon sits up straighter and turns his attention to the man across from him. 

“It may be best if you were to take Sunfyre.” Aegon narrows his eyes. “Though best to do this at night and stay over the water as long as you can.” Larys stands and makes his way over to the map. 

“Do you know where in the castle she’s being held?” he watches as Larys shows him the path to take to get into the Eyrie. 

Larys gives him all of the information he has as Aegon starts to walk down the main steps. Larys urges him not to go now and make a better plan but Aegon has had enough of waiting. Aegon rolls his eyes as Larys pushes himself into the carriage with him. For the entire ride to the pits Larys is telling him everything he knows and best ways to get in and out quickly with no one seeing. 

Larys hobbles out of the carriage with him into the pits and watches as the keepers slowly walk up to him and help him prepare. Aegon smiles as Sunfyre cranes his neck down and Aegon pats his neck before turning back to Larys once more. Larys goes over the information once more but Aegon can’t focus on anything besides the thought of seeing you in a couple hours. 

                                         ᓚᘏᗢ

Aegon’s heart is thundering as he pushes through the trees and bushes. When the massive stone wall comes into view he sighs in relief. He made it this far without getting caught, he can almost feel your warm embrace and that keeps him going. He starts west along the wall looking for the crumbling door that Larys described. After about twenty minutes he’s sure he went the wrong direction until a piece of metal glints in the moonlight. 

Pushing away the leaves and vines a handle comes into view and he pulls the door. It creaks softly and once he’s through the barrier he’s off on a stone path leading up to the back of the castle. He’s constantly checking his surroundings and looking over his shoulder as he makes his way down the path. He stops in front of another door and takes a deep breath and picks up a small stone. He clutches to the dagger on his hip and nods before grabbing the handle and opening the door.

The dark staircase to his left is exactly as Larys had described and he takes the steps two at a time until he reaches the third floor. This information better be truthful or he’ll be dead before the sun rises. He walks down the hall and sure enough he sees a guard posted at the fourth door. His heart beats faster but he came up with a plan on the ride here but it’s time to execute it. He grabs a stone out of his pocket and turns back down the hall, leaving you for a couple more minutes. 

The stone in his hand feels heavy and it should, everything depends on a small stone from the garden and foolish hope that he’ll have you once more. His steps become more sure and when he reaches the next corner he tosses the stone around it and runs silently back around hoping your guard went after the noise. Breathing out a soft chuckle he sprints to the door and pushes his way in and clicks the door shut softly. 

He rests his head against the wood and catches his breath. He hears a gasp and his heart stops when his eyes snap open. It’s you. You’re in front of him. He doesn’t even notice the steps he’s taking until he’s beside your bed. You’re looking up at him with so many emotions he can’t figure it out. He steps back and holds out his hand to you. 

“Let’s go.” his soft voice startles you both. 

“No.” you shake your head and his heart stops. 

“Yes.” he furrows his brows. 

“Why would I go with you?” you scoot away from him on your bed. 

“Because I love you.” he searches your eyes. “And you love me.” he shakes his head. “We don’t have time to play this game.” he reaches for your arm but you scoot even further away. 

“I loved you.” the three words slam into him. 

“I- You don’t..” his face crumbles and he shakes his head. “No.” his face sets. “No. They won’t take you from me. Get up.” he nods his head. 

“Aegon,” his eyes snap to yours. “I’m not coming with you.” you blink up at him unsure of to what he’ll do. 

“Get up and let’s go.” he nods. “You love me.” 

“I’m betrothed.” you whisper. 

“I don’t care.” he walks over to your wardrobe and grabs a robe for you. “Let’s go. We have to go.” he holds the robe out for you. “Please?” he whispers. “Please come with me. Things are different. I can protect you properly now.” he nods, assuring you and himself. “I love you.” his voice cracks. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted was you.” he frowns. “Please,” he steps forward and you don’t scoot back. 

“Aegon.” he closes his eyes at your voice. 

“Please? Please,” he gets down onto his knees. “Please.” he looks down at his hands. 

“Will you force me to go with you?” he shakes his head at your words. 

“No.” he shrugs. “Then call your guard in.” you furrow your brows. 

“They’ll kill you.” you whisper. 

“I don’t care.” he looks up to you. “I don’t.” he shakes his head. “Then I’m done. There’s nothing left.” he lets out a broken laugh as he stands. “I have nothing. No one.” he starts towards the door. “I will always love you. Until my last breath and long after.” his words are causing you pain as he’s about to reach the door..

“Wait.” you chew your lip. “I’ll..” your brain is running a mile a minute. “I’ll come with.” he spins to you. 

“Do not toy with me.” you take in the tears running down his cheeks. 

“I’m not.” you snatch up the robe from your bed and hastily put it on. 

You don’t know what has possessed you to go with him but you felt your heart crack when he reached for that door. When you first saw him tonight your emotions were everywhere. You’ve tried to push away the last night you saw him but it’s been engraved in your mind. Your heart breaking. The loss of Aegon. The loss of the child you didn’t even think you would be carrying. You both were so young and your surroundings so hateful. 

“Are you sure?” your eyes snap up to his. 

“I’m scared.” you whisper. 

“Of what?” he wipes at your tears you didn’t know began falling. 

“What if they take me from you again? Take..” you shake your head and he watches you splay your hand on your stomach. “What if I get pregnant and they won’t let me keep it again?” his heart stops at your words. 

“That will never happen again.” he rests his hand on top of yours. “It should’ve never happened in the first place.” he furrows his brows. “I’m sorry. I..” his voice cracks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you both. I hate myself for it everyday.” he sniffles. “Everyday.” he sighs. “I don’t deserve you.” he shakes his head. “Here.” he shoves his dagger into your hands. It’s the dagger that separated your families all those years ago. “Just kill me. I don’t deserve you.” you’re staring down at the dagger and then up to his tear stained cheeks. 

“Take this back.” you whisper. “Get us out of here.” he nods and slows his labored breathing. 

He exhales and sheaths the dagger. You walk to the door and send your guard to retrieve you a cup of tea before sealing the door once more. Aegon is behind you with quaking hands and he looks you over and nods. He cracks open the door and grabs your hand before he starts to tug you through. His feet are sure as he leads you across the stone. All it took was a grunt and a gasp as you both turn the corner and now his blade is out once more. 

“What is going on here?” your heart stops as your betrothed stands before the both of you. 

Next thing Aegon knows is there is blood on his dagger and your betrothed is crumpling to the ground. Your eyes go wide in disbelief but Aegon is already pulling you down the hall. You’re both moving so fast it’s as if you're flying down the stone and when the cold air kisses your face your adrenaline spikes. He tugs you down the stone path and finally lets go of the breath he was holding as you make it to the other side of the wall. 

“You’re okay.” it’s not really a question or a statement but you nod all the same. 

You hear the mighty wing beats before you start to faintly see gold shining in the moonlight. You’re both sprinting and ducking between trees and when Sunfyre comes into view you stop. Gods he’s even more magnificent than you recall. You watch Aegon pat him and check him over before holding his arm out for you. You look at his outstretched hand and you can feel the desperation that extends from it. You know by grabbing his hand you’ll be saying goodbye to your family but you felt as if you did that all those years ago when no one besides Aegon advocated for you not to drink the moon tea.

                                         ᓚᘏᗢ

The Keep is in an uproar when you and Aegon step inside the main door. He waves everyone off and leads you through the crowd and at the edge of the stairs waits his mother. She looks down at both of you before shaking her head and walking up the stairs. You both follow after her, hands still firmly clasped together. She leads you both directly to the council chambers and he has you take a seat at the head chair as he stands next to you. 

“We’re going to be wed before the sun sets tomorrow.” you hear his mother let out a scoff. 

“Absolutely not.” she shakes her head. “You will not wed your childhood whore.” 

“You forget yourself.” Aegon answers quickly. “You only have a place on this council because I allow it so. If you wish for me to keep your throne warm then I will wed her.” 

“This could be advantageous for us.” one of his Lords speaks up.

“I don’t care what it brings about. Make sure the preparations are seen to. We’re going to bed, it's been a long night.” your mind races never having seen this side of him before. 

“Your Grace, might we-

“No.” he shakes his head and offers you his hand. 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on your back as he leads you down the stairs. You look up at him when he offers you a reassuring hand squeeze as you make it to the bottom of the landing. He begins to lead you down the hall still unable to wrap his hand around the fact that he’s finally gotten you back. You ascend another set of familiar stairs when he clears his throat. 

“Do you want your old chambers?” he whispers. 

“No.” you scoot closer to him. 

“Would you like to stay with me?” you nod your head. 

He leads you to the set of double doors and opens one of them for you. You walk in and look around remembering being in here with your grandfather in your younger years. The replica of the city has been replaced with flagons of wine and cups. There’s coin scattered around as if he hosts parties here when he’s not out. 

“I’ll have it cleaned for us tomorrow. We can change anything you would like.” he watches you with his back pressed against the doors. 

“I hope you at least got yourself a new featherbed.” you turn to him with a half smile. 

“I had his burned with him.” he offers you a lopsided smile. 

“Are you sad?” you tilt your head. “About his death.”

“No.” he answers simply. “Are you?” 

“No.” you whisper. 

You both stare at each other from across the solar feeling every single foot.. inch.. centimeter between the two of you. You both let your eyes roam over one another seeing how the years treated each other. He starts to walk over to you and you feel your heart start to beat faster. He walks past you into the bed chambers and you turn and watch him. He pulls out a tunic from his wardrobe and hands it to you. 

“I’ll get you new gowns and night dresses tomorrow. Will this be okay for tonight?” he offers you a small smile. 

“Yes.” you whisper. “Thank you.” 

“The bathing chambers are over there.” he clears his throat. 

You quickly walk past him and leave him standing there staring after you. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. He’s been dreaming of this night for years but everything is different. There’s no instant lust like he thought, of course he thinks you look absolutely beautiful but he just wants to hold you. Look at you. Never let you out of his sight. But he also wants to keep his distance and let things move at your pace and what makes you comfortable. He already- His mind goes blank as you walk out of the bathing chambers in his tunic. 

“Which side of the bed can I have?” your soft words wash over him. 

“Either.” he nods and watches you go to his side of the bed and pull the covers back. “I’ll be back.” he grabs a pair of sleep pants and walks into the bathing chamber. 

He almost collapses when he makes it into the bathing chambers. Everything comes crashing down around him. All of the events. Everything that could happen. Is he putting you in imminent danger by keeping you here? He can’t even wrap his head around the fact that you're laying in his bed right now. He looks up and sees the tears running down his cheeks and realizes that he’s sobbing. 

“Aegon?” you knock softly on the door. “Are you okay?” you crack the door open and take in his red face. 

You breeze past the door and wrap your arms around him. You both cling together and slowly sink to the cool stone floor. Your own tears join his as you hold each other and softly sniffle. Neither of you say anything as the minutes tick by. You can feel the emotion and needs bubbling around you both and you squeeze him tighter. He holds you closer in return until you both settle. You wipe his tears as he wipes yours and you leave without saying anything so he can change. 

He walks out into his bed chambers to you curled under his blankets with puffy eyes and red cheeks. He walks to the other side of the bed and crawls beneath the blankets. He turns on his side to face you and you scoot closer. He scoots closer to you and you both repeat the same movements until your hands are clasped and you’re sharing the same body heat. 

“Do you truly wish to marry me?” he searches your eyes. 

“I have for my whole life.” you whisper out one of your longest held secrets. 

“Do you still love me?” his voice cracks. 

“I lied when I said I didn’t.” your heart sinks thinking back to your words. 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure.” you nod your head. The both of you finally let your heavy eyes shut for the night as you continue to cling on to each other. 

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

Everyone has been running around all morning and you can’t keep track of every handmaid that comes in and out of your shared chambers. They hissed and your and Aegon's puffy eyes from crying and whisked him out of your chambers as they began to ready you. Gowns upon gowns were brought in with new fabric and slippers and jewels and everything you could think of. 

Once you were out of the bath with your hair being tended to you were soon stepping into different skirts. They dressed you and moved you as they pleased and never got any complaint from you. And for that fact they would bring you lemon cakes and offer you whispered praise. You were happy to be doted upon, it gave you a nice distraction from everything that has been going on. 

Once the sun had finally crested over the Blackwater she came. She wore a deep emerald dress and on her face adorned her normal scowl. She wafted into the room like a winters breeze and stood before you. She looked over the gown and to the lemon cake in your hand and scoffed. The handmaids held their breath and kept their eyes downcast as she looked you over. 

“Find a different gown. This one has sugar on its skirts.” she rips the lemon cake from your fingers and leaves the room and thankfully takes the heaviness with her. 

Your handmaid's offer you apologetic smiles as they begin to untie you from your skirts. You step out of them with a small shrug and they place you into a new gown. This one is more fitting to your tastes anyways. And when you ask for a lemon cake you smirk when they hand it to you with a conspirators look. 

                                         ᓚᘏᗢ

Aegon has been locked inside the council chambers all morning. His wine cup has been dry for an hour now and another Lord is offering up his daughter in place of you. He’s about ready to have all of these Lords hanged but he won’t have such a gruesome scene on his wedding day. The doors burst open and he slumps down in his chair when his mother enters. 

“What now?” he drawls, wishing he could just whisk you away and be done with all of this. 

“I found her eating lemon cakes and sullying her skirts.” Alicent takes her place at the table. 

“Gods forbid my wife indulge in a piece of cake.” he shakes his head and tosses his hands into the air. “What would you like to be done? Shall she be tossed in the dungeons? Hanged? Over a lemon cake.” he slams his hands on the table. “I’m done. I’ve had enough. Whatever gown she is in by the time I get there that’s what she’ll be wed in. We’re going straight to the main hall. Gather the septon and maesters. I’m done with the waiting and the toying around.” he pushes his chair back and thuds down the stairs leaving his councilors and mother to stare after him. 

He’s been dressed for some time now and he’s getting jittery. He’s scared that if you don’t wed soon you’ll be taken from him again. The hours you’ve spent apart this morning are starting to give him paranoia and he starts to sprint up the stairs nervous he won’t find you where you should be. He bursts into your shared chambers and all of the air is sucked from his lungs when you turn to him. 

“Beautiful.” he whispers and your handmaid's bow their heads and quickly scurry out of the room leaving the both of you alone. 

“How has your morning treated you?” you step down from the small pedestal. 

“I wish for us to marry.” he can’t keep his eyes from looking all over you. 

“I believe that’s why I’m in this gown and you’re in that ensemble.” you nibble your lip. 

“I..” he clears his throat. “I wish for us to wed now.” his eyes slide up to yours. 

“Then call the septon and maesters.” you stop at the table and grab another lemon cake. 

“I have.” he slowly walks over to you. “My mother has told me to punish you for eating these and sullying your gown.” he plucks the cake from your hands. “Open.” your eyes flick to his as warmth spreads across your cheeks. You open your mouth and allow him to feed you the small cake. Your eyes flutter shut when the tart is replaced with sweetness. 

“And will you punish me, my king?” you open your eyes and smile when he has another lemon cake waiting at your lips. 

“I will never.” he whispers. “You will always be safe with me.” 

“I missed you.” you take a small bite of the cake. 

“I missed you too.” he sets the cake down and pulls you into his embrace. “Are you ready to go to the main hall?” 

“I thought it wasn’t until later.” you mumble into his chest. 

“I’ve had them get everything ready. I don’t wish to wait another minute without you bound to me and I to you.” he holds you tighter. 

“Lead the way.” you pull back and smile up at him. 

As he leads you through the halls your memories from your youth begin to fold your mind. Your eyes dart around and you notice how everyone stops and bows their heads as you both pass. It’s not that you haven’t thought about it but after this ceremony you will be Queen. This changes everything and nothing all at once. You lean in closer to Aegon as he helps lift your skirts as you walk down the stairs. 

He fans your skirts behind you before he offers you his arm. The bubble you two seem to be in continues to carry you down the hall where a pair of guards stand and open the doors for you both. Greeting you is a small group of people, most of whom you don’t even know. The smiles don’t quite reach everyone’s eyes but you couldn’t care less and the both of you approach the maester and the septon. 

“Are you both ready?” the maester greets with a warmer expression. You look up at Aegon and nod and step closer to him. 

“We are.” he nods to the man. 

Aegon has his hands clasps with yours tightly as the septon steps forward and begins to recite the ceremonial words and prayer. You don’t pay attention to anyone else in the room as you look up at Aegon. He feels his eyes welling with hot tears and he knows his cheeks must be red by now. He lets out a small sound when you cup his cheek and rub a soothing thumb against his heated skin. 

“I love you.” you whisper not caring if you're interrupting the septons flow. “I have forever and I will always.” 

He sniffles and encases your hand on his cheek and turns his head slightly to place a soft kiss on it. His mother clears her throat and you both turn to the septon and maester and they offer you small nods confirming the ceremony will come to a close once you seal your lips. He brings his hands up to cup your face as he searches your eyes. You reach up as he leans down and when his lips touch yours for the first time in years it feels like it’s the first time. He moves his hands to wrap around you and hold you closer and you offer him the same. 

When you both pull apart you take in his lidded eyes and how he seems to hover even closer. He takes you out of the hall and waves off the Lords who offer you both congratulations. He doesn’t care for their fake words or smiles. He leads you down the hall and you feel your heart fluttering wondering what’s to come. A small smile plays on your lips as he takes you to the main doors and pulls you out into the sun. You cling to his side as guards turn to the both of you as you descend the steps. 

“Where are you taking me, my husband?” you glance at him. 

“I wish to fly Sunfyre over the city with you.” he wants to be surrounded with even more love right now. 

“You’ll receive no complaints from me.” you offer him a smile and hold onto his arm. 

The carriage ride to the dragon pits goes by quickly as you look upon the city from the window. It seems as if nothing has changed since you were last here. Aegon watches as your eyes dart from place to place before he takes in your whole being. The way your gown hugs you perfectly. How you look like you’re absolutely glowing. Your hair flowing down your back. The small blush on your cheeks. He’s so entranced by you he doesn’t even notice the carriage ascending the hill to the pits until it finally comes to a stop. 

“Are you ready?” you turn to him and your brows furrow. “Why are you crying?” you reach over to wipe away his tears. 

“I’m just..” he shakes his head. “I’m so in love with you.” his soft words wrap around your heart. “I just never thought that this was a possibility. I want to marry you again and again and again.” his hiccups as his tears start flowing once more.

“I’ll marry you as many times as you’d like.” you brush away his tears. “Do you wish to fly or we can go back to the Keep?” you wrap your arms around him and he buries his head into your neck. 

“I don’t know.” he mumbles against your skin. “I just want to be held by you right now.” you feel his tears dripping onto your heated skin. 

You scoot closer to him and he pulls you into his lap as he holds you tightly. His hold is firm as if you’ll be taken from the carriage but you don’t mind. You tangle one of your hands into his hair and wrap the other around his back. His tears start to soothe when you start to brush your fingers through his hair. After a couple minutes he pulls back and looks up at you with puffy eyes and red cheeks. 

“I love you.” you nod at him as you cup his cheeks. 

“Can I have a kiss?” he blinks up at you. 

You lean down and press your lips to his. His hands grip onto you tighter as you swipe your tongue along his bottom lip. He lets out a small moan and when you slip your tongue into his mouth his meets yours to caress it. You're both sealed together so tightly that there’s no end or beginning between you. There’s nothing rushed about your union, you both simply want to learn each other once more. Love each other once more. You both pull back for air and lock your eyes. 

“I want to go see Sunfyre and feed him.” he nods. “Then I want to take you back to the Keep and keep you in our chambers for days.” he smiles watching your cheeks flush even more. 

“I’m content to do anything as long as I’m with you.” you offer him one more kiss before getting off his lap. 

He can’t help himself and kisses you once more. You smile against his lips and when he pulls back he presses his lips across your face. Once he’s content he opens the carriage doors and helps you out. You walk hand in hand into the pits as the keepers greet you. Sunfyre is already being brought up from the pits and once he emerges from the depths you watch a smile spread across Aegon's face. 

The keepers walk over some live feed to the both of you and step back nodding their heads. Aegon leads you closer to Sunfyre and you crane your neck up at the golden dragon. Yes you saw him last night but not in all his glory. He’s even more beautiful than you remembered and you offer your hand up to him. Aegon watches as Sunfyre dips his neck down and presses into you before turning to him and offering him the same greeting. 

“We got you some treats.” Aegon grins and pats the side of Sunfyre’s face. 

Aegon clasps his hand with yours once more as he walks over to the cattle. Sunfyre rises his neck and watches as Aegon and you present the food to him. You both step back and watch as he burns the cattle and begins to eat. You both continue to dote upon Sunfyre for a couple minutes before returning to your carriage once more. Once the door is sealed shut you both are descending the hill and making your way back to the Keep. 

“I don’t really care for what’s to come or what will happen as long as you’re by my side.” he turns his head to you. 

“I will stay by your side for the rest of time.” you grab his hand and offer him an assuring squeeze. 

“Do you mean that truly?” he searches your eyes. 

“I do.” you cup his cheek. 

“And you want to..” he tries to calm his heart. “To have a child? With me?” he whispers. 

“I do.” you squeeze his hands. “Preferably more than one.” you smile.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. You won’t be taken from me again.” he shakes his head. “I promise.”

He pulls you into his embrace and you melt against him. You can feel the love flowing out of him and into you as he holds you tighter. You stay connected until the carriage comes to a stop once more outside of the Red Keep. He offers you his arm as he steps out of the carriage and you accept with a coy smile. 

You curl into his side and intertwine your fingers with his as he begins to lead you through the castle. Aegon offers small nods at the people you pass in the hall as he leads you to the stairs. His heart starts to beat faster as you approach your now shared chambers. He feels like it’s his first time all over again as you both round the last corner. He pushes the door open and holds it open for you. 

“Thank you.” you can’t help the flush that rises to your cheeks as he shuts the door. “I don’t know why but.. I’m nervous.” you chew your lip. 

“I am too.” he walks over to you. 

“But I want this,” you step closer to him. “I want you.” you blink up at him. 

“We can stop at any time.” he looks into your eyes and nods. 

You reach up and press your lips to his, sending your heart racing. His hands fall to your waist and pull you closer, swallowing down every small sound you make. Hands sliding up to your laces he pulls back and looks at you with blown pupils. You nod quickly to his silent question and soon his mouth is back on yours as his fingers slowly start to pull at the laces. Once you step out of your gown he’s frozen in place as he looks you over. 

You step closer to him and start to remove his doublet which is soon followed by his jerkin. He goes to press his lips back to yours but next he knows his tunic is raised to his neck and your palms are pressing against his chest. Your touches hold more heat, more fervor. He presses his lips to yours quickly as his hands bunch your slip at your waist. You pull aways from his mouth as he discards your last piece of fabric. He groans into your mouth as you press your chest against his and your skin alights together. 

Your hands start to quickly fumble with his trousers and once you loosen the belt they drop to the floor and he steps out of them. He pulls you back against him finally without any barriers and the moment comes rushing towards him. His grip becomes more needy and he starts to pull you back towards the bed. He gently lays you back on the bed and starts to crawl over you. He presses his lips to yours and when his tongue pushes into your mouth his fingers slide up your slit. 

He swallows down every gasp that falls from your lips as your wetness begins to coat his fingers. With every swirl of his fingers against your bud your hips slightly lift off the bed. He starts to press his lips down your neck while his fingers circle your entrance. You whimper when he presses two fingers into you letting his thumb stay doting on your bud. 

“Aegon,” you breathe out and his cock twitches. You spread your legs wider as he starts to pump his fingers into you. “Please, I want you.” he feels you start to tremble beneath him. 

Aegon nods into your neck and slowly pulls his fingers out of you. He coats his cock in your pleasure before starting to press into your core. He leans down over you and watches your face as he slowly pushes into you. You press your lips to his and wrap your legs around his waist as he continues to inch in. Once he bottoms out you both let out small sighs and cling to one another. 

“I love you so fucking much.” he mumbles against your lips. 

“I love you.” you bury your fingers into his hair holding him tightly. 

He starts to move his hips and he groans feeling you tighten around him. Your body is already humming with pleasure and you can’t stop the moans coming from you. Every sound you make sends Aegon closer to his own pleasure. You both lock eyes as you pant and grind your hips against each other. He leans down on his forearms getting even closer to you and the heat rises between you both. Each brush of his hips is pulling soft whines from you as he nudges against your bud. 

“You’re my wife.” his words starting to get pleasure slurred. “Mine.” he whispers and you nod your head as his thrusts become more demanding. “The mother of my children.” he groans, feeling his stomach coil. 

“Aegon,” you gasp on the cusp of falling apart. 

“My queen.” he presses his lips to yours and you burst around him. 

He curses lowly as he starts to fill you with his spend and continues to pump it inside of you. Your lips press against each other again as you stay connected in every sense. You let out a small whine as he slowly pulls out of you and lifts up. You grab onto his arm with a frown as he starts to get up. 

“Where are you going?” you whine. 

“To get a cloth to clean you up a bit.” he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. “And to get you more lemon cakes.” he watches a smile form on your face. 

“I love you.” you squeeze his hand and admire him walking about your chambers. 

ততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত

masterlist  ⏾  wips  ⏾  taglist

feeling like this is my first time posting again and i’m scared xx 🙂💞 this past month has felt like a year and i went through it but sheeees back… maybe.. i hope 

so i updated my wip finally and shrunk it so im going to slowly start working through it and hopefully get my brain going again

@ka1afbr @ninihrtss @daintylittlesunflower @primroseluna @alexxavicry @misspendragonsworld @papichulo120627 @ashovertheriver @gabriella-aesthetic @moonymoo1 @faenyra @uwuuness @lizzylovebooks280501 @nostalgiagoth03 @multilover19 @summer-and-sunflowers @eternalwinters @rere10 @sxlsvv @sarahrosw36q @tricksterreaper @somethingsaladsomething @naty-sunshine @supernaturalwitch89 @the-wife-of-fictional-men @darylandbethfanforever9

[dee-writes-anime]

HEY me again 😖 i loved the last request so why not another one 👀

Can we possibly do bakugo, kirishima, denki, or even monoma (i cant choose just one boy rn-) x reader who has a really dangerously strong fire quirk??

So basically like endevour or toya/dabi but more stronger, dangerous and uncontrollable, some background reader had a brother but when she got her quirk she almost disintegrated her brother (idk like her brother is deku?) and every time she uses her quirk she basically gets small burns.

But one day she gets upser at something random like idk a sad video of a cat… ik that gets me. But anyway, she gets sad from something and her quirk goes crazy and she nearly burns the dorms down by accident and has a really nasty burn, and it’s basically the bois trying to calm her down because the sad video reminded her of her shitty childhood????

I tried to make sense of it 😭 sounds better in my head… pls eat and drink, dont forget to brush ur hair/teeth, and shower and to sleeeep!!!

BAIII

-Monty

BURN, BABY, BURN!

FEATURING Denki Kaminari x Reader, Katsuki Bakugo x Reader, Ejiro Kirishima x Reader, and Neito Monoma x Reader (individual)

SUMMARY How the boys react to a reader with a fire quirk losing control.

CONTENT WARNINGS Fluff!!! Slight angst, Bakugo being Bakugo, Kirishima calls the reader sunshine ^.^, Monoma (yes, he's a warning), losing control of a quirk, mentions of burns/injury

AUTHORS NOTE @montybooks!!! Babe, you are back at it again with another awesome request! Seeing this in my inbox brought me out of my schoolwork induced zombie-like trance state for just long enough to write this. And as a thank you for returning, I decided why write for one, when I could write for them all ;) hope you enjoy!!!

⚡ Kaminari Denki

Denki is used to powerful quirks. Bakugo’s explosions? Shoto’s fire? Yeah, whatever. But this? The way the air warps from the sheer heat of your flames, how the floorboards crackle and blacken beneath your feet—this is something else entirely.

The moment he sees you trembling, sees the panic in your eyes, he moves—instinctively, without hesitation.

“Babe—babe, look at me!” His voice shakes, but he forces himself to grin because he knows you need something to ground you.

The fire is licking at his skin, his uniform singing at the edges, but he doesn’t care. You’re upset, and that’s all that matters.

When the fire finally dies down, leaving the room scorched, smoky, and silent, he barely gets a second to breathe before he sees the burns crawling up your arms.

“Shit—okay, okay, don’t freak out—wait, no, you can freak out, but like, not too much, ‘cause I seriously don’t wanna die right now—”

He immediately starts cracking jokes to try and lighten the mood, even as he carefully helps you to the floor. “Y’know, next time you wanna cuddle, babe, maybe don’t turn the dorms into a volcano?”

His usual joking tone falters when he sees your expression. Your hands are shaking, and you look…scared.

So, he pulls you in, wraps his arms around you despite the heat still radiating off you. His chin rests on your shoulder, his voice soft, steady.

“I don’t care how strong your quirk is. I don’t care if you turn this whole school to ash. You’re still my girl, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses your temple, his usual goofiness gone, replaced with something deeper, something more real.

“Now, let’s get some ice on those burns before you roast me alive, yeah?”

🧨 Bakugo Katsuki

Bakugo knows power. He respects power. And your quirk? It’s terrifying.

But he doesn’t flinch when the fire erupts. He doesn’t run. He runs toward you.

“Oi! Snap out of it!” His voice is commanding, cutting through the crackling flames.

The air is boiling, smoke stinging his eyes, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes forward, grabbing your wrist despite the heat scorching his skin.

Your eyes snap to his, wide, filled with fear. His grip tightens. “You control this, dumbass. Not the other way around.”

When the fire finally fades, he catches you before you can collapse. His arms are strong, steady, unwavering.

His heart drops when he sees the burn on your skin. He clenches his jaw so hard it aches.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he’s trying to will it into existence.

He sees the way you’re avoiding his gaze, and something in him snaps.

“Tch. Dumbass, you think I’m scared of some flames? I make explosions for a living!” He growls, but his hands are gentle when they grab your face.

He forces you to look at him, his crimson eyes blazing with something fierce. “You think this changes anything? You think this makes me wanna run?”

He cups your face, thumb grazing the edge of a burn. “Not a damn chance.”

That night, he doesn’t leave your side. He keeps his hands on you—a grounding presence, a reminder that he’s here.

🪨 Kirishima Eijiro

The second he sees the fire consume the room, he doesn’t think—he just acts.

He hardens his body, pushing through the inferno, ignoring the embers scorching his arms. He refuses to leave you alone in this.

“Sunshine!” His voice is loud, steady, unshakable. He grins through the heat, his hands reaching for you.

“I gotcha, sunshine—I’m right here!” His voice is loud, steady, reassuring. He doesn’t flinch, not even when the flames lick at his skin.

When you collapse, he catches you immediately, holding you tightly against his chest. His hands shake as he sees the raw burn on your skin.

His heart aches because he knows—he knows how much this hurts you, not just physically, but emotionally.

His hands are gentle as he cradles you against his chest, his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.” He repeats it like a mantra, as if saying it enough will make it true.

“I don’t care how dangerous it is—I’m staying. No way in hell am I leaving you alone right now.”

Later, as he helps wrap your burns, his voice softens. “You’re not dangerous to me. Never have been, never will be.”

He kisses your scorched knuckles, eyes filled with something unwavering, unbreakable.

“You’re strong, babe. Stronger than this. And I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.”

🎭 Monoma Neito

“Oh, wonderful. The dorms are on fire. Again.”

His sarcasm doesn’t hide the way he rushes toward you, even as the flames lash out, searing the air.

“Honestly, what do they teach you in training? How to annihilate everything in a ten-mile radius?” His voice is sharp, mocking.

The moment he sees you clutching your head, shaking, something in him twists.

His expression shifts. He’s still smirking, still snide, but there’s a different kind of sharpness now—focused, calculating.

“You’re not going to burn me.” He says it like it’s a fact, like he’s daring you to prove him wrong.

He steps closer—slow, deliberate. The heat is unbearable, his skin screams, but he refuses to flinch.

“Tch. Look at you,” he sighs, stepping closer, ignoring the flames curling around his uniform. “Terrifying, destructive—you’re lucky I like dangerous women.”

“You’re so dramatic, you know that?” His voice is steady, unwavering. “What, are you going to cry next? Maybe throw in some evil laughter? Go full villain for me?”

The flames pulse, waver. His eyes narrow.

Got you.

He doesn’t hesitate when he sees the burns on your arms. His jaw tightens, his hands clenching at his sides.

He doesn’t let go. He keeps you close, pressed against him, even as he grumbles.

“Look at you,” he tuts, running a careful hand over your singed hair. “An absolute disaster, as usual.”

But his touch is gentle, precise. He takes your wrists, assessing the burns with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

“And now I have to deal with the consequences of your recklessness.” A dramatic sigh. “Truly, my suffering knows no end.”

But then—his fingers graze yours, barely a touch. His voice drops.

“You’re okay.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A demand.

When you don’t respond, he taps your forehead lightly—just enough to snap you out of it. “Hey. Did you hear me?”

His usual smirk is gone. His gaze is piercing, serious.

“You’re okay,” he says again, softer this time.

That night, he doesn’t let you hide away. No sulking, no brooding. Not on his watch.

He sits beside you, cross-legged on your bed, arms folded, smirking like he owns the place.

“You’re not going to wallow,” he declares. “Because if you do, I’ll be forced to drag you out of your own self-loathing.”

A pause. Then, a mock gasp. “Wait, is that what this is? Are you sad because you think I’m scared of you?”

He leans in, grinning, voice dropping to a low murmur.

He whispers, his breath warm against your ear, “If I was scared of you, I wouldn’t be here.”

His fingers brush yours, his touch featherlight, teasing. “So stop being so dramatic and let me take care of you.”

And just like that, the smirk softens. The teasing fades, just a little.

“You’re strong,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re…you.”

His lips press against your scorched knuckles. It’s barely a kiss, just the lightest ghost of warmth.

“And I like you exactly the way you are.”

"Oh, and next time, give me a little warning before you try to burn the school down, hmm?”

[universefcb]

heyy xx

i really want to read a gut wrenching angst about pau rn so can you do one relating to the rumours about him rn? if you don’t know about it basically a woman saw him and a blonde girl at a restaurant and they supposedly kissed like lovers.

maybe the reader gets insecure or smthg? happy ending if possible only if you feel comfortable tho

ilysm tyyyy!!

↬❥ Assuming

Pau Cubarsí x Fem!Reader

a/n: Sorry about the delay! It really took me days to write this.

REQUESTED

warnings: no.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

The world talked too much. It always had. But that night, the words weren’t just noise—they were sharp blades, tearing at his skin, piercing right into the most vulnerable place in his chest.

Your phone vibrated nonstop. Notifications popped up on the screen, one after another, as if they were trying to suffocate you. Messages from friends, acquaintances, even people whose numbers you didn't even remember. You tried to ignore them, tried to pretend nothing was happening. But something inside you knew. You knew that when you unlocked the screen, the ground would disappear beneath your feet.

And disappeared.

Pau Cubarsí seen with a mysterious blonde in a restaurant. Witness confirms romantic atmosphere and passionate kisses.

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through her feed. The images were there. Pau, sitting at a table, a blonde woman across from him. He was laughing, leaning toward her, his face too close. The flashes of the cameras had captured an instant, an isolated moment—but to the world, it was already a complete story.

His heart beat fast, out of rhythm. His breathing became shallow.

You and Pau had never put a label on what you had. But there was something there. Something that went beyond casual hookups, beyond nights spent between rumpled sheets and silent promises in your eyes. He wasn’t just any guy, and you weren’t just another girl to him. At least, that’s what you believed.

Until now.

“Did you see that?”

Your friend’s voice came through the phone, but you could barely respond. Your mind was echoing with the comments on social media.

I always knew he would never settle for just one.

The girl he's hooking up with must feel like an idiot right now.

If I were her, I would end it right away.

Pain. An absurd pain. As if something inside you had been forcibly ripped out.

Pau wasn't like that. You knew he wasn't. But the rumors didn't have to be true to hurt.

You locked your phone, throwing it on the couch as if it burned your fingers. The apartment seemed smaller, the walls more suffocating. You felt your chest tighten, a heavy anguish spreading through your body.

And then, he called.

Pau's name flashed on the screen. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath before answering.

“Baby, did you see that?” His voice was worried, but not defensive. That only hurt more.

You couldn't answer right away. Because what could you say? Yes, you saw? Yes, it hurt? Yes, now you were wondering if everything between you was just an illusion created in your head?

“I saw.” His voice came out lower than he intended.

Pau let out a sigh. You imagined him running his hand through his hair, a typical gesture when he was frustrated.

“That’s a lie. She’s my friend’s girlfriend, he was late and I was waiting with her. Someone saw it and made up this absurd story. I swear nothing happened.”

You wanted to believe. Maybe you did. But the pain didn't go away just because logic said it should.

“It doesn’t matter, Pau. Everyone thinks it happened.”

The silence that followed was crushing.

“I’m coming to you.”

And he hung up before you could protest.

Pau showed up at her apartment less than twenty minutes later. He walked in without hesitation, his eyes sweeping over every detail of her face, as if he wanted to measure the damage those rumors had caused.

You were sitting on the couch, your knees bent, your arms around your body as if you were trying to keep yourself together.

He knelt in front of you, holding your hands. You felt the warmth of his skin, contrasting with the cold that took over your body.

“It shouldn’t hurt you like this.” His voice was low, filled with guilt.

You laughed, humorlessly.

“But it hurt.”

Pau closed his eyes for a second, squeezing her fingers between his.

“I hate that it made you doubt me. I hate that you felt like I could…”

“It’s not about that, Pau.” Her voice shook, and he immediately opened his eyes, focusing on hers. “It’s about us. About how we’re together in every way, except to the world.”

And at that moment, something changed in his gaze.

Pau pulled his phone out of his pocket, quickly unlocking the screen. You frowned in confusion as he opened the front camera and leaned in to capture a photo of the two of you together.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled slightly, but his gaze still carried all the gravity of the moment.

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

Without hesitation, he posted it.

A simple photo. No fancy captions. Just the two of you, together.

The impact was immediate.

Seconds after the post, notifications exploded on your phone. You saw your name – or rather, your image – being shared by fans, gossip pages and even official profiles that covered Barcelona.

Pau Cubarsí posts photo with mysterious girlfriend amid cheating controversy!

Player speaks out about infidelity rumors and surprises everyone!

After all, who is the girl who won the heart of Barça's young promise?

His hands were cold, his heart beating too fast in his chest.

You looked up at Pau, who was still holding his phone, as if he was waiting for some reaction from you.

“You just exposed me to the whole world.”

He continued to look at you, without a hint of regret.

“Because the world needed to know the truth.”

A mix of emotions ran through you: relief, nervousness, fear. You never wanted to be in the spotlight, never wanted to be a name thrown into the middle of other people's speculation. But at the same time, you never wanted him to hide you. And now, he had made his choice.

“This isn’t going to be easy, Pau.” His voice came out almost a whisper.

He let out a deep sigh, bringing his hands to her waist, pulling her close.

“I know.” His thumb traced a delicate path down her cheek. “But I won’t let anyone make you doubt me again. I won’t let them hurt you over something that never happened.”

The words were supposed to calm you, but they only made you more aware of what was to come next. You opened Twitter, feeling the weight of exposure before you even saw anything. And, as expected, the comments were already there.

I don't know why he did that. He was so free before.

She looks pretty, but I doubt she'll last long.

Cubarsí's girlfriend should fight. He's still going to cheat on her, it's just a matter of time.

Every sentence felt like a direct hit.

Pau noticed the tension in your body and took the cell phone out of your hand.

“Don’t read this. These people don’t know anything about us.”

You took a deep breath, fighting the urge to let the anonymous words get to you.

“What if they’re right? What if one day you get tired? What if…”

Before you could finish, Pau held your face with both hands, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Do you think I would do that? After everything? After today?”

The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, unable to look away.

“No.” He meant it. It was the truth.

The lump in your throat was no longer from insecurity, but from something much bigger. Something you weren't sure you were ready to name.

Pau smiled slightly, relaxing a little.

“Then fuck what they say.”

You chuckled softly, a little surprised by the sentence coming out of his mouth.

“Since when do you talk like that?”

“Since I realized that losing you would be a thousand times worse than anything anyone could say about me.”

And in that moment, you knew.

Maybe the rumors still existed. Maybe people still talked. But none of that mattered. Because Pau was here, with you, and for the first time, he had shown the world that he had no intention of going anywhere.

You leaned in and kissed him. A kiss that sealed more than a promise — it sealed the certainty that, between rumors and truths, the only thing that really mattered was how you felt for each other.

“I love you.” He whispered before picking you up and spinning you around in the air.

Taglist: @meganesanchez @nngkay @p4uul0vr @paucubarsisimp @htpssgavi

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Period, pt 1 - Logan Howlett x ftm!Reader

A/N: okay, I know it’s not hot and heavy smut, but that’s coz I have a part two planned. I just really need a nap rn so I’m gonna write it later lol

Written for this request

CW: angst, puppy hybrid!Reader, bad period cramps, nudity, bathing, fingering, smut, explicit sexual content, soft sex, lazy sex, slightly abrupt ending, soft!Logan, maybe ooc Logan

752 words

You hear Logan’s footsteps only moments before the bed dips.

“Hey, pup.” He speaks quietly, but he could be yelling for all you care. It’s hard to focus on his words, pain thrumming through your veins.

It feels like your stomach is twisted into knots, your intestines as gnarled and prickled as a thorn bush. You can’t think, it hurts so much. You want to vomit, you want to cry, but you can only lie there. Numb. Hurting. Bleeding

Logan rests a hand on your side, gently rubbing until you uncurl a little. He presses a light kiss to your temple, sliding his rough palm under your shirt to knead your abdomen. It helps a little and you take a breath.

“Hurts,” you whisper. He nuzzles your neck and you can smell the worry on him. Thick and pungent, momentarily blocking out the scent of your own blood. It makes bile rise in your throat but you swallow it down.

“Let’s get you to the tub.” His concern makes him curt, but he’s so gentle as he picks you up. Cradling you against his body as he carries you from the bedroom to the bathroom.

You let him undress you, too achy and nauseous to help. Removing your binder helps, and you focus on the feel of his hands against your skin to fight the itch of dysphoria.

He slips off your shorts and boxers and the bitter scent of blood grows much stronger. You don’t look, already knowing your boxers are spotted with blood.

Logan doesn’t say anything. He just settles you in the tub and starts the water running.

Halfway through your bath, your cramps finally fade. You uncurl, relaxing into the hot water.

Logan’s hand stills on your abdomen, pausing his kneading. “Feeling better?”

You nod and let out a long breath. “Yeah.”

He rubs your skin a few more times before giving you a look. Eyebrow raised just a bit. “You want me to…”

You take a moment to consider before nodding. “I think the cramps have gone down enough. Just… be gentle.”

Logan chuckles and leans in to kiss your neck. “When am I ever not gentle?”

You huff and playfully bite the air. “All the time.”

He rumbles softly, but you can feel him smiling against your skin. His scent is smoother now, more musky and playful. It relaxes you further and you settle into the water a little more.

Logan gives you a moment before moving. His fingers slipping lower until he’s gently teasing your dick with his fingertips. Pleasure sparks and eases through your abdomen, chasing off the lingering aches of your cramps.

You let out a soft sigh, resting your head back and closing your eyes. It’s become a routine now; using sex to ease your period cramps. You could definitely do without the pain, but the gentleness Logan shows you is always nice.

His fingers move lower, circling your hole for a moment before he slides a finger in. Curling it just right to make your breath hitch. He adds another finger, giving you only a moment to appreciate just how thick his fingers are before he starts to fuck you with them.

It’s lazy and slow and entirely focused on making you feel good. He knows your body all too well, from the way his thumb rubs at your dick to the way he brushes that one spot inside you. You can’t keep your moans and whines in for long, soon giving in to the heady heat building in your veins.

Your orgasm turns you to mush, pleasure making your thoughts as thick and oozy as honey. You just melt, panting softly as Logan eases his fingers out.

He cleans them off in the water and you raise an eyebrow. Silently curious. He catches your look and smirks. “Don’t worry. I’m planning on tasting you plenty later on.”

Your cheeks heat and you bite down a smile. Feeling your tail wiggle a little underneath you. He knows you too well. “Why wait?”

Logan chuckles and stands to grab a towel for you. You stretch for a moment before getting up, grateful for the way he quickly covers you up. You lean in for a quick kiss before tugging him towards the bedroom.

“Eager pup,” he rumbles, but his eyes betray him, dark and hungry.

You give him a smirk, tail wagging behind you as you push the bedroom door open. “Hell yeah I am.”

He just chuckles and follows you in.

[hhaechansmoless]

La La Lost You

pairing: joshua x reader

genre: angst, exes au

description: Joshua's demon's stay faithful, even with you on the other side of the country.

warnings: angst, implied break-up, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes

w/c: 1k

a/n: never been to any of these places so excuse me for that 😔wrote this on a whim so it's kind of unedited and i'm sleepy asf rn sorry for any mistakes guys </3 @okiedokrie tysm for the pictures 💖💖 and thank you to mother niki for writing this song bcs sigh i cannot get this out of my head. if joshua ever sings this one day guys, trust, it's because i manifested it.

The air smells like gasoline and burnt sugar, the leftover scent of street food mixing with cigarette smoke. Someone laughs too loudly behind him, a burst of sound that fades just as quickly. The neon signs buzz. The pavement is still a little warm under his feet, still holding onto the sticky heat of the sun that’s gone below the horizon quite a few hours ago. The city of angels is alive, pulsing—and tonight—unforgiving.

Joshua looks back at his phone, the weather app opened on his screen. It’s drizzling in New York right now, but in a few minutes, it’s about to rain hard. He wonders if you’ve carried an umbrella. You’d sold your car before you left, and he doubts that you’ve bought another one. It’s unlike you to walk so much. Do you have someone to complain about your numb feet to?

In Joshua’s head, New York isn’t wild or free—it’s sharp, efficient, always moving forward. Nobody lingers, the steady drips of rainwater off the roofs of buildings are drowned out by the steady and loud—but at the same time, unbothered—stream of hustling people. The hiss of buses braking too hard, cabs honking, subways rattling below the pavement. The city is always moving, always chasing.

Joshua wonders how you could ever call it your new home.

Because LA isn’t like that. It breathes, lives in a way that doesn’t feel rushed. Light spills onto the pavement, drenching the streets in neon and warmth. The city at night is restless, but not in the way New York is—it hums, alive in a way that feels reckless and untamed. Music leaks from rooftop bars, laughter rings unfiltered and car windows roll down to the sound of some song that will never quite fade from memory. Sidewalks are packed, not with people rushing to be somewhere, but with people just existing, soaking in the moment like they have all the time in the world.

But then again, maybe he’s being too biased. He’s been to Manhattan before—with you—and it wasn’t terrible. But Malibu isn’t either.

Joshua sighs as he leans back into his car’s seat. He used to love nights like these. Going on drives, people-watching, the salty air running through your hair as you hummed to the songs on the radio before finally driving up to K-town for your favourite food. 

He shuts his eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking about this, about you.

But it’s hard not to, when the ghost of you lingers in everything he’s known. Everything that’s made him love this city. His demons run wild in the spaces between songs, in the gaps of conversations he isn’t really a part of. He can still feel the weight of you pressed against his side from those drunken 2 A.M. walks.

Joshua wonders what kind of highs you chase now. Probably not the ones that came with too little sleep and too much laughter—fueled by countless red bulls spiked with alcohol—or running barefoot across the sand, waves lapping at your feet. Maybe you’ve learned how to keep up with the world now instead. Maybe the lights there are so bright, that they soften the edges, help you forget.

The urge to call comes and goes, ebbs and flows like an inconsistent stream. Some night, it passes quickly—a fleeting little thought, your name a subtitle that he tears his eyes away from. But nights like these, it stays like an old injury that hurts when it’s cold.

He wonders if you’re hailing a cab right now, if the rain has started to streak down the glass as you watch the city blur past. If you lean your forehead against the window the way you used to, drawing invisible patterns with your fingertip before wiping them away.

Joshua doesn’t believe in ghosts, but if they exist, they must look like this: the shape of you, burned into the city you left behind. Like the echo of your laughter tangled in the wind as it rushes through the streets, the tinkling of your anklet as you walk into his bedroom, the orange tic tacs he buys, only to leave them on your unoccupied dressing table, the spoon he leaves isolated in his utensils drawer—your favourite one that no one could touch. 

His demons all wear your smile. They taunt him—with what was, what could’ve been and what will never be.

The city of angels holds onto things. It remembers voices in the walls of old apartments, laughter at the tables of hole-in-the-walls, love stories in busy crosswalks. Maybe that’s why you had to leave. Because it would never let you forget, never let you go if you didn’t escape soon enough.

Joshua thinks New York pushes, not waiting for anybody, no patience, no mercy. Maybe that’s what you wanted. To not be reminded of him in every corner of your favourite streets, to live away from the ghosts of him.

But still, he hopes it holds you tight like he used to. Like a safe place, a haven, soft arms surely locked around you, whispering promises of never letting go, steady when you feel shaky.

He wonders if you ever reach for him in your sleep, muscle memory working faster than your mind. If you ever wake up confused, expecting the weight of his arm draped over your waist, the familiar scent of his fabric softener lingering in your sheets. Has New York made you forget the way he used to tuck his face into your neck, murmuring nonsense into your skin?

Maybe you remember and choose to ignore it. It’s better than you not remembering at all, he convinces himself.

Joshua breathes out hard, shoving his car key into the slot. It shouldn’t matter. He’s the one still stuck here, in the city that keeps his ghosts well-fed. You were right to let go. Smart, even.

But his demon’s stay faithful—loyal, patient little things that wear your perfume and sit in his passenger’s seat, that hum to all your favourite songs and make him crave all your favourite dishes. They trace all his tattoos in the same order as your finger’s did on lonely nights. 

They don’t rush him, don’t fight him. They wait, just like he does.

[lazyjellyfish300]

Heyyy🤍 I hope you are doing well.

I personally don't know where to start, I recently started following you and I'm a writer myself. I read something you wrote for nanami and personally everything you write for him is so exquisite and domestic I love it so much :') in general your writing is such a breath of fresh air.

Which is why I was wondering (only if you take requests) that it's possible if you can write something about reader, having exams :') and how the reader might be pushing herself too hard at times and sometimes have no motivation to study, and struggle to find the confidence that they could go to university or something or just that they lack confidence, with Nanami / Gojo. I have exams in three weeks and to tell you the truth I'm so nervous, haven't been eating well (lost weight), and all these things come whenever it's that times so... if you could write me a comforting thing like this :') it would mean so much. I hope this ask finds you well and thank you so much for your writing it's great to find writers a like you 🤍

Ps:if you could add the profession the reader wants to go into, definitely medicine or law :')

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒔 ݁ ˖☁︎ ⚡︎

☁︎ nanami kento x gn!reader. words 2.8k

☁︎cw: fluff, angst w comfort, insecurity, difficulty eating, scarred!post shibuya nanami, established relationship.

☁︎ a/n: thank you for these sweet words nonnie! it means the world to me!! 💞 you're too kind. i wish you the best of luck with your exams. you CAN do it! 💞 my heart goes out to you and to anyone else suffering from the joys of finals rn. i went with Kento and med school if that's okay with you. 💞 Hope you enjoy!! 🥰 dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

You wished you hadn't forgotten your umbrella today. The streets of Tokyo gloss over in a river of afternoon rain. The sky sets off a latent rumble that echoes between the ashen clouds that the sun has all but disappeared behind.

"Storm sounds serious." You muse to yourself, relieved to be free from the shackles of your morning classes and that your next destination was the blankets and pillows that awaited you at home.

The rain was a welcome distraction from all the stress that bogged you with the looming onset of finals, particularly your vascular systems test, and the imposter syndrome that chased you like a plague. It felt like a to do list with no clear ending.

Despite summiting the daunting task of being accepted into your dream school, you felt pressure like you needed to prove yourself week after week, narrowly dodging the ever lurking shadows of failure. You were a burnout being asked to run on an empty gas tank.

You put your earbuds in as you board the train, mind transporting itself elsewhere. Even in his absence, your lover's calm and steady voice echoes assurance in your eardrums and you lay your head back as the song begins, watching the mossy dark turquoise world of outside layered in cloud cover rush by your windows.

---

You fumble with your tote bag for that pain-in-the-ass key that loved to tumble to the very bottom and open the door to your apartment.

Already it's so much warmer, not thanks to the familiarity of your home, but the person in it.

Kento looks up at you from where he's sitting at your small table with stacks of haphazard papers, coupons for restaurants you'll probably forget and never use, utility bills, and folders with sticky notes where you normally sit in scattered chaos. It was a rather hilarious contrast to the bareness of his side, an agglomeration of your two worlds that was uniquely endearing, opposites in origin that were ultimately better together.

He has a worn novel in hand that he's pausing with the Totoro bookmark you got him for Christmas, subtle indentions along the spine marking the several times he had opened it- suggesting a story well-loved. Next to him is a mug on a cactus coaster and a half eaten bacon egg and cheese on the other.

"Home early, sweetheart? Wasn't expecting you so soon."You smile at him and hang up your coat, shedding your shoes as you walk up to greet him.

"Well, Masamichi gave me the option to leave early." He closes the book with a hum.

The hidden sun behind the rain clouds outside it seems had been plucked away and found residence right in front of you, all the sunshine in his gaze whose adoration could not be obscured by the plain black eyepatch on his left side.

He gives you that handsome close-lipped smile, subtle with the sprinkle of crows feet on either side of his face, still wearing his navy dress shirt and slacks, a pair of fleece slippers on his feet.

It was that adorably frustrating propriety he never seemed to shed, but the presence of slippers suggested he was slowing giving into casualness, cracking just a little under your cozy influence.

"I had hoped to see you after your classes. And I'm glad I did."

He sweeps you into a hug, not minding the remnants of chill on your crewneck sweater and his heartbeat swallows you slowly.

Kento was not like the intense rays from direct sunlight, rather the patches of warmth that live along a windowsill in between pockets of shade where a small cat would lull to sleep. The kind that spells the promise of comfort admist a world drowned in cold, much like outside, whose sunlight graduated to its own form bottled and personified in the soul of this beautiful man you loved so much.

"Hungry?"

He takes note of the slight wilt in your eyes, the tension in your shoulders that had not unraveled, the weariness he sensed that weighed at the back of your mind he had picked up in the time he spent loving you.

"You should eat, love. There's coffee." He suggests carefully if a sandwich seemed too formidable in the moment, taking your hands in his with a gesture towards the kitchen.

"Mkay....coffee."

He smiles as he wins you over, one mug at a time. He crosses to the cupboard, finding your second favorite since the one you loved the most was characteristically dirty, possibly still living next to your keyboard in your office as it so often did.

The dark elixir trickles into the mug with a thin plume of steam, hands graceful as he endeavored in preparing the brew just the way you like.

He's pleased with himself as he watches you take it with the ends of your sweater pulled over your palms like hot pads, before you retreat under the sanctuary of a blanket on the couch.

He drinks you in one last time before the sandwich station commands his full attention.

If he was the sun, then you must be the rain in his meteorological equation. The dissonance of raindrops you bring to his life are not enough to clash over the persistence of warmth he delivered, but instead result into something pleasant, a summertime shower of rain like the ones in the evening that invite respite and suggest closeness after spryness and the energy of constant daylight.

You to him were a period of refreshment that flourished the endless gardens he watched over. Both souls enriched from wandering in each other's paths despite the unlikely way you came to be.

He joins you on the couch with a turkey avocado sandwich on a plate with both your legs outstretched on the ottoman until they tangle in each other, giggling as you afforded him room under the blanket that was just a hair too small before he surrenders and leaves to get one more from the closet.

He rejoins you again, allowing you to settle into the familiar left side of his body that you all but created a home in. His scent, subtly citrus, with a bite of ocean, slightly weakened by the rain and the hours he had been at work. The sandwich goes down much more easily after the coffee and with the steadiness of Kento next to you, turning on a rerun of your favorite show.

Your chests rise and fall in slow synchrony, anchoring faithfully to the present when even a million things that called your attention could not break through the peaceful barrier you built together in a fortress of warmth, blankets, coffee, sandwiches, and episodes you've seen a million times.

"How are you?" He asks softly when a commercial comes on, his index finger and thumb lingering at your nape, grazing the dainty chain of your necklace in gentle preoccupation.

"I could be better." You shyly admit as his fingers travel in a subtle dance down your arms.

A shadow of dissatisfaction casts over his expression, his gaze searching for the source of your discomfort.

"Do you feel better than since you got home, at least?"

"Yeah." You nod, managing a smile, a little piece of lettuce stuck to your lip.

"Good." He echoes your grin, gently removing the lettuce with a swipe of his thumb.

"It's just these exams. I'm exhausted. Feels like I'm being asked to remember a million things with no way to recall them. And no pauses in between. Like....like sweeping a floor with a matchstick while somebody's dumping a trashcan of dust onto it every five minutes."

He pauses, eye widening and nodding slowly at the remarkable brilliance of the metaphor and the stickiness of the situation. "That's a...very specific and accurate way of putting it."

"Baby, I don't know if I'm cut out for this."

"Why do you say that, darling?" His voice cuts to worry, disapproval apparent as he clicks his teeth.

"It's kicking my ass. Feels like the concepts just come easier to everyone else. The wave of knowledge is literally hitting everyone but me."

"That's normal, my love." He hums, continuing his soft ministrations on the back of your neck, your arms, keeping your hair at bay as you slowly eat. "The material will become clear in due time."

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will. You're just being hard on yourself." He remarks, as his middle finger slides up and down your nape.

"It will come. You're diligent, and hard working. I've seen you make it happen. But with that also comes rest." His tone becomes a tad more serious, but there is nothing but love intended behind his words. "You don't need to struggle on your own."

"I feel like I need to, though."

His brow furrows. "That's a foolish thing to put yourself through. There's no award for struggling the hardest."

"Well my brain says I gotta." You state blandly as you take another bite, eyes fixated in a robotic stare at the television.

Kento leans back at your rebellion, still not satisfied with your tone. "That so? Well, I won't let you."

"Really?" You turn to him, keeping your face straight as you take another bite, a dot of mayo on your nose.

"Yes." He answers, solidifying his point as he dabs the mayo with a napkin.

"Controlling mister."

"A caring mister. More for yourself than my own." He corrects as he folds up the dirty napkin. "I only interfere when it's becoming clear you're doing damage to yourself."

The irony of it all is a little too uncanny. Perhaps now Kento knew how you felt almost every single day with his own self-sacrificial tendencies.

"You know, You need to take your own advice." You tease, burden a little more light with more sandwich in you. "Usually it's me telling you to rest."

He huffs a short puff of air from his nose, a sigh in surrender as he knows you're right, but pulling you closer all the same.

"You're right. But, this isn't about me. We're focused on you right now."

"Hmm. It's why you fell in love with me, isn't it?"

"Haha, a reason among thousands, darling." His voice and his expression seems to glisten as the words leave his mouth.

"But yes, it is one of them." He muses, happy as you continue to take small bites of the sandwich, the savory taste combined with the coffee settling in your belly with the calming flash of the television, and the stalwart command in his presence slowly fulfilled you the longer you stayed side by side.

"You still should've fell in love with a genius instead."

He looks over and glares at you, eyebrow curling with his displeasure at your remark.

"That's uncalled for."

"Why? Then you wouldn't need to baby me so much with my studies." You pout, leaning into his arm.

"It's not babying. It's called being a partner." He hums. "Stop that negative talk. You're wonderful and intelligent and I wish you knew that all the time."

He places your empty plate on the coffee table and holds you. As much as he disliked hearing your self-critiques, he knew underneath it was a silent plea for his affection. You knew better than to trouble yourself with begging for what he always gave you so easily just like oxygen. But in times like the present, sometimes you needed just a little bit more.

"Why are you so good to me, Ken?"

The innocence of the question begs the very faint semblance of a smile on his lips, and he relents his sterness a little with a sigh.

"Because that's my job. That's the duty of loving." His fingers brush at your collar, the warmth of his hand leaving the surface of the skin where he found it to be reduced to a cloud.

"To be strong where you feel you can't. To shoulder the burden when it gets to be too heavy. That's partnership." He reminds you, looking at you, praying his words sink in. "I'm not doing my part if I see you suffer."

"I'm tired, Ken."

"Then rest, darling." He replies simply, cradling your face. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But I need to study."

"You can." He hums, pad of his thumb flicking your bottom lip. "But you're trying to pour from an empty cup right now, my love. You need to rest."

"But-"

"No buts." He says firmly. "Just rest."

You close your eyes and relent under his insistence. He exhales, happy with the reunion of your head against his chest, fingers lingering in that familiar dance up and down your arm.

You cuddle there in silence, the calm of the afternoon washing over you with the incessant trickle of raindrops and the dialogue of the TV. The silence giving light to the tender dynamic of your relationship that always called him back to the beginning where it all started.

It was little things like the serenity of right now that affirmed that his decision to visit his mother and pick up her ring that now lived in the back of your closet was the best he had made in such a long time.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Can't sleep."

"Hm." He looks you over, heart tightening slightly at the anxiety still obvious in your disposition and how it remained despite the moments of silence, wishing he could dash it all at once. "Let's go to bed?"

"I'm too cozy to move."

He chokes out a laugh, taking note of your limbs wound tightly in your blanket burrito and how cute you are when you're in your snuggly element. "Well, then let's stay here."

"But I can't sleep."

"Just relax and close your eyes.""

"Ohhh, you don't say?"

"Don't be facetious, darling." Kento scolds. He rubs your shoulder, slow and methodical. "Should I start counting sheep?"

"Mmm...no, thank you. That's boring. Rather just keep talking to you..."

You trace over his scars, your favorite trail to blaze in its familiar pattern of a forest among the earth of his exterior.

"Having fun?" He raises a brow, that tenderness clawing at his firm heartstrings that always made it impossible to stay stern.

"I'm having a freakin blast."

"Good." He turns his attention back to the TV for a long while, not minding your ongoing exploration, doing his best not to succumb to sleep before you did, knowing you'd sneak back to your studies when you weren't allowed.

After a long while, he asks,

"Sleepy yet?"

"Not really..." You yawn. "I should really study."

"You should really sleep." He murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

"But I cannnnn't." You pout and Kento's heartbeat does that subtle throb in his chest when you were being unintentionally adorable.

He tsks again and takes one of your hands in his, fingertips tracing over the embedded lines of your open palm, tickling your knuckles as he gets an idea.

"Very well. How about a pop quiz?"

He runs his pinky from the top of your hand to the bottom.

"What is the name of the vein that runs along here?" He asks, allowing it to linger in a circle as he awaits your answer.

You yawn again,"That's easy. The cephalic vein, part of the dorsal venous network."

"Mhmm. And what about here?" He pauses at your wrist, pad of his index finger paused over the vitality that thrummed in the vein underneath.

"That's the radial...." You answer, your tone a little more heavy this time. Kento smiles to himself as sleep begins to slowly tug at you.

"Mhmm..and this...?" His finger trails to the crook of your forearm.

"Um..." You blink slowly. It's becoming more difficult to keep your eyes open, but you jerk your head, in denial about the gradual hold your fatigue was having on you. "It's uh...the uhm...median cubital."

"Good." Kento says more softly this time as your head hits the plane of his chest, not noticing the kiss he leaves in your hair as he tucks the blanket over your shoulder.

"And...this?" He whispers, stoking your cheek.

There is no answer from you this time, just pounding of raindrops on the roof, the cozy smell of coffee and his cologne along your cheek that made you melt deeper into him, not minding the background noise of the ads from the TV.

The sound of his heart thrummed in your eardrums like a metronome tethering your body to him on Earth while your mind slipped into the river of dreams under his loving watch and the tender, sleepy echo of his voice.

He holds you even tighter to him, assured in the curve of your spine, the flutter of your lashes as you enter the deepest realm of sleep, the way slumber rises in your chest and rolls off your shoulders.

You. Beautiful, alive, breathing, asleep, at peace.

He'd give his life to always see you this way.

"I love you."

Those three little words are uttered in adoring succession in kisses on your forehead. But, he can't escape the lull of the rainstorm lullaby either. His breaths quickly follow the snuggly pace yours set into the intimate melody of afternoon slumber, tangled up in you.

[daisiescomelate]

Hi hi are u taking requests rn ignore this if your not but can u maybe write some sukuna angst maybe him and y/n getting into huge fight but making up in the end?? Love ur works thank uuu

Much love ❤️

-Anon🥢

Bam. You slammed the door close behind you and entered the livingroom area.

Sukuna was standing barefoot in front of the sink doing the dishes. He didn't turn to greet you and you mimic his silence as you walked to the couch with your phone in your hand.

You sat down, the gelid atmosphere of the room contrasting with the boiling anger in your system. The only thing that could be heard was the clinging of the dishes and the tap water running, or that was until Sukuna completed his task and turned it off.

You didn't look up to see what he was going to do next, rather focus all your attention on your phone screen where scrolling had become an anxious tic.

Moments later you saw him at the edge of your vision waking to a spot in a nearby chair opposite to you, and then heard the sound of his weight falling over the cushions.

It had all started a week ago because of a silly misunderstanding that you already struggled to remember. Yet because of the stubborn personality you both shared, the embers had grown into a hellfire. And by now what kept the problem going could only be blamed into you both bull-headedness and your unwillingness to say sorry.

The buzzing of the fridge added some mention to the air and one of the lamp lights flickered as if stuttering at the animosity in the living room.

One minute passed, the five.

Sukuna stood from his place on the chair, walked to the fridge and returned with a can of beer.

Then silence.

Except for the tapping on your phone and the sipping of his beer.

And the buzzing of the lights.

"What are you doing?" Came the sudden question.

"Nothing." You answered. And you regretted it.

It had been a week already of both of you walking on your toes around the other and you were getting tired of it. You missed Sukuna, you missed him holding you at night, you missed his bitting comments and you missed his smiles and sneers.

And you were also getting scared, because one week was a hell of a time, and you worried about this to become a turning point.

An infected that would scab and turn into a scar.

And yet you weren't able to make the first step because of your stupid pride.

God dammit, you cursed yourself. Why is it so hard for you to swallow your pride and do this one thing? Was really losing Sukuna worth your pride?

The rhythmic sound of drops over the sink and the creaking of the leader of the sofa put your nerves on edge. Then suddenly,

"I--"

"I--", you both said at the same time.

"Let me go first," he said.

"No, wait--"

"I don't--"

You both fell into silence, your words stamping on each other.

You sighted,

"You know what?" You said, "Let's just say it at the same time."

"I'm sorry," Sukuna hurried to answer, and you became tongue tied because of the look in his eyes.

He looked... defeated. It was a strange look to see on him.

"I don't even remember what we were fighting about but I don't want things to be like this anymore," he said while staring at the floor as if the effort to look into your eyes --to show himself bare and --to took an amount of strength he didn't have.

Your eyes pricked with tears and you felt like an idiot. You patted the spot next to you on the couch,

"You want to come here with me?" You asked and soon enough he stood up and walked the distance that separated you. He fell on the couch and turned his arms around you in one swift motion.

Your heart hurts with a new kind of pain when you realize you haven't had an actual idea of how much you missed being in his arms, safe and warm.

You returned the gesture by wrapping your arms around him and letting yourself melt in his embrace. You felt him planting a kiss at the top of your head.

"I'm sorry too," you said, and even if there weren't tears falling down your cheeks, you could feel them at the back of your throat. "I don't remember why we were fighting either."

Sukuna's chest shook and you realized he must be laughing at your confession.

"We're just too stubborn, love. Let's not let this happen again."

You silently agreed with a nod of your head, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, you let your heart to rest.

[tokyo-1842]

Heyo, could you write a oneshot with Sanji and a reader who he thinks is a man? Reader actually dressed like a man and deepens their voice, they used to do it as a defense mechanism on their home island but they've made it a habit and haven't found the right time to break the news to their friends. Maybe after a rough fight, Reader has very bad injuries and Sanji has to take her to Chopper and realizes Reader is a woman,, you can add whatever storyline you want after that, I'm so sorry my brain ain't braining rn and I really liked your Luffy one shot with the kitsune reader 🫶🏽

(AINT GOTTA TELL ME TWICEEEE)

Sanji x F!Reader

——————————————————————————

Sanji x F!Reader who dresses like a boy!, a little suggestive, reader gets hurt, smallll Angst, THATSS ALL FOLKS.

——————————————————————————

Long ago before joining the Strawhat Pirates. You dressed up as a man to stay safe on your island. Slowly became a habit. It kept you safe from horrible people but over time it just…became a part of you.

That habit affected your life on the seas. You see, the crew had different awareness’s and opinions of your Identity.

Some just didn’t care, like Luffy and Chopper because you’re one of the straw-hats who cares about gender! (Aww). Some knew like Nami and Robin. But one didn’t know at all which was Sanji.

To be frank you didn’t really care and only got a little jealous of the princess treatment the other ladies get from time to time.

Ok you really cared because it wasn’t fair they got ice cream while you’re working your BUTT OFF. But not to the point where it caused you to reveal your self as a woman.

So now all of the unfair treatment brings us to here.

“We are going on a trip with our favorite cool looking ship! Zooming through the seas!” Usopp and Luffy sung together, hold each other’s shoulders. They laughed and made up songs. Making your trip to the market place of the island insufferable. “Ughhhhhh….” You groaned rubbing your face. “Why did I have to come…” you muttered. “Because it’s your guy’s turn to restock! Maybe control your pal Luffy because eventually, we’ll go so hungry the ship will be eaten.”

The cook inhaled smoke from a cigarette and exhaled. “Speaking of restock, we are going to spilt up. First of all” “Sanji.” “Not now Y/N, Usopp and Luffy will get essentials-“ “Sanjiii…” “Me and you will get food-“

“SANJI THEYRE GONE!” You shouted.

…

“shit.”

“Dammit! We can never have a normal day with those two!” Sanji gritted his teeth as you two wandered around a marketplace. “Maybe they are at a food stall.” You said. “They better fucking be or else I’ll-“ “language!” You shouted.

BOOM!

“The marines! Pirates!” A woman shouted as she ran. “Hurry!” A man screamed. Many people ran and stores were being closed.

You and Sanji stood and watched the chaos. “I guess we gotta cut the shopping trip short..ugh..”

“Take their heads DONT let them get away!”A marine officer headed straight for the pair.

The fight was pretty easy. Just when the last few men stood Sanji dropped some items when blocking a hit. “Leave it!” You yelled annoyed. “No way! This is for Nami-Swan!”

He turned around to pick it up, now the cook was in the open and a marine soilder swung.

“SANJI!”

SLICE

Silence fell as you landed on the ground. Sanji turned in horror as he looked at you bloodied body on the floor. “Y/N..”

You were too tired to see what had happened but you know those marines regretted it. Sanji was carrying you back to Chopper. His heart was pounding, thoughts running through is head. The blonde reached Chopper’s infirmary and demanded immediate attention.

Luckily the injuries weren’t that bad and you only passed out from shock. It was a cut right under your chest.(I couldn’t write on your chest bc i felt the pain😭) The crew was relieved, you were told to stay in bed by Chopper since the wound could reopen. Everyone visited then Sanji came in to bring you food last.

“Y/N dinners here.” The cook muttered and place it on the table next to you.

The blankets moved as you stirred awake and sat up, showing the bandages on your body. They covered the upper half of your torso and wrapped nicely around your (tatas🤯)

Sanji jaw dropped as he gawked at your features, eyes going lower and lower. Your eyes, your facial shape, your (melons), your waist. “Y/N-chan, you’re a GIRL!! So HOT!” You blushed, his eyes turned into hearts as he swirled.

“But that means…oh…IM SO SORRY Y/N-SWANN! HOW COULD I TREAT YOU LIKE SUCH A MONSTER IM SO SORRY I ASSUMED YOU WERE A-“ Bonk! “CAN IT MORON!” Nami screamed. “but!-“ Bonk! “Y/N! Are you really ok with him knowing?” The orange hair woman asked concerned. “It’s fine with me…” “I WANNA KNOW WHATS UNDERNEATH!” “shut UP!” Bonk!

After a good beating from the Navigator you were chatting with the cook at around 11pm.

“Say..Y/N swan, why do you dress up as a man? You’re so beautiful this way!” He inquired. “Well, it’s just a habit. I did this a lot for safety in my home island” You answered. “Who could make my precious Y/N swan feel unsafe to the point of hiding her beauty!? I’ll kill-“ “It fine Sanji!” You giggled and he melted into a dumb love sick smile.

“Im so sorry for letting my guard down back there! I should have thought first.” Vinsmoke held your hands and stared into your eyes with sorrow. A gentle hand was placed on his cheek. “It’s ok I mean, im alive aren’t I? That’s all that matters.” He blushed.

“Now I think we should come up with a punishment for Usopp and Luffy for causing this mess right?” You smirked devilishly.

“OH Y/N-SWAN YOUR SO CUTE WHEN YOU MISCHIEVOUS!~~~” The cook yelled at the top of his lungs.

“GET A ROOM!” Zoro shouted from the Crows nest.

“SHUT UP!” Nami screamed.

“FOOD!?” Luffy shrieked.

“SUPPPPERRRRRR!!!!” Franky bellowed.

“This calls for a song YOHOHO!” Brooked howled

“NOOO!!” Nami yelled in anger and disbelief.

——————————————————————————

I WASNT SURE IF U WANTED IT TO BE ACTUALLY DATING LOWKEY SOO- PHEW THAT WAS A LOAD I JUST KEPT ON WRITING AND WRITING TY FOR THE REQUEST ASK AGAIN ANYTIME!!!!

some gifs :)

HAVE A GOOD DAY/NIGHT :3

[s4nniebe4r]

Idk if our doing requests rn but I wanna ask if you could write jongho comforting reader after her break up 🫶🏼✨

illogical

pairing: supportive! jongho x fem! reader

synopsis: jongho comforts you after a rough breakup

wc: 1.3k

tags: hurt/comfort, angst, slice of life, mentions of an unhealthy relationship, implied gaslighting and manipulation

etc: i’ve no previous experience writing something like this, so bear with me! whilst writing this, i pulled some inspo from olivia rodrigo’s ‘logical’, she’s one of my favorite artists outside of kpop. with that being said, please read this with that in mind if your sensitive to topics similar to that. i’m so beyond grateful that someone requested from me, i love to see it, keep it coming <3 and of course, not thoroughly proofread!

The evening air is cold against your damp cheeks, but you barely notice. Your breath shuddering as you curl into yourself, tucked away in the hollowed-out plastic of the jungle gym, the faded colors were dimly lit under the streetlights. The park was quiet, understandably so at the hour, and empty except for the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. It feels like the world is holding its breath, waiting for you to pull yourself together, but you just can’t. 

Your hands are shaking as you grip harder onto your phone, the glow of the screen blurring through your tear-filled eyes. You don’t type anything. No words feel right, and you’re not sure you could even form a coherent sentence if you tried. Instead, you send your location. No explanation. Just that. 

And then you wait.

You feel the breeze pick up lightly, and you shiver as you continue to let the tears fall freely. 

At this point, you’re not sure how long it’s been when you hear hurried footsteps crunching over the gravel. You don’t lift your head, but you know it’s him. Jongho. The one person who would come running without question. 

“Y/N?”

His voice is soft, careful, like he already knows you’re fragile. There’s a pause, then the sound of him climbing up into the structure, his presence filling the already small space. You feel the warmth of his body next to you before he even touches you.

He crouches down in front of you, his breath slightly uneven and out of pace from rushing here. And when you finally lift your head, his face is a mixture of concern and silent patience, his eyes scanning over you—not just your face but the way that you’re holding yourself, cradling yourself, the way that you’re shaking.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I’m here.” 

The moment he says it, something deep inside you rips wide open and completely. You let out a broken sob, covering your face with your hands, and without hesitation, Jongho shifts closer, pulling you into him. His arms wrap around you, solid and steady, and anchors you as your body involuntarily shakes against him. 

He doesn’t say anything right away, just holds you, letting you cry into the nape of his neck. His hand moves in slow soothing circles against your back. You felt everything, the way his nails curved in every so often, and how his hand occasionally switched rotations, the leather of jacket against the bare skin of your arm. 

And so, you clutch onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. Minutes pass, maybe longer. Your sobs start to subside, but you don’t pull away. Jongho doesn’t move either, just keeps holding you steady. 

“What happened?” His voice is barely above a whisper, careful not to push, only offering you the space to speak if you want to. 

You inhale shakily getting ready to speak, but the words don’t come. They’re caught somewhere between your mind and you throat, tangled up in the fear that if you say them, it will make everything real. That if you admit it out loud, there’s no taking it back. And worse—what if he sees you differently? What if he thinks you’re too much, just like he did? Your silence stretches between you, heavy and unbroken. Jongho doesn’t push. Instead, he just stays close, his hand gently smoothing over your back, as if he’s reminding you that he’s not going anywhere. 

Eventually, you shift slightly, your arms moving just enough for the dim light to catch on the bruises beginning to bloom along your wrist, just enough for Jongho to catch in his eyes. 

His hold on you doesn’t change—he doesn’t flinch or jerk away—but you feel his breath hitch, hand tightening his grip on his knee, his whole body tensing just for a second before he exhales slowly. When he speaks, his voice is somehow softer than before, but there’s something edged beneath it, something heavy. “Y/N… who did this?”

You don’t answer right away, just staring in disbelief at the darkened skin, an ugly reminder of hands that should have never touched you like that. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at it. You felt it at first, but never saw the sum of his actions earlier that night. It’s too much. You squeeze your eyes shut, another quiet sob slipping out before you can stop it. 

Jongho doesn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulder, his warmth still lingering in the fabric. “Here,” he murmurs, adjusting it so it fully covers you. His fingers linger near your skin for a moment longer, hesitating just for a moment before gently brushing over the bruised skin, his touch feathering. Pulling you back into him again.

His jaw tightens, but his voice still remains gentle. “You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready,” he murmurs. “Just let me stay with you. Okay?”

You nod into him, the movement barely there, but he feels it. He feels the tears soak through his top and onto his skin.

You don’t know how long you sit there, curled against him, your breathing uneven but slowly steadying. Eventually, words start forming on your tongue, hesitant but needing to be said. 

“I left,” you whisper, voice hoarse from your cries. “I finally left.”

Jongho exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His hand comes up, fingers threading carefully through your hair before eventually coming to a halt at the base of your head, cradling it. “I’m so proud of you, I know it’s hard.”

Your chest tightens, drawing discomfort. You don’t feel proud, not at all. You feel small, broken, like you should have left sooner, like you should’ve never let it get this far. All your past decisions seem so illogical, you thought all your problems were solvable, because you thought he meant it when he said he’d change. 

“I should’ve—”

“No.” Jongho’s voice is firmer now, but still gentle. His hand shifts from your head to your hand. Interlocking your fingers together, his thumb rubbing lazy motions on the back of your hand. “Don’t do that to yourself. You did what you could, and you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

A fresh wave of tears builds in your eyes, threatening to spill over again, but this time, it’s different. It’s not just grief or exhaustion—it’s something closer to relief. Relief that someone has you, and you’re safe.

You don’t say anything else for a while. Neither does he. He just stays with you, holding you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s promising to stay as long as you need him to. And right now, it’s exactly what you need. 

The park is still silent with the silent hum of cars passing on a nearby street and the whistle in the wind. The night air is cold, but Jongho’s warmth lingers against you, in his jacket, in his hand wrapped around yours. Neither of you rush to leave, instead sitting in the silence, letting the moment be what it is. 

Eventually, you shift against him, trying to pull yourself up, but he beats you to it. He doesn’t let go of your hand as he helps you to your feet. You’re not sure what to do, but you need to go somewhere. 

“Come on,” he says gently to you, squeezing your hand just a little. “Let’s go home.” You’re not quite sure where home even is right now, but you know you’ll be able to figure that out as you go with him.