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goonforgeto · 3 days ago

Text

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 07

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (12.2k) not proofread

CONTENT — angst, death, sickness, hospital settings, descriptions of violence, name insert once (i didnt wanna use yn)

a/n: sorryyyyy

series m. list | m.list

The first day Satoru doesn’t hear from you, he doesn’t think much of it. Sure, you’re on his mind just like always, but he doesn’t let the silence bother him. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you need space after the argument. He tells himself it’s nothing.

By the second day, the unease starts to creep in.

You’ve never gone more than a day without talking. Not in years. And what unsettles him more than the silence is the fact that your location—something he’d only ever checked to annoy you—hasn’t updated since a few hours after he walked out of your office.

It’s enough to tighten his chest. He knows something isn’t right.

But he convinces himself you’re just really mad at him — and honestly, after the things that were said, maybe you have every right to be.

You’re stubborn when you’re angry, he reminds himself. You’ve gone cold before, pulled away before, and every time, you’ve come back around.

So he decides to wait. Just a little longer. Give you space, let things cool.

On day three, Satoru wakes up before sunrise, groggy and tangled in sweat-damp sheets after barely four hours of restless sleep.

His first instinct is to check his phone. No messages.

Still no update on your location.

His thumb hovers over your contact — debating whether to call, text, teleport straight to your house. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

Something doesn’t feel right.

You’ve iced him out before and gone silent, slammed doors, even blocked him for a whole 48 hours once.

He settles on a simple text message.

[ Satoru ] : we should probably talk

He stares at the screen for a second longer, thumb hovering, then finally hits send.

The message is delivered instantly, no read receipt.

He tosses the phone onto his nightstand and runs a hand through his hair, pacing once around the room before sinking back onto the edge of the bed.

She’s mad, he tells himself again. Still mad. She’ll text when she’s ready.

But the knot in his chest tightens anyway.

He plans to go about his daily routine the same way he does every day — coffee that’s made almost entirely of creamer and sugar for breakfast, teaching his classes at Jujutsu High, sitting through several mind-numbing meetings with the higher-ups who have never once stepped foot into battle, and wrapping up the day by exorcising a curse or ten in the late afternoon just to get some peace and quiet.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would give him too much time to think. But by mid-morning, his phone’s still silent.

The call comes around three, just as Satoru’s headed into the first of three meetings he’s already dreading.

He answers without checking the caller ID, expecting it to be Utahime yelling his ear off or maybe Ijichi whining about scheduling.

But the voice on the other end is unfamiliar.

“Is this Gojo Satoru?”

He stills, the edge of annoyance in his voice evaporating.

“Yes?”

“This is Shinjuku Central Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for [Name]…”

His breath catches.

“…she was brought in 2 days ago.”

Time slows. The hallway noise around him fades.

“What happened?” he asks sharply, all levity gone from his voice.

“She was found unconscious. Multiple lacerations. Some internal bruising. We’re still assessing the extent of her injuries, but we’re not entirely sure what happened.”

He’s already moving, teleporting before the woman can finish her sentence. And for the first time in years, the Strongest Sorcerer is scared.

His first stop is Shoko’s infirmary – the quiet, always-too-cold clinic tucked away in the basement of Jujutsu High.

He doesn’t even think about it. His body moves before his brain can catch up, teleporting straight into the hallway, boots echoing sharply against the concrete floors as he throws open the door without knocking.

Shoko looks up from her desk, a half-eaten rice ball in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her brows lift, unimpressed but not surprised.

“Didn’t even knock,” she mutters. “I could’ve been in the middle of surgery.”

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.. Just stands there, breathing shallow, fingers twitching at his sides.

That’s what makes her freeze.

“Satoru,” she says carefully, sitting up straighter. “What is it?”

Your name falls from his lips. His voice is too quiet for him. “She’s in the hospital.”

Shoko’s already setting the rice ball aside. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Some nurse called. Said they found her unconscious. Internal injuries.” His jaw tightens. “They wouldn’t say more.”

Shoko grabs her coat from the back of her chair.

“Come on,” she says, all business now. “We’re going.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The air outside is thick and wet, the sky a dull gray threatening rain, but Satoru barely notices. He walks beside Shoko, teleporting them to the hospital entrance with a jolt of cursed energy sharp enough to make the receptionist flinch when they appear.

“Name?” the woman at the desk asks, hands trembling slightly under Satoru’s stare.

Shoko flashes her credentials before the receptionist can say anything else. After a few frantic clicks of the mouse and a radio call, a nurse appears to escort them upstairs.

Room 327.

Satoru's fingers twitch at his sides the whole elevator ride up. Shoko watches him quietly but doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t breathe until they reach the door. Doesn't move until the nurse pushes it open.

And then he sees you.

You’re lying in the bed, IV in your arm, half your face bandaged, bruises blooming purple and blue across your cheekbone and neck. There’s a monitor beeping steadily beside you, the sound almost deafening in the silence.

“Shit,” he whispers.

You’re alive — that’s the first thing his brain manages to process. But the rest of it?

The blood-soaked memory of you curled in that bed. The fact that he hadn’t heard from you in three days. That he thought you were just mad at him.

He thought wrong.

Satoru crosses the room in seconds, standing at the side of your bed, fingers hovering inches above your hand but not quite touching.

“You idiot,” he says softly, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Shoko moves around him without a word, checking the chart at the end of your bed and then your vitals. Her face stays neutral, but her eyes tighten slightly.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, glancing at Satoru. “But whoever did this… they weren’t human.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches. “Cursed spirit?”

Shoko nods slowly. “Special grade. I’ll run some scans once she wakes up. But this wasn’t random. It knew what it was doing.”

He doesn’t respond. Just sits down slowly, carefully taking your hand in his, staring at you like you might disappear again.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he finally says, voice low, “I should’ve come sooner.”

Shoko finishes reading over the monitor, eyes narrowed. She checks your chart again, then pulls the curtain closed behind her with a slow sweep of her hand.

“She’s not going to heal properly here,” she says, voice low but firm. “Human medicine isn’t going to cut it.”

Satoru looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve seen cursed wounds like this before. Superficially it looks like trauma, but it’s deeper — metaphysical. It's already interfering with her energy channels. If we leave her here, she’s not walking out. Maybe not waking up.”

His hands tighten into fists. “Then what do we do?”

Shoko glances toward the door, then back at him. “We take her back to the school. Quietly. The infirmary’s warded, so I can treat her properly there, but we can’t have this traced back to us. Not if she was attacked off-duty.”

Satoru frowns. “There are cameras.”

“I’ll handle the nurses,” Shoko says, already slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat. “You just do what you do best.”

He nods once.

Shoko peeks out the curtain, then turns back. “You have under five minutes. I’ll make sure no one’s watching this wing.”

The moment she steps out, Satoru stands, brushing a hand gently over your hair.

“Sorry to do this, angel,” he murmurs. “But you’ll be better off with us.”

When he lifts you into his arms after unhooking your machines, you don’t stir. You’re frighteningly still, warm but unresponsive, your breath shallow.

He takes a breath.

Then, in one blink of cursed energy, you're out of the hospital room, the sound of beeping monitors and sterile white light replaced with the soft hum of Jujutsu High’s underground infirmary.

Satoru lays you gently on the cot Shoko always keeps prepped. It's empty and the place is clean, quiet, faintly humming with barriers. He brushes your hair back again, gaze lingering on your bruised cheek.

Then he’s gone — teleporting back to the hospital.

Shoko’s chatting up the nurses at the main station with her usual dry charm, blocking their view of the hallway. Satoru doesn’t stop. He makes his way calmly down the corridor, steps casual, hands in his pockets.

He exits the hospital through the main doors, nodding politely to a few passing visitors. Shoko follows suit.

Only when he’s safely around the corner, out of frame of any camera, does he wrap his arm around Shoko’s shoulder, and vanishes again, teleporting back to Jujutsu High.

They land with a soft thud just outside the infirmary entrance, the familiar buzz of the school’s protective barrier humming faintly beneath their feet. Satoru drops his hand from Shoko’s shoulder as she straightens her coat, brushing imaginary lint from the lapel.

“Next time, a little warning would be great,” she mutters, adjusting her balance. “I’ll never get used to that.”

“Didn’t want to waste any more time,” he says, already moving toward the door. “She didn’t look good.”

Inside, the infirmary is dimly lit, quiet but for the faint rhythm of your breathing. You’re still curled on the cot where Satoru laid you down, but there’s something in the set of your jaw, the twitch of your fingers, that suggests you’re closer to waking than before.

Shoko wastes no time. She crosses the room, grabbing a tray of tools and cursed-energy treated bandages, rolling up her sleeves as she settles beside you.

“She’s stable,” she says after a moment, voice clipped and focused, “but whatever did this wasn’t what she’s used to handling. Her body’s rejecting any standard healing, even my cursed energy is getting repelled unless I regulate it to her baseline.”

“So?” Satoru presses, pacing at the foot of the cot.

Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She’s busy threading cursed energy through the bandages wrapped around your ribs, her eyes scanning for any sign of rejection. Only when she’s sure the seal is holding does she sit back slightly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “They found her near that old shopping district we all used to hang out at. The one with the mochi stand you used to steal from.”

Satoru’s jaw tenses. “That’s not exactly a cursed hotspot.”

“No,” Shoko agrees.

He runs a hand through his hair, restless energy bleeding through his movements. “The hell was she doing out there alone?”

Shoko gives him a look. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

Satoru slumps back in the chair, still holding your hand. He hates this — the stillness, the helplessness, the not-knowing.

“She’ll wake up,” Shoko says, more gently now. “She’s tougher than you think.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just keeps watching you, thumb brushing the back of your hand, voice low when he finally speaks again.

“She’s the toughest person I know.”

Shoko doesn’t say anything else for a while — just returns to her silent work, her cursed energy pulsing low and steady as she stabilizes you.

Satoru watches your chest rise and fall. It’s better now, less shallow than it was when he first arrived. Still too pale, too still. His stomach twists.

He stands abruptly.

Shoko doesn’t look up. “Where are you going?”

“To check out the district,” he says, voice tight. “You said that’s where they found her?”

Shoko nods. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not the one who wandered into a cursed zone without backup,” he snaps, softer than he means to — not angry at her, just angry at the situation, angry at himself.

Shoko sighs. “She probably didn’t mean to walk into anything. It found her.”

Satoru doesn’t respond. He’s already halfway to the door.

The shopping district is quiet when he arrives, in fact a little too quiet for this part of Tokyo, even in the middle of the day. No foot traffic. Most of the stalls are closed. A few cursed spirits still linger, low-grade things, scuttling like insects at the edge of his perception.

The barrier is up and he wipes them out with a flick of his wrist. They’re not what he’s looking for.

He walks deeper into the alley where the nurses said you’d been found, that familiar turn past the shuttered bookstore and the old claw machine with the cracked glass.

That’s when he feels it. A sudden, nauseating pulse of cursed energy, cold and wrong and far too strong for this area. A special grade.

And then it’s on him.

It lunges from the shadows — a mass of twisting limbs and too many eyes, mouth stretching impossibly wide as it lets out a bone-rattling shriek.

Satoru doesn't flinch.

In an instant, the air stills, the pressure of his domain leaking through the cracks of his control like cold fire.

“You’re the one who hurt her,” he says quietly. There’s no smile on his face now. No jokes. No blindfold.

His Six Eyes glow.

“I’m going to kill you for that.”

The fight isn’t long. It tries to run — claws scraping against the walls in a panic when it realizes what it’s up against. But Satoru doesn’t let it.

He’s faster, smarter, meaner. He’s Satoru Gojo.

By the time it realizes it’s already inside his domain, it’s too late.

And when it’s over, there’s not even a body left. Just a smear of energy and the silence of an exorcised curse.

Satoru exhales slowly and closes his eyes, drawing his blindfold back down his face

It’s done, but it doesn’t make him feel better.

He teleports back to Jujutsu High in a blur of light.

The infirmary is quiet when Satoru arrives the next morning. Shoko’s asleep on the cot across from you, an empty energy drink tucked under her arm and a stack of handwritten notes on the floor beside her.

You’re still unconscious.

Satoru moves carefully, like if he’s too loud, he might scare away whatever fragile thread is holding your soul to your body.

Your breathing is steadier now. The color’s come back to your face. But your cursed energy is faint.

He pulls up the chair from the desk beside your bed and drops into it heavily, letting his long legs splay out in front of him.

He hasn’t slept. He knows you’d scold him if you saw him like this — wrinkled uniform, shadows under his eyes, hair a mess.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We haven’t spoken in four days, you know. This is getting dramatic, even for you.”

Silence. Just your soft breathing.

Satoru swallows hard and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.

“I killed it,” he says quietly. “The one that got you. It’s gone.”

He pauses.

“I thought that would help. But it didn’t.”

He reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from your face with gentle fingers.

“You’ve gotta wake up, alright? I’m not good at this part. I can fight gods and curses and annoying councilmen, but this? Sitting still? Waiting?” He huffs out a weak laugh. “You know I hate this.”

His hand lingers against your cheek for a second longer than it should. Then he pulls away and leans back, slumping in the chair.

“I’ll be right here. Like always.”

Shoko stirs just after sunrise.

Her head lifts slowly from the cot, joints popping as she rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck, then drags herself to her feet with the exhaustion of someone who’s run a marathon in place. Her lab coat is half-buttoned, hair a mess, and she’s still got a faint red crease on her cheek from where she slept on her clipboard.

Satoru doesn’t move from his spot by your bedside, he just watches her approach with tired, expectant eyes.

Shoko drops the clipboard on the edge of your bed and exhales.

“I worked through the night,” she says, voice gravelly. “Managed to stabilize the cursed injury with a constant application of reverse cursed technique, but it’s… slow. Too slow. Whatever cursed technique that thing used on her, it wasn’t normal. It tore through her natural resistance and latched on like a parasite.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “I’ve essentially got her in stasis. If I pull back too far, the cursed wound could start advancing again. I think the special grade didn’t just injure her — it tried to anchor itself into her cursed energy channels.”

Satoru’s throat works around a dry swallow. “But she’s going to be okay.”

Shoko pauses.

“I think so. But it’ll take time. I’m doing what I can… and she’s fighting, Satoru. Her energy’s responding to mine, even if it’s faint. That means she wants to stay.”

He exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him, and when Shoko looks over, his sunglasses are off, pinched between his fingers. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together.

“I shouldn’t have fought with her,” he says, voice low. “She’s a Grade 1 — she’s strong, but we’ve always worked together when it came to anything special grade. If we hadn’t argued, she would’ve called me.”

Shoko’s expression softens slightly, though her exhaustion keeps her voice flat.

“You don’t know that.”

“She’s never not called me,” he mutters. “Not once in six years.”

Silence stretches. He rubs his face with both hands and leans back in the chair, elbows resting on the armrests, head tipped toward the ceiling.

“She always calls.”

Shoko pulls over another chair and sits beside him. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches your chest rise and fall — shallow but steady.

“I think you both just forgot,” she says after a moment. “You’re not invincible.”

Satoru doesn’t reply. Just stares at the ceiling, lips tight, jaw locked.

She sighs, rubbing her eyes.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she murmurs. “Gotta recharge before my brain falls out of my ears.”

She pats his shoulder once as she passes.

Satoru stays where he is.

He’s always been there. But right now, he feels a thousand miles away from the one person he wishes would open her eyes and remind him that she’s still here too.

Satoru leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. The room is quiet now in the same kind of way hospitals always are, where every soft beep and slow inhale feels too loud.

Your hand hasn’t moved since last night.

His fingers twitch toward it, hesitate, then curl gently around yours, just enough to feel that you’re still warm.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, not sure if he wants you to hear or not. “For what I said… And for not being there.”

His voice cracks. Just barely. But it does.

“I got too comfortable, y’know? I thought… we’d always have time. That you’d always call me before it got bad. I’ve been so focused on holding everything else together I didn’t even see us cracking.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, steady. His other hand reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“I know I’m not easy. And I know I push people too hard sometimes, but I can’t lose you too.”

He swallows hard, shoulders stiff. “I won’t come back from that.”

Words hang heavy in the air. His grip on your hand tightens just slightly, grounding himself.

“So just… come back, okay? Yell at me, call me dramatic, fight with me. I’ll take anything.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips, eyes closed tight.

“I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

And with that, he stays — unmoving, guarding the silence, as if his presence alone can tether you back to him.

Day five rolls in under grey skies and rainy conditions, and the room is still.

Satoru stirs to the low hum of hospital equipment, the cold of the vinyl chair seeping through his clothes, and the distant sound of wheels squeaking against tile.

A sharp voice cuts through the fog of sleep.

“Satoru, up.”

It’s Shoko, snapping her gloves on with a loud smack, wheeling a crash cart to the bedside.

He doesn’t respond right away. His head still resting on your stomach, arms lazily folded across your torso like a shield. He’d fallen asleep like that again, trying to keep you close to him somehow.

“Oi, I said get off of her!”

That’s when he hears it.

The flatline.

The steady, shrill note of your heart monitor ringing out like one continuous scream of silence.

Everything in him snaps to attention. His head shoots up, blood turning ice-cold as his eyes find the monitor: no peaks, no valleys, just a flat green line.

His chair screeches back as he leaps to his feet.

“What—”

“She’s coding,” Shoko says, her voice steady but brisk. “Help me get her shirt up, now!”

Satoru’s already at your side, trembling hands fumbling with the hospital gown as Shoko slaps conductive pads against your chest, her own cursed energy already flaring, hands glowing faintly.

“Clear!” she shouts.

Satoru jumps back as the paddles meet your skin. Your body arches violently off the bed. The flatline continues.

Again.

“Clear!”

The jolt ripples through you, but still, no response.

His eyes are wide. “Shoko—”

“Don’t panic, I said don’t panic!” she snaps. Her voice breaks on the edges, but her hands don’t falter.

Her reverse cursed energy pours into you — radiant, glowing pale-blue where her hands press to your chest, just above your heart.

One minute passes. Then two.

Satoru can’t breathe.

“Come on,” Shoko grits through her teeth. Sweat beads at her brow. “Don’t do this. Not you.”

The third minute ticks by, cruel and slow.

Then — your fingers twitch.

A single, tiny flicker.

The flatline cuts out.

Beep.

Then another.

Beep… beep…

Your heartbeat returns in weak, slow stutters.

Satoru nearly collapses from the force of his breath. His knees buckle, and he clutches the edge of the bed.

Shoko exhales, chest heaving, finally pulling her hands away from your chest as your vitals steady. “You’re welcome,” she mutters, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Satoru stares at you, still pale, still unconscious… but alive.

Alive.

His fingers reach out, brushing your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. “Don’t do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Don’t ever do that again.”

Shoko wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, immediately leaning over to check your other vitals — pulse, breath sounds, pupil response, everything.

The room is thick with tension, your heartbeat now a soft but steady beep on the monitor beside her. It's the only sound Satoru can focus on.

“Clean yourself up,” Shoko mutters without looking at him. “You’re getting snot on my equipment.”

“What?” Satoru blinks, dazed.

She glances over her shoulder, just once. “You’re crying.”

He snorts (or maybe chokes). “I don’t cry.”

Shoko doesn’t argue. She just turns back to you, adjusting your oxygen and jotting something on her clipboard. “Right. Must be your sweat, then. From all the sitting you were doing.”

Satoru runs a sleeve across his cheek without thinking. It comes away damp. His throat tightens again, and this time, he doesn’t bother with a smartass remark.

He just sinks back into the chair beside your bed, gripping your hand like a lifeline.

Satoru doesn’t realize it at first.

Not even when Shoko snaps at him about the equipment, it doesn’t register until the chill hits his face, until the back of his hand comes away wet and he stares down at it like it belongs to someone else.

His breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound that rattles out of him, low and hoarse. It’s not dramatic or cinematic. It’s almost worse — silent, stunned, like his body is reacting faster than his mind.

Because Satoru Gojo doesn’t cry.

He didn’t cry when his best friend left. He didn’t cry when he had to bury his friends. He didn’t cry when he received immense backlash from his clan for choosing his career, or on Suguru’s birthday every year, or when everyone he had grown up with left him. He doesn’t cry.

But here, in the pale light of the infirmary, with your hand cold in his and your heart only just starting to beat again… he’s crying.

Not the loud, heaving kind. It’s quieter. Slower. Almost confused — like he doesn’t know how to handle this kind of feeling anymore.

His shoulders shake once, barely perceptible. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. And still, the tears fall. He thinks to himself that these hot, traitorous things sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the sleeve of his uniform aren’t a sign of weakness like he had always thought.

His head bows over your hand like a prayer he’s too stubborn to say out loud. His grip is tight, like if he lets go, you’ll slip away again.

“I had one job,” he whispers — to no one, to himself, maybe to you. “I’m always with you. I always show up. And the one time I don’t…”

His voice breaks.

Shoko doesn’t say anything. She just works quietly, professionally, knowing that the worst part is over, and the rest is his to carry now.

For a moment, Satoru presses his forehead to the back of your hand, breath uneven.

“I’ve told you a million times, but,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I can’t lose you.”

And though you’re still unconscious, your heart continues to beat beneath the monitor’s hum.

It’s not a response, but it’s enough to keep him there, crying quietly beside you — the strongest sorcerer in the world, undone by the thought of losing the one person who still made him feel human.

A few hours later, Satoru returns to the infirmary, shoulders stiff with exhaustion despite the effortless gait he tries to maintain. The weight of everything hangs heavy, but life doesn’t stop, not even for him. He still has classes to teach, students to train, meetings to attend, a whole world that insists on moving forward while he feels like his has been turned upside down.

He pushes the door open with his foot, a cafeteria tray balanced in each hand, and wordlessly sets one of the plates on the edge of Shoko’s cluttered desk.

“Bribery?” she asks, eyeing the food.

“Peace offering,” he replies, collapsing into the chair next to her. “You’ve been down here for hours.”

“And whose fault is that?” she mutters, but it’s not without fondness. She pokes at the plate, then glances at him. “You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t want you passing out on top of her. Then I’d have two patients on my hands.”

A beat of silence passes. The infirmary hums gently around them, your breathing now stable.

“Any updates?” he asks finally, voice low.

Shoko sighs and rubs her eyes before answering. “Vitals are steady. I’ve been reinforcing the cursed technique every hour. The injury in her abdomen is healing slower than I’d like, but the internal bleeding’s stopped. No new signs of cursed energy interference. She's… holding on.”

He nods once, quietly.

Then: “What happened this morning?”

Shoko sets her chopsticks down, more serious now.

“I’d just finished what should’ve been the last pulse of reverse cursed technique when her vitals flatlined,” she says. “Nothing I did should’ve triggered it — my guess is her energy reserves were too depleted to regulate her body on their own. Her heart stopped. Fully arrested.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens.

“I had to shock her back,” she continues. “Three times. And I pushed more of my own cursed energy into her than I should’ve. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work.”

He closes his eyes. Exhales shakily.

“You know what scared me the most?” she says softly. “You. I’ve never seen you look like that before. Not even when Suguru left or Haibara died.”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you, motionless in the bed, bandages peeking out from under your hospital gown, eyes still shut.

“I didn’t realize how much of my life she filled until I thought she was gone,” he says, voice almost a whisper.

Shoko doesn’t press. She just picks up her chopsticks again, quiet for a long moment.

“She’s not gone,” she says finally. “So figure your shit out before she wakes up.”

He nods, slowly.

“But when do you think that’ll be?” he asks, eyes still locked on your face. “When she might wake up?”

His voice is quiet, like speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate. It’s not the usual Satoru, not the cocky teacher or the strongest sorcerer in the room.

Shoko leans back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “Honestly?” she says. “I don’t know.”

Satoru’s head turns sharply, but she holds his gaze.

“I’ve done what I can. Physically, she’s healing, albeit slowly. But the rest?” Shoko gestures vaguely at your temple. “That’s up to her.”

“So it’s—what? A coma?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “More like… her cursed energy’s dormant, or inactive. Like a really long nap. She’s not in pain, she’s just weak right now.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “She always calls me. Every time. When it’s too much, when something’s wrong, even when she just wants to talk. She always calls.”

“She would’ve this time too, if she had the chance,” Shoko says gently. “You know that.”

He nods once, jaw clenched.

Shoko watches him for a moment longer, then rises from her chair and walks over to the bed, checking your IV line, adjusting a monitor.

“She’s a fighter,” she says quietly. “You know better than anyone. If there’s a way back, she’ll find it.”

Satoru’s hand reaches out, fingers ghosting over your blanket-covered wrist, as if he’s afraid to touch too hard.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here when you do.”

Shoko turns away, giving him space, but not before seeing the look in his eyes — the kind of look that only comes when someone you can’t live without is lying silent in front of you.

He goes home to sleep that night.

The next morning, Satoru barely makes it through the front gates of Jujutsu High, coffee still half-full in one hand and dark circles bruised beneath his sunglasses, when Yaga storms toward him like a man with purpose — and a grudge.

“Gojo,” he snaps, voice like a whip, “my office. Now.”

Satoru blinks, then sighs. “Morning to you too.”

Yaga doesn’t slow down, and Satoru barely has time to chuck his coffee into a nearby bin before he’s being all but dragged down the corridor.

The door slams behind them as soon as they step inside.

“You’re in trouble,” Yaga says flatly. “Big trouble.”

Gojo raises a brow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do this time? Forget to sign the mission logs? Skip a meeting? Wear my uniform wrong again?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yaga growls. “I went to the infirmary last night to drop off reports. Imagine my surprise when I find one of our senior sorcerers nearly dead, hidden in a bed like some dirty secret.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “She wasn’t hidden—”

“You didn’t report it.”

“She wasn’t safe in the hospital.”

“You still should’ve told me!” Yaga slams a palm on his desk, voice rising. “There are protocols, Satoru. People who care about her. People who deserve to know she almost died.”

“She did die,” Gojo says quietly, voice sharp around the edges now. “For three minutes, she was gone. You think I didn’t want to tell you? You think I didn’t panic? But I didn’t even know what was happening until it was almost too late.”

Yaga’s expression falters.

Gojo pushes forward, hands planted on the desk. “I brought her back here because Shoko was her best chance. Because if I had wasted even five more minutes dealing with paperwork and phone calls, she’d be gone. And you’re yelling at me because I saved her without signing a form?”

Yaga exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “This isn’t about paperwork. It’s about trust.”

Satoru’s voice drops. “Then trust me. I did what I had to do.”

Silence stretches in the office, heavy and bitter.

Finally, Yaga nods stiffly. “Fine. But I want a full report by tonight. From both of you. No more secrets, Satoru.”

Gojo straightens. “You’ll have it.”

Yaga looks tired as he sits down. “And for what it’s worth... I’m glad she’s alive.”

Satoru nods once, already half-turned toward the door. “Yeah. Me too.”

Yaga leans back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. His voice lowers, more controlled now, but still laced with tension.

“I won’t tell the higher-ups about this,” he says. “Not yet. But I need to be updated.”

Satoru nods once, jaw tight.

“The second she takes a turn for the worse,” Yaga continues, “it’s no longer in our hands. You understand that, right?”

Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His sunglasses hide most of his expression, but there’s a flicker in the way his throat works — a swallow, tight and slow.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I get it.”

Yaga exhales through his nose, watching him closely. “You care about her. I know that. But you’re not invincible, Satoru. And neither is she. If you want her to survive this, you need to let people help.”

For a moment, there’s only silence between them. Then Gojo straightens, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform jacket.

“She’s not going to die,” he says, almost like a promise.

And with that, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

He makes his way down to the infirmary directly after, his long strides echoing softly through the quiet hallway. He’s always late for his classes — it’s practically a given by now — so it shouldn’t matter if he is today. Even though it’s the first time he’s actually been on time in weeks.

Still, it’s not like they’ll be surprised.

His hand hesitates on the door for a second. Not out of fear — not exactly. But because every time he opens it, he braces for something to be worse. For her color to fade, for the machines to start screaming, for Shoko to look up at him with that expression again. The one that says not even you can fix this.

He pushes it open anyway.

The room is dimly lit, filtered sunlight creeping through the blinds. The soft mechanical beeping of the monitor — steady, mercifully — greets him first, and then the sight of her, still unconscious, still too still.

Shoko’s in the corner, hunched over a mess of papers and notes and cursed technique charts. She looks up at the sound of the door.

“You’re early,” she says, eyebrows raising.

He shrugs, stepping inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Didn’t feel like pretending to be a good teacher today.”

She snorts. “And here I thought you’d turned over a new leaf.”

Gojo doesn’t smile. He drags a chair to the bedside like he always does and sits down. His eyes flick to the IV line, then to the faint twitch of her fingers — involuntary, maybe hopeful. His hand hovers, then settles lightly over hers.

“Any changes?” he asks, voice low.

Shoko glances at her clipboard. “Vitals are steady. Cursed energy response is still sluggish, but not flatlining. Reverse technique’s helping, but she’s not out of the woods yet. You’ll be the first to know if something shifts.”

He nods, thumb brushing gently along her knuckles.

He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stares at her hand in his.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ve slept enough.”

“Don’t be selfish,” Shoko scolds without looking up, scribbling something quickly onto her clipboard. “By the way, Yaga stopped by last night.”

Gojo leans back slightly in his chair, a humorless scoff escaping him. “Yeah, I was just ambushed by him in the front hall.”

Shoko glances up now, arching a brow. “What’d he say to you?”

He stretches his legs and crosses his arms. “That he won’t tell the higher-ups — yet. But I have to keep him in the loop. And if she takes a turn for the worse again…” He trails off, jaw tightening.

Shoko sighs, setting her pen down. “He said the same to me. Told me this is already pushing it. Technically, she should be in a secure facility under the higher-ups’ watch.”

“But that would kill her,” Gojo says flatly.

“Yeah. Which is why I didn’t argue with you when you came to me.”

There’s a long pause. The only sound is the quiet rhythm of the heart monitor.

“Did he say anything else?” Gojo asks.

Shoko shakes her head. “Just that this is the last chance. If anything happens again, they’re pulling rank.”

Gojo exhales slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

They both look toward you again, unconscious but stable.

“She’s always been stronger than people give her credit for,” Shoko murmurs.

Gojo doesn’t respond right away. Then, quietly responds, “I know.”

He pulls his hand up, rubbing his eyes once again and wincing.

“You okay?” Shoko asks, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“No,” he mutters, voice tight with annoyance. “I forgot my blindfold at home.”

Shoko snorts softly. “Rookie mistake.”

He shoots her a glare, though it lacks any real heat. “The light’s been killing me all morning.”

Without missing a beat, Shoko pulls open one of the drawers beside her and tosses a roll of bandages in his direction.

“Here,” she says. “Use these. I keep extras for the kids.”

Gojo catches them one-handed, lifting a brow. “You’re giving me pity supplies now?”

“I’m letting you walk around without looking like a zombie,” she deadpans. “You can thank me later.”

He sighs, unwinding the bandages with a resigned expression. “Remind me why I ever thought you were the nice one?”

Shoko smirks, going back to her notes. “Because I’m the only one who hasn’t smacked you upside the head yet.”

Gojo grumbles as he starts to wrap the bandage around his eyes, but there’s a softness to his movements now as he turns his head back toward your sleeping form.

Just as Satoru finishes adjusting the bandages over his eyes, a small mechanical beep interrupts the quiet in the infirmary.

Shoko glances up, frowning at the monitor.

“What was that?” he asks, immediately straightening.

Her eyes scan the readout. “Her heart rate just stabilized.”

Satoru’s breath catches. “Stabilized? Like—”

“It was like this for a bit yesterday, but it started fluctuating all night,” Shoko says, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead, then carefully lifting one of your eyelids to check your response. “But this is the first time in days it's holding steady…”

She checks your reflexes and notes something down quickly. “There’s… faint muscular activity. Twitching in the hand and upper eyelid. That’s new.”

Satoru is at your side in a heartbeat, crouching low, eyes hidden behind the fresh bandages but voice trembling just slightly. “Does that mean she’s waking up?”

Shoko doesn’t smile — she rarely does — but her voice is lighter now. “It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a very good sign.”

Satoru exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the back of your hand with aching care. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good. Just… keep going. I’m right here.”

And this time, your fingers twitch again just enough for him to feel it.

He freezes.

“…Did you feel that?” he whispers.

Shoko nods. “Yeah. I felt it too.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long moment, just watching, like if he stares hard enough you might open your eyes completely.

“You stubborn idiot,” he whispers, a laugh caught in his throat. “Only you would wait until I’m on the edge of a breakdown to give me a sign.”

Shoko steps away to update your chart, giving him the space — her version of privacy. She knows him well enough to know that even small hope makes him feel too much all at once.

Satoru leans forward, pressing his forehead lightly against your hand. “Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll go to class. But I’m coming back the second it’s over. And you better keep improving, got it?”

He pushes himself up, tugs the blanket a little higher on your shoulders, and casts a glance over at Shoko.

“Let me know if anything changes?”

“I will,” she says, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “And try not to traumatize your students today.”

“No promises,” he mutters, the ghost of a grin touching his lips.

He makes it halfway to the door before turning back one last time, lingering in the frame. The early light of morning glows faintly through the infirmary window, casting long shadows across the floor.

“I’ll see you after class,” he says softly. “So don’t do anything dramatic without me.”

Then, with one last look, he disappears down the hall.

To his disappointment, class didn’t end at 3 like it usually did. One thing led to another — an emergency faculty meeting (sans Shoko of course), a last-minute curse sighting in Harajuku that ended in a shattered plaza window, and an injured second-year who insisted they “definitely didn’t need stitches” while bleeding all over the training grounds.

By the time he returned to campus, the sun was already dipping behind the trees. His limbs were heavy, his bandage blindfold askew, and his brain fried from dealing with bureaucracy and curses alike. Still, as he pushed open the infirmary doors, every ache and annoyance seemed to vanish.

You were awake.

Not fully, not like before — but your eyes were open, lids fluttering as you blinked slowly at the ceiling. Your chest rose and fell steadily under the thin blanket, and your fingers twitched when he stepped closer.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice breaking the quiet of the room.

You turned your head slightly, the movement sluggish. Your eyes found him, and though they were hazy and half-lidded, they focused.

“…S’toru?”

It came out in a whisper, barely audible, like your throat hadn’t quite remembered how to speak yet. But it was enough to bring the air rushing back into his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, crossing the room in seconds. “It’s me. I’m here.”

You gave the faintest smile before your eyelids began to droop again, your body clearly still exhausted. Satoru crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on the bed.

“I thought you were gonna sleep forever just to mess with me,” he murmured, watching your breathing even out again.

A moment later, the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway announced someone approaching. Shoko entered, pulling the door shut behind her with Yaga lingering just out of view, deep in conversation.

“She woke up about twenty minutes ago,” Shoko said softly. “Still groggy. But it’s a good sign.”

Satoru nodded, brushing your hair away from your forehead. “She said my name.”

“Of course she did,” Shoko replied, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve been breathing down her neck for days.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back in the chair beside your bed. The weight on his shoulders didn’t disappear, but it eased just a little.

“Yaga’s on his way down,” Shoko says. “He needs more information for the report you half assed.”

Satoru groaned, slumping further into the chair beside your bed. “Of course he is. Can’t even have one peaceful minute.”

Shoko arched her brow as she crossed to the other side of the infirmary, checking the IV drip and making a few notes on the chart. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t scribbled ‘got her out, saved her life, she’s fine’ and called it a day—”

“I was emotionally compromised,” he cut in, tossing his head dramatically. “My muse doesn’t perform under stress.”

“You spelled ‘hospital’ wrong.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it.

Shoko smirked. “Yaga wants more detail on what exactly you found at the scene and how you handled it. He’s been nice about this so far, but the higher-ups will want answers eventually.”

Satoru rubbed his face with both hands, sighing loudly into his palms. “I know. I’ll give him the real report. I just… I didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if I was late. If I didn’t go looking.”

He glanced back at you — still sleeping, but your brow was relaxed now, your breathing steady. No beeping machines screaming back to life. No Shoko elbow-deep in a healing technique that might not work. Just… quiet.

Shoko’s voice softened. “I know. But she’s awake now. Go fill in the damn report.”

Satoru stood reluctantly, stretching his arms overhead and casting one last glance at you before heading toward the door. “Fine. But I’m coming back after. And if Yaga gives me more than two pages’ worth of paperwork, I’m quitting.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ego on the way out.”

He flashed her a tired grin and disappeared into the hallway just as Yaga rounded the corner, gruff and unreadable.

The next morning rolls around, and for the first time since you'd been brought into the infirmary, you're more responsive than you’ve been the entire time.

When Shoko checks in just after sunrise, she’s surprised to find your eyes cracked open, blinking slowly against the pale morning light filtering in through the window.

Your head turns— sluggish, hesitant— toward the sound of the door opening, and your fingers twitch against the blanket.

“Well, good morning,” Shoko says, tone light but cautious. “Thought we might be stuck playing the long game with you.”

Your throat is dry, voice barely a whisper. “What… time is it?”

Shoko moves to your bedside, checking your vitals with quiet efficiency. “Just after six. You’ve been asleep for about five days.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the weight of her words settling in your chest. Your body still feels like lead, muscles sore, energy low, but there’s clarity in your gaze now— a spark of awareness that had been missing.

“Water,” you croak.

Shoko nods, already reaching for the cup beside the bed. She helps you sit up— carefully, gently— slipping a hand behind your back and raising the cup to your lips.

“You gave us a bit of a scare,” she says once you’ve sipped. “Flatlined for a couple minutes. Satoru nearly broke my equipment crying on you.”

You manage a small smile. “He’s a crier?”

“A dramatic one.”

Before you can respond, the door creaks open again.

Satoru steps in, hair a mess, blindfold hanging loosely around his neck, coffee in hand— and freezes when he sees you awake and sitting up.

His jaw drops slightly. The cup nearly slips out of his hand.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice still hoarse.

He crosses the room in three strides, setting the cup down so fast it tips slightly. He doesn’t sit, just crouches beside the bed, both hands reaching for yours, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“You’re awake.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He huffs, blinking hard. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but steady. “I missed you too.”

Shoko clears her throat. “I’ll give you two a minute. But don’t get too emotional, I haven’t checked her oxygen levels yet.”

She walks out, muttering something under her breath.

You and Satoru just look at each other for a long moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging gently between you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says.

“I know.”

Your lips part, the beginning of an apology already forming, something quiet and earnest, something like I’m sorry for going alone or I didn’t mean to shut you out—but Satoru just shakes his head and squeezes your hand more firmly.

“No,” he says, voice low but certain. “Not now.”

You blink, a little stunned. “But—”

“I mean it.” His gaze is steady on yours, still a little too bright. “You almost died. You don’t have to explain anything to me right now. We’ll talk later.”

The finality in his voice silences you, and all you can do is nod, your chest aching with something tender and heavy.

Instead of pressing you further, he shifts your blanket gently up around your shoulders, then takes his place in the chair beside your bed. He leans back, exhaling like he’s finally allowed to. His knees bump lightly against the frame, and one hand never leaves yours.

A comfortable silence stretches between you. Outside the window, the morning sun begins to filter more brightly through the clouds, casting everything in that familiar pale gold you used to watch together between missions.

After a few minutes, you glance over at him. “Are you gonna stay there all day?”

He smirks, the edge of his usual humor returning. “Unless Shoko kicks me out. Again.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

“Not a chance.” His expression softens.

Shoko returns with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, her clipboard tucked under her arm.

She gives Satoru a look—half warning, half amusement—before walking over to your bedside and setting the clipboard down. “Alright, sunshine,” she says, sipping from her mug. “Let’s see how we’re doing.”

You shift slightly as she checks your vitals, listens to your heart, and shines a small light in your eyes. Her touch is brisk but careful, clinical with a thread of gentleness running underneath—though she’d never admit it out loud.

Satoru watches the whole thing closely, eyes narrowed in thought, even if he tries to look relaxed.

“Still a little sluggish, but not bad,” Shoko mutters. “Vitals are stabilizing. Reverse cursed technique is holding. Muscle tone’s returning slowly, and your cursed energy has started regulating again.”

She jots a few notes down, then looks back up at you. “You’re going to be monitored here for the next 24 hours. If everything keeps trending the way it is, you can go home the day after tomorrow. That gives me enough time to wean you off the cursed energy support.”

You exhale slowly, some of the weight in your chest easing. “Home sounds good.”

Satoru’s shoulders finally drop a little too.

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Shoko says, raising a brow. “You’ll still need to check in with me twice a week. No fieldwork. No cursed spirits. No pushing yourself.”

You nod obediently, but she narrows her eyes. “And I mean it. I will sedate you if I have to.”

Satoru snorts. “She’ll do it too. Last month she stabbed me with a tranquilizer mid-sentence.”

“Because you were being insufferable,” Shoko mutters into her coffee.

You smile despite the dull ache in your body.

Shoko pulls the blanket up a little higher over you, a rare kindness, then straightens. “I’ll be back later with something to eat that isn’t vending machine soup. Get some rest.”

And just like that, she’s gone—leaving you alone again with Satoru, who’s now smiling a little too smugly.

“See?” he says. “Told you you’d pull through.”

You give him a tired look. “You were sobbing into my hospital gown two days ago.”

His smirk falters. “…No, I wasn’t.”

“Sure, Gojo. I could hear everything.”

He sticks his tongue out at you—because maturity has never been his strong suit—and sinks back into his chair with a dramatic sigh. But his hand never leaves yours.

The next day, just past noon, Satoru strolls into the infirmary balancing two paper bags and a drink carrier with his elbow.

“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, bright and loud as ever, kicking the door closed behind him with the heel of his boot. “Also I brought lunch. I figured hospital food has done enough emotional damage.”

You’re sitting up now, looking more alive than you have in a week, already dressed and ready, though a little pale around the edges. The fatigue still clings to you like a second skin, but there’s a flicker of your usual sharpness in your eyes.

“You’re late,” you say, but it’s soft. Teasing.

“Blame the kids,” he grumbles, setting everything down. “Someone started a cursed spirit summoning circle in the girls’ bathroom. I had to bribe a first-year with my pudding to rat them out.”

You raise a brow. “You bribed a kid with pudding?”

“It worked.”

He helps you into your coat, gently pulling the collar up around your neck even though it’s not cold out. You swat at his hand, and he swats back.

Shoko pops her head in just as you’re sliding off the bed. “Vitals are good, cursed energy stable. No stress, no lifting heavy objects, and if you feel dizzy, sit your ass down. Your ribs are still bruised, so stay off your feet.”

“Yes, doctor,” you both say in unison, and she rolls her eyes.

Satoru loops your bag over his shoulder, holding out a hand with a half-smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. You’ve got a date with the couch and a stack of bad reality TV.”

You take his hand. “Sounds perfect.”

You slide into the backseat of the car, the leather cool beneath you. Ijichi gives you a small, polite nod from the driver’s seat as you buckle in.

Satoru climbs in after you, shutting the door with a casual thud. “Ijichi, you know where to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Ijichi says, eyes already on the road ahead.

You glance sideways. “Where are we going?”

Satoru leans back with a smug smile, arms stretched out across the backrest behind you. “My place. You’re staying with me for a few days.”

Your eyebrows lift. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You almost died, remember? You're not exactly cleared for independent living yet.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He scoffs.

You try to protest again, but he cuts you off, voice just a little softer this time. “I’m serious. You need rest. Just... be somewhere safe. With someone who can keep an eye on you.”

Your lips part, but the sincerity in his tone stalls your words.

“…Fine,” you mumble. “But only because I don’t want to hear Shoko yell at me.”

“She’d kill you,” he grins.

“And probably bring me back just to do it again.”

“Exactly.”

Ijichi pretends he doesn’t hear any of it, eyes on the road, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement.

It had only been a little over a week since you'd last been in Gojo's apartment — cooking dinner barefoot in his kitchen, curled up under a throw blanket on his couch while some forgettable movie played in the background. But to him, it felt like a lifetime.

The moment you step through the door, something in the air shifts.

He doesn’t say anything right away — just watches as you take slow steps inside, your gaze moving over the familiar furniture, the books scattered on the table, the mug he never washed because it reminded him of that night.

You hesitate at the entrance, almost like you’re not sure you belong there anymore.

“Same place as before,” he says gently, nodding toward the bedroom. “I washed the sheets. Even got you new pajamas.”

You glance back at him, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, walking past you to toss his keys into the bowl by the door. “Well, I didn’t plan on almost losing you either. So here we are.”

You don’t answer, just move farther inside, letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the couch. The familiar scent of him — something warm and sharp, like citrus and incense — settles around you, and for the first time since waking up in that infirmary, you let your guard down.

Satoru stands in the kitchen for a moment, pretending to busy himself with the kettle, but his eyes are still on you.

“You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Then rest,” he says simply. “You’re safe here.”

You nod again, this time slower, and head toward the bedroom, your fingers brushing the edge of the hallway wall as you pass.

Behind you, he exhales softly and lets the kettle boil.

“I’m going to swing by your place with Ijichi,” he calls out from the kitchen. “Do you have anything you need?”

You pause in the doorway of the guest room, glancing over your shoulder. His voice carries easily from the kitchen, but there’s something gentler about it than usual — no trace of his usual teasing lilt.

“My charger,” you call back. “And maybe my laptop? If I feel up to working tomorrow.”

There’s a moment of silence before he responds, “Got it. Anything else?”

You think for a second. “Toothbrush, skincare. And that grey sweater I borrowed from you on my desk chair.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then adds, “I’ll text you if I can’t find anything.”

You nod even though he can’t see it and step into the room, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. It smells faintly of his laundry detergent and despite the dull ache still lingering in your body, you feel the tension in your shoulders start to unwind.

From the kitchen, you hear the rustle of keys, the soft clink of a mug being set down.

“I won’t be long,” he says, appearing in the hallway, jacket already slung over one shoulder. “Shoko said she’ll swing by later to check on you, but if you need anything before I’m back—”

“I’ll call,” you finish for him, smiling faintly. “I know.”

Satoru gives you a look and then nods. “Good. Lock the door behind me.”

And with that, he slips out, leaving the apartment quiet, warm, and oddly comforting like a space that was waiting for you to return.

You sit there for a few minutes after the door clicks shut, listening to the faint sounds of Satoru's footsteps retreating down the hall, then the distant whir of the elevator.

The quiet is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The light filtering in through the window is soft, early afternoon sun warming the apartment in a way that makes you feel... safe.

You let out a slow breath and glance around. His place is tidy, but lived-in. A throw blanket half-folded on the couch, a stack of paperwork on the kitchen island, a half-read manga beside his bed, and a small glass cabinet filled with old digimon memorabilia. It’s so Satoru it almost makes you smile.

You pad into the kitchen first, tugging open a cabinet to find a glass. It's exactly where it was last time. The familiarity is soothing. You fill it with water and sip slowly, the coolness grounding you.

After setting the glass in the sink, you open the fridge. A few energy drinks. Miso soup in a container with Shoko’s handwriting on the lid. Way too many instant puddings.

You shake your head with a tiny laugh, grab a pudding cup anyway, and make your way to the living room. You curl up on the couch, blanket over your legs, spoon in hand.

The silence settles again, but now it feels companionable. Like the apartment is breathing with you.

Eventually, you gather the strength to shower. You find a fresh towel folded neatly in the guest bathroom and one of Satoru’s oversized shirts folded at the end of the bed — probably left there on purpose. You smile to yourself, tug it on after your shower, and sink back onto the couch with damp hair and clean skin.

By the time Satoru returns — arms full of your things, sunglasses pushed up into his hair — you’ve drifted off, curled into the corner of the couch, the pudding cup half-empty on the table and one of his throw blankets pulled over your shoulders.

He stops in the doorway. His expression softens.

“Home already, huh?” he says quietly, mostly to himself. He moves around the apartment like he doesn’t want to disturb the peace.

He’s grateful you’re here to disturb it at all.

Satoru moves as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him with a soft click before walking past the couch where you’re sleeping. He pauses for a second, taking in the slow rise and fall of your chest, the soft grip you have on the edge of his throw blanket. His lips twitch into a quiet smile.

Then he exhales and gets to work.

He carries your duffel bag into his bedroom. He sets the bag on the bed, then crouches to unzip it. For a second, he just stares. The sight of your things — your hoodie, your face wash, the book you never finish — hits him in a way he doesn’t expect.

“This is fine,” he mutters to himself. “Totally normal.”

He begins unpacking, carefully placing your clothes in the top drawer of his dresser. Not all of them — just the essentials. He folds each piece neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles like it’ll somehow make you feel more at home. He sets your charger on the nightstand. Lines up your shampoo and skincare in the bathroom next to his ridiculous five-step eye cream routine.

He swaps out one of his pillows with your smaller one from home. Adjusts the blanket. Fluffs the comforter

He stands there for a second, glancing around. His bedroom has never really felt like anyone else’s space. But now, your things sit in small, careful clusters. It looks like you belong.

He walks back out into the living room, catching another glimpse of you curled up on the couch, still in his shirt. His chest pulls.

Quietly, he grabs a spare hair tie and your toothbrush from the bathroom — remembering how annoyed you get when you forget the little things — and sets them on the nightstand, too. Then he picks up your water glass, refills it, and places it gently beside the bed.

When he’s done, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and lets out a breath.

His room has never looked so good.

He lingers for a moment longer before finally pushing off the doorframe with a quiet sigh, heading toward the bathroom. The shower runs hot the way he likes it, steam curling around him as he scrubs away the exhaustion and lingering stress. He lets the water run down his back for a minute or two longer than necessary, grounding himself in the silence before stepping out and toweling off.

His hair, damp and unstyled, flops messily over his forehead, sticking out in soft waves. He doesn’t bother to fix it. Instead, he throws on a hoodie and sweatpants, then pads back into the bedroom.

You’re still curled up on the couch, wrapped in the throw blanket, face soft in sleep. He crouches beside you and gently brushes your hair out of your face. “Hey,” he whispers, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed.”

You blink slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and look up at him. Then you squint, lips tugging into a sleepy, amused smile. “Your hair… it looks like how it did in high school.”

He snorts quietly, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah, I just washed it.”

Still half-asleep, you mumble something incoherent and reach for him. He scoops you up easily, carrying you bridal-style across the room and gently settling you into his bed. Once you’re tucked in, he disappears for a moment, then returns with your meds in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Sit up for a second,” he murmurs, helping you take the pills before placing the glass on your nightstand. “There. You good?”

You nod sleepily, already sinking back into the pillows.

He’s gone again before he returns with a small bowl of rice and miso soup, carefully balanced in his hands.

“You didn’t eat anything earlier,” he says, sitting beside you. “Just a few bites, okay? You’ll feel better.”

He helps you sit up again, blowing gently on the spoon before holding it out to you. You eat quietly, slowly, with your eyes half-lidded, and he doesn’t rush you once.

When you’re done, he sets the bowl aside, tucks you back under the blankets, and sits beside you for a while, brushing your hair back from your face again.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice still faint but steadier than before.

He offers you a gentle smile, brushing your hair back one last time. “Yeah… of course,” he says. “Get some rest, okay?”

He starts to stand, turning to head out, but your fingers curl around his wrist before he can take a step.

“Wait,” you whisper. “We need to talk.”

He stills immediately, eyes flicking down to where your hand holds his. Then he nods—quiet, solemn—before sinking back down to sit beside you.

“I know,” he says, voice low. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Now,” you say firmly, eyes locking onto his.

“Not now,” he tries, gentler this time. “You’re tired. You just got out the infirmary.”

You shake your head, voice unwavering. “Satoru, if you don’t sit here and listen to what I have to say, I swear I’ll get up and walk straight out that door.”

He stares at you for a second, jaw tightening, before he swallows hard, defeated.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

You pat the mattress beside you. He hesitates for just a moment, then walks over and sinks down slowly onto the bed, settling on top of the covers beside you.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you both murmur, breaking the silence.

You blink, then let out a small, breathy laugh. “You first.”

But he shakes his head. “No, you go.”

You sit up just a little, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but gaze steady on his. “I… I’m sorry,” you say again. “You were right. About Suguru. I keep holding on to him like if I just try hard enough, maybe I can make sense of everything again. But I can’t, I know I can’t. And it’s not fair to you to drag you into this mess, I know you miss him too.”

He listens in silence, eyes fixed on yours. When you finish, he sighs, looking down at his hands.

“I shouldn’t have picked that fight,” he says, voice low. “There was no reason to push you. I just… I don’t know. I was scared. You always call me when something’s wrong, and this time, you didn’t. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, maybe you would’ve felt safe enough to.”

“That’s not true,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. “You weren’t wrong. I just… wasn’t ready to hear it.”

He lifts your hand slowly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I still should’ve handled it better.”

“You were just being honest. You were right.”

“No, I was wrong.”

“No—”

He cuts you off with a quiet chuckle. “God, we’re really doing this?”

“What, apologizing each other to death?”

“Exactly.” He leans back on one elbow, eyes tracing your face. “But… if we’re being honest… then I guess I should say it.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart beginning to race.

“Satoru?”

He hesitates for only a breath. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s quiet again, except now, it’s a different kind of quiet.

You don’t say anything at first, just stare at him, stunned. His eyes stay on yours, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I know it’s a bad time,” he adds quickly. “And you don’t have to say anything. I just… needed you to know. After everything, I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t feel that way.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Satoru…”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words sinking in.

“It’s okay,” he says again, voice softer now, as his thumb brushes over your hand. “But you almost died, and I was so scared you’d go without knowing how much you mean to me.”

His eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening.

“I remembered how much I regretted not telling Suguru. I kept thinking… if I’d said something sooner, maybe—” He cuts himself off, eyes glossy but steady. “I don’t want a repeat of that. Not with you.”

You squeeze his hand, heart twisting.

“I’m still here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, glancing back at you with a quiet sort of relief. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you. Slowly, carefully, he scoots a little closer, just enough for your knees to touch beneath the blanket. He doesn't want you to move, not when you're still healing.

“You’re my best friend,” you murmur, voice quiet against the soft cotton of his shirt. “And my favorite person in the world.”

You feel the hitch in his breath before you even glance up.

Without really thinking, your fingers seek out his. Like second nature, he lets you pull his hand into yours. His thumb brushes along the side of yours, tracing idle lines into your skin.

“You’re mine too,” he says.

You lift your head, eyes catching his. There’s something in his gaze that hasn’t been there before, or maybe it has, and you just hadn’t dared to look closely enough.

Neither of you says anything for a beat too long.

And then, without planning to, you lean in and he does too.

The kiss is hesitant at first. Barely there. Just the brush of lips, a question asked in silence. But the second you move closer, hand tightening in his, Satoru deepens it — careful, reverent — like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish.

When you part, your foreheads rest together, breath shared.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

You thought saying it would feel like release, but instead, it twists like a knife in your chest. The words fall from your lips, and the guilt that follows crushes you. You can feel it in your throat, in the way your body trembles as the sobs begin to rise — small at first, then unbearable.

Satoru lets his head fall back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling in stunned disbelief. “Don’t be,” he says softly. “You don’t know how many years I’ve imagined that… kissing you.”

But he doesn’t notice at first. Not until your shoulders start to shake.

When he looks down, he finds the tears already slipping down your cheeks, silent and raw. His expression shifts instantly, the warmth of that moment fading into worry.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching for your hand again. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t even look at him. “I still love him,” you confess, voice cracking. “I still love Suguru.”

The silence after feels like the air has been sucked from the room, your loud sobs filling the space.

“I care about you,” you continue, voice strained and trembling. “I do, more than anyone. But I don’t know how to stop loving him. And it’s not fair to you.”

You finally look at him. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s about to say something. But nothing comes out right away. Just the weight of truth sitting between you both.

“I’ll take it,” he says, so quietly it makes your breath catch. “I’ll take whatever part of you you can give me. Even if it’s not all of you. Even if he still has most of you.”

Your face crumples again. “You don’t deserve that.”

He doesn’t argue. Maybe because he agrees. Maybe because he knows it wouldn’t matter — not to his heart, which has always made terrible, stubborn choices when it comes to you.

The silence stretches long and heavy.

“I’ll go home tomorrow,” you murmur. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Stay.”

You look at him in confusion, eyes puffy and rimmed red. “Why?”

“Because I’d rather be near you, even if it hurts, than wonder if you’re okay from a distance.” His voice breaks a little. “And someone has to make sure you take your meds and eat and actually sleep through the night.”

There’s something unbearable in his kindness.

So you stay.

And for the next several days, he takes care of you like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask for more. He just… shows up.

He brings you tea in the morning. He warms the food even when you only eat a few bites. He gives you space when you need it and company when the silence gets too heavy. He doesn’t say Suguru’s name. He doesn’t cry in front of you.

But you notice the way his eyes linger sometimes, full of something you can’t bear to name. You notice the way he always sets out two glasses of water, even if you only use one.

You notice how, even with a broken heart, Satoru Gojo still chooses you.

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writeonwhiskey · 2 days ago

Text

summer in seoul: ch 12

a/n: sorry this took a little while! enjoy! word count: 3.8k

After a quick breakfast, Felix, Han, Lee Know and Jeongin are leading you out of the building. You all quickly duck inside the waiting car, and it takes off without them mentioning the destination at all.

You glance around at them, trying not to feel out of place, and take in how they’re dressed—caps pulled low, sunglasses, face masks. It reminds you of how Chris always dresses when you’re out in public together.

You now know the reason behind it. But they don’t know you’re in on the secret yet, which only makes the whole group cosplay even funnier.

“You all feeling under the weather or something?” you ask innocently.

They exchange a quick look.

“Just…sensitive to sunlight,” Felix mutters, tugging his bucket hat lower.

“Seasonal allergies,” Han adds with a sniff for emphasis.

“I have pimple,” Jeongin says.

Lee Know just shrugs.

You bite back a smile. “Right.”

You let them off easy, leaning back into the seat. Throughout the ride, Felix talks to you the most—he seems to take you under his wing, knowing it’s easier for you to communicate with him—but the others do their best to make you feel included, too.

“You guys going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

“It’s a secret,” Han says.

“You’ll like it,” Felix assures you.

You eye him suspiciously. “Why does everyone here seem to like secrets so much?”

“It’s not bad,” Jeongin replies.

“Chan said to keep you entertained,” Han adds with a shrug. “So that’s what we’re doing.”

There’s a brief pause before you respond. “So I’m basically being babysat by the local welcome committee?”

“Exactly that,” Felix nods, “and we offer snacks.”

You laugh quietly. “Do you guys always hang out like this? You don’t have to go to work or anything?”

Another shared look—slightly awkward. They let Felix take the lead.

“We’ve got pretty similar schedules,” he says. “But, yeah, we do spend a lot of our free time together.”

“Well, thanks for letting me tag along. I appreciate it. I probably would’ve just stayed in the hotel room all day.”

“We couldn’t let that happen,” Han says.

“Yeah,” Felix grins, glancing out the window. “You’re in Seoul. You’re obligated to at least try a claw machine.”

“Claw machine?” you repeat. “Are we going to an arcade?”

The car begins to slow, pulling into a narrow side street lined with colorful signage and a glowing neon arrow pointing toward an underground arcade.

Han shoots you a grin. “Ready to lose?”

You huff. They have no idea how competitive you are.

“Let’s do this.”

You follow them down the stairs into the dimly lit space. It’s packed full of flashing lights and whirring machines, and smells faintly of popcorn and cotton candy. But there’s hardly anyone inside, and when the boys take off their face masks you can only assume they either come here enough to know it’s dead on a Sunday or they’ve rented out the entire place. You hope for the former.

“Do you want a card or tokens?” Felix asks, already making a beeline for the machine at the entrance.

“I’ll win with either,” you reply.

Felix laughs, swiping a game card and handing it to you. “Confidence. I like it.”

Jeongin is already gone, halfway across the room in front of a basketball hoop game. He waves Lee Know over.

“Time to crush this kids ego.” Lee Know cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders.

You watch as the two of them start a head-to-head round, the machine lighting up with a countdown. Felix pulls you toward a claw machine nearby with rows of pastel plushies and keychains stacked inside.

“You have to call which one you’re going for,” Felix says.

“The bunny,” you tell him.

“I’m getting this bear,” he points to it.

“We’ll see.”

You and Felix choose separate machines and swipe your cards. As the claw dangles and jerks around inside, you go quiet to focus. You nudge it to the left, hold your breath, and press the drop button. The claw lowers, catches onto the pale blue bunny, lifts—and just before it hits the edge of the chute, it drops.

“Nooo,” you groan.

“That’s how they get you,” Han suddenly reappears at your side with a bucket of popcorn.

Felix’s first attempt isn’t any better. His claw completely misses its target.

“Okay, okay that was just a warm-up round,” Felix announces as you both slide your cards again.

Two attempts later, you manage to finally snag the bunny. It drops into the prize chute and you jump up and down, hands raised in the air.

“Damn, bro,” Han says, shaking his head at Felix. “Can you beat anyone in any game?”

Felix looks mildly betrayed. “It’s all luck sometimes.”

You smile sweetly, holding the bunny to him. “For your efforts.”

“A souvenir of my shame, you mean,” he mutters, but he grins as he takes it.

By the time you’ve all made the rounds—air hockey, racing simulators, shooting games—your competitive streak has flared and your card balance is dangerously low. Lee Know crushed Jeongin in four basketball games in a row. Han’s surprisingly good at Dance Dance revolution and Felix set a high score on the punching machine with a spinning back kick that had your jaw on the floor.

Somewhere between rounds, Lee Know disappears and returns with bottled water and kimbap for everyone.

“You guys are seriously good hosts,” you tell him as he hands you one.

“Chan would want us to keep you alive,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, he would definitely hurt us if we didn’t make sure you were adequately fed and hydrated,” Felix agrees.

“Is he your leader or something?”

They freeze for half a second—just long enough to notice.

Han recovers first. “He’s more like…our very stressed out parent.”

You narrow your eyes at them, but they’re already pretending to be very interested in their food. It’s obvious they’re deflecting, but there’s something kind of endearing about the way they do it. They obviously want to make sure you have a good time, but they’re under the impression they are protecting Chris’s secret.

“Well your dad-friend raised some very chaotic sons.”

“Thank you,” Felix says brightly. “We try.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent stopping by a few shops, the guys convincing you to try on things you never would’ve picked for yourself. Somewhere between a pair of oversized sunglasses and a bright patterned jacket, you stop resisting and lean into the mayhem with them. They’re relentless, but also surprisingly good at picking things that actually suit you.

By the time you all pile back into the car, you’re carrying a modest haul—though nothing compared to the bags Felix has. Back at the apartment building, Lee Know and Jeongin head off to their own place, each juggling a few bags.

Felix passes them his own, “You know where my closet is, thanks.”

Lee Know rolls his eyes, but Jeongin does his best to take all the bags in his hands.

Inside the apartment, you see Seungmin and Changbin seated at the dining table, casually flipping through their phones—and across from them sits someone you haven’t seen before. At least, not in person.

There’s something about him that immediately commands attention. His hair is pulled half-up, half-down, with loose strands framing his face. This must be the member that was in Milan for a fashion show. That phrase still doesn’t feel normal to even think.

He’s dressed in what could technically be called casual wear, but it’s fucking Versace. He makes it look both laid-back and runway ready at the same time. He glances up from his phone and when his eyes land on you, he smiles.

“You’re back already,” Felix says. “y/n, this is Hyunjin. Hyunjin, y/n—Chan’s friend.”

Hyunjin gives a small, polite nod and a casual wave. “Hey.”

You return the gesture.

“Didn’t expect you back so early today,” Han says.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin shrugs. “I slept like five hours in two different airports. I’m running on caffeine and vibes, right now.”

“You’re thriving, sweetie,” Changbin reassures him.

When Lee Know and Jeongin return, everyone decides to play charades. The next hour passes in a blur of ridiculous guesses, reenactments and accusations of cheating. You’re in the middle of trying to guess Han’s elaborate pantomime of…a chicken…a rocket ship…you have no idea, when Felix turns to look at you with a frown.

“Chan’s not gonna make it back tonight.”

“Oh.” You try not to let the disappointment show. “Everything okay?”

“Just work stuff,” he says. “But he said to make sure you get back to your hotel safely.”

The news puts a slight damper on the mood, but you finish out the game with them anyway. When they invite you to stay for dinner, you politely decline.

Felix insists on riding with you back to the hotel, chatting casually during the drive—nothing important, just easy conversation that keeps your mind from wandering too far.

Even without Chris, the day didn’t feel like a waste. If anything, it gave you a clearer understanding that they’re so much more than just a group. They’re connected in a way that’s hard to describe—a closeness that seems deeply earned. A kind of found-family bond.

When the car pulls up to your hotel, you turn to Felix with a smile.

“Thanks for today. Really.”

He nods. “Anytime.”

You pause with your hand on the door, then glance at him again. “You’re definitely, like, the second coolest member of Stray Kids.”

His mouth drops open—realizing you’d been fucking with them the entire day with your questioning. Before he can respond, you stick your tongue out and hop out of the car, shutting the door with a grin.

The window rolls down a second later.

“Not cool, y/n.”

The following day, after your author’s meeting, you still haven’t heard from Chris. As you go over your notes from the meeting, you can’t keep your mind from drifting to thoughts of him.

You wonder why he texted Felix about not being able to come back yesterday and not you, if everything’s really fine, what exactly pulled him away—what’s kept him away all this time. And then you remind yourself, as gently as possible, that it’s not your place to worry like this.

You try to reduce it to simple human compassion. The same empathy you’d feel for any friend going through a rough time.

Still, that doesn’t dull the ache of how far away he suddenly feels. Before you think too deeply about it, you pull out your laptop and type their group name into YouTube. You tell yourself it’s only to understand more about the world Chris calls reality. But it’s just blatant curiosity at this point.

To your surprise there’s an endless supply of content: music videos, live stages, interviews, behind-the-scenes clips, and even game shows. Each one feels more surreal than the last. You fall into a two-hour rabbit hole, slack-jawed as you watch the very same boys you spent yesterday with (and Chris, whom you’ve fucked), send their fans into a frenzy merely by existing.

It's jarring, trying to mesh the different versions of them all together.

Just as you pull up a live stream of a 4th of July firework show back home, your phone buzzes. You can’t stop the wave of relief that washes over you, seeing his name.

Hwarang [8:27pm] Hey

You don’t hesitate to reply.

You [8:28pm] Hey. You okay?

Hwarang [8:30pm] I’ll be fine You busy?

You glance up at the fireworks bursting on your screen. You’re the exact opposite of busy.

You [8:31pm] Not at all.

As soon as the two checkmarks next to your message turn blue, your phone starts to ring. You nearly drop it out of shock—he’s never called you before. You clear your throat, press the answer button and place the phone against your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says as soon as the line connects, his voice soft and low.

“For what?”

“Goin’ MIA again.”

You remain silent for a moment. Given the parameters of your ‘relationship’, this is supposed to be something you both find fun. He’s not supposed to feel bad for being preoccupied. However, you do appreciate his acknowledgement.

“Work comes first, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I know,” he sighs, “I wanted to text you but I was in such a shitty mood I didn’t want any of it to rub you the wrong way.”

“You’ve only ever rubbed me the right way, Chris,” you tease.

He chuckles. “Can I come see you?”

“Now?”

A knock at your door startles you once again. You immediately know it can’t be a coincidence.

“Chris…” you trail off, walking towards the door.

“Hmmm?”

You pull the door open to reveal Chris, masked up and leaning against the wall next to the doorframe.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he smiles, looking at you as he continues speaking into his phone.

“Uh-huh,” you say, stepping aside and allowing him to enter.

He takes his shoes off and continues into the room, finally hanging up the phone and sliding it onto the table. He takes off his backpack, then removes his mask and tosses his hat next to his phone. He then brings you in for a hug, squeezing you tightly for longer than necessary, but you don’t mind.

“You hungry? Thirsty?” you ask when he releases you.

“I’m good,” he sits down at the small table. He glances at the video playing on your laptop and you promptly shut it.

“Feeling a little homesick today,” you mumble with a shrug.

“What would you have been doing today if you were home?” He inquires, pushing the other chair out at the table for you to sit.

“I would have helped my mom host her annual barbecue and gorged myself on hamburgers and hot dogs, set off fireworks—the typical celebrations,” you reply, taking a seat.

“Sounds fun…sorry you have to miss it,” he replies earnestly.

“There’s always next year.”

A silence falls over you as he leans back in the chair, stroking his chin with his pointer finger. He seems to slip away for a moment.

“What were your worst-case scenario picks?” you ask.

“Huh?” He arches an eyebrow, then it clicks. “Oh…well, the first one was that all of our fans would riot and hate me for breaking a promise.”

You nod, encouraging him to keep going, happy he actually partook in the exercise.

“The second was that another groups image would be irreparably damaged by some careless things I said.”

“Do you mind sharing what actually happened?”

You don’t want him to feel like you’re prying, but his worst-case scenarios leave much to be considered.

He falls quiet again, and for a moment you worry you’ve overstepped, but then he continues.

“I have this weekly live stream I do with our fans—Chan’s Room…”

You nod, showing him you’re listening. But you hope your face doesn’t give away the fact that you watched clips of it before he arrived.

“It was going strong for a couple of years, too. I mentioned another group in a backhanded sort of way and a few groups they assumed I was talking about, were bombarded with unwarranted hate.”

You have no clue how deep their fandom goes, but it sounds like they’re ready to fight for him at the drop of a dime.

“And the future of the weekly stream has been up in the air right now. I’ve apologized, tried to make things right, but…it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to keep doing it.”

“And you enjoyed them?” you ask, curiously.

“I loved it,” he replies with a sullen smile. “I got to connect with our fans every Sunday and talk with them, catch up with them, joke with them…it made us closer, I think.”

“So it’s canceled? The decision is final?”

“It’s not official, but after yesterday’s meeting I know it will be eventually.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry, Chris.” You reach out, squeezing his knee gently.

He gives a half-assed shrug, but you can see right through him. The tension in his jaw. The flicker of pain in his eyes. “Life goes on.”

“C’est la vie.”

His lip quirks up. “English, Korean, and French, eh?”

“I’m just full of surprises,” you smirk.

“Speaking of…” he leans back slightly. “Do you know the exact date you leave?”

You narrow your eyes at the shift. “Yes…but I’m not sure I should tell you now.”

“I’m not planning anything crazy,” he says, though his grin is suspicious. “When do you leave?”

“Says the man who arranged a full itinerary and sunset dinner cruise?”

His grin only grows. “When?”

You sigh. “The 18th.”

“And what meetings do you have lined up?”

You cross your arms. “You are up to something.”

“Come on…” he pleads. “I just want to know when I’ll have you to myself again. I’m out of town for a couple days, then I’m back for a bit. After that…”

“I’m gone,” you attempt to complete his sentence.

“Well, I was gonna say I’ll be performing at Lollapalooza,” he smirks, “but yeah, that too. Of course. Absolutely.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m busy on the 10th and 17th.”

“Noted,” he says, tapping his temple.

He suddenly reaches out, grabbing the arm of your chair and dragging it toward him.

“I leave tomorrow morning,” he announces, resting his hands on your thighs.

“You should probably head home and get some sleep, then.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “I’d rather be right here. Besides, we were interrupted last time.”

You place your hands over his and lean in. “Did you come to my room to cash in on a promised blowjob?”

He doesn’t flinch—just grips your thighs and pulls you forward until you’re straddling him.

“That’s one idea.”

He stands with you still wrapped around him, lips brushing yours as he walks the two of you to the bed. He lays you down, crawling over you.

“I need to keep my mind busy, right now, though.”

His mouth crashes to yours hungrily. The fire between you reignites instantly, your legs lock around his waist, your hands slipping beneath his shirt, nails raking across his back.

He pulls away and yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, then drops to his knees on the floor. His fingers dig into your hips as he drags you to the edge of the bed.

“You gonna miss me?” He asks, lips ghosting kisses along your thigh.

“Do you want me to?” you ask, looking down at him.

He pauses. “Yes.”

“Alright…let’s see if you can make me miss you.” You challenge him.

He lowers his head between your thighs without another word. His tongue parts your folds, then he purses his lips together as if he’s going to whistle to blow cool air onto your pussy, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

You grip his hair, tugging him forward. He groans as he devours you, mouth sealed to your pussy, tongue moving in tight circles. His hand pushes against your stomach, encouraging you to lie back. You obey, shuddering as he explores you. When he slips two fingers inside, your body arches in response.

“Chris—fuck—”

His rhythm is relentless. His lips, his fingers, his moans all drive you toward the edge, your eyes flutter shut. You cup your breasts, whining and moaning as he alternates between giving you what you desire and teasing you.

You grab his hand on your stomach and try to force him up.

“You want me to stop?”

“I want you to fuck me,” you reply.

In a blur, he’s above you again, stripping off his clothes. You fumble with his jeans, the urgency between you palpable. His gaze is fixed on yours as he positions himself at your opening. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him down to kiss you, thrusting your hips forward to take him inside. You moan and bite on his bottom lip as he pulls away.

His gaze locks on yours as he pushes his hips forward at an achingly slow rate. You gasp at the stretch, at the feel of him.

“You gonna miss me?” He asks again, eyes teasing you just as much as his cock.

You press your lips firmly together. Partially just to be defiant, but you also don’t want to lie to yourself or him. You can’t miss him.

He thrusts deeper, lips brushing yours. He starts off slow and sensual at first, then faster, harder. His thumb finds your clit, circling as he fucks you.

Your moans grow louder, your hips raising to meet his each time. He presses his forehead against yours. Having him inside you right now is no different than any of the other times, but a feeling is brewing that you cannot shake.

“Come for me, y/n,” he whispers. “I want to feel it.”

He straightens and you watch, entranced, as he continues thrusting his hips back and forth, still teasing your clit. But the way he’s staring at you is unnerving. You feel like you’re on a runaway train heading straight for trouble.

But if you’re being honest, you’ve known this since the fucking dinner cruise and haven’t really done a single thing to stop it.

You sense your release approaching and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you again, wanting him as close as possible. You bury your face against his chest as you cry out his name. He groans as he comes, too, his body trembling with the force of it.

He stays there, slumped against you, catching his breath. He presses kisses to your face, your jaw, your forehead. The air is thick with sweat, sex, and a raw need that neither of you want to acknowledge.

“What time is your flight?” you whisper.

“7:00am.”

“Are you sleeping here?”

“I shouldn’t…I still need to pack.”

You nod. He kisses you once more before rolling out of bed. You watch him dress, your body still humming with pleasure.

True to character, he disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm towel to clean you up with gentle care.

“I’ll text—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off. “When you say it, I expect it. Just…keep in touch if you have time. If you want.”

He nods with a small smile. “Deal.”

He finishes cleaning up his mess on you and you take the towel from him.

You walk him to the door, waiting as he puts on his backpack, then his hat, then his mask. When his shoes are on, too, he pulls you in for another kiss.

“Have a safe flight,” you murmur against his lips.

“Mmm,” he hums, nuzzling your nose before finally pulling away. He releases you and opens the door, stepping into the hall. “So you gonna miss me or what?”

“Bye, Christopher,” you deadpan and shut the door in his face.

a/n: when i was editing this, i realized i used the "runaway train" line back in 2023 when i originally wrote this and i was like hmmm should i take this line out? is to too on the nose with the release of railway?? but it made the cut hehe. [ read chapter thirteen here ] (coming soon)

taglist: @hanniesbubuwife / @valworld17 / @luckyroll3 / @fancybarbii / @mlink64 / @ehstay / @gncbnahc / @no1likeneo / @beppybeesnuggets / @lattyjiji / @akindaflora / @spookiesakura

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doodl3wr1t3s · 2 days ago

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˚｡⋆୨Binding Ties୧˚⋆ ˚

୨୧Pairing: Abby Anderson x Fem!Reader ୨୧Summary: You stumble upon an innocent tiktok trend and decided to playfully try it out. Making use of Abby's biceps in a more, playful way. But the interactions slowly take on a more intimate tone. ୨୧Word Count: 1k❀˖° ୨୧Content: MEN DNI, slightly 16+, stablished relationship, Abby's muscles, biceps, ribbons, that on tiktok trend, suggestive at the end

Abby sat on her bed, her back propped up by a stack of pillows as she mindlessly scrolled through her phone. The soft sound of music drifted through the room from her laptop, which was balancing precariously on the edge of the nearby dresser. Suddenly, a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Abby set her phone aside and called out, “Come in.” The door creaked open, and you peeked your head into the room, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Abby’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a warm welcome lit up on her features. “Hey,” she greeted, patting the space next to her on the bed. “Come sit.” You walked over and settled onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Abby’s arm slid around your shoulder, pulling you closer as she continued to lazily scroll on her phone. She sighed contentedly, her fingers absentmindedly toying with a loose thread on the hem of your sleeve. For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the gentle sounds of your breathing and the soft music still playing in the background. “What are you looking at?” you asked curiously, peeking over at Abby’s phone in her hand. Abby shrugged, her eyes never leaving the tiny screen, “just scrolling through some stuff,” she replied vaguely, a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. You rolled your eyes playfully, knowing that Abby always had a habit of being somewhat evasive when it came to her online habits. “Anything interesting?” you inquired, even though deep down you suspected you probably wouldn’t get a straight answer. Abby hummed noncommittally, scrolling idly for a few more moments, before finally flicking off her phone and setting it aside. “Nah,” she answered, turning to face you. “Just the usual stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow skeptically, but didn’t press the issue further. Abby was notoriously secretive about her online life, and you had learned long ago not to try to pry too much.

You decided to shift the topic, “Hey, have you seen that new tiktok trend?” you asked suddenly, remembering something that you had come across earlier in the day.

Abby raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Uh, which one?” she asked, propping herself up on one elbow and giving you her full attention.

“You know, that one where people tie a ribbon around their partner’s biceps?” you said, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I saw it earlier, and it looks pretty cute.”

Abby’s expression grew amused as she caught on to what you were hinting at. She smirked and rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, really?’ she drawled, raising an eyebrow. “And you want to try it out?”

You shrugged nonchalantly, but Abby could tell that you were secretly hoping she'd say yes. “It could be fun,” you said innocently, toying with the edge of the blanket on the bed.

Abby pretended to consider it for a moment before finally caving in. “Alright, alright,” she said, unable to resist your little nonchalant attitude. “But you’re fetching the ribbon.”

You grinned victoriously and immediately hopped up from the bed, racing over to Abby’s dresser where you knew she kept her craft supplies. After rummaging through the drawers for a moment, you finally found a roll of pink ribbon hidden amongst the miscellaneous items.

You held it up triumphantly, brandishing it like a trophy, "Found it!”

Abby couldn’t help but laugh at your enthusiasm, “Alright, bring it over here,” she said, patting the bed next to her. You practically skipped back over to her; the ribbon clutched tightly in your hand.

You settled back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged next to Abby. She held out her arm, offering you, her bicep. “Go on then,” she encouraged, a teasing smirk playing on her lips.

You began to wind the ribbon around her bicep; taking care to ensure it was snug but not too tight. Every so often, your fingers would brush against her skin, sending goosebumps racing across her flesh. Abby tried to stay still, but she couldn’t help but shiver under your touch.

Once the ribbon was securely tied, in a neat little bow, you sat back and admired your handiwork. The pink ribbon contrasted nicely against Abby’s skin, hugging the contours of her bicep perfectly. Abby flexed her arm, testing the tension of the ribbon.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Abby’s biceps were toned and defined, the result of years spent playing various sports and engaging in regular strength training. The pink ribbon, tied snuggly around her arm, only served to highlight the muscular curves. Every time she flexed. The ribbon hugged her skin taut, accentuating the strength beneath.

You couldn’t help but admire the way the ribbon accented Abby’s bicep, the soft pink against her skin creating a striking image. You reached out, gently running your fingers along the fabric, feeling the hard muscle beneath. Abby chuckled softly, noticing your infatuation.

“You like what you see?” she teased, flexing her arm again just to watch your reaction. You blushed slightly, caught admiring her physique, but couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

You swallowed thickly, trying to find your voice. “Yeah,” you admitted, clearing your throat. “It looks…good.”

Abby smirked, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on you. “Just good?” she taunted, raising an eyebrow.

“Alright, more than good,” you amended, your cheeks heating up even more. Abby laughed, clearly reveling in the opportunity to tease you. She shifted slightly, turning towards you and flexed her bicep right in your face.

The pink ribbon seemed to stand out even more, drawing your gaze directly to the firm muscle beneath it. Your fingers itched to touch, and you had to force yourself to sit on your hands to resist the urge. Abby noticed the struggle, her smirk growing wider with satisfaction.

“You know,” she said shyly, her voice low and sultry, “You’re welcome to touch.”

Your eyes snapped up to meet Abby’s, your heart skipping a beat at her words. You hesitated for a moment, unsure if she was simply teasing or if she was serious. But the look in her eyes told you that she meant it.

Abby leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “And if you ask nicely,” she murmured, her gaze roaming over your blushing face, “I might even let you tie a ribbon around something else.”

Tags: @valeisaslut @sewithinsouls @redroomgraduate @elliepoems

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ra1nbw · 1 day ago

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Bags - 4

·˚ ༘ pairing - awk!bfflellie x confused!fem!reader

·˚ ༘ summary - Ellie's friendship with you started off innocent, you both were un-attachable, doing everything together, constantly getting mistaken as a couple and playing along with it. That is until Ellie develops a crush on you, her presumably straight friend, where her only choices are to pursue her feelings hoping you feel the same way, or... packing away her feelings along with your friendship.

“I can’t read you, but if you want, the pleasure’s all mine.”

it was two weeks after the birthday dinner, dina was chilling at ellie’s while ellie ranted about whatever. whatever being you.

dina kept talking about how she could tell you were crushing hard on ellie at her dinner. saying how you guys practically couldn’t keep your hands off one another.

“she just gets touchy at times, dee, y’know how she is.” ellie would say.

“jeez els, you’re so oblivious it physically pains me.” dina would tease.

ellie shuffled around her desk, getting comfortable while booting up her fortnite when she remembered that you loved the game, causing her to text you.

ellie

y’wanna hop on fort?

she waited approximately three minutes before she got a response.

you

i would if i wasn’t babysitting my niece

catch me tn?

catch me tonight

is what ellie would keep repeating to herself in her head.

such a simple message, yet from you, it sounded so intimate.

the freckled face girl spent the remainder of her day impatiently waiting for you to text saying you were ready to play, and when you finally did, she was undeniably nervous.

“where do you wanna drop at?” she’d ask you.

“let’s go to wolf’s lair. it always has loads of guns, just gotta hope nobody else has the same idea as us before we can suit up.” you’d reply.

by the time you guys had started playing the game, dina had came back into the room after chilling in the living room, having decided to rewatch her favorite series.

she didn’t know that ellie was mic’d up with anybody, especially you, when she started speaking.

“els, whenever you do end up confessing to y/n, what do you plan on saying? or do you plan on never telling her like the loser you are, just hoping she never comes out and gets a girlfriend that could’ve been you?” dina laughed at her own joke, waiting on a reaction from ellie.

when she didn’t get one, she looked over at her friend, noticing the distraught look on her face. her cheeks pink, mouth left hanging open.

“ellie what’s wrong-?”

“i gotta go.” dina heard your voice cut through the room, silence filling the air afterwards.

ellie sat there in her chair, her heart hammering in her chest. she didn’t know what to do, or how she was going to explain to you what dina meant.

there truly was no way around this.

you heard what dina said word for word.

you now knew about ellie’s crush on you.

ellie. your best friend.

“shit, els, im so sorry. i didn’t know she was there.” dina tried apologizing, genuinely feeling like she just ruined yours and ellie’s relationship.

“fuck, dee… what am i gonna do? what do i tell her? s-she fucking knows everything now.” ellie was full on panicking now, she felt as if she’d pass out due to how hot her body was getting.

“she probably just needs time, ellie. you gotta give her space to process what she just heard.”

“just leave her be for now and then text her as if nothing happened.”

ellie and dina sat in ellie’s room for a little longer until dina decided it was time for her to head home.

“keep me updated, ‘kay? i’m sorry again, els.” she’d say before leaving out.

i’m so fucked.

———

it’s been three days and ellie has been flat out avoiding you. she didn’t know what to do or say to you that wouldn’t lead to awkwardness.

although she was ignoring you, you kept sending ellie instagram reels, snaps, tiktok’s, all things that went unanswered. you were starting to think that maybe you handled the situation wrong.

if that’s what you could even call that. a situation.

what were you expected to do? you just found out your best friend supposedly had a crush on you and is waiting to confess her feelings.

after you rushed off the game with ellie that day, you were left to your thoughts.

it wasn’t that you were mad at ellie or anything. she’s your best friend, you could never be mad at her for liking you or anything.

you were more mad at yourself.

you were confused. you’ve been battling your sexuality in private since middle school. having a homophobic dad not really helping.

you wanted to tell your friends but figured keeping this from everyone would be best.

after overhearing what dina said tonight, you realized something.

a realization of ‘i may not be straight after all.’

after ellie’s dinner, you allowed yourself time to think about how you guys would look as a couple. would ellie even like you that way?

now you didn’t have to worry about that last part, having your questions answered by dina unexpectedly.

the real issue was what am i?

you figured you needed to find out if you were gay, and what was the best way to do that?

taking an “am i gay?” buzz feed quiz!

yes, that was the best thing you could’ve thought of and even after you got the booming ‘you definitely have an attraction towards woman’ answer, you still felt incomplete.

“this quiz cannot be real.” you muttered to yourself while laying on your stomach in your bed, feet kicking behind you.

———

you

hey can i come over or r u still ignoring me?

once ellie got that text from you, she swears her heart dropped to her stomach.

‘what the fuck do i say? do i even respond?’

her mind was racing with all the possible outcomes of what could happen if she didn’t respond. what could happen if she did. god, she was a mess.

ellie

uh yea ofc

and i wasn’t ignoring u

ellie mentally facepalmed as she has very obviously been avoiding you for the past three days.

you

yea right

i’m omw

after she read your text, ellie immediately stood up and started changing out of her clothes, tossing something cleaner on.

she wasn’t going to look a mess when her best friend, who is also her crush, who also knows she likes her, comes over after being ignored continuously.

soon, ellie hears a knock at her door, standing up quickly before walking to the door.

once she opened it, she was met with your face, staring straight into her eyes.

“h-hey!” ellie squeaked out, embarrassment already filling her body.

“hey.” your response was short, she figured you were debating whether or not you should turn around now or just get this over with.

“you gonna let me in or just leave me out here?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips.

“o-of course! come in!” ellie ushered inside the house, leaving room for you to follow behind, before she started walking towards her bedroom.

once you both were there, the auburn haired girl sat on the edge of her own bed, her eyes peering up at yours, trying to read your face.

“so-“

“why have you been avoiding me?” you blurted out.

ellie’s face instantly went red.

“w-what?” she tried defending herself,

“c’mon els, don’t give me that bullshit. ever since i got off the game with you that day, you stopped talking to me.”

ellie felt as if you misunderstood the situation at that moment.

“i mean what’d you expect me to do? did you not hear what dina said?”

“i heard her, ellie, which still doesn’t give you the right to shut me out.” you announced,

ellie was now in her head, debating whether or not she wanted to let you know how she truly felt or lie her way out of this.

she went with the first option.

“god, y/n, seriously what’d you expect? you immediately hung up after dina said what she said. how was i supposed to react? for all i know, my straight best friend just found out her gay best friend is in love with her and then completely left.”

“well i mean, hello? ellie i just- i cant right now.” you felt defeated. you didn’t know what your end goal was coming here.

“can’t what? what can’t you do?” ellie asked.

“nothing! i’m sorry for wasting your time.” you turned your back, ready to walk out.

“don’t leave.” you heard ellie mutter from behind you.

you turned your head, eyes meeting hers.

“can we at least talk about where this leaves us? i don’t… i don’t wanna lose you, y/n.” she spoke softly.

“i need to ask you something. something i’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time.” you said.

“anything, you can ask me anything you want.”

after ellie said that, there was a long silence of you two just staring at each other until you finally spoke up.

“when did you realize you liked girls?” you asked quietly.

your best friend couldn’t tell if she was hearing things but when you repeated yourself she knew she wasn’t.

“i guess.. i don’t know, honestly. i kinda just realized that boys weren’t my thing. i figured i couldn’t like anybody if i didn’t like boys up until… well up until you, y/n.”

your heart fluttered at her words, face warming up at her.

“why do you ask?” ellie questioned.

“i’m asking because i think… i don’t know, i think i like them too. girls.” once you admitted to ellie what you’ve been questioning about your whole life, you felt a small weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

“r-really? what makes you think-“

“i like you ellie.” you cut her off.

at first when you said it you didn’t believe it your self until you repeated it, more confidently. “i truly like you, ellie and i realized after that call that this could happen. hearing that you had already been crushing on me made me… panic? i don’t know, i just- i didn’t know what to do so i left.”

you kept talking,

“i’ve been struggling with what i am and who i am that i started denying my attraction woman- to you! but i realized that i don’t have to label myself, especially when i already know what it is that i like…”

“i guess what im trying to say is i like you too. i think i have for a long time… just needed something to help me see that.”

ellie felt as if she could cry. happy tears. her best friend, her crush, had just confessed to liking her just as much as she did.

she didn’t know what to say, she could sit there with a smile on her face, her heart beating but not in a bad way, but in a ‘everything’s going to be okay’ way.

“ellie? can you say something.”

she didn’t realize how long she’d been sitting there without responding to you. after all, you did just come out to your best friend in both ways.

“fuck, sorry! i didn’t know what to say, i mean i still don’t honestly.”

a frown started creeping up onto your face

“don’t tell me you lost feelings for me already?”

“what?! no! of course not, i still love you-!” it had already slipped out before she could stop herself, and there it was, that familiar feeling was back.

embarrassment.

“you love me, williams?” you asked teasingly, slowly walking over to where she sat.

“i didn’t mean to say that- i mean i do though, honestly, but only if you want-“ you stopped her rambling by pressing your lips to hers, both your hands rising from your hips to grab onto ellie’s face.

she didn’t kiss back at first, too shocked to comprehend what was happening until it kicked in and her lips were moving against yours.

it was like that for a while until you pulled back, resting your forehead against hers.

“i’m sorry, els.” you spoke quietly.

“what’re you sorry for? that was the best kiss i’ve ever had. not that i’ve kissed anyone else.” she quickly corrected herself.

“you’re such a dork,” you smiled , “i’m sorry that it took this long for me to realize my feelings for you. can’t imagine how you must’ve felt thinking i’d never reciprocate them.”

“not to mention i thought you were straight? that was a huge issue.” ellie said with a chuckle, you rolling your eyes playfully at her remark.

“what now?” she had asked with a more serious tone.

“now? now we figure out how we wanna do this. how we’ll move forward. together.”

and god, ellie couldn’t have been happier.

FINALLYYYYYY SHE CONFESSED!! war is over and there’s only one more chapter left! pls lmk what u guys think of this one 😊😊

@lovewitchss @beanbagbitch @f7rys @iadorefineshyt

#the last of us #tlou hbo #ellie williams #tlou2 #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams series #ellie tlou #ellie williams fluff #ellie willams smut #ellie x you #ellie x fem reader #ellie willams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x you

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forgottenwriter · 3 days ago

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An In-Deph Look At the R/Trans Drama

All right, I said before that I'd break this one down. Now, I'm not a big blog. I have less than 50 followers. I don't really think that whether I make this or not will make a ton of difference overall. But I've seen people asking about what's going on, and I've seen misinformation getting spread around, and more than that, whether my platform is big or not, I feel called to make use of it for something as important as this. I'm trans too, and though I'm not a trans guy, I know what it feels like to desperately look to your allies when you're hurting inside only to get deafening silence in return.

So I'm gonna speak. I'll start with a basic summary over what happened, followed by an in-depth look and examination. This will be a long post, probably several days in the writing. Either that, or I'll break it into a series of posts and reblogs.

The Summary: What the hell Happened on R/Trans?

R/Trans is a subreddit which boasts 611K members, making it a truly massive trans community. It was established in May 9th, 2011, meaning that it is also a fairly old trans community. It's linked to R/lgbt via shared moderators (We'll cover that in a bit.)

r/Trans styles itself as a community for the support of trans people. All trans people, and states such in its own rules: ''Rule 4: This Space is for Transgender People

While we appreciate that many cisgender people want to support transgender people, r/trans is a space for transgender people to discuss their lives and issues that surround them, and submissions from outside of the community are not welcome in this subreddit.

If you are a cis person with a question about the trans community, or the partner of a cis person, please ask your question in r/AskTransgender.

If you are the parent of a trans child, you can ask your questions in r/cisparenttranskid.'' Furthermore, it solidifies this claim again later in the same rules:

''Rule 6: No Gatekeeping Ideologies

Our subreddit is one specifically aimed at allowing people to explore their identity and creating a safe space for those identities to be explored. Truscum, transmedicalist, and other gatekeeping ideologies do not serve our subreddit's goals and comments or posts promoting such are prohibited. This specifically includes suggesting that gender affirming medical care should only be available to adults.''

Okay, so far, it looks pretty good right? Big community. Old community. Open to everyone. Cares for us all. it's basically perfect. Exactly what we need! The only way this could be ruined is if the mod team were actually highly biased against a specific group of trans people and trying to hide behind feigned inclusiveness, but that would never happen, right?

Oh. Oh dear.

Slightly more than a week ago, a user on r/trans made a long, detailed post on the treatment of transmen in the community. This post was largely well received by all members therein. I want to drive that in very strongly. This was not a community issue. Most people who read that post agreed with it, and supported the user in their points and venting.

The post was made to two places, r/trans and r/lgbt. It can furthermore be found here. If you would like to check it yourself, I encourage you to do so. I am trying to be largely unbiased, but as you can certainly tell by my tone, my scorn at this whole situation is leaking through. I don't want you to take my word for this. I'm a guide. I'll be dropping links. Check this shit out yourself, okay?

Anyway, back to the story. So, the user made those posts, and for about a week, nothing happened. It was business as usual. Then, 3 days ago, that post vanished. It was removed by the mods with no warning or indication as to why.

The user made another post asking for clarification here. As you can see, that post has also been removed.

Yeah.

Not a great sign, huh?

But that's not where it ends. Buckle in, because we're only at the start of the wild ride.

During the thread asking for clarification, the orginal poster was told the following: ''Your previous post was removed for talking about how trans men "are talked about and cared about so little that many people don't actually know the shit we go through."

This is divisive to the community.

You even called out the reason the post is divisive when you said "Please do not respond to this post with "Well I think trans men are talked about less because society sees them as confused women" or anything like that."

You knew the post would bring in arguments. Posts that encourage fighting about who or why is oppressed are not allowed.''

So, we're running into issues right away. To be clear, this sort of post is very expected in this community... when it's talking about trans women. The post the original poster made was accepted by the majority and no one considered it an issue for a week. As a reminder, you are free to check it yourself to see if it is the kind of post that would be against the rules. I encourage you to do so if you haven't already.

Furthermore, the Op told us that they received modmail from the sub too:

''The rude comments from mods I got were the following:

In my messages when I asked why my post was taken down, I was told it was because "sexual assault is not unique to trans men" in response to my post pointing out trans men's disproportionate rates of being sexually assaulted. I was also told that the dismissal of trans men "doesn't happen" and then I had two comments about my post being "oppression olympics" even though I clearly stated multiple times in my post that was not the point, and was very deliberate with my language to ensure I was not putting anybody down while trying to pull trans men up.''

Some of these messages have been screenshot and can be read here.

So, following this, the second post asking for clarification was removed for ''bitching'', and one of the mods may or may not have used ''bitch'' as a slur specifically to refer to the original poster who is FtM, but I've been unable to chase up any screenshots of that. I believe it happened, but Imma be transparent with that one. Believe or not at your own discretion.

Anyway, the community fucking exploded. Turns out that a lot of people actually weren't okay with this, and felt it was a little bit bullshit for a trans guy to get thwacked for a post that would have been absolutely acceptable from a trans girl.

In response, the mods banned the original poster for three days, and made an announcement I will quite below:

''Stop With The Trans Man Post Removal Commentary

We have now removed a dozen posts of people complaining about the one where a mod removed a post espousing how trans men are treated differently in trans circles and by the world. We have replied to the OP, explaining exactly how their post was divisive to the community. The post was also removed by a trans masc mod, so please stop saying it's oppression by the trans fem mods.

We are actively monitoring the sub and removing any posts that are talking about this. These posts are not going to change our stance on the original post. We are not currently banning people for it if they only post once, though usually they would be for causing disturbances. However, those who continue to harass the sub and the mods with this will receive temporary bans. We are also not sending out removal notices for them, because every person posting it knows why it's being removed.''

The announcement has been been removed, but you can find the deleted notification here.

I also wanna address another thing straight up. This is the first instance of what I believe to be a direct lie on the part of the mod team. They claim that their singular trans masc mod was the one who removed the post. As far as I can find, that is straight untrue. The trans masc mod has since left, and commented that they left pretty much as soon as they realised what had gone down and that they were being dragged out as a shield. They didn't comment specifically on whether it was them that removed the post... but given they say they left as soon as they were aware, have not defended the action, have actively opposed the action, and the mod team have continually tried to reach out to ftm people to act as shields, I am pretty confident in saying that hey did not, in fact, remove that post.

Also, yes, they did eventually start to ban people who refused to be quiet about this.

Now, at some point, the original post also got pulled from r/lgbt, and it turns out, the two subs have a mod overlap. Given the original post is breaking no rules on either sub, this is starting to look a lot like ass covering as the fires really start to light up.

But oh boy, it gets worse. By now, things were starting to boil over. Not only was it leaking to r/lgbt but also r/ftm, which I must say, was handling it significantly better, but we will get onto that later. We still have a lot to go, and I'm trying not to jump ahead.

So, around this point, the mods are starting to realise they fucked up. The original poster is unbanned, and the same mod who made the earlier announcement had this to say:

''From the exhausted mod who is really trying to figure out what to do:

When I made my original post, I was unaware of the mod who actually did insult the OP in the comments. I thought they were talking about modmail, which I have personally been trying to manage for the last three hours, and I did not insult the OP in them. OP and I are discussing the situation now, and I would like to apologize to everyone for the inappropriate way one of our mods talked to the community.

I really am not trying to silence anyone's voice. I'm sorry that's how things came across. But if we keep getting flooded with hate for the mods, the people who want to talk about their own stuff outside this issue are going to get drowned out, and that's not fair to the other members of the sub. And even if we reapprove the post, we're still going to get flooded by people who are angry it went down in the first place. I've been trying to figure out how to handle this for the last like three hours, and I don't know what I can actually possibly do to stop this.

So, I guess if you want to rant at me here in the comments about how horrible I am for trying to figure out how to deescalate a situation that has gotten way out of hand, and that I shouldnt feel like crying in a corner right now because I don't know how to handle this, because I'm just a normal person who has had their Saturday afternoon turn into a shit show.... then go for it. If comments are removed on this post, it's because they've been sent to the queue for review, not because I am actively removing them.''

So, the first thing I wanna do is point out how manipulative this comment is. It's taking what should be a rather direct post about the community - what happened, what's being done about it, how they hope to go on - and making it about the mod themselves. ''I'm tired, I'm the victim, go on and hate me.''

This is a pretty classic trick that is sometimes used to misdirect, and guilt trip people. While directing hate is always, always, always bad, by making the conversation about hatred directed at the mod staff, it's totally side-stepping the original issue. It's far easier to defend your actions when you cast yourself as being pelted with hatred than it is when you have to own up to the fact that you and your staff are pulling posts by transmen and transmascs for no reason.

No one should be hated, no one should be sent hatemail, but we have to be able to discern when someone is being sent hate and when someone is using hate as a shield so they don't have to deal with the consequences of their actions. And this right here? This is a classic example of that. It takes the whole point and spins it from where it should be - ''We fucked up'' in order to take it to a weird, victim place where anyone who tries to press the issue is the bad guy because the mods are stressed and overworked and need to be babied.

If this was an isolated thing, I would be far more willing to give it a pass. Everyone gets overwhelmed sometimes, and everyone overreacts. Sometimes, we do feel like the put upon victim, and I am not saying that mods deserve hatred, or that they're free targets, or that anyone who spews bile at another person is good.

But remember how it was the trans masc mod who removed the post right up until it wasn't? This is the point where I wanna get back r/ftm. You see, the mods from /rtrans reached out to the staff, supposedly because they wanted the r/ftm mods to check them and make sure that they weren't being biased. But the impression the ftm staff got was very different.

Here is a quote from a conversation between the mod staff of r/trans and r/ftm

''Trans Mod: No, actually. The modmail sent to your team about the situation was legitimately asking if the mods of other trans subs thought we were acting out of line, because nobody here was questioning the removal, but the sub was up in arms about it. The mod was legitimately asking for feedback to see if they misinterpreted the post from people who weren't raging at us. You could have replied to the modmail and said, "hey, this is spilling over here, and we think you misunderstood the post and your reasoning behind the removals for these reasons." Instead, you ignored us and made your own post, sharing private moderator information about the contents of the modmail, and essentially blamed our sub for being transphobic. [downvoted]

Ftm Mod: The modmail you sent did not read like that at all. It honestly did read like you just wanted us on your side and to have us further take action against users posting on our sub. The contents of the modmail that was shared were honestly something we felt were not acceptable things to say, and we were shocked and disgusted with the blatant disregard for trans men/transmascs. We felt that because things were being deleted and hidden left and right, it was important information to provide.''

Link to this conversation is here. I have only covered a bit of it, there are more details if you want.

So, we have a situation where the staff is claiming the post was removed by their single transmasc member, who tried to rope the ftm mods into backing them in a way that made that staff feel uncomfortable, and who then tried to play the victim card when their community was on fire.

This is the point where their sole transmasc mod left. He had this to say:

''By staying on the mod team I would've been just as culpable

Disclaimer: I voluntarily resigned and I wasn't banned''

Source

He furthermore had this to say about the staff of r/trans:

''Former Mod: For starters, in June of 2024, there used to be a mod who had her own unrelated Discord server I was in for about 8 months (a different mod from the one that made that comment); who begged for money for the members of her Discord server and never paid them back. I managed to bring all the to the attention of the mod team using screengrabs of Discord DMs from the people that mod conned out of their money as evidence, and she was removed. Edit for important information: I was never under any confidentiality or agreements like that.

Former Mod: To be honest I think that whole situation in June '24 was what started my suspicions of issues going on with how the server was being run. When I was on their dedicated moderator Discord earlier today, they essentially pretended that the mod who made that comment never did anything...

Former Mod: I couldn't be complicit in such exclusivity, so I pretty much was like "screw y'all" and left. Idc care if I'm called a traitor or shit like that; I felt that stepping down from my mod position and unsubbing was the moral thing to do.

Former Mod: The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back was they didn't remove the mod who made that comment (y'all know the one)''

Source

At this point, the head mod mod stepped in, removed the mod who had made the bitching comment, and tried to calm things down. Everyone who was banned was restored, and the sub was unrestricted again. Sounds like the end, right?

Well, no. Sadly, it seems that transmasc and transman support posts are still mysteriously vanishing, as are posts that talk about the drama. We still have one last twist in our tale, my friends.

You see, remember how I mentioned there was mod overlap between r/trans and /lgbt? Well, it turned out, that same mod also mods a bunch of LGBTQ subs....and a conservative sub.

Yeah.

Now, here is an example of the kind of posts that are flying in their sub. This is suspected to be the same mod who pulled the original post from r/lgbt, and is potentially the one who pulled it from r/trans.

So that's where we stand right now. My short summary turned out to be nothing of the sort, I suppose. I'll post this separately, it seems long enough now to stand on its own. At some point soon, I'll follow it up with my own personal take on the situation, but this should stand alone as a document to help anyone wondering just what happened.

I would like to rep R/SubredditDrama for being the place I pulled most of these quotes and links from. Find it here.

if you wanna pursue your own research, this is a good place to start.

#trans community #transgender #transfemme #transmasc #transandrophobia

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trust-is-a-dangerous-thing · 2 days ago

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141 Guys When Their Partner is on Their Period <3

Because I just started my period today, my stomach hurts, and I can't take a nap because I have a few chapters of insurance stuff I gotta take notes on---so I want to be a little delusional about some of my favorite characters Side Note: In Ghost's portion I mention women specifically but everything else is gender neutral, other than obviously reader is afab since this is specifically period related

Price has probably been married and then divorced at least once, so he knows how to deal with any symptoms you might have. Cramps? He has a heating pad and medicine. Headaches? More medicine and a cool rag. Emotions going everywhere? He's stocked up on tissues. Cravings? His car is full on gas, just tell him what you want. During this time he'll give you your space, unless you ask him to stick around, and he'll generally take over all of the housework just so you don't have to worry about it---laundry, dishes, groceries, cleaning, he's got it all covered. And if you want him to lay in bed with you and cuddle, he is more than happy to spend the day laying around with you by his side. He'll spend all day letting you use him as a pillow, nuzzling into his chest and muttering about how much it sucks, and he'll tell you that he's sorry he can't take the pain away from you and that he's right there for you if you need anything, and that he's not leaving anytime soon.

Ghost doesn't really have a lot of experience when it comes to periods and it shows. He grew up with his dad and his brother and...that's about it. I'd also imagine his "experience" with women is limited solely to one night stands, maybe a week-or-two long flings (that are probably just mainly sex tbh), so...yeah, he has no fucking idea what to do when you get your period. You are 100% gonna have to tell him what you want/need, and BE SPECIFIC because he isn't gonna know wtf you're talking about at first---like, if you ask him to go buy you a heating pad, there's a 50/50 chance he's gonna be in the feminine hygiene section of the store looking for electric pads. He will do literally anything to make sure you're comfortable, but you are gonna have to ask him to do those things because he won't know what to do otherwise, and also...I'm sorry to say it, but this man is NOT gonna be able to handle your emotional rollercoasters well---he's going to be wayyyy out of his depth there, so just be prepared for him to be a deer in headlights on that one.

Soap is going to be smothering you with love the second you get your period, he is not leaving your side for anything (except maybe some snacks for both of you if you can't get out of bed). He'll be there as your personal cuddle toy, he'll massage your stomach and any other part of you that's aching, if you get really emotional he'll be there to hold you and comfort you while you cry, he's there whispering reassurances, all that sort of stuff. If you're the type who loves physical affection while you're on your period, you'll be in heaven, but if you hate it then you're going to have to tell him that, otherwise you're going to be in hell. If you tell him you don't want to be touched, he will respect that (he might be a little sad, but he will respect it), and he'll try to support you in any other way he can---he'll put on your favorite movies, order your favorite foods, get you all the blankets and stuffed animals you could possibly want, etc..

Gaz is one of those guys that is always prepared for when his partner gets their period---anytime you go out together, he always has one or two pads/tampons as well as a bag of wet wipes; he keeps the kitchen stocked with all your favorite snacks and drinks, and he is 100% prepared to make as many trips out as possible if you're craving something specific; he has multiple heating pads with multiple settings and weights, even some stuffed animal heating pads you can cuddle with when he's not there; he's the one cleaning the bloody sheets if it happens during the night, and he's running you a bath with epson salt and telling you not to worry about a thing. He definitely goes into Protect and Provide mode when you get on your period, all the other stuff covers the "provide" part of that, but he also gets insanely protective---he will fight your boss and/or college if they won't give you time off, if anyone is mean to you (or even just slightly rude) he is defending your honor like a knight, if you leave the house he is right by your side 24/7. He will literally do anything for you, all you have to do is ask.

#call of duty #modern warfare #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader

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blxksun · 3 days ago

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18+, minors and ageless blogs dni

storemanager!suguru who only started working because living in his parent's house was starting to depress him. that was four years ago and he has since then moved out, due to his manager salary.

storemanager!suguru who became a manager because the owner was an older man, who had three different locations across the city and wanted to be at the other one's more because he couldn't trust the teens that started working there. "every time i go in there, they're sitting on their phones! one time i seen two of them KISSING!" oh and for that reason, there's a very strict no fraternization policy.

storemanager!suguru who realizes that the age of technology, more specifically—social media, has been bringing more business than usual and after discussing with the owner, began putting up help wanted signs.

storemanager!suguru who sees you come in with your friend, because it's a milk tea cafe, with library. it's clear your friend is there for the books and you're there for the cafe. heading over to the display counter and gawking at all the sweets. you come up to him and he can see the wheels turning in your head, you're practically planning your wedding with him.

storemanager!suguru who snaps you out of your daze to greet you in true store fashion. "hello, what can i get you today?" smile not quite forced on his lips, but there because it's company policy. you nervously order and that's when the smile becomes real. he decides to flirt a little and is very impressed by how you hold yourself together well, until you walk away from him.

storemanager!suguru who doesn't mean to catch it, but you don't exactly whisper well. "there's a help wanted sign, i need a job, and that fine cashier works here, it's literally aligned perfectly!" "you're going to apply just to be around a hot guy?" "yes, he was flirting with me, just you wait till we get married, it needs to be in your speech!"

storemanager!suguru who is shocked you actually came in later that week asking for a manager to get an application. who tells you he is the manager and asks if you have time right now for an interview. when you say yes, leads you to the back office and has someone go to the front until he gets back.

storemanager!suguru who uses the opportunity to continue his flirting from day prior and loves watching you fail to contain yourself. already has plans to hire you, just doing this because he's bored and you're cute so why not.

storemanager!suguru whose eyebrows raise when you finally match energy and then he mentions how there is a no fraternization policy. is delighted when your face falls, probably because you think you read the situation wrong and might be out of a job.

storemanager!suguru who tells you, you aren't an employee right now and he was just letting you know that there was one. suggestively implies the rule doesn't apply between the two of you.

storemanager!suguru who really has no idea how it got to this point. after his implication, your eyes sparkled and you all but leaped across the table professionally dividing you two, just to grab his collar and smash your lips against his. things progress quick.

storemanager!suguru who was now sitting back, legs spread to give you space, as you licked slowly up the length of his stiffening cock. one of your hands, grasping his dick to hold it there as you did so, and slightly stroking it once you made it to his tip, precum attaching slightly to your bottom lip. looking you right back into the eyes as you did it.

storemanager!suguru who has to break the eye contact or he was going to cum right when it started. choosing instead to let his head rest against the back of the chair, jaw dropping to release a moan. stomach muscles tensing as you finally take him into your mouth.

storemanager!suguru who places his hand on your head involuntarily and pushes himself deeper into your mouth. goes on for about five seconds before he lets go, realizing what he was doing and moaning out an apology. "fufuck sorry, shit your fucking mouth". his toes are curling in his shoes and you pull back from the dick that's in your mouth.

storemanager!suguru who can't stand the sight once he looks down as a result of the loss. there you were, tears lining your eyes, chin dripping with spit. fuck. your hand between your thighs. seriously can't stand, he doesn't want your mouth anymore. he needs to be in you.

storemanager!suguru who pulls you up immediately and places you on the table. your thighs spread instantly, not because of some crazy reflex, but because that's where he was, instantly. you lift your hips up so he can pull your pants down some. he didn't want to wait, so they only came down to the knee.

storemanager!suguru who uses the restriction of your pants on your legs, to keep you spread, as he steps under your raised legs and lets them rest on his shoulders. one hand pulling your panties to the side, groaning at how wet it was to the touch.

storemanager!suguru who rubs his tip across the expanse of the wetness, before he presses into your entrance. both of you at the same time let out harmonizing moans and groans. his pace at the beginning held no rhythm, but it was just that, that was working you up. he then got to a steady rhythm and just went deep. hitting that spot that had your eyes widening along with your mouth.

storemanager!suguru who realized your efforts earlier and the feeling of your pussy now, was pushing him to the edge. "i'm gonna fucking cum, shit, come on cum with me, pretty" releasing the thumb that helped in keeping your panties to the side and rubbing your clit. feeling you clench, pushes him completely and he does everything in his power to pull out.

storemanager!suguru whose cum splatters on your mound, on your waistband, some on your shirt. thumb continuing its rubbing and his now free hand inserting two fingers and fucking you, rubbing right against that spot that eventually has you seeing stars. with a loud moan, you cum on his fingers and he continues fingering you through it. leaning down to kiss you messily.

storemanager!suguru who removes his fingers and puts them in his mouth sucking your juices off. removing himself from his place between your legs, to find some wet wipes he has in a drawer for when he's eating on break and wipes you down the best of his ability. you both get decent and return back to your original positions.

storemanager!suguru who asks you "how soon can you start?"

blxksun2025, do not copy or translate my works. happy reading !

a/n here as a result of this poll. way longer than i intended. i hope you guys enjoy this. here is choso. and here is satoru.

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bellysoupset · 2 days ago

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Can't Help Falling In Love

Jonah knew he had been manic, nearly downright hysterical as the wedding approached. Between the spooked staff, Leo's endless amusement and his friend and family's annoyance at his state, it was impossible to miss.

So it was much to his surprise that he woke up on the morning of the wedding and realized that he wasn't nervous at all.

Leo was still asleep, snoring softly, and Jonah stared at his face, — arms sandwiching his pillow and his chin resting on his forearm — openly staring as the sunlight streamed inside their suite and bounced off Leo's hair, reflected off his dark blonde lashes.

His cheeks were prickly with the start of a beard and he twitched slightly as Jon ran his thumb over his jaw, tracing the contour of it and his cheekbones.

The sun was too high to be early morning, it must've been at least 9 AM, so he better wake Leo up, as they had a long day ahead of them. He rolled on the bed, scooting as close as possible, and pressed a kiss to his boyfriend's naked shoulder, hand wrapping around his wrist, "Leo? Wake up, baby."

Another twitch, Leo's brows met, but he didn't wake up. Jonah shook him just a little, keeping his lips pressed to Leo's overheated skin, "wake up, Mr. Wagner-Banks."

"You can't use that name yet," Leo grumbled, his voice a whole note deeper, eyes still closed, but lips quirking up in a smile, "I heard you're getting married today?"

"I am," Jonah smiled right back, flicking a hair strand away from Leo's eyes as they opened, the blonde blinking several times to get used to how bright the room was, "can you believe some fool agreed to marry me?"

"Some lucky fool," Leo grinned, closing the space between them with a kiss and rolling them on the bed so he could be on top, pushing Jonah against the pillows, "some incredibly lucky fool."

In the end, they were so late for breakfast that the group sent up Wendy, her voice traveling through the door as she knocked and said, "get your asses out here, the photographers are already in the yard!"

----

"Do you have everything?" Leo asked, for the third time, and Vince let out a scoff, meeting Luke's amused glare.

Luke rolled his eyes, leaning back on the chair as he got his makeup done, because although the bruise on his cheek was mostly gone, that wasn't enough for Jonah and he had insisted he wore concealer.

"We have everything, kiddo," Vince moved so he was next to Leo by the window, squeezing his nape in an almost parental manner, "cufflinks are here, brooch too, your suit jacket is hanging behind the door, mints- Hair spray... Oh."

Luke raised an eyebrow, trying to see what had interrupted Vince's listing, but the makeup artist glared at him, "just a second, I'm putting some setting spray on you."

"Alright," he couldn't nod or really move, so all Luke could do was raise his thumbs up as he was sprayed with a fine mist of something that smelt like perfume and cucumbers.

The woman patted his chest, "wait a couple seconds for it to dry and you're all good," she promised, starting to gather up her supplies. She hadn't done much to Leo — probably due to the blonde's sulking — only filled in his brows, applied some skin serums that Luke had no idea what they were and made his cheeks pinker than normal, some pink chapstick despite Leo grumbling about putting on lipstick like a middle aged conservative would.

They weren't alone in the room. There was a team of photographers that came and went at least three times, taking pictures of them as they chatted and had lunch — separated from everyone else, because Jonah apparently was traditional like that —, hanging in the shadows as they got dressed and snapping pictures quietly.

Luke hadn't been in an editorial in so long, it immediately made his mind go back to his teenage years. Every special occasion, the photographers in their house, the same type that didn't ask for specific poses but always seemed to manage to get the few and sparse smiles between them.

Now the smiles weren't fake, they were abundant, and he was more than happy to have this on camera to look back on later.

"What is it?" Luke got up from his chair, redoing the buttons of his shirt as he walked to where Vince and Leo were looking out of the window, entertained like cats.

"They finished the decor," Vince explained, pointing outside. Part of it had been done during the rehearsal dinner, but last Lucas had looked out of the window during lunch it still hadn't been finalized. Now it was.

There were hundreds of white orchids, mixed in with white and blue hydrangeas and baby's breaths just about everywhere. They had created a path with a pristine white carpet that went from the top of the hill, all the way to the greek pavillion at the end of it, with the lake behind it. On either side of the carpet, sleek silver torches were planted, barely appearing between the structures with orchids wrapping around them and the hydrangeas on the floor. At each side, the white rounded chairs, slowly starting to fill up.

"I- I- God, I have to-" Leo stuttered and Lucas planted a hand in the middle of his back, rubbing up and down in a reassuring manner. Leo took a steadying breath, "I have to go out there before it's too crowded, I'm-" he'd be standing at the end of the altar, as they had already rehearsed in the previous night, "you know."

"We know," Vince moved in the room, so he could grab Leo's tux jacket and Luke got moving as well, grabbing the cufflinks and the delicate flower brooch that was meant to be sitting on the dusty blue lapel of his suit.

"Breathe, Leo," Vince instructed, easily guiding their friends' arms into the armholes of his jacket, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle away from the ironed fabric, "deep breaths, okay? You're alright."

"I'm- I think-" Leo shook his head, cheeks puffing out comically as he tried to take in a breath, "I think I'm gonna throw up..."

Luke raised his eyebrows, finishing up closing the cufflinks on his wrist and meeting Vince's eye.

"Uh... For real...?"

"Yeah-" Leo pressed a fist to his mouth, leaned forward and grabbed Vin's shoulder to steady himself, just as Luke immediately got moving.

He rushed to the suite's bathroom, grabbing the wastebasket, and then ran back to the room.

Vince had maneuvered Leo sitting down on the bed, removed his jacket once more and spread his legs apart so there would be no risk of him being sick on the suit. He was fanning the blonde with a magazine and the photographers had lowered their cameras and were queuing out of the door.

"Here," Luke pushed the basket into Leo's chest and caused him to gag with the sudden movement. He cringed in sympathy, he had expected this behavior from Jon, not Leo, "dude, take a deep breath, you're freaking out."

"It's so many-" Leo spat inside the bin, opening and closing the hand that wasn't clutching the basket, still trying to take a breath, "so many people."

"So many people who love you," Vince cooed, his voice incredibly soft, like he was talking with his baby sister, "Leo, hey, look at me-" he gestured for the blonde to meet his eyes and Leo shook his head.

"I don't feel well-"

"You're not gonna be sick," Vince rolled his eyes in a frustrated manner, "look at me."

Brave, Luke thought, as he wasn't so sure Leo wasn't about to throw up. He looked pasty enough to.

Vince was a man of faith, though, so he forced Leo's eyes to meet his, lowering the bin away, "these are all people who love you, you understand that, Leo?" he said, very slowly, "everyone is here to celebrate you-"

"I don't know all of them," Leo wrinkled his nose, chest jostling as he hiccupped and hurriedly pressed the back of his hand to his lips. Luke grabbed the ditched bin, just in case, but Vin seemed unbothered.

"The ones you don't, Jon does, and you're an unit now, are you not? These are people who want both of you to be so happy, you have nothing to be nervous about," Vince grabbed the ditched suit jacket, gesturing for Luke to help him, "there you go-" he gave Leo a sturdy shake, "you got this."

Leo nodded, timidly, the tip of his nose suddenly pink and color returning to his cheeks as he threw his arms around Vince's neck and tugged him into a hug.

Luke snorted as Vince melted immediately, hugging the blonde right back. He rolled his eyes in a fond way, gesturing quietly to Leo, "you got this?" he mouthed, without making a sound and Vin raised a thumbs up behind the blonde's back, hugging him even tighter.

"I gotta go give Jonah the rings," Lucas said, getting up and planting a kiss to the top of Leo's head, causing him to sniffle, "I'll see you on the altar, kid."

Leo let out a little watery chuckle, "I'll see you on the altar."

Jonah's suite was on the opposite side of the hallway, just far away enough they wouldn't glimpse at each other as the crew walked in and out of both rooms.

Lucas knocked, then heard a giggle and Angie's voice "Come in!"

Angelina was entirely glammed up and for a second Luke forgot how to breathe as he saw her. Their relationship existed in a weird limbo between friends and siblings, as he had been home more often than Jonah had in the past years and seen her more often than he had.

Her hair was up in a complicated knot, adorned with pearls, and she was wearing a silver dress, fabric pooling at her cleavage like a roman goddess statute, long legs peaking from the slit that went just above her knee.

"How do I look?" she did a little twirl and Lucas opened a bright smile, a memory flashing in front of his eyes. Angie, seven years old, back when he was fifteen. Sitting outside of his gate with her scraped knee and fallen bicycle, bottom lip sticking out as she valiantly tried not to cry. Pink helmet decorated with glittery butterflies and her mumbling she had been wanting to learn so she could show Jonah when he came home from the boarding school.

"You look amazing," Luke choked out and she let out a giggle, whole face lighting up as she looked over her shoulder.

"Jon, Luke's already crying."

"I told you he would," Jonah sounded all smug. He was sitting down, relaxed and nursing a glass of juice, Wendy sitting right next to him and clinking her glass with his in an amused way.

"Oh shut up," Luke grumbled, squeezing his eyes and blinking away the sudden burning there, "Leo's going down already, we should start getting on our marks."

"Vince is with him?" Wendy asked, standing up and planting her glass on the tray. She was also a sight to be beholden and Luke gave her an open once over, causing her cheeks to heat up and her to roll her eyes at him, "don't give me those eyes, Atwood."

Luke snorted, hugging her with one arm and planting a kiss to the top of her head, then saying in a low voice, "give me a minute with him?"

He was glad it was Wendy, who didn't ask questions and was clever enough to catch the shift of things in the air. She nodded, fixing the buttons of his shirt, "we're gonna be waiting for you downstairs."

Both women hugged Jonah, then they were out of the room and Jon let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders and glancing out of the window of his room. Luke followed his gaze, smiling as he saw Leo was already out there, shaking hands and making the slow track to the pavilion where he was supposed to stand as the entrances were made to the music.

He had grabbed Bella as his moral support somewhere along the way, because she was holding his arm, auburn hair burning orange as the 5 PM sun started to lower on them, the guests rushing to their places and the violin players getting in position.

"I knew he'd find a way to pull her in," Jonah huffed, not frustrated, but sounding proud.

Luke smiled at him, "can't blame him, my wife is a vision," he said smugly, then grabbed the box in his pocket as Jon turned to look at him, "safe and sound, man," he opened it to reveal the rings, "are you ready?"

Jonah's bright smile slipped for the first time all day, that cloud of near arrogance melting as he nodded, taking the box, "will you laugh if I say I was born ready?"

Luke snorted, but his sight got blurry all over again. To busy his hands, he smoothed Jonah's tan jacket, fiddled with the pocket square, "I'm so proud of you," he said through the tight knot in his throat, stuck there even as he tried to clear it, "I'm so happy for you, brot-"

Before he finished his sentence, Jonah tackled him with a hug. Tight, rib crushing and shoulders shaking slightly. Lucas' shoulders dropped, the knot in his throat loosening up as he hugged his best friend right back, squeezing him and pulling back just enough to pat his cheek and wipe away the tears running down his the corner of his own eyes, "well, fuck-"

"I love you," Jonah said, quietly, but firm, "I don't know how this happened, because trust me, I tried to get rid of you so many times-" he chuckled and so did Luke, new tears rushing up, "but I'm glad you're here with me."

Luke shook his head, a sudden sob bursting through and he let out a whine, "oh fuck you-" he groaned, as his whole face burned, "I love you too, Jon. Both of you."

---------

Leo hadn't been nervous about the wedding even for a day. From the minute Jonah had proposed — or tried to — all he had felt was incredible certainty and excitement. Even when they broke the news to Jackie and she had prompted twenty questions and tried to highjack the planning, even when Leo had failed at it and passed the wedding responsibilities to Jonah, even when their plans started to become a reality and he was suddenly in a suit, cake testing and venue visiting. Not once he had been nervous.

Until today.

His heart was racing and his hands were sweating and he felt like he was going to be sick.

"Oh there you are-" Bella stopped on her tracks as she met him downstairs, chaperoned by Vince who had a steady hand on his back, "uh- Everything okay?"

"Everything is alright," Vince spoke for him, but Leo nodded in agreement. Everything was perfect, he was just so worried about not messing it up, "he's just nervous, can you get him to the altar?"

Bella's eyes widened, blue sparkling even more as it was surrounded by black mascara and some green reflective eyeshadow, "of course-" she jumped forward, grabbing Leo's bicep and he took her hand from it, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing her knuckles.

"Thank you," he said quietly, squeezing her fingers and curling his arm so he could guide her around like a lady.

She leaned in, "no, thank you for saving me from the sharks," she said, which was just her being sweet, so he felt like he was the one doing her a favor and not the opposite way around, "deep breaths, it'll be over before you know it."

"I don't know if I want it to be over," Leo admitted quietly, although he was still shaking with nervousness. Bell's fingers curled on his forearm a little tighter as they moved through the crowd and he started shaking hands, smiling to his friends, people from work, the hospital, the baseball team whom he really liked, faces he had never seen before-

Through all of it, Bella was a steadying rock and before he realized he was at the altar, the violinists moving into position and the justice of peace took his place. Jackie stepped forward to meet them and Leo let out a shaky breath, meeting her eyes. They were hazel just like Jon's, a shade darker, more brown than green.

"My darling," she cupped Leo's face in her hands, smiling at him like they had known each other for much longer than they did. Just barely a year and a half and yet he never felt like she was faking to like him, to- "my darling son."

He waited for her to finish her phrase, then it hit him she meant him. Jackie looked amused as she patted his cheek and took Bella away from him with the grace of someone who had done it a thousand times.

Bell hesitated, then leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek and smiling at Leo, "breathe out," she whispered, flashing him a brilliant smile and then stepping away with Jackie and sitting down just as the music started.

There was a general rustle at the first soft violin notes and Leo bounced nervously on his feet, twisting his sweaty hands. Almost no one was looking at him now, although he caught the eye of his work friends and flashed them a smile, before looking ahead once more.

Vince and Wendy were spearheading it. Wen was wearing the most ridiculous heels Leo had ever seen and he let out a little nervous chuckle at that, probably so she could look proportionate next to Vin. They didn't separate at the ending of the nave, but instead moved to stand behind Leo, to his left, Vince breaking protocol as he thumped on Leo's back and gave him a reassuring smile.

Angie and Luke were next. Angelina was smiling so much he was sure he could see her molars and that Luke was the only thing keeping her from rushing through the walk and ruin the choreography Jonah had drilled on them like a marine in the previous night.

As soon as they reached the end of the walk, moving to the free spot to the other side of the pavilion, the music changed.

This was new, through all of the rehearsal they had done it with the violin group, I Can't Help Falling In Love playing during all of their walks-

But no, there was a saxophonist now and Leo couldn't help the blubbering laughter that came up as he realized Jonah had kept this a secret from all of them. What a diva.

Four notes, a song Leo didn't recognize, and then he caught Jonah's eyes at the end of the nave and all of the previous nervousness vanished as if it was magic.

Jonah had insisted on entering on his own and Leo was glad, because he couldn't even pretend to keep his eyes off of him. It was like all their guests disappeared.

His racing thoughts stopped and Leo opened a bright smile, sight blurring as Jonah smiled back at him, casually walking to the sax notes as if he did that everyday, as if they were seeing each other across the football field, the crowded hospital or the hall of their building after a long day.

Leo blinked quickly against the tears and let out a watery chuckle as suddenly a handkerchief appeared in front of him, Vince patting his back as he did that.

He took it, squeezing the square of fabric in his hand and letting his eyes rake over all of Jon, the way his curls were catching the sunset just right, how he had picked the perfect tan color for a suit that brought out his deep complexion, how his eyes were so incredibly green as they were all watery-

"It's no use if we both cry," Jonah choked out just as he reached Leo and the blonde shook his head, wiping away the tears and turning to face him, forgetting for a second that they were standing in front of fifty guests.

The soft notes of the sax floated away, fading, and the justice of peace cleared his throat, "welcome, loved ones. We are gathered here today to join Leo Wagner and Jonah Banks in holy matrimony-"

"I love you," Leo whispered, completely drowning out the man, and Jonah smiled right back at him, the golden sunset bathing him.

"I love you more," he mouthed, taking Leo's hands in his and squeezing it, as their officiant kept speaking.

#jonah banks #leo wagner #now officially wagner-banks #fluff #mywriting #not a sickfic but please read 🥺

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dragonnarrative-writes · 2 days ago

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GhostGaz Week Day 3 - Chastity / Sharpshooter

CW: Kink discussion (?), a lovers' (?) quarrel (!), Manic Pixie Dream Ghost (derogatory), Heterosexual (?) Price, an actual acknowledgment of rank, this was weird to write but also fun

Simon can feel eyes on him, but it was almost inevitable in as close quarters as they’ve got right now. The safe house is practically a shack. The bathroom doesn’t even have a door, for fucks sake, so the four of them were about to learn a lot about each other, one way or another.

He gives himself a shake and swipes himself dry with some toilet paper before saying, “’s rude to stare, Garrick.”

Kyle jumps, and his eyes dart up and away. “Sorry, sir.”

“Not a word to Soap,” Simon commands, zipping himself up.

“No,” Kyle confirms. His eyes dart down to Ghost’s crotch, then back. “No, sir.”

“Good lad.”

By supper, everyone’s seen more than enough of each other. They’re all curled up around their MRE’s with little to say beyond grunts. Soap takes first watch. It’s probably less about letting them get some shut eye and more about avoiding making eye contact with Price after whatever made him shout something Simon doesn’t care to have translated. The Captain himself retreats to the back room. Which leaves Simon with Kyle in the front.

“...So,” Kyle starts.

“Fuck’s sake,” Simon groans, scrubbing his hands over his mask.

“Your dick is locked up and I’m supposed to not say anything about it?” Kyle hisses, looking around to make sure they’re alone. He scoots his chair closer and says even quieter, “I didn’t know you were seeing someone else, so excuse me if I have a question or two.”

“I’m not seein’ someone else,” Simon grumbles. “’S just somethin’ I do, sometimes.”

“You expect me to believe-” Kyle leans in, incredulity dripping from every word. “that you just lock your cock up, sometimes. On missions. Just because?”

Simon tries, and probably fails, to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “It ‘elps me shoot.”

“It helps...” Kyle puts his face into one of his hands. “Simon.”

“Fuck off.”

Kyle takes a deep, steadying breath, visibly counts backwards from five, then sits back and asks, “Okay. Is it a sex thing?”

“No.”

Kyle relaxes, fractionally, and nods. “Okay. Fine. So now that the mission is over, you just... take it off?”

Simon clenches his jaw and considers jumping out the window. Eventually, he admits, “Price has the key.”

The other man throws his hands into the air. “What the actual fuck, Riley?”

“Was doin’ this long before you,” Simon growls. “It works for me, it’s not interferin’ wi’ anythin’. Drop it, Sergeant.”

“You don’t get to pull rank just because you don’t want to have the conversation, Lieutenant.”

“Watch me.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s real mature.”

“What do you want me to say?” Simon snaps. “I’m supposed to stop doin’ somethin’ that makes me better, keeps the whole team safe, keeps you safe, because you want to be exclusive?”

“Keeps me safe?” Kyle scoffs. “You give Price control of your dick to keep me safe?”

“He’s fuckin’ straight,” Simon points out, with a sneer. “Which you know, you fuckin slag. I wasn’t your first choice.”

Kyle rears back like he was slapped. “Excuse me?”

With a wince, Simon looks away across the room. He bites the inside of his cheek and resists the urge to dig himself a deeper hole. Kyle’s never acted on his little crush on the captain, told Simon so at the beginning of this thing they started doing, shit, almost eight months ago now.

Puppy love, he’d called it, one night, curled up with Simon in his bed. It had felt good to be recognized, given more responsibility, to have someone like Price believe in him. But that’s not what he wanted in a partner, he’d confessed in the dark. He wanted to be something other than the Golden Boy, needed space to be vulnerable in ways a man like Price wasn’t really built for. And then he’d kissed Simon like his life depended on it.

After ninety seconds of silence, Simon grits out. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’ta said that.”

“Perhaps,” Kyle says through gritted teeth, “if Price is your first choice, we should just end things here.”

“That’s not-” Simon huffs a breath. “There’s nothing between me an’ the captain. I give ‘im the key before wheels up, ‘e gives it back sometime after debrief. We don’t talk about it. ‘E probably knows what the key is, but... it’s not a sex thing.”

“Oh, so I’m the only slag in this conversation?”

Fuck. “You’re not a slag. I’m a wanker an’ an arsehole. I didn’t think this was... anythin’ we’d ‘ave to talk about. Not like this. Not.” Simon crosses his arms and tips his head to stare at the ceiling, then makes himself look Kyle in the eye. “It keeps me focused. It’s a pre-mission ritual I figured out a long fuckin’ time ago. Not doin’ it isn’t an option at this point.”

Kyle’s jaw works for a moment. Then he blows all the air out of his lungs and says. “Like the mask.” He sighs. “Okay.”

“...Okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle repeats, crossing his own arms. He glares, fit to burn a hole in the table. “It... You scared me. But... Look, I know how touchy you are about the mask. Can’t blame you for being the same way about your prick. If you say this isn’t a... a sex thing... it’s not a sex thing. Sorry for pushing.”

They sit in tense silence for a few long moments. Simon tentatively reaches out to touch the back of Kyle’s hand with gloved fingertips. He doesn’t get a response, at first, but the whole argument is about just how he keeps himself sniper still. So he holds position, keeps light pressure. Eventually, Kyle turns his hand up and catches two of Simon’s fingers with his own.

(The next day, as they prepare to leave, Simon catches Kyle by the wrist. “Wait. You were jealous. Do you want to do it as a sex thing?”

“Not the time, Lieutenant,” Price grumbles, getting into the driver’s seat of the truck.)

#GhostGazWeek #GhostGaz Week #ghostgaz #dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #gaz appreciation nation #manic pixie dream ghost #Mr Dragon says: I mean... sure.#in the words of hobbit boyfriend: Simon you are insane for this #PSA from Price sitting backwards in a chair: Remember to practice Risk Aware Consensual Kink #Price is throwing his hands up about this one #and honestly?#same

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dough09 · 2 days ago

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Ignorant

Sae Itoshi x F!reader ------------------------------------------------

Hi im back... or am I? dunno yet. I'm working on a series on wattpad, please check it out if you like Sae and fantasy. I also worked on some other short ffs in the meantime but not sure if I'll post them.

Ps: I feel like this would be such a Sae thing to do..

Sae is a menace. Or so his teammates say. You couldn’t agree more. Not even if he acts absolutely different with you than the rest of the population.

No matter what you wanted, what you did most of the time you needed to spell it out. Rarely, maybe once a month he did something sweet without mentioning.

Yet this time, your day was already shit. Everything went off track. At the end you made it to your nail appointment even if you were 20 minutes late. Your nail tech didn’t mind luckily. Not only did they love you but you’ve gotten very close over the years. Sae was also busy all day, he couldn’t even text back when you warned him to buy some groceries.

After two hours you were finally at home. The satisfaction of finally kicking your heels down hit your guts. The warmth and the quiet of the building had you swimming in comfort. Reaching for your phone again you saw Sae is still at practice. Your messages still stood on delivered. It couldn’t be helped but this did make you worry.

You were lazing on the couch with your legs up on the armrest. One would judge you for putting your legs in a manspread. It's not like it mattered. It's just you here and no one to see. Soon you heard the door creek. He was home. “I’m back.” he said and dropped his shoes down only to see your figure on the couch. Still the same position. “Welcome back” You said and put your hands out. Hoping he’d see your new nails that were inspired by him.

To no avail. Sae plopped down next to your head and turned on the TV. “Do you want to watch anything?” You were fuming with anger. How dare he not even brush by your hand. How dare he completely ignore you. You mumbled something with frustration lacing in your tone. “What?” He frowned.

“Nothing, watch whatever.” With that you sat up and reached out to his hand for a last attempt. He interlocked your fingers without looking up and kissed your knuckles. Normally you’d fold over that. But the stupid screen had him in a trance. With a tired sigh you got up and headed to the bedroom.

Multiple hours went on. Did it not bother him how you stormed out? This is why you are reluctant when it comes to praising him for a good boyfriend. He’s just in his own world. There is only space for one. and it’s football. “Are you hungry? I’m gonna order Japanese food.” He stood at the door. “No.” you glare. “Really? Are you sure you want nothing?” he squinted his brows. There was no way his girlfriend didn’t want anything. Not even her favorites.

But to his surprise you shook your head. “Okay…” His frown deepened and closed the door. You felt like an idiot, of course you wanted snacks. You haven’t eaten anything except one bowl of instant ramen today. Here you were constantly playing with your hand throughout that entire conversation too. It’s like he is deliberately ignoring you. Maybe he really is. Maybe you did something. Maybe he is angry.

What seemed like an eternity passed. The doorbell rang out and you heard Sae answering. “Y/N, the food is here.” He called out after sitting down.

But it didn’t make sense, why would he say that? You didn’t ask for any. Oh but perhaps he ordered you some regardless. No, that's not Sae. With slight hope remaining you entered the kitchen. He was eating but there was just one portion of food. For him. You decided to sit down next to him and stare at him eating. “You want some?” He asked. Oh no, he probably connected the dots as to why you were watching him. “No, I’m good.” But your stomach betrays you.

It says the complete opposite and he can’t help but disguise a smile. “I’ll share it with you. But I’m too sore to get another spoon so…” He fed you. You couldn’t complain. He was kind in his own way.

You tucked your hair behind your ear so you can eat peacefully. That’s when his eyes saw your hand. Those beautiful fingers that he adored. He loved how they massaged his scalp after a long day and he loved the new nails on it each time. “Are those new?” He asked quietly, pointing to your hand. Your eyes went wide.

You coughed to gather yourself and looked down. Wanting to ignore his piercing gaze. “Yes.” He nodded and took your hand, letting your hair fall. He inspected each nail admiring its pattern. “They look good.” He said and let you go. “Thank you…” This was awkward.

“Will you fill me in on why you say such short sentences? You’re supposed to talk more than me and well, here we are.” He asked tiredly. His fingers grabbed your chin and glared into your eyes. No your soul. “I just… Sae? Did I do something wrong?” You sigh.

“What?? No? Why?” He genuinely looked dumbfounded. “It’s like you were ignoring me all day, and you weren’t even looking at my messages. Sure maybe you were busy and couldn’t answer but just let me know you saw them or something!!” The words came out without even thinking. You were mad at him.

“I didn’t get any messages…” He thinks. “No! I wrote you a bunch!! I even told you how I’m late from everywhere because of the stupid traffic.”

By talking and sorting things out it was finally not such a heavy stone on your heart. Like a boulder really rolled down off your shoulders. He didn’t know there were messages because he gave his phone to a teammate on the bench and by the time he got in his car it shut down. The rest he has no excuse for. He is simply not that attentive when it comes to things.

He is one of a kind.

Thank you for reading <3

#bllk x you #blue lock #bllk #bllk x reader #fanfic #blue lock fanfiction #bllk itoshi sae #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #f!reader #sae itoshi #bllk sae #bllk fluff #blue lock fluff #blue lock sae #sae fluff #itoshi sae fluff

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scariffs · 1 day ago

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anidala week (@anidalaweeks), day 4: summer camp.

. . . summer for padme amidala usually consisted of giving swimming lessons, smiling even when the sun was actively burning her, and telling kids it's okay to miss their mom (and sometimes, telling them that she misses her mom, too). summer was, like every other season of her life, a time to be mature. that's what a good camp counselor was, anyways, mature.

anakin skywalker's summers were made of hosting water balloon fights, telling scary stories around the fire, and encouraging his kids to explore their home away from home. they should be free to climb trees and swim in lakes, as long as he's around. it's summer break, after all; kids ought to have some fun outside before heading back to school. a good camp counselor, at least to anakin, was lots of fun.

their summer breaks collide when a rogue storm takes off part of the roofing of padme's cabin and causes the power to go out. it's dark, which is fine, but the storm was still raging, droplets dripping onto the kid's heads. not to mention the summer heat, still relentless even through the rain. the kids were already beginning to whine, one tearing up because he'd always slept with a nightlight and couldn't fathom existing without one. it's a hesitant decision, but padme finds herself on the front step of anakin's porch. behind her are her kids, each holding their backpacks or jackets above their heads to keep from getting drenched.

"our power went out and i think there's a problem with our roof, it's leaking. i've only got ten kids," she speaks over the storm, glancing past him to take in the state of his cabin. not many kids, more than enough space for her group to settle in the corner. "i was wondering if we could stay here for a while. you're our closest neighbor."

"padme," anakin breathes out before nodding. he steps aside, rubbing the back of his neck. "sure, yeah. of course." he looks at his own group of kids, still full of energy and up past their supposed bedtime. "alright guys, padme's group is staying with us for a bit because of the storm. everyone play nice, alright?"

——

it doesn't take long for the kids to settle down. padme's kids huddle together in the corner of anakin's cabin, finding comfort in each other as they fall asleep. his kids have fallen asleep, too, spread about in bunks they probably weren't assigned to just to sleep by a friend. anakin always let them sleep where they pleased, as long as they were behaved about it.

with all the kid's asleep, it's just the counselors who have yet to rest. padme's staring out the window at her own cabin. anakin decides to walk over.

"i'm sorry about that," he murmurs, keeping his voice low for the kids' sake.

"it's not your fault. things happen." she pauses before speaking again. "your kids aren't in their assigned bunks, are they? and up past bedtime, too."

he shifts closer, "you're not gonna snitch, are you?" his eyes search hers for an answer. a write up on his record isn't exactly what he'd been hoping for, this summer.

fortunately, the brunette chuckles softly, "i was going to say they're well behaved little rule breakers."

pink floods anakin's cheek as embarrassment sets in. he eases back, nodding his head. "they get it from me," he jokes.

"i'm sure they do," padme replies, "it doesn't hurt to set a mature example, though."

"yeah, but that's your thing," he murmurs. there's a lull in the conversation, a comfortable silence where they're both just looking at each other. noticing each other, really. how he's spent so many summers without getting to know the pretty girl from the cabin next door... anakin feels almost ashamed about it. "my kids have swimming lessons scheduled tomorrow. but i'm not a good swimmer," he admits, finally breaking the silence, "do you think my group could join yours for that?"

"sure." padme waits until he starts smiling from her answer to speak again. "do you want me to teach you how to swim, too?" padme asks, a teasing smile playing at her lips, "we've got some spare floaties, i'm sure." that smile... jesus christ. he's an idiot for not speaking to her sooner.

"yes." he pauses, frowns, then changes his answer. "no, i mean. yes, i'd love to learn to swim from you but not with the kids, no. what about some... private lessons?"

she chuckles a little at his boldness. "now you're pushing it. how about you model for me while i walk the kids through it? no floaties, but you'll still learn."

"deal." anakin grins like he's won something and padme feels her heart race at the sight. she realizes in that moment that their summers are now intertwined. as she looks upon anakin's face, however, lingering on the scars that decorate his skin and his smiling lips, and his eyes, full of fondness for her... padme finds herself not minding a summer full of anakin. and anakin would certainly love a summer full of padme.

made for anidala week ^_^ summer camp au! they're camp counselors for younger kids. this isn't explicitly stated but i imagined padme being in charge of more sensitive kids (not necessarily special needs although that wld be cool too but i imagine she'd take the kids known to be afraid of bugs or scared of the dark or y'know, the ones that cry a lot). + they know each other a little but haven't ever rlly spoken bc differing schedules & whatnot.

#my writing ✦✧͏#anidala #anakin and padme #anakin skywalker #padmé amidala #padme amidala #anidalaweek2025 #anidala community #pro anidala #anakin x padme #skyberrie

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kaleidodreams · 2 days ago

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Lots of great fics recommended already! You can find my personal rec list here, but I'm gonna focus on some of my top, top favorites, with more of a slant toward other pairings since a lot of Victuuri recs have already been made (although I still mention a few):

All That I Want by ratherunnecessary (Mature, Mila/Sara)

Mila just won bronze at Worlds. Her best friend is newly engaged. Viktor’s determined to pull off a skating exhibition like no one’s ever seen. And Mila’s starting to realize that her initial judgement of Sara Crispino as a boy-crazy bubblehead was very, very wrong. This should be the best summer of her life.

So why does Mila feel more alone than ever?

Half A Chance by ratherunnecessary (Mature, Yuri/Otabek, Victor/Yuuri, and one-sided Yuri/Yuuri):

Yuri has never cared about anything as much as he cares about skating. Until, one day, that changes.

Or, Viktor falls in love with Yuuri, Yuuri falls in love with Viktor, Yuri falls in love Yuuri, Otabek falls in love with Yuri, and somehow everything turns out okay.

A Practical Guide to Winning the Olympics (Dos and Don’ts) by Anna (pineconepickers) (Explicit, Victor/Yuuri)

When pair skater Yuuri Katsuki’s career comes to a scandalous end, he does not expect the retired pair skating legend Viktor Nikiforov to suggest that they compete together. But taking on a new skating partner is full of trial and error, and the skating world doesn’t know how to react when the Katsuki-Nikiforov duo, against all odds, starts doing well. The last thing either of them should do, as they strive for their last chance at greatness, is to fall in love. Yuuri knows he is damaged goods, and Viktor knows his body is starting to fail him. They have competitions to survive and medals to win. No, falling in love is out of the question; they’re just very good friends. And even if Viktor felt something, he’d never act on it, and even if Yuuri happened to be hopelessly in love, he’d be mortified if Viktor ever found out.

empty spaces between stars by astudyinrose (Explicit, Victor/Yuuri)

Victor gets just as drunk as Yuuri at the Sochi Banquet, and they disappear together after the dance-offs. They wake up the morning after with rings on their fingers, and pictures of them kissing after getting married the night before are all over the tabloids... but neither of them remembers a thing. They decide to stay married for a while for the sake of Victor's sponsorships, and in exchange, Victor coaches Yuuri through nationals...

Find the New World in You by opalish (Teen and Up, Gen)

Yuri Plisetsky was recovering from a bad fall and had been drafted into playing announcer.

It was guaranteed to be the greatest ice show ever.

Here's to the Mess We Make by fakeplasticsnow (Teen and Up, Otabek/Yuri and one-sided Otabek/Mila)

Puberty sucks. Feelings suck more. In the wake of a post-Worlds meltdown, Yuri accidentally discovers his artistic identity in a jazz dance class with Otabek and Mila. Along the way, Otabek unleashes his inner Channing Tatum, Yuri gets in touch with his inner Georgi, and Yakov probably loses more hair. Welcome to the madness.

it's the life we're living now by vivevoce (Mature, Otabek/Yuri)

“... Did you know you still give me boners?” Yuri asks seriously. Otabek is startled into an incredulous snort. “Don’t laugh, you asshole! It’s tragic and inconvenient and probably going to last until we’re old and can’t get it up anymore.”

“I’m touched,” Otabek replies tonelessly. “You have such a way with words.”

“Yeah, I know.” Yuri grins, all sharp teeth. “Feel free to swoon a little closer into my arms. And on top of my crotch?”

“Fuck off.” Yuri can hear Otabek’s grudging smile, even with his back turned.

“Baby?”

“No.”

“Zhanym?”

“Gross.”

i've told a hundred lies by persephoneggsy (Teen and Up, Yuri/Minami, Otabek/Mila, and one-sided Otabek/Yuri)

When Otabek and Mila start dating, it feels like Yuri’s been punched in the gut. No, correction: it feels like Otabek’s punched him in the gut, and the guy doesn’t even realize it. Worst of all, it’s all Yuri’s fault. He’d been the one to encourage them, after all.

Then this hyperactive little nugget of a skater comes out of nowhere and barrels into Yuri's life and just makes things worse.

Or better.

Yuri hasn't decided yet.

No Nut November by WhiskeyDreams (Explicit, Otabek/Yuri)

"I can't do it." "The 4Lz?" "No! The stupid challenge." "...it's been 3 days, Yura."

- - -

The skating circuit had somehow come to the collective conclusion that doing the No Nut November challenge was a good idea - and turning down a challenge had never been something Yuri considered to be an option. So here he was, three days in, and he had no idea how he was supposed to survive another twenty-seven.

on growing; by crossroadswrite (Teen and Up, Victor/Yuuri)

Yuri Plisetsky glares at him with all the righteousness five year olds possess, and says in heavily accented and clumsy English. “Be more gooder, stupid!”

And then he storms out in a sweep of blond hair and blue and red lights from his Sketchers.

(Or: in which Yuri Plisetsky is Victor Nikiforov's bratty five-year-old and nothing is the same.)

The Next Level by azriona (Explicit, Victor/Yuuri)

The skating season continues (as skating seasons are wont to do), while Victor and Yuuri negotiate the shifts in their relationship, their careers, and their home rink.

Sometimes, things even go as planned.

took me knee-high to a man by thewalrus_said (Explicit, Christophe/Mystery Man and Christophe/Victor)

Christophe Giacometti, ages 14-22. Skating; sex; friendship; love.

Undiscovered Country by shysweetthing (Explicit, Victor/Yuuri)

Yuuri wakes up in Victor’s room the night after the Sochi Grand Prix Final banquet. Did they sleep together? No. Instead, last night, Drunk Yuuri taunted Victor that he hadn’t earned the right to get in his pants…and spelled out exactly what Victor would have to do to get there.

Now, Victor intends to do everything on that list…

Watch The Young Hearts Fade by kiazareni (Teen and Up, Otabek/Yuuri)

Yuri is forced to deal with a lot of issues from his past, when after five years of silence, Otabek is suddenly back in his life. It might be just what he needs to move on, but that doesn't mean it isn't hard, and sometimes, Otabek doesn't make it easy either, especially when Yuri's feelings for him resurface. He refused to go down that road once before, but he is not sure he is strong enough this time.

Winter Song by proantagonist (Explicit, Victor/Yuuri)

The set of Yuuri’s mouth softened into a private smile as Victor squeezed his knee beneath the table. His hands were bare, free from the gloves he so often wore when they were together on the rink, and the heat of his palm burned straight through the denim of Yuuri’s jeans. He slipped his own hand beneath the table and found Victor’s. Hidden from sight, their fingers began to flirt and play. A secret conversation all their own that needed no words.

Yuuri was aware that at some point—a moment in time he couldn’t quite place—Victor had become his boyfriend.

There wasn’t a single instant when it happened. It was a slow awareness, as if Victor had silently been asking the question for months now, and Yuuri had been giving him the answer a little more with each passing day.

And pretty much everything by Allekha!

(For a little self-plug, you can find my YOI fics here. I most recommend the "It's Complicated" series (G to Mature, Yuri/Otabek/Mila), The Baby Question (Teen and Up, Victor/Yuuri), and Good Catholic Boy (JJ/Isabella).)

need your best yuri on ice ao3 fics or fic writers rn this is an emergency

#yuri!!! on ice #recs

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nglgfics · 8 hours ago

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Clean signal - Part 1

(Based on this request)

(18+)

Masterlist

You weren’t part of the original Oasis crew. You’d been brought in late, halfway through a leg of the Morning Glory tour, after a tech bailed without warning. Someone from front of house, probably the engineer running sound out by the crowd — had passed your name up the chain. Said you were solid. Quiet. No fuss.

The call came at 2:14 a.m. You were on a plane by noon.

It wasn’t your first job. You’d been teching live shows since your teens — brought along by your dad before you were even old enough to legally be in half the venues. He was a legend in the business — the kind of guy guitarists still name-dropped like gospel — but he never made things easier for you. If anything, he made them harder. Gave you nothing. No shortcuts, no soft landings. Just a look that said: earn it.

So you did.

Now at twenty, you knew better than to slack for even a second.

You were younger than most. One of the only women in a sea of road-dusted men who still double-checked your work even when you’d already fixed the problem twice. So you didn’t just have to be good.

You had to be better. Cleaner. Faster. Quieter. The kind of sharp that didn’t leave room for question.

You liked the rhythm of it — clean cables, smooth transitions, a guitar handed off at the exact right second. Everything seamless. Everything right.

You knew how to disappear into noise. How to keep your head down, stay invisible, get it done. Some people chased the rush of the stage. You liked the calm just off it. The little zone of order behind the chaos — where you didn’t have to speak, just act. Just know.

You dressed to move.

To lift. To duck. To run cues without tripping over power.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Sturdy boots.

People noticed your work before they noticed you.

That suited you just fine.

You didn’t need to be seen. Not like that. You’d learned early that attention came with questions. With assumptions. With bets you didn’t ask anyone to make.

And if no one was watching, you could control the rest — the output, the precision, the next cue.

You weren’t trying to be small.

You just liked the quiet power of staying out of sight.

You were here to make the music happen. No ego. No spotlight. Just signal, signal, sound.

Which was probably why Noel Gallagher liked you straight away — even if he didn’t say it. He was all clipped instructions and dry nods, the occasional grunt if something was wrong. But he didn’t micromanage. He gave trust like it was currency, and once he handed it to you, he didn’t take it back. Because he saw that you were good. Not flashy. Not loud. Just solid.

You tuned Noel’s guitars to the exact temperament he liked without needing to be told twice. You caught issues before they became problems. You did the work. You kept the noise out of his way.

He appreciated that.

Noel didn’t care about resumes or stories. He cared about whether you could make his rig sound like his rig.

On day two, you’d re-patched a loop chain without asking — took the buzz out of his distortion entirely. He’d stopped mid-check, glanced over his shoulder, and given a single, approving nod.

After that, you were the one he turned to.

You had access.

To the stage. The gear. The space.

—-

It was a week into the tour and you were crouched stage left, one knee on the ground, chasing a low buzz in the monitor feed. A flashlight was tucked between your teeth, one hand on the levels, the other following the line of cables back to the source.

The venue smelled like dust and hot metal. The floor vibrated faintly beneath your boots — the pulse of soundcheck still echoing through the concrete.

Noel’s setup was famously temperamental — he liked it that way — and you knew every inch of it. You knew how he liked his clean tone bright, his effects subtle but sharp. You’d already tuned and cased three of his Epiphone guitars.

This wasn’t about glamour.

It was muscle memory.

Quiet hands. Clear signals. A job done right before anyone had to ask.

And you liked it that way.

You worked in the gaps — in the moments between noise and applause.

You kept things running, made sure no one noticed the things that could go wrong.

That was the point: be good enough to disappear.

So when the air shifted — subtle, almost imperceptible, like the tension before a thunderclap — you noticed.

That sixth sense that kicks in when someone’s standing too close, too quiet.

You looked up, half-expecting a runner, maybe Noel again with some last-minute ask.

It wasn’t either.

Liam was standing five feet away.

Watching you. Like he had been for longer than you realised.

Hair damp from the rain outside. Mouth parted slightly, as if he’d just said something to someone else and hadn’t finished the thought. One hand in his jacket pocket. The other holding a half-empty bottle of water, loose and casual like everything about him.

Except his eyes.

They were locked on you. Unapologetically.

Like you were something he’d just tripped over and couldn’t stop staring at.

You straightened, slow, wiping your hand on your jeans as you stood.

He didn’t move.

You hadn’t expected him to be quiet.

But he was.

Watching you. Still. Curious, almost.

It threw you.

You knew the persona — loud, brash, frontman energy turned up to eleven. Always the one cracking jokes, filling silences just to hear himself echo.

But this wasn’t that.

This was quiet. Present. Focused.

And for a second — just a second — you wondered if maybe he wasn’t so different from you.

Maybe the noise was something he put on.

Maybe silence was something he noticed too.

You were so used to staying out of the spotlight. Out of the frame. That was the whole point of your job — making things easier for the talent.

But apparently, you weren’t invisible.

Not to him.

You waited for him to say something — a comment, a flirt, a jab — but it didn’t come. His eyes drifted down, taking you in. Not rudely. Not obviously. Just… noting.

You wore your usual attire. Boots. Hoodie. Sleeves shoved to the elbows.

No lipstick. No shine. No effort made for him.

And somehow, that only seemed to hold his attention longer.

You met his stare without blinking. Neutral. Professional.

But your chest felt strange. Tight. A little too warm. Like your pulse had decided to speed up without consulting you.

A flicker of something low in your ribs — quick and irritating. You ignored it.

He tilted his head. Not quite a smile. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something unreadable.

He looked you over once, slow — head to boots — and said,

“Didn’t know ghosts did guitar tech.”

You blinked.

He nodded at your clothes. “All that black. Blend right into the fuckin’ wall, don’t you?”

You didn’t rise to it. Just returned, flat: “Didn’t realise being loud counted as charm.”

That got him. He huffed — a real, amused sound — and finally looked away.

Just a second. Then back.

The air didn’t quite settle.

Something hung there — not words, not looks, exactly. Just an edge.

Like a wire pulled tight between you. Barely visible. Tensed.

You shifted your weight without thinking, grip tightening slightly on the clipboard.

He clocked it.

But he didn’t comment. Just nodded once — like he was filing something away — and turned to walk off.

You didn’t watch him go.

You didn’t have to.

The heat he left behind stayed long after his footsteps faded.

—-

The next load-in was chaos. Too many bodies, not enough space. You were on your knees under a rack mount, sleeves shoved up, running line checks on a bass preamp that kept glitching.

He found you like that.

Elbows deep in work. Sweat prickling your collarbone.

You didn’t hear him.

You felt him.

“You always this good on your knees, or is it just when I’m watchin’?”

Smug. Lazy. Delivered like he wasn’t even trying — but very much meant to be heard.

You rolled your eyes without looking up. “Wouldn’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer. His boots creaked against the riser floor.

“You sure? Could’ve sworn I saw you eyein’ me yesterday.”

You didn’t look up.

But the image came anyway — uninvited and too vivid.

Him on stage the day before, pacing between stacks during line check. Shirt clinging low on his back, sweat curling at his neck. You’d looked. Just for a second. Quick enough to pretend it hadn’t happened. But not quick enough to forget.

Your jaw tightened.

“Maybe I was checking for a health hazard.”

You didn’t even glance up — just unplugged the lead, swapped the channel. Fingers steady.

“I look at problems. That’s the job.”

That slowed him. Just for a second.

Then came the low laugh.

“Bit brutal, that.”

You adjusted the gain without missing a beat.

“No. Just honest.”

He crouched — not to help. Just to be there. Too close, all presence. You caught a whiff of him: warm skin, aftershave, some stale smoke. Still didn’t look at him.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Yes.”

A beat. He waited.

You didn’t give it.

“Right,” he muttered, half under his breath. “One of them.”

You didn’t look up. “Them?”

“Girls who think not givin’ a toss makes ‘em interesting.”

That got your eyes. Steady. Flat.

“Boys who think being stared at makes them special usually aren’t.”

His grin kicked up — wider this time. Real. Like he hadn’t expected that. Like it almost turned him on.

Almost.

“Feisty,” he said.

You stood up. “Busy.”

And walked past him.

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t call after you.

Just stood there.

You didn’t have to turn around to know it. You could feel it — that strange, solid pause behind you. The weight of someone trying to decide something.

No joke. No comment. Not even a scoff.

It was the first time all day the venue felt quiet.

And you couldn’t explain why — but it made something shift in your chest. Just a little.

You didn’t know what he expected from you.

But you were pretty sure it wasn’t that.

And if the look on his face before you turned the corner meant anything —

he didn’t like that one bit.

—-

A few days later you were side-stage taping down the last of the monitor cables when you heard his boots behind you.

You didn’t look.

“Still haven’t told me your name,” he said.

You finished the strip, tore the tape. “Still haven’t given me a reason to.”

He didn’t laugh this time.

He walked around in front of you, blocking your path to the rack case, hands in his jacket, head tilted just slightly. Less smirk now. More… study.

“You always this cold?” he asked, head tilted, eyes narrowed like he couldn’t decide if he was amused or intrigued.

You didn’t blink. “You always this clingy?”

A flicker of a grin tugged at his mouth. “You were looking.”

“I wasn’t.”

His gaze moved over your face — slower now, like he was checking for cracks.

“Still saw me.”

You folded your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “You’re loud. Bit hard to miss.”

“That right?”

You nodded once, deliberate. “Some of us are trying to work.”

He stepped in — not enough to cross a line, but close enough to test the air between you. The leather of his jacket creaked faintly. His voice dropped.

“And some of us just wanted a closer look.”

Your heart thudded, but your voice stayed even. “If you’re trying to impress me, you’re late. Try the crowd.”

His smile widened, slow and lazy. “Don’t need the crowd. Got them already.”

He let that hang in the air — cocky and casual — but his eyes didn’t leave yours. No swagger in them now. Just heat.

“You always this mouthy with people you don’t fancy?” he asked.

You didn’t flinch. “You always this desperate for attention?”

That pulled a low laugh from him — rough around the edges, like he hadn’t expected it. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up, slower this time.

You didn’t smile — not quite. But something in your expression shifted. Just enough.

He caught it.

Then he stepped aside, out of your path — not far, not gone, just giving you room.

“You’re not like the others.”

You stood, adjusting your headset. “Christ. That’s the line you went with?”

“It’s not a line.”

You looked him square in the eye.

“You don’t even know me.”

A pause.

“I’m tryin’ to.”

That stopped you.

He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t smirking. Just… saying it.

Almost like he’d surprised himself by meaning it.

You swallowed.

“Why?”

His answer came slower. Quieter.

Not like he was trying to convince you.

Like he was just admitting it out loud.

“’Cause I can’t fuckin’ stop lookin’ at you.”

He said it like it annoyed him.

Like it shouldn’t be true — like he wished it wasn’t.

But it was.

And you felt it.

That thud in your chest. That low pull you hadn’t wanted to name.

You held his gaze.

And for a second — just one — you let it show.

Just enough for him to know you’d heard it.

That it mattered.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Just the thrum of the venue around you, lights warming, bodies moving behind the curtain. The shape of him too close. The shape of something else pulling taut between you, thick and unspoken.

But still — you stepped back.

“Then stop,” you said.

And you walked.

When you glanced back — just briefly, just enough — he was still standing there. Watching.

Not annoyed. Not thrown.

Just… focused.

Like something had clicked.

Like you’d given him a puzzle he didn’t know he wanted to solve — and now he couldn’t leave it alone.

—-

A few days later you were walking the long way back from the stage, clipboard in hand, setlist updates scribbled in red marker. The hallway was dim, still warm from load-in, walls coated in the usual backstage cocktail of sweat, old smoke, and frayed power.

You turned the corner without looking.

Then stopped. Mid-step. Breath catching in your throat before you even knew why.

Liam.

Back pressed against the wall.

A girl — petite, pretty, made up and dressed up — already melting into him. Her skirt shoved high around her hips, and his hand was between her legs.

Working. Slowly. Deeply.

She was gasping, mouth open, head tilted forward against his chest.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at you.

His eyes — low-lidded, dark, unnervingly still — found yours like he’d been waiting for it.

Like he’d timed it. Like the whole thing had been choreographed just for this second.

And your body reacted.

It didn’t ask permission. Didn’t check your pride.

The heat hit hard.

A sharp, low clench deep in your belly. Thighs tight. Pulse flaring at your throat.

You hated how fast it happened.

How hungry it felt. How real.

Because he was touching her — but his gaze was on you.

Knowing.

And something in you — something buried — answered.

His fingers shifted under the girl’s skirt. Slow. Intentional.

She whimpered, hips jolting. She had no idea.

But you saw everything.

The way his palm moved under the girl’s skirt — firm, steady, practiced. The flex of muscle down his arm as he kept the rhythm going.

The curve of his jaw against her cheek.

The open mouth at her throat — soft, wet, like he was drinking her in.

And the whole time?

His eyes were locked on you.

Unmoving. Unflinching.

You knew what he was doing.

You knew he wanted you to see.

It hit you like a freight train. Not lust. Not anger.

Awareness.

A sudden, physical jolt that started low and spread sharp through every nerve. The tightening of your stomach. The burn under your skin. The weight in your chest that said: you’ve just crossed a line, and there’s no going back.

It wasn’t about him. Not really. It was about you.

About your body — the way it reacted before your mind could shut it down. The way your thighs pressed together as you passed him. The way your mouth had gone dry, and your breath hitched when his gaze didn’t drop.

You didn’t want to want it.

But suddenly, you knew exactly what it would feel like.

What he would feel like.

Hot hands and hard lines and filthy confidence.

That mouth, all over you. That focus — laser-sharp, all-consuming — turned onto you like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

You’d never been kissed like that. Not by anyone.

Never touched by someone who looked like they could ruin you — and seemed eager to try. Never stared down by someone who knew the exact second your pulse jumped, and made sure you knew he knew.

That was what wrecked you.

Not the girl. Not even Liam.

But the fact that something in you had opened.

Split wide without permission.

And now it was too late.

Because that part of you — the part that had been sleeping, safely silent, comfortably numb —

was wide awake. And hungry.

Your thighs pressed together. Your breath came fast and shallow.

Your fingers clenched tight around the clipboard like it might keep you upright.

He moved his hand again — slower this time, deeper — and the girl moaned like she was breaking.

But it was you he was watching.

Like he wanted you to see. Wanted you to imagine. Wanted you to ache.

And you did.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t look away. You held his stare as you walked past, steady, face burning. But you didn’t rush.

You let him see it. All of it.

The heat. The lock of your knees. The flush blooming up your neck.

You rounded the corner.

And the second you were alone again — out of sight — you exhaled, hand pressed to the wall, heart galloping, thighs still tight with heat.

A switch had flipped.

You didn’t speak the rest of the night. Didn’t need to.

Everything felt too loud in your head — the buzz of power, the breathless heat that wouldn’t fade, the image of his fingers sliding under her skirt while his eyes stayed locked on yours.

It looped. Over and over. Every time you blinked.

You packed the kit. Answered questions. Checked cables.

You were fine. You had to be.

But now… now it was dark.

The bus rocked gently as it pulled out of the venue lot, engine humming. The narrow corridor of bunks was quiet, curtain drawn. You were curled on your side, hoodie still on, knees pulled up, heartbeat still too fast.

And he was still in your head.

Her moan. His stare. That cruel, calm way he held eye contact while her body buckled in his hands.

And you hadn’t flinched.

Not because you were brave.

Because your whole body had lit up.

Like something had been waiting.

You slid your hand down under the blanket. Not yet touching — not even there. Just… pressed against the curve of your belly. Letting yourself feel how tight everything still was.

You hadn’t planned to.

You told yourself you wouldn’t.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About his hands. What they were doing. What they’d feel like on you.

Not sweet. Not gentle.

Just deliberate. Like he’d already memorized how to break you open.

Your fingers dipped under your waistband.

Hot skin. Damp cotton. No hesitation.

You were already there — wet, aching.

Your breath hitched before you even moved.

You closed your eyes. Saw him. His back against the wall.

His hand between her thighs.

Her mouth on his — and still, somehow, all of him fixed on you.

That look.

Like he was imagining what you’d feel like under his fingers instead.

Like he wanted to see you fall apart.

And now you could feel it —

your body betraying you, sparking hot at just the idea of his hand moving lower.

Slow. Sure. Like he already knew how you’d react.

You circled your fingers over yourself, tentative at first, then firmer.

And imagined it was his. The pressure of his palm. The rough pads of his fingers.

The rhythm he’d set — deep and slow, then just a little faster, just enough to unravel you.

You imagined the heat of his breath at your ear.

His lips on your neck.

His voice — low and smug, but careful, too — saying your name like he owned it.

“That’s it, love. Let me feel it. Don’t hold back now…”

Your hips bucked.

You bit down hard on the inside of your wrist, chasing it — the pace, the picture, the way it would feel if you were open to him, only him.

Not hidden. Not fighting it.

Just letting him take you there.

Completely. Your pulse thudded.

The ache twisted sharper.

And then—

release.

Hot. Fierce. Full-body. You shook, legs clenching, breath caught behind your teeth.

When it passed, you lay still.

Skin damp. Heart pounding.

And saw him all over again. Still watching. Still knowing.

Still in your head, where no one had ever gotten in quite like that.

You’d never done this before either. You’d touched yourself, sure. But not like this. Not because of someone. Not because a look from across the room had set your blood on fire. Not because you’d felt wanted, so deeply and instantly it made your whole body ache.

This was new. Sharp. Undeniable.

And it was him.

—-

It was late.

The venue was clearing, the house lights still half-up, and you were alone on stage, coiling leads into neat black rings at your feet. The air still pulsed faintly from soundcheck — warm, charged. Like it hadn’t quite let go of the noise yet.

You didn’t hear him come up behind you.

Didn’t feel him until the heat of his body brushed close — then the soft clink of plastic as he dropped down beside you, smooth as ever.

Cigarette behind his ear. Sweat-slick hair. Long limbs folded casual, like this meant nothing.

But his eyes — dark, lit, focused — told the truth.

You didn’t look over. Just kept coiling. Kept breathing.

“You’re quiet today,” he said, voice low, still rough from the set.

“I’m working.”

He tilted his head, watching your hands. “Still mad, then?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in — his voice dropping just enough to graze your nerves.

“Maybe ‘cause you saw somethin’ that got to you.”

You turned, fast. “You think I care who you touch?”

He smiled — small, wolfish. “I think you cared when I looked at you while I did it.”

Your chest went tight. Your fingers twitched around the lead.

He caught that. Of course he did.

“You touched yourself after, didn’t you.” he said — not asking. Stating.

You froze.

He didn’t wait for denial. Just kept going. “Thought about my hand on you, yeah? Fingers inside. Just like that.”

You swallowed. But didn’t move away.

“I bet you came quick,” he said, quiet now. “Hot and messy. Couldn’t help it.”

Your whole body prickled with heat. Anger. Want. Panic.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

He stood. And offered his hand.

You stared at it. Stared at him. For half a second too long. Then your fingers found his.

You took it.

Not because you meant to. Because you wanted to. Because your body had already decided before your mind could catch up.

He pulled you up — slow, steady. And didn’t let go.

Now you were facing him — chest to chest, breath to breath — and he was watching you like he could already see you coming apart.

“I think about you all the fuckin’ time,” he said, voice like velvet dragged through gravel. “You think you’re subtle, but I see it. That sharp breath when I’m near. That stare when you think I’m not lookin’.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But you didn’t step back either.

“You pretend you don’t want me,” he murmured, stepping close enough for your back to meet the wall behind you. “But your body gives you away every time.”

Your breathing faltered — not from fear, not even from surprise — but from recognition. Because it was true. And you’d been fighting it for too long.

His fingers slid under the hem of your hoodie, slow and sure. His palm warm, steady against your skin.

“I get hard watchin’ you work,” he muttered. “Every time you bend over a cable. Every time you ignore me like I’m not already in your fuckin’ head.”

You exhaled — a sound you couldn’t swallow.

He pressed in closer. His leg between yours. His mouth a breath from your jaw.

“You keep thinkin’ you’ve got control here. You don’t.”

You met his eyes — fire-for-fire — and didn’t flinch.

“I had it,” you murmured, just audible.

He didn’t smile.

He just breathed it in.

He traced the line of your ribs with two fingers. Light. Maddening.

“You’ve already given it to me,” he said. “That night, in the hallway. The second your eyes met mine, you were mine.”

You didn’t disagree.

Because part of you knew he was right.

You shifted — just slightly — into him. The movement was instinctive, unspoken.

But it was an answer.

And he felt it.

“You felt it too,” he said, voice almost reverent. “That pull. That heat. That ache that’s still in you now.”

His hand slid to your hip. Gripped, just firm enough to claim.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?”

Your eyes closed.

You hated him. You wanted him.

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

He growled low — not loud. Just a sound of victory.

“Let me make you come,” he whispered. “Right here. Fast. Deep. I’ll keep it quiet. I’ll talk you through it. You don’t have to say a word.”

Your whole body tensed.

He watched you. Waited. Didn’t push.

“Tell me you don’t want it,” he said.

You couldn’t.

But you didn’t have to.

Because your hand found his wrist — slow, deliberate — and dragged it down. Right where you needed him.

That was your yes. And he didn’t wait.

He pressed his mouth to your neck — warm, open — and dragged his hand down, slow, relentless, until it hooked into the front of your jeans.

Not pushing in. Not yet. But you were already gone. Already open. Already letting him in.

You were breathing like you’d run a mile.

Lips parted. Hands trembling. Mind a blur of heat and panic and ache.

You shook your head. Not no.

Just— not yet.

He stepped back a hair — barely enough to break contact. The loss of heat made you ache.

Your hand caught his shirt. Fisted tight. Pulled him back in.

And he didn’t ask again.

He kissed you.

Hard.

Hot.

Like he meant to ruin you for anything that came after.

His mouth crashed into yours — wet, open, insistent. Tongue sliding deep, tasting like smoke and heat and the exact trouble you’d spent days trying to resist.

You moaned — soft, startled — into his mouth.

And he groaned in return, low and filthy, like the sound of you was something he’d been desperate to hear.

His hands gripped your hips, dragged you flush against him — no room left between. You felt it — all of him. Hard, thick, pressing into your hip like it hurt to hold back.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down your throat — open, damp, reverent. “What I’d do to you if we had ten more fuckin’ minutes.”

His hand moved then.

Not up your shirt. Down. No warning. No hesitation. Just need.

He slid his palm into the front of your jeans — bold, sure — like he already knew the way. Like he’d memorised it in some dream he hadn’t meant to have.

And then— lower. He pushed into your knickers.

His fingers found you soaked. Heat slick between your thighs. And he stilled — just for a second.

You gasped, grabbing his arm.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked and honest against your neck. “You’re so fuckin’ ready.”

His nose brushed your jaw, breath shaking. But his fingers didn’t move yet.

He just stayed there. Feeling. Holding. Letting it sink in.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he whispered. “How hot you’d be. How wet. How tight.”

Your head fell back against the wall, pulse hammering in your throat.

You were aching. You were done. And still — he didn’t move.

Not until he felt you grind, just barely, into the heel of his hand. A silent answer.

Then he touched you.

Slow circles. Maddening. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch, not enough to take you over.

You whimpered. Couldn’t help it.

“You want more?” he rasped, mouth against your ear now. “Say it.”

You were shaking. But not from fear. From need.

Still, words felt too far. So you nodded. Once. Hard. And that was enough.

He breathed deep — sharp, tight — like he’d been holding it since the hallway. Then his fingers pressed deeper. Curled inside you. Right where you needed him.

You cried out — barely a sound. But he felt it. In your thighs. In your hands, clutching at his back.

His mouth found your throat again — teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper.

“God, you feel good,” he groaned. “So fuckin’ perfect. Just like I imagined.”

And he moved his fingers again — deeper now, steady rhythm.

Your body gave. Your head dropped. And for the first time in days, you didn’t fight it.

You wanted it. You wanted him. And he knew it.

And then—

“Liam!”

You froze.

It came again. Louder this time. More clipped. Recognisable.

Noel.

Liam’s hand stilled.

Another beat of silence, too thick to swallow.

Then: “Liam, now. We’re late.”

Liam closed his eyes. Exhaled hard against your skin. His hand dragged one last aching circle across you — then pulled out. Slow. Reluctant.

He didn’t fix your clothes. Just looked at you like you were something he’d have again. Properly. Soon.

His fingers brushed your cheek.

“Find me later,” he whispered.

And then he was gone. Out the side door, down the corridor.

You stood there — against the wall, pulse still racing, jeans misaligned, heat flooding every inch of your body.

Trying to breathe. Trying to stay upright.

And then— the door swung again.

Noel looked tired. Focused, but not suspicious.

“Sorry,” he said briskly. “You seen Liam?”

You shook your head. “He just left.”

Noel nodded, distracted. But then — his eyes flicked up. Took you in.

Really looked.

The heat hadn’t drained from your cheeks yet. Your clothes were straight, but your skin still buzzed where Liam’s hands had been, where his mouth had grazed. You felt flushed, too bright under the overhead lights.

But Noel didn’t seem to notice.

Just squinted at you like he was turning something over.

“You sorted that buzz issue from earlier?”

You nodded. “Should hold now.”

That got his attention properly. His brow lifted just slightly.

And for Noel Gallagher, that was practically a standing ovation.

“Good.” A pause. “Real good, actually.”

You blinked. Surprised by the softness in his voice. Not warm, exactly — but grounded. Sincere. Like he meant it and didn’t say it often.

He tucked the paper under his arm.

“Lot of people float through. Don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, or think they do and bollocks it up anyway.” A beat. “You’re not one of them.”

You swallowed.

His gaze was steady. Quiet approval written in the smallest shifts of expression.

“You keep that up,” he added, “we’ll keep you on. No problem.”

And then he turned and walked off — down the corridor, around the corner, out of sight.

No suspicion. No question. No hint of the truth.

Just trust. Just respect.

And that… hit harder than you were ready for.

You stood there, heart still thudding, your body flushed and humming from Liam’s hands, your throat tight with the realisation of what you’d nearly compromised.

Because Noel trusted you.

Gave you space. Gave you autonomy. He didn’t hover. He treated you like a professional because that’s how you acted — until tonight.

And if he’d walked in sixty seconds earlier…

Your stomach twisted.

You’d never wanted to be the kind of person who messed where they worked. Who snuck around and risked things that mattered for things that burned too fast.

But Liam—

Liam made you forget your own rules.

And now the weight of that landed like a punch to the gut.

You weren’t just trembling from Liam’s touch anymore.

You were trembling because this was real now.

Messy. Risky.

And if you said yes to it again… You weren’t sure you could stop.

The heat still burned under your skin.

And Liam’s words echoed like a drumbeat.

“Find me later“.

—-

You couldn’t sleep. Not even close.

You’d showered. Changed. Done your best to wash the ache from your skin, to breathe past the pressure still coiled low in your belly. You’d laid down flat in the too-firm hotel bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours.

But it didn’t fade. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. Felt him.

The heat of his mouth. The slide of his hands. The way he looked at you, like you were the thing he wanted most in the world and he didn’t care if it ruined him.

And God — the way you had responded.

You hadn’t been that person before. Hadn’t been someone who let go. Who needed. You didn’t fall apart in front of people, and you sure as hell didn’t seek them out afterward.

But now? You were wrecked. Not because of what he’d done. Because of what he’d started.

You turned on your side, one arm slung across your stomach, legs pressing tight together — as if that might somehow soothe the burn still alive under your skin.

It didn’t.

You blinked at the ceiling again. At the empty dark.

And the question hit: What are you waiting for?

For it to pass? For the moment to be convenient? For the want to let go of you?

It wouldn’t. You knew it wouldn’t.

And before you could talk yourself out of it again — before you could remember the reasons not to — you were already up. Already out of bed. Already moving.

You didn’t knock at first.

You just stood there.

Bare feet on cheap hotel carpet, your pulse in your ears, your fingers clenched in the hem of your hoodie.

Room 217. You didn’t have to check. You’d clocked it without meaning to hours ago.

Liam’s door.

You raised your hand. Waited. Then knocked — once, soft.

And the moment after, the silence was so taut it almost hurt.

The lock turned. And the door opened.

Liam stood there in nothing but a towel — damp at the edges, slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, chest flushed from the heat of the shower.

But his eyes were clear. Steady. He didn’t speak.

Just stepped back — letting you in.

The door shut with a soft click behind you. The room was warm, quiet. Golden lamplight spilled over the bed. And for a long second, neither of you said a word.

Then — his voice, rough. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

You swallowed. “Didn’t think you’d really want me to.”

His mouth tilted. Not a smirk — not exactly. Just something quieter. Warmer.

“I’ve wanted you since you first told me off,” he said. “Don’t know how else to say it.”

You stood your ground, but something in you curled tight. His tone had shifted. The teasing was still there — but edged now with something real.

“Thought maybe you’d keep runnin’,” he went on. “You’re good at that.”

“I had to be.”

He nodded — like he knew. Like he’d known from the start.

Then: “So why now?”

You met his gaze. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending I can.”

That silence again. Only this time, it crackled.

He stepped closer.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “You think about me?”

You didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Think about my hands?”

You nodded.

“My mouth?”

Another nod. Breath shallower now.

But then his smile faded. He looked at you, really looked, voice soft now.

“I want you to know what you’re sayin’ yes to,” he said. “Because this isn’t casual. Not for me. Not anymore.”

That stopped you. And it undid you. Because he wasn’t asking for anything more than honesty.

You stepped in close. Pressed your hand flat to his chest.

“I know.”

He leaned in, his mouth brushing your jaw.

“You still want me?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Your fingers found the edge of his towel — slow, deliberate — and tugged.

It fell to the floor without a sound.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there — bare, flushed, hard — chest rising like he’d been holding his breath since the second you walked in.

You looked down. Then back up.

Met his eyes without flinching.

“Guess you’ve been thinking about it too,” you said quietly.

Something flickered in him.

Not just arousal — though that was there, bold as anything. But reverence. Like he couldn’t believe it was you standing there, looking at him like that.

His voice came low, rough. A little hoarse.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured. “You’re suddenly fearless?”

You stepped closer — close enough to feel the heat roll off his skin.

“I’m not fearless,” you said, your voice calm. Certain.

“I’m just done waiting.”

That was it. You weren’t asking. You were choosing. And he wanted to be chosen. By you.

He inhaled — sharp and quiet — like the breath had just been knocked out of him.

You reached for your shirt. Peeled it off, slow. Your bra followed.

You didn’t hide. Didn’t blink. Didn’t cover yourself.

And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t say a word.

He just stared — open, stunned — like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look. Like this wasn’t just want anymore. It was awe.

You took his hand — the one still hanging stupidly at his side — and brought it to your chest. Pressed his palm flat over your breast. Let him feel your heartbeat, frantic and alive.

“Touch me,” you said. “If you mean it.”

His groan was low, ragged — dragged up from somewhere deep.

And then he kissed you. Hard. Hot.

Messier than before. Like restraint had left the building.

But this time, it wasn’t just about him wanting. It was about you letting him.

You let him have it — your mouth, your moan, your full-body surrender — and he took it like he’d been starved for years.

You were pinned. Back to the wall. Breath caught. Heart pounding so loud it vibrated against his chest.

Liam’s hand was between your legs — deep, steady, sure — and his other braced above your head, holding up the world.

He caged you in like he wasn’t letting you go.

And with the way he touched you, you didn’t want to go.

Not with how he was moving inside you.

Not with how you were moving with him — chasing it now, hips rolling into the rhythm of his hand, your fingers tangled in his shirt like you needed him anchored to you.

Not with what he was saying against your neck —

“Look at you,” he murmured, breath rough against your cheek. “So fuckin’ quiet. All business. All control. But you’re soaked for me, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

You just looked at him. Right in the eye. Open. Sure. His fingers pushed deeper, curled just right.

Your mouth fell open. A gasp broke loose.

“That’s it,” he said, voice lower now. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me. Walkin’ around like you don’t feel it too. But I know. I fuckin’ know.”

You kissed him this time — your choice, your mouth — dragging him down into you, daring him to keep going.

He groaned into it, slowed the kiss, tongue teasing like he wanted to taste the truth out of you.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispered, lips brushing your throat. “Every time I passed you after a show — all flushed, lookin’ away like I’d catch you if you blinked too slow?”

You whimpered — From want. Because you did remember it. Every time.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your fingers fisted in his hair, dragging him back to your mouth.

“You,” you gasped. “Always you.”

He groaned like it broke something in him.

“Yeah?” he said. “What about me?”

You didn’t shy away. “Your hands…”

His fingers thrust deeper — and you rolled your hips into it.

“…Your voice.”

He kissed your jaw. “What else?”

You met his eyes again, and there was no hesitation now.

“Your mouth,” you whispered. “Your cock.”

He shuddered.

“I bet you’ve been thinkin’ about how I’d sound if I was fuckin’ you,” he muttered. “What I’d say. How I’d fill you up. Stretch you so good you can’t even remember your name.”

You moaned — but this time you moved with it. Drove yourself down harder on his hand.

He felt it — the shift — and let out a ragged, reverent sound.

“I’ve thought about you too, y’know,” he said suddenly — rough, dragged out of him. “More than I fuckin’ should.”

Your eyes opened — locked on his.

He was still inside you — fingers steady, thumb working relentless circles — but it wasn’t just him driving it anymore. You were close. You were pushing for it.

“Couldn’t stop,” he said. “Every time I saw you. Biting your lip. Pretending not to look. I’d get hard just hearin’ your voice in my ear.”

You whimpered — hips stuttering — and he groaned like he could feel it break inside you.

“I’ve been fuckin’ my own hand,” he breathed. “Imagining this. You—shaking like this. So fuckin’ wet for me I could feel it through your jeans.”

His mouth was at your throat again — teeth dragging, lips open — but now your hand was under his shirt, pressed flat to his stomach, grounding him.

“I wanted to see you break,” he whispered. “But fuck—you’re doin’ me in.”

You were so close now — your whole body drawn tight, thighs clenching, chasing it with every breath.

And when he pressed just right — thumb slick, fingers deep — you didn’t just fall into it.

You took it.

He curled his fingers — just right. Deep and perfect.

You shattered.

The orgasm hit hard — a wave crashing through your belly, your thighs, every inch of skin his voice had touched. Your head dropped back against the wall, lips parted, a gasp caught somewhere between his name and a sob.

He held you steady, strong hands anchoring you as your legs trembled.

And then he murmured it — low, wrecked, right into the heat of your neck:

“That’s it, darlin’.” A kiss just below your ear. “Knew you’d come so sweet for me.”

His fingers stayed inside you, slow and gentle now — coaxing every last flicker of aftershock out of you.

“So fuckin’ tight.” Another kiss, this time to your jaw. “Grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You whimpered — soft, spent — and he groaned like it undid him.

“You came so hard, yeah? All over my fuckin’ fingers.” He nudged them deeper again, not to build, just to feel you. “Could stay right here all fuckin’ night.”

Your chest was still heaving.

When he finally pulled his hand away, he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low and rough, fingers still brushing along your thigh.

“That’s what I wanted.” A pause. His breath caught. “You. Like that.”

You didn’t speak.

Just met his eyes — steady, sure — and reached for your jeans.

His gaze dropped.

You peeled them down slow, inch by inch, your fingers calm despite the riot under your skin. Your knickers followed, kicked to the side without ceremony. The air hit your thighs, still wet from him, and you saw it — that flicker across his face. Hunger, reverence, awe.

You were bare now.

Both of you.

And for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then—You stepped forward.

One hand found his chest. The other slid lightly along his arm. You leaned in, pressed your mouth to his — not frantic, not greedy. Intentional.

Then you whispered:

“Lie back.”

His brows lifted. Just slightly. But he obeyed — like his body didn’t belong to him anymore.

He moved with you. Let you guide him.

His back hit the mattress with a muffled thud. You were already crawling over him, still half-clothed, eyes locked, breath sharp.

He hadn’t expected this.

His hands landed on your thighs like instinct. But he didn’t guide you. He didn’t need to.

You were already there — palms flat against his chest, legs bracketing his hips, the pressure of his cock thick and heavy beneath you. Bare. Waiting.

He looked stunned. Turned on beyond belief.

And it empowered you.

“This is mine now,” you whispered.

His grin — that cocky, too-sure smirk — tried to appear.

It disappeared when you rolled your hips.

Just once.

Slow.

Deliberate.

His head hit the pillow. His hands gripped your thighs so hard you felt the tremble.

“Oh, fuckin’—” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’re actually gonna ruin me.”

You reached down, lined him up. His tip brushed your folds — hot, slick, throbbing.

You were soaked. Wet from everything he’d said, everything he’d done, every look, every fucking delay.

He felt it. The slick slide of you.

And his mouth dropped open.

“Please,” he muttered, voice so rough it barely came out. “Let me feel it.”

You didn’t speak.

You just sank down.

The stretch stole the air from your lungs. Thick, slow, endless.

Liam’s head dropped back like he’d been shot.

“Ffffuck me.”

You went still, bottomed out, your thighs trembling.

He was buried in you to the hilt.

All of him.

And for a moment — You both just breathed.

His hands gripped your hips like he needed to remind himself this was real.

Then he looked up at you — and it wasn’t cocky anymore.

It was reverent. Wrecked.

“You feel like sin,” he rasped. “Like fuckin’ fire. You were made for this.”

Your breath hitched. Your hands were on his chest, braced. Your body pulsed around him — and he felt it.

He groaned.

You started to move. Slow at first — rocking forward, grinding. Dragging him inside you over and over, deeper each time.

His hands slipped from your hips to your arse — gripping, guiding, encouraging.

“That’s it,” he panted. “Take it. Fuckin’ take what you need.”

And you did.

You rolled your hips harder now, faster. Your clit dragging against his pelvis, the rhythm messy and desperate and so, so good. He arched up into you, meeting every motion, groaning with every thrust.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you? Needed to feel me stretch you open—”

You moaned, louder now, pace stuttering. You were right on the edge.

He saw it. Felt it.

He sat up in one motion, wrapped an arm around your back, and drove into you from below — hard, perfect, brutal.

You cried out. Loud. Shaking.

“I’ve got you,” he said into your ear, voice all filth and worship. “Come on my cock, darling. Show me.”

And you did.

You shattered — gasping, moaning, hips bucking, muscles clenching around him so tight he nearly sobbed.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” he bit out, and then he was coming too, cock twitching deep inside you, hot and relentless, groaning into your neck like he was breaking.

You held onto each other.

No space. No breath. Just skin.

His arms around you, your face buried in his neck, both of you shaking like the ground had gone.

When the sounds faded — all that was left was your heartbeat in your throat, his breath on your shoulder, and the weight of what you’d just done.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just pulled you down with him — slow, careful — until you were both lying flat on the bed. Your body tucked against his, his legs tangled with yours beneath the rumpled sheet. Bare skin to bare skin. Warm and quiet and still shaking.

His arms stayed wrapped around you, one snug over your waist, the other curled under your neck. His breath was slowing. Yours wasn’t.

You could still feel it in every inch of you — how completely you’d come undone in his hands. And that he’d watched it happen.

He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t make a sound. Until he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple. Soft. Still. Completely unlike what you thought he would be.

“You alright, love?” he murmured, voice hoarse near your ear.

You nodded, your cheek against his chest. He was solid and warm and there.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t let the question go.

“You sure?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I just…”

You hesitated. Then, quieter:

“I’ve never come with anyone before. Not like that.”

He stilled. Completely.

His hand eased, but he didn’t pull away. Just looked at you, properly this time.

“You what?” he said, blinking. “You serious?”

You nodded. Barely.

“I’ve been with people,” you said. “It just… it never felt like this. I never wanted anyone to see me like that before.”

There was a beat.

Then he pulled back a little — just enough to catch your eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “What’ve they been doin’ then? Just… laying back and hoping for the best?”

You huffed — startled into a half-laugh.

He shook his head, a little breathless. “You’re telling me no one’s taken the time? Not one of ‘em?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a big—”

“‘Course it is.”

He said it plain. Like it was just obvious.

“You let me have that,” he said. “You let go. Showed me. That’s not nothin’.”

Your throat tightened.

“They didn’t see it, did they?” he muttered. “Didn’t even try. Idiots.”

His hand skimmed your cheek, thumb rough from calluses but gentle where it counted.

And then, softer: “You’re a fuckin’ miracle, y’know that?”

Your stomach flipped. You blinked at him.

He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t posturing.

Just looking at you like something had properly undone him.

“I didn’t think you’d… want me,” you said. “Not really.”

He let out a disbelieving snort. “Are you takin’ the piss?”

“No—”

“You’ve been doing my head in for weeks. Just—walking around like you don’t even know what you’re doing. Calm. Sharp. Untouchable.”

His thumb stroked your jaw, slow now.

“You weren’t even tryin’,” he said. “And I was wrecked.”

You breathed in, sharp.

“I wasn’t meant to feel like this,” you admitted. “I was just supposed to do the job. Keep my head down.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “maybe you’re not meant to stay small. You ever think of that?”

That hit you square in the chest.

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t believe it — but because it might’ve been the first time someone said it like it was fact.

And meant it.

“You can still walk,” he added, a bit rougher now. “If you need to. Just say the word. We’ll go back to pretending none of this ever happened.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“Is that what you want?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“No,” he said, simple. Steady. “I want you. Not just for a night. Not just ‘cause I’m bored. I want you, full stop.”

You blinked.

He huffed again. “Fuck’s sake. Don’t make me say it twice.”

That made you laugh. Quiet. Honest.

His expression softened. His hand slipped to your waist. Familiar. Warm.

“I want whatever you’ll give me,” he said, voice low. “But if you’re askin’? I’ll take all of it.”

You felt it. Everywhere.

And more than that — you chose it.

Not because he saw you.

But because he let you see yourself.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath caught between you.

And for the first time in longer than you could remember — you weren’t running.

You just wanted this. To be seen. To be wanted.To be chosen. By him.

—-

You stirred before your eyes even opened. Warm. Wrapped. Held.

Liam’s arm was heavy over your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm and steady against the curve of your neck.

And then you felt it — the slow drag of his hips, the unmistakable hardness pressing against you, thick and wanting.

He wasn’t asleep.

Not even close.

“You’re still so warm,” he murmured, voice soft, sleep-rough. “Can’t stop touching you.”

His hand slid across your stomach, pulling you back tighter, his nose nudging behind your ear.

“Didn’t think it could get better than last night,” he whispered. “But fuckin’ hell, waking up like this…”

He rocked into you — slow, like a question.

You pushed back.

And that was enough.

He groaned quietly. Almost reverent.

“You feel that?” he said. “How ready you are for me already? S’like your body knows me now.”

You shivered — not from cold. From how careful he was. How deep.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he went on, hand slipping lower, fingers brushing where you were soaked for him. “Even when you’re right here in my arms.”

You gasped — soft, startled — as he eased himself inside, one slow push that made both of you still for a moment.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You feel like you were made for me.”

His other hand slid up your ribs, splaying over your chest — not groping, just holding. Keeping. His mouth grazed your shoulder.

“You know how long I’ve wanted this?” he whispered. “Not just the fuckin’. You.”

Your head tipped back. Your fingers reached for his at your hip, holding him in place.

He kissed your neck. Again. And again.

“You’re mine like this,” he murmured, voice low but soft.

He thrust, slow, sweet, deeper.

“No one else gets to see you like this. Gets to feel you like this.”

You whimpered. He kissed the sound from your mouth.

“Just me.”

His fingers found your clit — gentle, practiced, sure.

“You gonna come for me again?” he whispered, right into your ear. “Let me feel it?”

You nodded, helpless, body already tightening.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

And when you did — trembling, breath caught, body clenching around him — he held you through it, whispered your name, kissed your shoulder like a prayer.

And only then did he let go, too — soft groan, forehead pressed to your neck, body flush to yours like he never wanted to be anywhere else.

Still inside. Still holding you. Still his. He didn’t pull out right away.

Just stayed close — still inside you, still wrapped around you — like moving might break the spell.

You were both breathless. Warm. Tangled. You shifted — winced.

“Shit, you okay?” he said instantly, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Just sore. In a… good way.”

He grinned. Smug. But not in a gloating way. In a soft way. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be the one who made you feel like this.

“Well,” he said, flopping onto his back with a sigh, “good news is I offer world-class recovery cuddles. Limited time only.”

You turned to face him.

“You realise you’re the clingy one now, right?”

“Fuck yeah I am.” He reached for you again, hand sliding over your waist. “You think I’m letting you out of this bed after what just happened? You’re mad.”

You shook your head, grinning.

“I need a shower.”

He pulled you in tighter. “You’re fine. You smell like me.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly,” he echoed, eyes closing like it was the best thing he’d ever heard. “Best scent on earth.”

You buried your face in the pillow to muffle a laugh.

A quiet settled between you then — not awkward. Just… soft.

You turned your head. He was already watching you.

“What?” you asked.

He blinked. “Nothin’. Just… you’re a bit dangerous, y’know?”

You raised a brow. “Because I keep my toolkits organized?”

“Because you made me want a morning in bed more than a stage.”

Your heart thumped. But you didn’t speak.

Because the moment was too good.

And too short.

Because in a few hours, you’d both be back on the clock — back in the noise, in the roles you were expected to play.

And everything would start to tilt.

But for now… You let him hold you. And you let yourself want it.

—-

You didn’t talk about it. Not out loud. Not in daylight.

There was just… a rhythm.

A new one. Quiet. Off the books.

Built between load-outs and soundchecks, over the hum of amps and the smell of sweat and solder.

Sometimes it was just a glance.

Sometimes a touch — light, brief — behind a rig case, or backstage in the dark between songs.

A moment stolen in the soft thump of the crowd. A fingertip along your waistband when no one was looking.

You weren’t reckless. But you weren’t hiding either. Not really.

Just… holding it in the small spaces. Where it was still yours.

—-

It was Paris.

The venue was large and echo-prone, the house crew slow, the comms patchy. You hadn’t slept properly in three days. Your knees ached. You were running on caffeine and tension and the weight of being trusted.

And then, mid-set, it happened.

“Cast no shadow”

Noel’s acoustic. Intimate, unforgiving.

And just as he hit the second chorus —

a sharp, high squeal cut through the air.

Feedback. Thin and piercing.

The kind that made the front row wince and cover their ears.

You winced too — already moving, scanning the desk, fingers adjusting levels, checking connections. But it was too late.

The crowd still clapped.

But you felt it.

A crack in something that should have been perfect.

After the set, you barely made it off stage before the heat hit you.

“Noel’s looking for you,” someone said in passing.

You knew what that meant.

You found him near the racks, half out of his jacket.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

“What the fuck happened?” he said.

You started, calm. “It was the wedge. Left side gain spiked. I’d patched it twice but—”

“So what was that, then?” His voice was quieter than you expected. “That song’s all I’ve got some nights. And you let it fuckin’ ring out like an amateur job.”

You swallowed hard.

“I ran the line check. I isolated the signal. The problem came from front of house—”

“Don’t,” he said, sharp. “Don’t give me spin.”

“I’m not.”

He looked at you. Hard. Too long.

“You’ve been sharp till now,” he muttered. “What — a shag and now your ears’ve gone?”

You froze.

The air stilled.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement — Liam, coming out of the corridor behind the risers. He stopped. Heard it.

And stepped in.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

Noel turned. “Don’t start.”

“She didn’t miss it,” Liam said. “She’s been cleaning up your signal chain for a week and a half. You’ve been dragging that fucked pedalboard across the continent and she’s the only one keeping it alive.”

Noel’s jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know what’s going on?”

The words landed with a thud.

Liam didn’t answer.

But his silence said everything.

Noel’s eyes flicked between the two of you. “She’s good. But I don’t keep complications. Not in my crew.”

“She’s not a complication,” Liam said quietly.

Noel didn’t look at him. Only you.

“You want to keep working? Do your job. Get your head clear. Otherwise — I’ll find someone else.”

He left you there.

Liam reached for you, lightly. “Hey.”

But your hand had already fallen away from his sleeve.

You were still staring at the spot Noel had stood.

You’d spent so long being invisible — the quiet one, the girl with the torch in her teeth and the cable in her hand. You’d wanted to be known for your work. For what you built. For what you fixed.

But now?

Now you were something else.

Someone’s problem.

And Liam — still beside you, still warm from the set — looked at you like he didn’t know what you were going to choose.

The truth was: neither did you.

Continues in Part 2

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