#he waited that long only for it all to fall apart

[shokocide]

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

-

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

-

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like. 

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

-

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

-

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

-

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before��cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

-

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY 

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire 

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

-

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

-

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

-

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

-

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

-

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly. 

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. 

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

[silens-oro]

Senior Citizen Behavior

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Reader Domestic fluff/Established Relationship

The Pitt Playlist located here

Synopsis: For the first time in a very long time, it isn't Robby who's coming home late after his shift. Word Count: 1,421 Content Warning: Age gap; No age specified, but I typically write readers with Robby or Abbot as 30+ in my mind. Tooth-rotting fluff. A/N: lmao this was supposed to be a drabble and ended up being a one-shot because I can't help myself when presented with an old man on a silver platter, so there's that.

please comment & reblog :)

It was just before 10pm when you quietly let yourself into the apartment you shared with Robby -a whole two and a half hours later than you were supposed to leave the office, but the end of the quarter was quickly approaching and extra hours were required to be put in by your entire team. 

Gotta think of the shareholders, you thought bitterly to yourself as you shook the snow off of your head and toed your boots off at the door. Your bag and coat found their homes on the wall hooks in the entryway next to Robby’s jacket and bag, and you tiptoed down the hall to the soft glow coming from the living room.  

Robby was an absolute sight when you caught a glimpse of him on the sofa. Mindful to step around the known creaky floorboards, you rounded the sofa to see what the damage was. He texted you earlier in the day that the first couple of hours of his shift were an absolute doozy, and when he called you on his way home he yapped about a fist fight that broke out between two patients who were there because of a fight that landed them in the ED to begin with. 

"Round Two in the Emergency Department," he had said, still beside himself when the department turned into the set of Jerry Springer. 

“Sounds like an episode title of It’s Always Sunny,” you joked into your desk phone as you typed into the blurring Smartsheet on your monitor that you had been working away on for the last three hours straight. You let him know that it was going to be a late night for you and to not wait up. He needed his beauty sleep.

It was a nightmare Robby was all too happy to leave in the hands of Dr. Jack Abbot and his (loving) freakshow of a night shift -they were more than equipped to handle it and Robby couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

All Robby wanted to do by the time he stepped out of those automatic doors and into the fresh air was get home, take a hot shower, eat a good meal, and wrap himself around you like a boa constrictor -and maybe put a movie on so he could fall asleep before the opening credits finished. It wasn’t too much to ask for, and yet Robby found he had the apartment all to himself because you (in an absolute rarity) ended up as the one who had to work late this time around, so he made due with what he had. 

He took his shower and made a quick meal for the both of you before getting comfortable on the sofa with a book he started on his last day off. He got maybe three pages in, blinked once, and the next thing Robby knew, he was out. If you were there, he would’ve told you that he was just resting his eyes for a moment and he was definitely not asleep. No, he wasn’t snoring. All allegations were denied in this situation (that happened many times before), but you'd always give him a knowing smile with a sarcastic ‘sure' thrown his way. 

Senior citizen behavior, you had joked once and he nearly smothered you with the weight of his body as he draped himself on top of you until you apologized through a fit of laughter.  

Robby was sitting mostly upright on the sofa, leaning on a few throw pillows that propped his elbow up on the arm rest. He was in his comfy cardigan (the one he only wore at home after he had taken a shower) with his round readers hanging precariously on the tip of his nose and his latest book smashed flat against his chest. His feet, wearing coziest winter socks because the man was never barefoot in the house, were crossed ankle over ankle on the coffee table making his impossibly long legs appear to be even longer than they already were. 

Robby’s head was tilted back just enough to make his mouth open the tiniest bit, allowing soft snores (that he would deny til he was blue in the face) to escape while he rested -blissfully unaware of his audience, and you couldn’t stop the breathy laugh that escaped you even if you tried. 

“Oh, you are never beating the senior citizen allegations now, Robby.” You teased in a whisper as you carefully removed the readers that were dangerously close to falling off the tip of his nose. You folded the arms carefully and set them on the side table next to the base of the lone lamp that illuminated the room, before gently prying the book from his (more than likely cramped) hand. The book itself was flat on his chest, pages splayed open on the last page he read -or attempted to, anyway. Not seeing a bookmark anywhere, you dog-eared the page and set it next to his glasses with care. 

Robby grumbled incoherently when your palm came to rest on his bearded cheek. The dark circles that were starting to reappear under his eyes made your lips tilt down for a fraction of a second, knowing he was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally as well. Between what happened with Pittfest just four months ago, and Frank’s situation that Robby blamed himself for (not for Frank using, but for Robby not seeing it until a first day intern pointed it out to him), and the goddamn Patient Satisfaction Scores he was constantly drilled about like the ED was a Primanti Bros. franchise -on top of whatever other bullshit Gloria threw at him, he needed to take some time to himself so he could disconnect -if only for a few days. The problem was that Robby wasn’t the type to disconnect. He felt an obligation because if not him, then who?

It hurt your heart to think of the weight Robby carried day in and day out, like he was Atlas carrying the sky on his shoulders, not because he needed to be punished, but because he needed to be useful and this was the only way he knew how to be. Robby was a great man with an enormous heart who constantly gave himself away at the expense of never getting those pieces back. And while you tried to replace what you could, for every piece you returned, two more were taken away in its place. The toll it took on him was getting more and more noticeable by the day, but still he trudged on. It’s who Robby was, and would always be. 

Waking him up when you knew he needed the rest was the last thing you wanted to do, but you knew if you left him on that couch he was liable to wake up with something out of alignment and that was the absolute last thing he needed. 

You leaned down and kissed his forehead tenderly, then down to his nose, and finally landed on his ever so slightly parted lips (that he was 100% not snoring through). Robby’s eyes started to flutter and a sleepy grin tilted his lips up when he cracked them open and saw you standing over him. 

“Hi, sleepyhead.” You whispered, “I told you that you didn’t have to wait up for me. Your back is going to be screamin' at you.”

“Clearly I didn’t wait up,” He joked, groaning at how stiff he felt from sleeping in the position he was in. He yawned as he stretched his arms up, pulling his t-shirt up to reveal just the slightest sliver of his happy trail low on his stomach, and gently grabbed your hand to pull you down to the sofa so you could snuggle into his side.

Robby drowsily kissed the side of your head as you wrapped your arms around his middle, letting one of your hands slip underneath his soft cotton t-shirt to rub at his ribs affectionately. It didn’t take you very long into your relationship with Robby to figure out that skin to skin contact, specifically in a non-sexual setting, was something he craved. It was comforting and intimate in a way that grounded him and so it became a ritual whenever the two of you had brief moments together that you were more than happy to oblige in. It was never explicitly stated between you, he never asked for it, but you just knew and he loved you for it. “There’s a plate in the microwave for you. Figured you’d be starving when you got home.” His words were muffled because he still hadn't moved. You gently tilted your head up to look at him.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” He chuckled, rolling his eyes. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were pronounced and you couldn’t help but admire how handsome he was -especially when he was smiling. “Because I do. You’re the best.” You smiled up at him, giving him a loving peck. Robby let the kids linger, cupping your jaw to keep you close to him. 

“I try.” He breathed against you, dodging the attention by pressing his forehead to yours. He found comfort in the lingering smell of your shampoo and the warmth that radiated off of you. 

“You do more than try, Robby, and I will always appreciate that.” Again, you kissed him tenderly, your hand coming up to gently scratch at his beard. He gave you the stink eye when you laughed at the tiny groan he let out when you did it.

"I know you do, even if you are a pain in my ass. I love you all the more for it."

please comment & reblog :)

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

"OFF LIMITS" — Iwaizumi Hajime

a/n : @sahrberrii i saw your post, this one is for you 🫶 content : IWAIZUMI HAJIME (27) ATHLETIC TRAINER. olympics au. jealousy jealousy. man who cannot take a hint. established rls. 743 words.

He hadn’t expected you to say yes that day. He’d rehearsed it badly—asked you out after a long day in the Tokyo gym, voice hoarse from yelling about hydration protocols, barely able to meet your eyes. He was the definition of restraint. Serious. Focused. Not the kind of guy who flirted or the kind of guy who made moves on coworkers.

But you—how could he resist you ? You, with your calm eyes and quiet confidence, who never asked him for more than he could give but made him want to give everything anyway. You, who looked at him like you already knew—knew—that he’d fall, and still waited for him to take the step. And when he finally asked you out, you said yes. Like it wasn’t a risk. Like you already knew what he hadn’t said.

That was three years ago.

Now you shared schedules, shared long-haul flights, shared a toothbrush cup in a half-lit Tokyo apartment—and nobody knew but the two of you. He liked it that way, not secret. Just private, something yours.

The Olympics were loud. Crowded. Full of people with wandering eyes and inflated confidence. Which is why he noticed the Swedish athletic trainer before you did. He wasn’t stupid—he recognized the type. Too friendly. Too many questions. Too much time spent loitering near your table before matches.

You didn’t entertain it. You were cordial. Professional. Not flirty—not even close. Hajime knew your real laugh, your real face when you were interested. And this wasn’t it. But still. The guy kept coming back. Japan’s volleyball team just won their match against Sweden, the tension was lifting off your shoulders as you packed up cooling wraps and checked rosters. And there he was, again. Iwaizumi didn’t hear the words. Didn’t care about them. He only saw the moment when the man reached out—hand on your arm, light but casual. Too casual. Too familiar. He watched you stiffen. That was enough. He didn’t call your name. He just crossed the floor, slow and controlled, cutting through the buzz of trainers and athletes like the room had parted just for him. You looked up when he reached you, eyes already knowing. He stepped between you and the man—not aggressive, not dramatic. “You should take your hand off her,” he said. Not a suggestion but there was a threat. The man’s hand dropped. “Didn’t mean anything. We were just talking—”

“Well she’s clearly not interested,” Hajime said. “She hasn’t been all day.” The man gave a breathy laugh, then took a step back. “My mistake.” Hajime didn’t watch him leave. He turned to you instead, reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear—slow, careful. Then leaned in and kissed your cheek.

The contact was brief but it was loud. You raised a brow, once the silence settled again. “That was subtle.” He didn’t smile. “I saw him touch you.” You tilted your head. “Thought we weren’t doing this at work.”

“We’re not.” His voice was low. “But that wasn’t work. That was someone forgetting where he stands.” He didn’t wait for you to speak again—just nodded toward the staff corridor. You followed without a word. The door to the trainer’s room closed behind you. The light buzzed above. The cold air bit at the back of your neck.

And then he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him together. Not rushed. Not angry. Just deep. Needy. His hands at your waist, your hips, grounding him. You sighed into it, hands curling into his collar, pulling him closer. “You’re tense,” you breathed.

“I watched him circle you all damn day.”

“I handled it.”

“I know,” he said. Another kiss. Firmer. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to break his face.” You laughed softly, then let your forehead press to his. “You never get like this.”

“I do. I just don’t let anyone see it.”

His thumb brushed your jaw. His voice dropped lower. “You’ve been mine for three years. You think I don’t notice when someone touches what’s mine?” Your breath caught. He kissed you again—slower this time, but no less intense. Like he was making sure you remembered it too.

“You’re mine,” he said. “And I don’t care if we never say it out loud—but if someone forgets, I will make them remember.” You nodded once and then you kissed him back, like you’d always known he’d be the one to draw the line the moment someone else tried to cross it.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @angelkiyo @honeycrispappletree @itsmeaudrieee @sahrberrii @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @dazaisfavgf

[trashcigs]

what breaks them after a break up ・ 엔하이픈 gn reader + word count 1.5k genre angst hurt no comfort cw not proof-read, kissing — more  🕷️

HEESEUNG

it happens a few days after your break up when you send him a text message. it’s the first one in a long time, it’s nothing much just a simple warning that you’ll be coming over to pick up your stuff in the next hour or so. 

he agrees, of course mentioning how he’ll pack it up for you (— i’ll set them outside for you —) he types back. and you send him a simple ok in response. the box stays empty in front of him, his hand gripping onto a a shirt of yours. 

his knuckles turn white. 

he doesn’t know what to do. no, he’s lying. he knows exactly what to do but every being in him is telling him not to. your shirt still smells like you, (he smiles to himself) ofcourse it does. but now the thought of you really leaving him seems all too real. 

heeseung shoves the shirt into the box with care — he refuses to rumple it. so he grabs another one, and folds it before shoving into the bottom of the box. and then again, and again, and again. 

now losing you feels all too real, everytime he puts another item into the box heeseung loses apart of himself. he hates this. he hates himself even more. 

eventually he stops, he can't bare to look at your clothes again or anything reminding you for that matter. his head rests against the edge of the bed, the rest of his body leaning into the frame.

thoughts run to his head, of what if's and words falling and being thrown and — he didn't meaning. heeseung didn't mean to say it was over, didn't mean to say all those words but he did. the box stays half empty or half full, he's unsure about everything. he want's to apologise but he knows you made up your mind but he wants to tell you wants to beg in front of you and—

the doorbell rings. you're here. 

JAY

it happens when he and his friends go out for dinner, bottles lined up and empty. music roaring in his ears, laughter even louder. he constantly tells himself that he'll only drink a little, that he needs to be sobber enough to get himself home.

but instead he finds himself stumbling to your apartment building, like muscle memory. jay knows he isn't in the right mind -- he knows its not the perfect excuse, that he's drunk and just needs to find a place to stay but he does it anyway, his feet dragging him otherwise.

so he sits on the curb and stays there, swaying back and forth and forth and back and biting his tongue and staring at the ground while he waits. waiting for you to approach him, to speak to him to ask him whats wrong.

and he knows you well and stays hopeful, that he'll catch a glimspe of you before leaving. and you do, ofcourse you do. coat wrapped snuggly around you and a plastic bag in a hand, as you quickly walk up to the man.

("jay?" you crouch down to see his face, his cheek and nose a deep shade of red and tears making everything all too blurry. he begins to doubt that anything is real.)

your voice is soft and comforting that in an instant. he cries. because that's what really breaks him. the fact that youre still concerned, the fact that you still care. the fact that he hurt you and you didn't even slam the door in his face, you didn't hate him enough to do it.

jay wipes the tears spilling down his cheeks, though the choked sobs escaping his lips do little to hide the fact that he got so emotional. jay the prideful, jay the strong is still love sick jay who still craves your warmth

and when you pull him into half a hug, where his head rests comfortably on your chest while he sobs — he wishes, oh how he wishes this'll last a little longer.

JAKE

It happens when he returns home from practice, tired and sweaty and all he can think about is being wrapped in your arms. 

he shoves the key into its hole and, turning and twisting it until it clicks. his hands holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers. 

jake is excited, too excited. hes kicking off the shoes from his feet and yanking his coat from his shoulders. he almost yells out, “I'm home!” in his deep accent, dimples on display. 

but it gets stuck in his throat, your shoes aren't where there supposed to be. they aren't anywhere at all — they aren't at the doorstep and your coat isn't in the closet. your keys aren't hung anywhere and your perfume is gone and— 

oh. it comes back to him like a wave. oh. he gives himself a pathetic laugh, a dry half cough half sigh. his lips quivering at a silly promise the two of you made.

that he'd always return to your arms, and into a house that's full and lived and loved , with you in it.

but now its empty and cold and jake doesn't know what to do anymore. he lets out a shaky breath as layla senses his return, but even she doesn't bark with all her excitement anymore. tears cloud his vision as he stumbles onto the ground, resting himself against the cold metal of the door.

the flowers lay flush against the man's chest, arms holding it tight afraid to let go. sobs echo through the room, he won't let go. he can't — the very last of you.

SUNGHOON

sunghoon stares blankly at the trashcan at his feet and, then up at the fridge in front of him. and he doesn't know what to do.

pictures of the two of you together, has him spiralling. the fact that you're still smiling in all of them makes him feel sick.

it happens when he's cleaning up after, trying to get rid of anything and everything that reminds him of you. so he starts in the kitchen, the sticky notes plastered all over the fridge with phrases that tug his heart the wrong way, (soft i love you's and reminders)

the easiest thing to do (ofcourse), would be to throw it out. it happens when he's forced to look back at the past of what you were and think about what you could've been.

he finds himself furiously trying to wipe the tears spilling from his eyes, but to no avail. he grabs a photo, the one at the top left, the one taken at a photobooth. where your hands pull his head closer to your lips til you finally place a soft chaste (mwah!) onto his cheek.

but the photo feels dull. it taunts him. he wants to rip it. he wants to get rid of it, he wants to crumble it and throw it away. but he can't — he can't get himself to.

so the trashcan is still empty at his feet and the fridge still full. sunghoon doesn't know what to do -- he doesn't want to let you go, not yet. it makes everything all too real.

SUNOO

It happens at a convenience store, when hes working late hours and tending to the drunk man that doesn't know how to leave him alone. he practices in his head, more times than he can count — about ways to really give it to you, when he does get the chance. he lazily punches the numbers into the cash register, brows scowling as he rehearsed, again. 

sunoo has been doing everything and all that he can to keep himself busy, his apartment too large and too empty all of a sudden. jungwon no longer provides him the emotional support that was supposed to be guaranteed within the friendship (a pact — we made a pact)

everything made him feel sick — his shirt was too tight, his vest clung everywhere it wasn't supposed to, the fluorescent light flickering above him, the smile you gave when you told him that you were breaking up with him — sick. 

sunoo was going to give it to you, he promised himself. he'd tell you how much he hates you and how you're a terrible person, and tell you all the things he could've, would've said if you were together.

he'd ask why and what he did wrong and— 

the bell rings and he says his usual welcome in his customer service voice, until he sees who it is. the voice trails off and he sees you. sunoo finally sees you. 

you seem to be doing great, he notes to himself. your hair is all nicely done, your shoes look brand new and your look.. pretty. he watches you pass throught the aisles, bending and turning to catch a glimpse of you.  time seemed to be slowing when you were around. 

you finally walk up and he— (“im sorry,” he ends up saying eventually. “It was really stupid of me to and i didn’t mean what i–” you cut him off. “How much is it.” 

he blinks. what. you repeat it again, much firmer this time rummaging through your bag. sunoo opens his mouth to speak — “sorry sir, I really need to go. how much is it?” 

sunoo feels the lump in his throat, the sting behind his eyes, his lips quivering into a cry. He swallows the apology. “Your total is twelve dollars fifty three cents, cash or card?”

JUNGWON

he can’t hear anything over the roaring of his ears. the sound of his friends laughter filling the air and the bass of the music playing from the karaoke machine thrumming his bones. his drunken frising yet another song, jungwon fixes his position against the corner of the couch 

jake had ask him if he could retrieve a photo of him ( –’sure’, he answers). the phone light illuminates his face, he is quiet for the most part. Scrolling through your messages to retrieve an old message of himself. 

he tells himself that he’ll block you once he finds the photos, that he’ll be done with you once he gets those goodman photos back but every message he sees youve sent laced with love only causes a  lump in his throat 

jungwon is biting back every urge to cry. he doesn’t like this – he hates this, but his thumb only seems to scroll slower. he takes in everything, the way you write, the emojis, the pet names, the selfies, the “this reminds me of you” – (everything reminds him of you now). 

tears cloud his eyes, as he scrolls faster to find the images. he seems to completely miss the response to his desperate message for you to comeback.

NIKI

its when his friends ask when you were going to come over and hang out. "she's busy," he lies, the corners of his lips pulling into a thin line. niki smiles, playing with the hem of his shirt.

he has nothing better to do, so he lies. he lies that you're still together, that you still have pizza nights and hangouts. he lies that you're hanging out with friends or busy with work. he lies that you're still in love with him. but they know better, niki's friends know he's lying. they mask their pity with laughs and chortles but they know niki lis lying.

background noises turn to distant humming and niki is left toying the tab of his half empty soda can. he swallows hard, looking down at his phone that illuminated his face and made his features much clearer. niki doesn't want to admit that you guys broke up, that you left him and that he let you go. one hand runs through his hair, trying -- desperately trying to pull up your phone number. a string of silent pleas leaves his chapped lips.

it simply becomes a blur, the break up but he remembers raising his voice and he remembers yours yelling back and he remembers and remembers and the more he does the more he finds himself pulling his hair, lips quivering and etars falling.

he's left to voicemail, a "this phone number isn't available right now." and he finds himself shaking as he tries again and again... and again. he muffles his sobs with his knuckles, teeth sinking into his skin. surprisingly, it hurts less.

it comes to him in heartbeats, he feels his heart sink as he calls again. the ache that becomes a reality, the terrifying realization that you might really really be gone for good.

and that no matter how many times he'd tell everyone "they're busy," you're never coming back. and niki's not ready to accept that.

notebook I hope I wrote them accurately!!!

taglist open ⁉️ .....

[starboygojo]

making up with heian era sukuna after an argument.

The palace bowed to Ryomen Sukuna in fear. But in the inner sanctum beneath the soft canopy of crimson drapes and perfumed air, he bowed only to you.

His favorite. His woman. The others called her concubine. He never did. To him, she was more. His queen without a crown.

You were waiting for him when he entered, seated by the window, moonlight kissing bare skin peeking from her silk robe. You rose slowly, graceful as a dream, and he watched you like he always did. You are the only thing in this cursed world worth worshiping.

“Sukuna,” you greeted, voice soft, but never timid. You two had just finished having a silly argument. You had grown jealous of another concubine. What a foolish move indeed. Your mouth got the better of you before you even realized to think that he was just using her for her intelligence in the neighbouring kingdom.

He didn’t speak. Just closed the distance in three strides, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other slipping around your waist. He kissed you, slow, consuming, lips brushing like a prayer before he deepened it. You melted into him with a sigh, hands resting on his chest, feeling the weight of power and restraint in his body.

He could break her. But he never would.

He carried you to the bed and laid you down as if you were porcelain. Only then did he speak, voice low, reverent.

“You waited for me.”

“I always do.”

You reached for him and he let her untie his robe, let your fingers glide over inked skin and old scars. You touched him like a man, not a god, and that was why he gave you all of him. “Your patience is a virtue i admire the most. What a fool I am.”

He took his time tonight. Sukuna was not a patient man—but with you, he savored.

He kissed down your throat, traced the line of your breasts with his tongue, paused to mouth at the soft skin of her inner thighs. You writhed beneath him, panting, pleading, but he only chuckled, low and dark.

“Beautiful thing. What do you want?”

“You. All of you.”

You didn’t have to ask twice.

He entered your with a slow thrust, groaning as your body welcomed him in. You gasped, fingers curling in the sheets, overwhelmed by the stretch and the heat of him inside you.

Sukuna held your face, kissed you again as he began to move—deep, deliberate, rolling his hips in long strokes meant to drive you mad. He watched you fall apart, drank in every flutter of your lashes, every moan, every desperate whisper of his name.

“You were made for me,” he breathed against your lips. “No one else will ever touch you.”

“No one else could,” she whispered, hips meeting his with growing urgency.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, sweat slicking their skin, hearts thundering in sync. When you came—shaking, gasping—he didn’t stop. He cradled you close, kissed the tears from your cheeks, and fucked you through the aftershocks like he was carving his name into your soul.

When he finally followed you, spilling inside you with a low growl of satisfaction, he stayed buried deep, holding you tightly as if the world might try to steal you away.

“you were jealous.” he said with a tease.

“no, just angry.”

Later, in the silence, your head rested on his chest, listening to the beat of a heart few believed he still had.

He ran a hand through your hair, gently, and murmured the words he never said to anyone else:

“You belong beside me. Not beneath me.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “But if I were to be your wife, no other nobles would think highly of you.”

His eyes flickered, the unspoken storm of politics, war, and ancient rules behind them but they softened when he looked at you.

“You’ve slept in my bed. Bled beneath my hands. Carried me in your body and in your eyes. And they still dare call you less.”

“You already are my wife,” he said. “Let the world catch up.”

[humaling]

Nothing's Ever Gonna Hurt You, Baby.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: it's supposed to be another normal day with your husband—but it takes a turn when you wake up to eerie silence.

warnings: anxiety attack

word count: 3.8k

author's note: based on a req! i tried my best to write an anxiety attack. i got a bit lazy w the ending heh

When the war ended, you and Finnick moved back to District 4. It was a heartbreaking sight—the town lay in ruins, everything you once knew and loved buried beneath the rubble. But not all was lost. Some homes near the shore or deeper into the outskirts had been spared the worst of the destruction. A few were falling apart, some had been looted, but they were still standing.

Like the old family beach house you grew up in. Tucked away at the far edge of District 4, hidden behind thick jungle, it had always been out of reach—too remote for Snow’s influence to ever fully touch.

You hated living there as a kid. The jungle terrified you at night—the shadows, the sounds, the way the wind moved through the trees like whispers. You begged your parents to move closer to town, to where life felt brighter, safer.

Now, decades later, you and Finnick—your husband—have made that same beach house your home. It's the only thing that still feels familiar, untouched by the Capitol’s hand. Even with its isolation, or maybe because of it, you both prefer it here. It offers a kind of peace, a quiet freedom neither of you ever had before.

For a while, you both tried to believe that peace was enough. That the quiet meant safety. That the crashing of the waves and the rustling of the jungle could lull you into something like normal. You planted herbs in the garden. Finnick fixed the broken shutters. You spent long afternoons sitting in the sand, your feet buried in the warmth, watching the tide come in. There were even moments—brief, fleeting—when it almost felt like healing.

But peace is a strange thing when you've lived without it for so long. It starts to feel unfamiliar, almost threatening. You wait for it to be broken, because it always was before. Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget.

But freedom, you’ve learned, comes with a price. Snow may be gone, but the scars he left on both of you remain.

They linger in the quiet moments, in the in-between spaces—when the chores are done, when the sun dips behind the trees, when the fire crackles low and there’s nothing left to distract you. That’s when it creeps in. The past. The memories. The ache you’ve tucked so carefully behind smiles and routines.

That’s when the silence changes.

Some nights, it’s too quiet.

That kind of quiet that creeps under your skin and settles in your bones. The kind that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s heavy, still, like something’s waiting to happen. You’ve come to hate that silence. Because that was what it sounded like the morning you were reaped. No birdsong. No waves crashing. Just this eerie, unnatural calm. The air so still, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

It was the same during the Quarter Quell. That silence before they called your name again. Before they dragged you back.

Now, even here—years later, with the war over, with Finnick beside you—you can still feel it. That weight. That pause before the storm. It comes without warning. You’ll be chopping vegetables or brushing your hair or just standing on the porch watching the sea, and then… silence.

Your hands start to tremble. Your breath gets shallow. And for a moment, you’re not in the beach house anymore. You’re sixteen again, standing on that stage, eyes fixed on the Capitol seal. Or you’re in the arena, cold and bloodied, waiting for a cannon.

Finnick notices every time. He doesn’t say much—he just comes close, presses his hand over yours, or pulls you into his arms, grounding you with his presence. Sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes it isn’t. But he never leaves you in it.

You wake to the sound of nothing.

No gulls. No wind through the trees. No boards creaking under Finnick’s footsteps. Just stillness.

The kind that wraps around the house like fog, thick and quiet and wrong.

You sit up slowly, the sheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat. The sun’s already risen—soft light spills in through the window, casting long, golden bars across the floor. Finnick’s side of the bed is cold.

You already know he’s gone to the market. He mentioned it last night, just before falling asleep with his hand resting on your back. “Won’t be long,” he’d said. “Back before lunch.”

Still, knowing and feeling aren’t the same.

The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s oppressive. Heavy. Your chest tightens before your brain can catch up, before you can remind yourself that you’re safe, that this is your home now, that there are no cameras, no Games, no Capitol.

It doesn’t matter.

Because this is the kind of quiet that used to come before something awful. The kind of quiet that filled the square before a name was read out loud. The kind that settled over the jungle before a trap snapped shut.

You throw the blankets off and plant your feet on the wooden floor, grounding yourself with the texture, the temperature, the reality. You breathe in through your nose, slow, steady. Just air. Just the smell of salt and sun and old pinewood.

You tell yourself to move.

You go through the motions like it’s all fine—open the shutters, wash your face, tie your hair back. Pretend the pounding in your chest is just leftover from a dream. Pretend your fingers don’t shake when you reach for a cup. Pretend the silence is just silence.

You don’t let yourself cry. Not today. Not over nothing.

By the time Finnick returns, basket in hand, salt in his hair, humming something low under his breath, you’re sitting at the table slicing fruit with a steady hand.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head like he always does.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice soft.

And you lie with a smile. “Yeah. Just a little too quiet this morning.”

You don’t look up when you say it. Just keep slicing the fruit—steady, even strokes, the way you were taught back in the Capitol when everything had to be perfect.

Finnick pauses.

It’s just a moment, barely more than a breath, but you feel it. The way his hand stills on the back of the chair. The way his body goes quiet, not tense, just still. He’s watching you—reading more into your voice than the words you gave him.

You don’t have to explain. You never really have with him.

Still, he doesn’t say anything right away. Just slides the basket onto the counter and starts unpacking it like nothing’s wrong. Fish, bread, a jar of honey. A few apples, bruised but fresh. His movements are easy, casual—but his eyes flick to you now and then, like he’s keeping track of your breathing, your shoulders, the way your hand tightens just slightly on the knife.

“You know,” he says after a minute, like it’s just a passing thought, “the gulls were making a racket near the dock this morning. Could barely hear myself think.”

You glance up, and he’s got that look—half-grin, half-concern. The kind he wears when he’s trying to make you smile without calling attention to why you’re not. It’s light, but it’s there: the worry, tucked behind his lashes.

“They must’ve all flown off the moment I got back,” he adds, turning to rinse a piece of fruit in the sink. “Didn’t want to compete with your mood.”

It’s not a joke, not really, but the way he says it—soft, teasing, careful—it makes something inside you loosen. Not all the way. Not enough to stop the thrum of anxiety under your skin. But enough to let you breathe a little deeper.

You set the knife down, wipe your hands on a towel, and lean against the counter next to him.

“They’re cowards,” you say quietly.

He huffs a laugh. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t need it. He just bumps your shoulder with his and starts slicing the bread, like the silence never touched either of you at all.

The kitchen settles into a soft rhythm. Finnick slices the bread while you arrange the fruit. The air smells like salt and citrus, and for a little while, it feels almost normal. The silence no longer presses—it breathes. Shared, it’s lighter.

You’re halfway through whisking eggs when the old telephone in the hallway buzzes. It’s a low, crackling ring—the kind that always startles you, even though you’ve lived with it for years.

Finnick wipes his hands on a towel and glances toward the doorway.

“I’ve got it,” he says, already moving.

You nod, not looking up.

The moment he steps out of the kitchen, the room changes.

It’s subtle. No footsteps. No hum under his breath. No weight in the air beside you. Just the eggs, the sound of your whisk scraping the bowl, and the sharp scent of rosemary from the sprig he’d dropped onto the cutting board.

And that’s what does it.

The rosemary.

The Capitol had used it in everything—on meats, in oils, in perfumes they gave to the stylists. That crisp, herbal scent that once meant luxury now coils in your chest like smoke. It clings to your skin, to the walls, and suddenly you’re not in the kitchen anymore. You’re in a room too clean, too white, too quiet, the kind of quiet that hums just beneath your ears. The kind of quiet that always came before someone screamed.

Your grip tightens on the whisk. You blink. You try to breathe, but your lungs don’t seem to want it. The light from the window feels too bright. The bowl is too loud. The silence is back—but it’s not empty this time. It’s waiting.

You tell yourself you’re here. That the war is over. That you’re home.

But your chest keeps rising too fast. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to stir again, but the motion turns frantic. The whisk hits the side of the bowl too hard. The sound is sharp—like metal clashing—and it yanks you deeper into the memory.

Your vision blurs. You press your palms flat against the counter, the wood solid beneath your skin, grounding—but barely. Your knees threaten to buckle. You think about calling out to Finnick, but your throat’s too tight. You can’t make a sound.

Your palms are flat against the counter, your breath shallow and ragged, but it’s not helping. You’re still not in your body. You're still not here.

You're there.

The scent of rosemary thickens, warping into something else—metallic, sterile, suffocating. The kitchen tilts just slightly, enough to make your stomach twist. The light in the window shifts too fast, too bright—like the artificial sun in the training center, never rising, never setting. Just watching.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Hard. Fast. Like it’s trying to outrun something. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too quiet. Your fingers twitch. Your jaw clenches.

And then—your elbow bumps the bowl.

It clatters off the edge of the counter and crashes to the floor. The sound shatters through the silence. Eggs spill across the wood in a yellow bloom, splattering up your legs. The metal whisk bounces once, then rolls, slow and mocking.

You fall to your knees in the mess, your hands trembling uncontrollably. Your chest tightens until there's no air, no space to breathe. Your vision blurs as your mind races, latching onto one terrible, impossible thought:

They’re sending you back.

You don’t know how or why or when, but it’s happening. The Capitol found a way. They always do. You can already hear your name echoing through the square again, see the seal flashing in the sky, feel the grip of peacekeepers dragging you toward that same metal door. You’re sixteen again. You’re twenty again. You’re never free.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Please—I can’t do it again—”

Your hands are over your ears, trying to drown out a sound that isn't there. Your body curls in, trying to disappear, but the panic swells bigger than your skin. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

Then you hear it—footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Finnick bursts through the doorway, breath catching at the sight of you on the floor.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he says immediately, voice low but firm, already dropping to his knees beside you. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

His hands don’t grab, don’t rush. He’s careful—always careful. He slides one arm around your shoulders, the other gently covering your trembling hands, coaxing them down. He presses his forehead lightly to yours, anchoring you.

“You’re not going back,” he murmurs. “You’re never going back.”

Finnick’s voice seems distant, muffled—like it’s coming from a far-off dream. You can see his lips moving, but you can’t hear him. The world around you is too loud, too chaotic. Your mind is racing, drowning in the fear, in the terror, in the impossible thought that this will never end—that you will always be herded, always be a tool for their games. Always.

His hands are on your arms, his voice in your ear, but it’s not enough. You’re still trapped. Still choking on the panic that rises up like a wall around you.

Finnick tries again, sliding his arms around you, holding you close. His warmth is solid—his touch soft but urgent. You feel him against you, but you can’t seem to grab onto the reality of it. The world is spinning too fast. You’re suffocating in it.

His thumb gently presses against your wrist, soothing, steady, but your breathing is still ragged, too fast. You can’t catch it. Can’t catch anything.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, a calm insistence, but it feels like your eyes are stuck behind glass. “I need you to look at me, sweetheart.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t pull your face toward his. Instead, he leans in, just enough to let his breath brush against your ear. His words are a quiet hum, just soft enough to slip under your skin. He knows you’re listening, even if you can’t hear him all the way.

“Focus on me,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

But your mind can’t stop spinning, and all you can feel is the pressure—the terrible pressure—in your chest.

You feel him adjust his hold, and before you can process what’s happening, his hand is on your wrist, gently pulling it toward his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat fills your senses—strong, steady, frantic with worry, but there. You press your palm flat against the warm, firm skin under his shirt, the thump of his pulse grounding you.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches you with his warm, quiet eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest work through the shaking of your body.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby. "I’m here, honey. I’m right here, and you’re not alone. You’ll never be alone."

You press your palm harder against him, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart in time with the panic still swirling inside you, and for the first time, it anchors you. His heartbeat, frantic but real, becomes your lifeline. Something solid. Something constant.

He continues to breathe deeply, slowly, and as his chest rises and falls under your hand, your own breath starts to find its rhythm too. You can hear his voice again, soft and soothing, cooing gently at you.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart. In and out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s as though his heartbeat is guiding you, leading you back to yourself. You press your face against his shirt, taking another shuddering breath, then another. The panic still clings to the edges of your mind, but Finnick doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away. He simply holds you, holds you together, as the storm inside you starts to quiet.

With every beat of his heart against your palm, you begin to feel the ground under your feet again. Solid. Real. Safe.

You cling to him, your hands still trembling, but now they’re locked onto the front of his shirt, holding on like he’s your lifeline, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. Your fingers dig into the fabric, needing to feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him, beneath your touch.

You press your face into his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat the only thing that makes any sense. The terror still lingers at the edges of your thoughts, but Finnick is here. He’s always been here.

And that thought—he’s here—becomes the anchor you need.

He’s murmuring softly into your hair, his voice smooth and quiet, like he's speaking only for you, only to you. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, holding you close, his hand running up and down your back in soothing strokes. His warmth seeps into you, calming the tremors that still shake your body.

“They won’t bring you back,” he says, his voice firm but gentle, a promise etched in every syllable. “No one is ever going to send you back into those arenas. Not again.”

You try to breathe, to pull in the air that’s been so elusive, and the simple truth in his words begins to seep through the fog of fear. But the panic is still raw, still sharp. You squeeze him tighter.

He presses his lips gently to the top of your head, a soft kiss, as if that kiss could chase the darkness from your mind. “It’s just me and you now. Always. You’re safe here, sweetheart. I’m right here, and I always will be.”

Your hands move to his back, desperate to feel every inch of him, like you need to make sure he’s real. That this—this life, this peace—is real. You try to nod, but your body doesn’t quite follow.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his voice low, rhythmic, like a lullaby. “No one can take you from me. Not ever. It’s just us, okay?”

You breathe again—slow, even this time, like you can finally draw the air deep into your lungs. The crushing weight of it all lightens just a little. You feel him there, solid and unmovable, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. The fear begins to loosen its grip, just a little, but the feeling of him—his strength, his presence—grounds you more than you ever thought possible.

You press yourself closer, clinging to him like you’re afraid of letting go, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold on. Lets you take the time you need to breathe through it, to feel the trembling ease.

“It’s just us,” he whispers again, voice soft, so tender. “And we’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

The words feel like the only truth in the world right now, and slowly, the storm inside of you begins to quiet. With every breath you take, with every beat of his heart under your hand, you start to feel yourself coming back. More grounded. More here. More safe.

The panic still lingers at the edges, but Finnick’s presence is a steady reminder that it won’t take you again. That this is your life now, and he’s right beside you in it.

You slowly lift your head from his chest, meeting his eyes, still clinging to him as though you never want to let go.

“I’m here,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears. “And I always will be.”

The world starts to shift back into focus, but you stay in his arms. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break this fragile moment just yet. His warmth is like a shield, keeping you safe from the echoes of fear that still try to creep up from the depths of your mind.

For a while, you simply breathe. Slow, steady, in and out, matching the rise and fall of Finnick’s chest beneath your palm. It’s like he’s breathing for you, keeping the rhythm until you can catch it yourself.

His arms are still wrapped around you, one hand resting gently against the back of your head, the other at your waist, keeping you close to him. You don’t say anything, neither of you do, but there’s a quiet, unspoken agreement in the stillness between you.

You’re safe here. Safe with him.

Every time the panic tries to sneak back in, Finnick seems to sense it. His thumb continues to stroke up and down your back, the motion comforting, calming. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push you to speak or explain. He knows. He understands.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you don’t need to explain. You don’t need to hide the fear. He knows it, just like he knows the quiet spaces inside of you—the ones no one else could ever touch.

“Whenever you need to,” he says softly after a while, his voice steady now, without the urgent tone from before. “You can hold me like this. You don’t have to face it alone. Not ever.”

The sincerity in his words settles over you like a blanket, the warmth of them seeping into your bones. You nod slightly, still curled into his chest, your cheek resting against the fabric of his shirt. Your hands are still gripping him, but not in panic anymore.

The silence between you now feels different. Not like the heavy, oppressive quiet you felt earlier, but something softer. Like a shared space where nothing is expected—just two people breathing together, letting time stretch out around them.

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour. You lose track of time, caught in the comfort of his presence, the steady beat of his heart against your palm. Slowly, the tension in your body starts to ease, the sharp edges of fear softening, melting away. You can still feel the residue of it, just a faint echo, but it’s nothing compared to the suffocating weight it had before.

You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs. And then another.

“Thank you,” you murmur against him, the words thick with emotion, but they feel right. You’re not sure you’ve ever said them with more honesty.

Finnick presses his lips into your hair, the lightest kiss, and you feel the soft smile in the movement. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold. Instead, he just stays there, holding you as you settle back into yourself, as you piece together the fragments of calm you can finally feel.

“I told you,” he whispers softly, voice laced with that quiet confidence that’s always been a part of him. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have the words to respond. All you can do is hold onto him, close your eyes, and allow yourself to let the fear fade into the background. The world outside can wait. For now, it’s just you and Finnick, and the peace of this moment, fragile but real.

[prettygirl-gabi]

“To the Moon and Beyond” pt.4

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader (Pazzi x Reader)

Fandom: NCAA Women’s Basketball / WNBA

Warnings: cheating, revenge cheating, eventually in later parts there will be 18+ content (smut, alcohol consumption, strong language), polyamory, public teasing/flirting (in later parts)

Summary: A tangled history of love, heartbreak, and hidden desire leads three elite players into a secret relationship—and the WNBA spotlight.

A/N: yes this is hella long… I got in a groove and couldn’t stop writing… but yeahh enjoy!! This is also one of the longest fics I’ve ever written… will be multiple parts….cause it’s too long for tumblr…

Also thank you @paige05bby for the banner/header

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2025 WNBA Draft.”

The venue erupts in applause, a few camera flashes already firing off as families sit up straighter, hands tightening on the backs of their loved ones’ chairs.

I glance back toward Paige’s table — she’s seated now, nestled between Bob and Azzi. Amy’s beaming, Coach Geno leaning in to say something that makes Azzi laugh behind her hand.

It’s a beautiful picture, but even from here, I can see the weight in Paige’s shoulders. The quiet tension in her jaw as the clock ticks down.

Then—

“With the number one pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select… Paige Bueckers from the University of Connecticut.”

The venue explodes. Clapping, screaming, camera shutters.

Paige’s POV:

My head drops for a second. Not in disbelief—I knew this moment was coming. But it’s reverent. Like I’m praying not to fall apart under the weight of what it means.

Azzi hugs me first. It’s tight. Long. She says something low into my neck and I can’t even register it through the rush in my ears, but it keeps me grounded.

Coach Geno’s next, grinning like a proud dad. He pats my back twice, then holds my arms like he wants to say something else — but doesn’t need to. It’s in his eyes.

Then my dad, pulling me into a tight squeeze.

And my mom. Her hands cradle my face before she kisses my forehead, her eyes glossy. “I love you, Mads.”

“I love you too, Mama.”

But I’m not done.

Before I even take a step toward the stage, my feet veer right — toward the only other table that matters.

She stands the second I approach.

We don’t say anything at first. We just hug. And it’s real — real like everything that’s ever existed between us.

Her lips brush my ear.

“M’so proud of you, Madsy. I love you to the moon and beyond.”

I pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re a reason I’m number one.”

Her eyes water, and I can’t stay in that too long or I’ll lose it completely. So I let go, step back, and head toward the stage.

I pose with the commissioner, jersey held high. Smile locked in place.

But before I even make it down the steps good, I get gently pulled into an interview setup on the side of the stage — Holly Rowe waiting, mic in hand.

“Paige, what does it feel like to hear your name being called as the number one draft pick? What’s racing through your mind right now?”

I laugh, a breath of disbelief caught in my throat. “Umm… just an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Uh, it’s super surreal — just being here with the other draft invitees. My teammates are here, my family’s here. I’m just super grateful. I’ve been focusing on staying present, staying where my feet are… and to be here right now? I’m extremely blessed.”

Holly nods, eyes soft. “You fought through the hardest times to still be here, standing, against all odds.”

I blink, then nod slowly. “Uh, through my faith. Through God’s purpose. Through my teammates, my family.

The coaching staff, the strength and conditioning staff. Everybody’s invested a lot in me. It’s part of me wanting to give back to them — show that I can do better, show them that their hard work helped me get to this stage. I didn’t do it alone. It took a village. So I’m extremely grateful for them.”

“And what about your teammates who came here to support you tonight — how important has this group of women been to your journey?”

That one gets me.

I swallow, blinking hard as my voice tightens. “Uh… they’ve changed my life. Those are my sisters.”

I pause. Just for a second.

“Just extremely grateful for them. I think two teams — or one smart one — should absolutely pick up Kaitlyn Chen and Aubrey Griffin tonight. They’re ready. I believe in them. I love them. And they’re going to be my sisters for life.”

Holly smiles. “Last one. What’s it been like to be drafted the same night as your childhood best friend — someone you’ve played with since your Rec and AAU days all the way through high school? What was going through your mind when you hugged Y/n before coming up here?”

My chest tightens.

“It felt like I was letting go of a breath I didn’t know I was holding in,” I say slowly, honestly. “She’s been a part of my village since day one, basically. And I just… yeah. The distance meant nothing in our friendship — we made it work. And I just love her. To the moon and beyond.”

I smile, blinking quickly as I look over toward her again.

“And I can’t wait to play against or with her in the W.”

The interview ends, and the applause picks up again.

Y/n’s POV:

Suddenly it’s my turn now, and the cameras all pan to me.

“With the number five pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Golden State Valkyries select… Y/n Y/l/n from the University of Southern California.”

Everything else blurs for a second.

I hug my grandma first — her arms trembling as she whispers prayers against my cheek. Then my grandpa, whose voice cracks as he says, “You did it, baby.”

My dad is next, pulling me in like he used to after every high school game, and then my mom — eyes full, hands cradling my face like I’m five years old again.

I soak it in. All of it. Every touch, every tear.

Then I walk toward Paige’s table.

She’s already on her feet, arms wide open.

“You did it, mama” she whispers in my ear the second I’m wrapped in her. Her voice is quiet, thick with emotion. “Go do great things, yeah?”

I nod into her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut just to stay in the moment.

Azzi’s arms come next, folding around both of us for a beat before Paige steps aside.

“One chapter ends. A new one starts,” Azzi says into my ear. “Give ’em hell, baby. You deserve it.”

And then there’s Kiki, grinning with watery eyes, pulling me in for a tight hug that makes me laugh through my tears. “You’re my favorite hooper, don’t tell nobody.”

I finally make my way up to the stage, taking my picture with the commissioner before stepping off and walking straight into Holly Rowe’s interview zone.

The lights are hot. The mic in her hand steady. She smiles warmly as the camera rolls.

“Y/n,” she begins, “first off, congratulations. How does it feel to officially be a Golden State Valkyrie?”

I let out a small laugh, still slightly breathless. “It feels insane. Surreal. Like… something I dreamed about since I was a little girl. To hear my name, to walk that stage, to know I’m repping a team like Golden State—it’s everything. I’m ready.”

Holly nods. “And right before you went up, we saw you hugging Paige Bueckers, Azzi Fudd, and your USC teammate Kiki Iriafen. Especially Paige,” she adds with a slight smile, her tone shifting, probing. “What was it like to have that moment with her?”

The second she says especially Paige, something tightens in my chest.

I blink quickly, trying not to break. But the lump is there.

“It felt like… home,” I say, voice soft, then firmer. “Like everything we’ve been through wasn’t for nothing.”

I glance over to where Paige and Azzi stand watching, arms crossed, eyes full.

“They’ve kept me up when I didn’t think I’d get up. My teammates like Kiki and Rayah, they’ve been some of my biggest pillars at USC. I couldn’t have made it without them.”

My voice starts to catch, and I steady my breath.

“And… and just to experience this moment with such an amazing friend like Paige, it’s surreal. She’s been there for me through the good, the bad, the ugly, and so much more. So to be able to share that hug with her in that moment…” I pause, eyes welling. “It just felt like I was back home.”

Holly gives a soft, yet mischievous smile that only I can pick up on after years of media training. But I can also see the glint in her eyes — the one that means she’s fishing for something.

Something I wasn’t going to give her.

And then.

She tilts her head slightly. “So, earlier tonight, Paige also said something… heartfelt during her own interview. The same phrase you just used, actually: To the moon and beyond. I’m curious — can you tell us what that means to hear those words from her? How does it pertain to the love you two clearly share? And how does it feel to have such a special phrase between the two of you?”

The air stills.

My jaw flexes just slightly. My media training kicks in, but my eyes? They cut daggers.

I smile — calm, warm, but firm. “I think what’s special between Paige and I, or Azzi and I, or really anyone who’s supported me, is just that — it’s special. Personal. Something we’ve built through years of growth, struggle, and love in every form it takes.”

I let the words settle.

“That phrase—To the moon and beyond—isn’t about spectacle. It’s about loyalty. Gratitude. Being proud of the people you’ve walked through fire with.”

And then, softer — deliberate:

“I’m proud of her. I’m proud of us. And yeah— I love her to the moon and beyond.”

The crowd around us claps quietly, moved, and Holly gives a slightly more sheepish nod as the segment wraps.

“Congratulations, Y/n,” she says. “Golden State’s lucky to have you.”

I thank her, walking down the steps.

But as I pass her, I pause just long enough to lean in for a quick, polite hug. Close enough for only her to hear.

“Respectfully,” I whisper, “what you just did was inappropriate. This is an important night, for women, not a time to be messy for a headline.”

And I keep walking — head high, heels clicking, Valkyrie-purple and black draft cap now tilted on my head like a crown.

But by now, as the third round had started most of the crowd has thinned out.

The glitz and chaos of the first two rounds faded into calmer applause, quieter conversations, softer flashes from cameras less concerned with making headlines and more about capturing heart.

I could’ve left by now. Most people in my shoes would’ve. But I stayed.

Part of it was respect — for the women still waiting to hear their names called, still gripping hope in one hand and faith in the other. But mostly? It was because Paige and Azzi hadn’t left yet. And I wasn’t going anywhere without them. Also, their teammates who I’ve became friends with over the years.

I was sitting beside Azzi, my heels long abandoned, barefoot and leaning my head on her shoulder like she’s known me forever. Technically, she kind of has.

Paige’s off doing media — bouncing between interviews and photo ops, still glowing from her number one selection. But I know she’s itching to come back. She always finds her way back.

That’s when the room shifts.

A pause. A slight hush. And then—

“With the 30th pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Golden State Valkyries select… Kaitlyn Chen from the University of Connecticut.”

The reaction her teammates and I is massive. But it’s real, and raw.

Kaitlyn gasps from where she’s seated with her UConn teammates toward the back, hands flying up to cover her mouth, pure disbelief painting every line of her face. The girls erupt around her, jumping to their feet, whooping, hugging, pulling her into a pile of joy and disbelief.

I rise to my feet too, clapping, grinning, and—

“YOOOOO! LETS GOOO CHENY CHEN!”

A familiar voice echoes as Paige comes running full-speed back into the venue from the hallway, her face plastered with a proud mom smile.

“LET’S GOOOO, KAIT!” she shouts, and suddenly she’s in the pile too, lifting Kaitlyn halfway off the ground in a hug so tight it almost knocks them both over.

Azzi’s laughing from beside me, already filming it on her phone. “She sprinted in here like it was a buzzer beater.”

“She’s never moved that fast in transition,” I tease, nudging her.

The joy is infectious, like we’re all breathing in some shared miracle.

And just as the room begins to settle again, another voice fills the speakers.

“With the 37th pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Minnesota Lynx select… Aubrey Griffin from the University of Connecticut.”

The girls, Azzi and I jump to our feet again. Jana was the first to pull Aubrey in a hug.

“I told you. I fuck told you.” She said as she finally let Aubrey go, within seconds, Paige is, grabbing Aubrey in the kind of hug that lifts her clean off the ground too.

More laughter. More love.

The applause hasn’t even fully faded from my ears by the time we’re slipping into the private elevator together—me, Paige, and Azzi, tucked away from the noise and flashing cameras.

Azzi’s got her arm looped around my waist, her thumb gently brushing over the exposed skin of my back. Paige is leaning against the wall, still slightly buzzed from all the emotions and champagne, a soft smirk on her lips.

“You’re really not gonna tell us what you’re wearing to your party?” Paige asks, stepping forward and boxing me in with her arms on either side of the elevator panel.

“You’re both in for a surprise,” I grin, nudging her chest gently with a finger. “You really thought I’d let Brittany dress me like that and not make y’all wait?”

“Brittany won’t even text us back,” Azzi huffs.

“Exactly,” I wink.

The elevator dings, and Paige steals a kiss—soft, sweet, pressed right against the corner of my mouth like it’s instinct.

Azzi leans in next, brushing her lips over my cheek, her voice low and warm. “We’ll see you soon, star girl.”

We split off at the lobby—Paige and Azzi headed to their car back to the hotel to change, and me toward my suite upstairs to get ready.

The private suite smells like body oil and setting spray, the air thick with glam prep and controlled chaos.

My team is already there waiting—my makeup artist starts a completely new look on my face, my nail tech adjusting new rhinestones, and Brittany? She’s holding a glass of champagne and pacing, talking like she’s coaching a championship game.

Halfway through getting changed, my phone lights up.

FaceTime: Paige

I smirk and answer, angling the camera so she only sees my face in a robe and glam half-done.

Her eyes narrow.

“Where’s the dress?”

“Hi to you too,” I laugh, adjusting the robe collar.

“Brittany’s being a vault,” she groans. “Azzi tried calling her and got nothing but ‘no spoilers.’ C’mon babe, just a hint? Straps? Color? Texture?”

I shake my head, smug. “Sorry babe, you both gotta wait and watch to see what your woman is gonna pop out in.”

“That’s so disrespectful,” she pouts. “How am I supposed to survive this?”

“I believe in you,” I wink, blowing her a kiss before hanging up.

Minutes later—

FaceTime: Azzi

I’m in my mini robe and getting a final touch-up on my lips when I answer. Azzi’s hair is slicked up in a bun and she’s in a gorgeous shimmery black dress, but the second she sees me, she squints dramatically.

“What are you wearing?! I know it’s not just a robe.”

Before I can answer, Brittany swoops in from behind, sipping from a flute and wagging her finger in front of the camera.

“Nope,” she says with her full chest. “She didn’t see y’all’s lil outfit change—y’all can’t see hers. I don’t care if she’s y’all’s girlfriend or not. There will be no spoilers.”

Azzi’s mouth falls open. “This is so not fair.”

“You’ll live,” I grin.

With that I ended the call and began getting dressed.

Brittany had helped me change into this black mini that’s doing exactly what it needs to.

Strapless, velvet up top, hugging me just right, and the skirt? Full of these little textured ruffles that bounce every time I move. It’s short—like, “you really made it to the league” short—but not too much. Just enough to feel fun, a little bold.

I’ve got on these strappy heels that make my legs look a mile long, and I’m carrying this tiny leopard-print bag that really doesn’t hold anything but makes the outfit pop. I feel like I could walk into any room and own it. Scratch that—I already did.

“Girl, Paige and Azzi not even ready for you,” Brittany says, turning toward me just as the hairstylist finishes pressing the last section of my wig.

“I already got them looking bad and boujee at Paige’s party, but you? Oh, you ‘bout to make jaws drop. Hell—mine already on the floor and you ain’t even stood up yet.”

I grin in the mirror, watching my reflection morph into something out of a dream.

The wig is immaculate—deep, rich violet with a soft wave to it, edges laid to perfection, giving main character energy and a little bit of what the fuck you gonna do about it?

My hairstylist gives me a final fluff, a nod of approval. “Purple’s your color, babe. You’re giving future MVP.”

I rise from the vanity slowly, deliberately, the velvet mini hugging me in all the right places, the ruffled skirt catching the light with every step I take.

Brittany lets out a full “Whew!” and does a slow, dramatic circle around me like she’s evaluating art. “Yeah, no, you can’t sit with us type shit. You’re giving league legend meets Vanity Fair cover meets… ‘I got your girl and your backup dancer.’”

I laugh, throwing my arms around her. “I’m not even at Paige’s yet.”

“You don’t need to be,” she says, sipping her champagne. “The minute you walk in, the whole place gonna go silent. Azzi gon’ choke on her drink. Paige? Paige is probably gon’ stutter and forget how to function. You about to put every post-game interview she ever did to shame.”

“She doesn’t even know what I’m wearing,” I murmur, smoothing the dress over my hips one more time, heart doing a little dance in my chest.

“And that’s exactly why she about to lose her mind.”

My phone pings.

🦵🏽: “Paige just made me take another shot because you’re not here yet. And we have no idea what you’re wearing. Where are you, baby?”

I smile down at it, thumbs dancing over the screen.

Me: “I be there shortly babe. Tell P to pace herself. I need her upright.”

🦵🏽: “No promises. But hurry. We need you.”

My breath hitches a little, heart fluttering under the weight of her words.

I close my clutch, give my wig one final fluff, and turn to Brittany.

“Time to go turn parties upside down.”

Brittany flashes her teeth. “Let’s go, Valkyrie.”

The bass thumps steady beneath my heels as I step further into the private lounge, lights dimmed low, champagne already bubbling in glasses, and my name etched in silver across a custom neon sign hanging above the bar.

Y/N Y/L/N — Valkyrie Made.

It’s surreal. All of it.

My after party’s buzzing—friends from USC, family from back home, even a few familiar faces from the league who’ve come to show love.

Cousins are off in the corner doing some version of a victory dance to whatever DJ is spinning. My mom’s laughing with my aunt, both holding cocktails, and my dad? He’s already found the dessert table. Classic.

Every hug, every toast, every flash of a camera feels like a quiet you made it.

I check my phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Paige sent a photo earlier—her in a white linen shirt left half open, a chain glinting at her collarbone, a drink in hand, Azzi leaning into the frame mid-laugh. Wish you were here, the caption said. You look like a star tonight.

I smiled so hard I had to step away from the bar.

They’re still at Paige’s official draft party—bigger venue, fancier crowd. UConn royalty everywhere. I told them I’d stop by later. I wanted this first—my people, my space, my moment.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t counting down until I could be in Paige’s arms again.

For now, though?

I toss my head back and laugh at something my cousin shouts over the music. Someone’s uncle tries to breakdance. High school friends and I are screaming along to Nicki lyrics.

And I just let myself exist in this joy.

Drafted. Loved. Alive in the moment.

Tonight, I celebrate everything.

And soon, I’ll go celebrate her.

And her, too.

Because lucky me?

I got both.

The driver pulls up outside the venue, for P’s party, a velvet-rope affair in downtown Brooklyn, camera flashes already popping as we step out. But the moment I walk in?

It’s like the air changes.

The bass is deep, sensual—SZA’s “Used” thumping through the walls—and heads turn instantly. My dress, my skin, this hair. My Golden State Valkyries cap from earlier is still in my clutch, and I slide it on backward as I walk through the crowd, owning it.

Azzi sees me first—nearly drops her drink, eyes bugging out as she grips Paige’s arm like she just saw Beyoncé.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

Paige turns.

Freezes.

Then stares.

Like I just stepped off the cover of a fantasy she’s never dared say out loud.

Mouth parted, eyes locked on mine, shirt still half-open, gold chain glinting at her collarbone.

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

Then louder. “Holy. Shit.”

Azzi’s fanning herself. “Paige, are you breathing? You good?”

She leans back and really looks at me then—eyes widening like she’s seeing me for the first time tonight.

Paige blinks like she forgot how to be a functioning adult. “She’s wearing black. Her hair is purple. What the fuck. What the—who let her walk in like this?”

Her gaze dragging down my body and back up with exaggerated reverence. “I—uh. Yeah. No. You ate. Like. I’m not okay.”

“I told you,” Brittany cackles from behind me, brushing invisible lint off my shoulder. “Didn’t I say she’d go feral?”

Azzi nods, still fanning herself. “Feral. Unhinged. That’s the look.”

I grin, tugging a strand playfully. “Thought I’d give the people drama.”

Paige’s jaw is on the floor.

“You—” she tries, stepping toward me, hands already reaching. “You look—Jesus, come here.”

And suddenly I’m in her arms, being spun once, twice, her lips pressed to my jaw, her breath hot in my ear.

“I’m gonna have to fight someone tonight,” she murmurs. “You cannot look like this and expect me to act normal.”

I smirk. “Baby, you were never normal around me.”

She grins, eyes shining with that familiar softness—drunk off champagne and love and me, apparently.

“I’m so happy,” she murmurs, breath fluttering into my hair, voice breaking a little. “God, I’m so proud of you. You looked so beautiful tonight—like stupidly beautiful. And I kept thinking, that’s my girl, that’s my f—fuckin’ girl, and no one can say a thing ‘cause you’re magic, and you did it, and you stayed, and you always show up, and I just…”

Her breath stutters against my collarbone. I tighten my arms around her.

“I love you,” she says quietly, with that Paige kind of conviction that leaves no room for doubt. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Madsy,” I whisper back, barely holding the tears. “To the moon and beyond.”

She sniffles, hiding it with a laugh as she pulls Azzi into the hug too, her arms wrapping around the both of us.

“I don’t even know how I got so lucky,” she says, voice cracking again. “Y’all stayed. Through everything. You never let go. Thank you. I’m never gonna stop being thankful.”

We stay like that for a long moment, a little pile of love in the corner of the world, before Paige suddenly smirks and grabs for my hat.

“Trade with me,” she says.

So we switch—my Golden State Valkyrie SnapBack lands on her head, tilted to the side with cocky Paige energy, and her Dallas Wings cap ends up on mine, turned backward.

The perfect contrast: her softness, my fire.

Azzi cackles beside her. “She’s been speechless since you walked in. I’ve never seen Paige malfunction in real time.”

“One more word and I’m taking her to a dark corner,” Paige mutters under her breath, and I pretend not to hear the chaos in her voice.

One too many shots in, and a blur of tequila later, I’m in the middle of the dance circle, losing every last shred of chill to Get It Sexyy by Sexyy Red.

Paige’s Dallas Wings SnapBack is still turned backward on my head, and my mini dress? It’s making its case for fit of the night as I drop it low, knees bent, back arched, ass bouncing to every beat.

Slim thick, caramel skin, 5’5”, this bitch a ten (yeah)

Hair done, bills paid, catch me slidin’ in a Benz (vyoom)

The circle is hyping me up like it’s a damn arena. Azzi is losing her voice, Paige is grinning like she’s watching a miracle unfold, and Kk is literally fanning herself.

Lili is recording the entire moment on her little digital camera like it’s 2005. Somebody starts throwing dollar bills like we’re in Magic City.

And I am thriving.

I shake, drop, twerk to the floor—turn around and give them the look over my shoulder that makes Paige’s jaw damn near hit the ground.

Azzi hands me a shot, and I take it like a pro, licking the salt off her hand and winking at her before tossing it back.

Then Paige disappears.

A moment later, she’s at the DJ booth. I know that energy. I know what she’s asking for.

Then the beat drops.

Practice by Drake.

I spin, eyes wild. Paige’s doing this on purpose. She knows what that song does to me.

I grind into the beat like the track was written for my hips, my body pulsing with the rhythm. I see Paige watching—biting her lip, shirt halfway undone now—and Azzi? She’s behind her, laughing, whispering something in her ear that makes Paige tilt her head back.

And then—

Paige walks over, holding a shot.

She grins. “You’re not drinking this unless it’s from my mouth.”

Gasps. Cheers. Screams. The whole party goes feral.

I raise an eyebrow. “Only if you do one with Z. And then Z does one with me.”

The circle erupts.

Challenge accepted.

Paige pours the tequila into her mouth, steps up to me, and kisses me—slow, hot, deep—letting the shot flow into mine. I swallow, lips lingering on hers, breath caught in my throat.

Next, Paige does it again, but with Azzi this time. Azzi giggles into it, a little shaky, a little buzzed, her fingers curling into Paige’s shirt as the liquor passes between them.

And then Azzi turns to me, eyeing me up and down as she takes a shot glass from Paige.

Her hands are on my hips as she leans in. She pours the shot in her own mouth, and next thing we’re mouth to mouth. The tequila burns but her kiss softens it.

When we pull apart, we glance toward the circle—

Paige is standing there in absolute shock, jaw slack, blinking like she just witnessed her first lesbian porn in real life.

Ayanna and Aubrey are fanning themselves, literally fanning, shouting over each other:

“WOW—”

“Did that really just happen?!”

“Play that back—I need an instant replay.”

I throw my head back laughing as Paige runs both hands over her face like she needs divine intervention.

“Jesus,” she mutters, “I am so going to hell.”

Before anyone can make it worse, Azzi claps once. “Alright, lovebirds. Time to slide.”

“To where?” I ask, breathless from laughing.

Paige grabs my hand. “Upstairs. We reserved the rooftop. And there’s a jacuzzi with our names on it.”

Azzi hooks her arm around mine on the other side. “And there’s dessert. And more tequila. And vibes.”

We make our way to the elevator as a trio, laughter trailing behind us like confetti, Paige still occasionally glancing at me with that same stunned look.

Right before the doors close, she nudges me softly and whispers, “I wasn’t kidding about the corner thing.”

I smirk. Raising my eyebrow. “Mm really.”

Azzi sighs. “I swear, if y’all start making out in the pool again, I’m bringing a Super Soaker.”

“Do it,” I tease. “We’ll only make it worse.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[bingbongsupremacy]

70 Years Apart

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Warning: Y/N use, swearing, rejection, ghosting

Summary: A one-night stand with Bucky before he leaves ends with you pregnant. You tell him what's going on. How will he respond?

*Not Proof Read*

□□□□□□□

I didn’t mean for it to happen.

Not the party. Not the drinks. Not the way his eyes locked on mine through the haze of smoke and laughter like he already knew how I tasted. And definitely not the baby now growing inside me.

But it did.

That night in Brooklyn had been one of the last warm ones before autumn settled in, the kind that wrapped the air in a humid cloak and made every movement feel a little slower, a little heavier. I hadn’t planned on going out, but Clara insisted. She said we deserved one last hurrah before the world got darker and we had to prepare for college.

"He's leaving for war," she’d said. "Half the boys are. Might as well dance while we still can. Maybe we'll get lucky." She smirks while eyeing a group of boys leaning against the wall of the abandoned warehouse. The boys-most I've known growing up, are loudly chatting. Bucky Barnes is amongst them.

With liquid courage running through my veins, I asked him to dance. No fear of rejection. No worry. Just confidence. After all, this would likely be one of the last times I saw him for a while. Why not do what I've always wanted to do.

He said yes. Then we danced.

Bucky Barnes was smooth with a capital S, charming in that roguish, self-assured kind of way that made girls swoon and boys scowl. I’d only spoken to him a handful of times before that night — always in passing, always brief. A polite hello in the hallways, a helpful answer when one of us needed help with homework. A smile. A nod. Once, a quick compliment about my dress that made my cheeks go hot. Despite us going to school together all throughout middle and high school, I never really knew him. He had his friends. I had mine.

But that night? He saw me.

And I let him.

We drank. We laughed. We kissed behind a big tree lit by the moonlight. And before I could think twice, I let myself fall into something warm and reckless. It didn’t last long, just one night. We were never looking for anything serious. He was on his way to the war. I was on my way to school. It was one tangled, breathless memory.

Then he was gone. Not gone-gone, not yet. But gone from me. He’d said goodbye with a kiss to my hand the next morning and a promise that he’d write if I ever wanted to talk again.

I never wrote. I didn't need to.

Not until now.

Not until the little stick I bought from the corner pharmacy turned pink in both windows, and I sat down on my bathroom floor and stared at it in shock. I want to curl up and cry. I want to scream. This can't be happening. Not now, not when I had just began school

I don’t know him. He doesn't know me.

We're two strangers who, for one night, spent some time together.

I kept repeating that like it would change the facts. Like it would make the wave of nausea (part baby, part panic) fade from my throat. But it didn’t.

Now I’m here, at the base where he’s training, a dusty field of tents and shouting voices and trucks that roar like thunder. I clench the strap of my bag tighter against my shoulder and try not to bolt. My hands shake as I get closer.

A soldier points me in the right direction. I catch sight of him near the barracks, shirt half-unbuttoned, dog tags clinking against his chest, laughing at something one of his friends said.

He looks even better than I remember. That makes it worse.

I want to turn around and run to Clara, who's waiting in the car. Maybe come back another day. Or not. But I don't. I force myself to stay. “Bucky,” I call out, barely above a whisper.

My heart pounds against my chest.

He turns.

His eyes find mine in an instant, just like they did that night. His smile falters when he sees the worry behind mine.

“Y/N?” he says, confused but smiling. “Wow, I didn’t think I’d see you again. Not here. Why are you here?” He steps closer.

I try to smile but I can't. My worry is too powerful.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

His brows furrow. “Of course. Yeah. This way.” He nods toward a quieter area behind the mess hall. I follow, heart pounding, breath shallow.

He leans against a low wall and crosses his arms. He steadily holds my gaze. “You alright?”

“I… not really.” My voice is so small. I hate it. I don't want to tell him, but I have to. He deserves to know. So I rip the band-aid off. “I’m pregnant, Bucky.”

His face doesn’t change at first. He blinks once. Twice. Like the words haven’t quite landed.

Then they do.

“You’re...? And I’m...?” His voice cracks in a way that makes my stomach twist. “You’re sure it’s mine?” His eyes scan over my body, like he's looking for some sort of proof. His eyes land on my stomach which has not started showing yet.

I nod. “Yeah. It’s yours. I haven't been with anyone since...” That night.

He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. Damn.” I can see the thoughts racing through his head.

I look away and wait for it. The panic. The backpedaling. The "sorry, but I can't, you understand, right?" But it doesn’t come.

He looks back at me with something soft in his eyes. “Are you okay? How… how far along?”

“Almost two months.” I look back at him, surprised by his response.

“And you just found out?” His eyes flicker back to my stomach.

“I’ve known for a couple weeks,” I admit. “I just didn’t know how to tell you. Or if I should tell you. I mean, we don’t really know each other. And you’re about to go to war. This would be so much to add on to your plate. I don’t even know if—if you want anything to do with this.” I gently place a hand on my stomach.

Silence. A breeze kicks up, scattering dust across the ground between us.

“I want everything to do with it,” he says finally. His voice is low, steady. “With you. With the baby. I know we didn’t plan it — hell, we barely knew what we were doing, but I’m not the kind of guy who runs. I promise you that. I helped make it, and I'm going to help raise it.”

I look down. My hands are trembling. It's a relief. I should feel better. But I'm still scared.

He takes a step closer, reaching gently for one of them. “I’m scared, too,” he says. “I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen out there. But I do know this, I’m coming back. And when I do, I’m going to take care of you both.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” he says. His grip tightens, reassuring. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve seen what war does. I know I might not get another shot at a real life if I don’t hold onto this. Hold onto you.”

“Bucky—” My throat catches on his name.

“I don’t know if I’ll be a good father,” he continues, “but I want to be. And if you’ll let me… I want to try.”

My heart shatters and knits itself back together in a single breath.

“I’d like that,” I whisper. This is going better than I thought.

He smiles, gentle and wide, and for a moment, it feels like maybe the world isn’t falling apart. Like maybe we’re allowed this — just this — before the storm comes.

He leans down, presses his forehead to mine.

“I’m coming back to you,” he murmurs. “No matter what. I promise.”

And I believe him.

God help me, I do.

----

When Bucky leaves we write to each other, almost every day. I give him updates and exciting news and try to keep his hopes up. He sends me beautiful poems and hopes for the future. Through these letters I get to know him, as he does me.

I learn his favorite color and food. What he likes to do in his spare time. He tells me about his best friend, Steve and his family.

I tell him about me.

Suddenly our relationship begins to change. We're not just some people brought together by a surprise baby. We're friends. We're close.

I look forward to reading his letters-to getting to know him more. My anxiety turns to excitement. My happiness turns to love. I began to fall in love with him, and I think he was falling for me too.

Then I got the letter.

Letter from Bucky Barnes

Postmarked: December 13, 1943

My dearest Y/N, I think about you every single day. That night in Brooklyn feels like a dream now, like something too warm and sweet to have been real, like a movie reel I can’t stop replaying in my head. You in that dress, laughing into your glass, your eyes sparkling in the moonlight. I remember every inch of you. And now I think of you with a hand on your stomach, feeling the tiniest flutter of the life we made together. I won’t pretend I’m not scared. Some days out here, the noise is so loud I can’t think straight. But your name grounds me. I whisper it under my breath when the bombs fall. I think of our child — our baby — and I remember why I need to come home. Why I fight. I want to be there when they take their first step. I want to teach them how to throw a baseball, how to tie their shoes. I want hear them learn to talk and laugh. If it’s a girl, I hope she has your eyes. If it’s a boy, I hope he laughs like you do, like sunshine cracking through clouds. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again. I’m heading somewhere dangerous, can’t say where. But please believe me when I say I’m fighting to come back to you. Every bullet I dodge, every breath I take out here, it’s for you. For the baby. You've given me something to look forward to, to fight for. And I will come home. I love you, Y/N. Yours always, Bucky

Three Weeks Later

Brooklyn, January 1944

The letter is folded neatly, worn at the creases from how many times I’ve read it. Sometimes I hold it against my chest, like I can press his words into my skin and make them stay.

Today I have it clutched in my hand as I waddle, yes, waddle, down the steps of my apartment, the cold air biting through my coat. I’m seven months now. The baby kicks stronger every day. It’s the only thing that reminds me that Bucky was real.

Clara is already standing at the end of the sidewalk, scarf wrapped tight, her eyes glassy. She doesn’t speak.

That’s when I know.

I stop walking. My breath clouds the air in front of me, and suddenly it feels too thick to breathe.

“Clara?” My voice is already shaking.

She walks up, slow and quiet. Reaches out like she’s scared to touch me.

“They came to my house,” she whispers. “Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone.” Her eyes confirm my fears. Sadness. Worry. Pity.

I blink. The world tilts. “No.”

“Y/N…”

“No, no. He said he’d come back.” My chest tightens. The baby kicks hard, as if they can feel the panic rising in me. “He promised, Clara. He promised me.”

“They said it was during a mission. He fell from a train — they couldn’t find a body.”

My heart pounds.

“No body?” My voice latches onto the words like a lifeline. “Then he’s not gone. He’s not. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he's lost and they just need to find him! Maybe—”

“Sweetheart—” Clara's voice cracks, emotion coming through.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, voice sharp and foreign. “Don’t—don’t act like it’s over. He wouldn’t leave me like this. He promised, Clara. He promised me. He promised our baby.”

I press both hands to my belly, trying to ground myself in something real. But the world is cracking open around me. The sidewalk. The snow. The windows lined with frost. It’s all wrong. None of this is supposed to happen. He wrote me. He told me he loved me. He wanted this.

I sink to the steps, knees giving out. This isn't true. She's lying. She has to be. Bucky's going to be home soon. I know it. He has to be.

The letter slips from my fingers into the snow. I snatch it back, heart thudding, and cradle it like a lifeline.

“I’ll keep reading it,” I whisper. “Every day. Until he comes back.”

Clara kneels beside me, arms around my shaking shoulders, but I don’t cry. Not yet.

If I cry, it means I believe he’s really gone. And I’m not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever be.

Not when I can still feel him in every heartbeat. Not when his baby is still kicking inside me. Not when his last words were a promise.

“I’m coming back to you.”

----

I should have listened to my instincts the night I woke to the sound of the window creaking open.

Brooklyn was never quiet, not truly. Someone's always out and about. But that night was too quiet. I remember the way my breath fogged in the cold winter air as I sat up, rubbing my swollen belly, half asleep.

The next thing I remember is the flash of metal. A deep rumbling voice.

A sharp sting to my neck.

The scream that never made it out of my throat.

My eyes shutting on the image of someone standing next to me.

When I woke again, it was under flickering fluorescent lights. My wrists were bound, cold steel cutting into my skin. There were voices, clipped, foreign. German. One of them said the word Versuchsperson.

Test subject.

I knew that word. My stomach lurched, and not from the baby shifting inside me. From fear.

Where am I?

They didn’t care that I was pregnant. They cared only about what my body could endure.

“If she survives, we can push the limits of cryostasis on vulnerable subjects,” one of the scientists murmured.

“She is carrying Barnes’ child,” another replied, clinical. “Genetic value. Possibly enhanced.”

“Not likely. She looks too far along to have conceived after the enhancement. It's most likely from before. ”

Enhanced? Bucky? What is going on?

No. No, no.

I thrashed as they wheeled me into the freezing chamber — the same kind I’d only ever heard whispers of. It's terrifying.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Please don’t do this. I’m pregnant. Please.” My shoulders shook from fear.

No one looked at me. No one stopped.

The fluid began rising. Cold seeped into my skin like needles.

“I have a baby,” I whispered, teeth chattering, as my body began to shut down. “Please-” I beg.

Everything went black.

-----

I woke to alarms and shouting.

My vision was blurry as I tried to adjust to what's going on.

Not the Hydra voices I’d heard when I went under. No, this time, it was English. American. Familiar.

Memories hit me like a freight train, shocking me as they all rushed back at once.

They cracked the glass, pried me out. My legs didn’t work. My body was limp, useless. But I was alive.

And the baby—

A stab of pain hit me before I could think. Pain worse than anything I could've imagined. My scream tore through the sterile air, and someone was shouting, “She’s in labor!”

I didn’t know what year it was. I didn’t know who these people were. But I knew I wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Any baby was on the way.

-----

I named him James.

Not for Bucky- not just for Bucky, but for the piece of him that lived inside our child. His eyes are exactly the same. The same shape, the same stormy color. Sometimes, when he laughs, my heart cracks open all over again.

We live in a small apartment SHIELD set up for us. Stark helped with the furniture, though I didn’t ask him to. Said it was the least he could do after “pulling an actual time traveler out of a Hydra tomb.”

The world is… impossible.

There are tiny computers in everyone’s pockets. Cars that drive themselves. Food that comes in boxes with instructions printed on plastic. I still flinch when doors open automatically. Things are very different.

SHIELD checks on us regularly. Mostly research. Blood draws, vitals, endless psychological evaluations. They’re studying me like I’m a relic. And maybe I am.

I try to keep James out of it, but they’re fascinated by him too. “Genetic goldmine,” I once overheard. I don’t let them take him anywhere without me.

He’s my whole world now.

I tell him stories about the 1940s. About jazz clubs and movie theaters with curtains. About his father, though I never have the words right.

How do you explain a love that bloomed and died in less than a week but left a scar that stretched across time?

----

I don’t expect to see him. Not today.

It’s just a standard check-up at the SHIELD facility — a few blood samples, a scan or two, a quiet nod from Dr. Cho saying I’m still stable, still alive, still miraculously whole. I’ve done this dance for years now, adjusting to a time seventy years ahead of the world I knew. Raising my son in a place that barely feels real, in a body that should’ve crumbled long ago.

James skips beside me down the hallway, holding my hand with sticky fingers, clutching his toy dinosaur in the other.

“Do you think Mr. Wilson will be there?” he asks, hopping every third step.

“If he is, no jumping on his wings this time, please.”

He giggles. “But I was gonna fly!”

I smile, brushing a hand through his hair. He’s grown so fast — not just taller, but louder, bolder, full of that same spark I used to see in the boy who once kissed me behind the big oak tree and whispered that everything would be okay.

My chest aches every time I think about it.

Bucky knew. He knew I was pregnant before he shipped out. I told him just a few days before his unit left. We cried, clung to each other, and made promises we were too young to fully understand. And then the letters stopped. The news came. Clara told me what she learned.

Sergeant James Barnes: Killed In Action.

I read the letter so many times that I have it memorized. I think about it often.

I never stopped loving him. Not for a moment.

But I learned to grieve him. To build something out of the pieces he left behind. I had to. My son needed me to.

And then today — today, the world tilts again.

We turn the corner into the medical wing, and I feel it before I see it, that sudden pull in my chest. A weight, a breath caught sideways in my ribs.

I freeze.

James tugs on my arm. “Mama?”

He follows my gaze, then goes quiet.

At the end of the hallway stands a man I once thought I’d never see again. Older. Sharper. His hair pulled back, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready for a fight.

He's similar, but at the same time, so different. His muscles are much larger than I remember. His arm, once flesh, now glimmers under the building lights.

Then he sees us.

And everything stops.

“Y/N?”

The voice is different, rougher, like gravel, but it shakes something loose in my soul.

My lips tremble. “Bucky?”

He stares, stunned. Like I’ve just stepped out of one of his dreams -or nightmares. His eyes shift, flickering to the child standing at my side.

I see the moment he realizes. His eyes widen in disbelief. His lips part, like he wants to say something but can't quite find the words.

His knees nearly give out.

James blinks up at him, head tilting in that curious, unfiltered way only a child can manage. “Mama, who’s that?”

My throat closes.

I kneel beside him, one hand on his back, the other over my heart.

“That’s your dad, sweetheart.”

Bucky makes a sound, something like a gasp, something broken.

“I knew,” he whispers. “I never forgot. You told me, and I—they told me you were taken, gone. Most likely dead.. That the baby was likely-”

“I thought you were dead,” I say, standing slowly, my hand reaching out. “They told me you were gone.”

“I was.” He steps closer. “They took me, Y/N. I didn’t even remember my own name for decades. But you-our baby...” His voice breaks. “You were real. The only thing that felt real.”

Tears blur my vision. “I kept him safe. I promised you I would.”

“I promised I’d come back,” he whispers, voice thick. “I didn’t know it would take seventy years.”

James moves closer, eyes wide and searching. “You wrote letters to Mommy,” he says solemnly, like it’s the most important fact in the world. He remembers my stories.

Bucky kneels in front of him, tentative. “Yeah, buddy. I did.”

James holds out his hand.

Bucky stares at it like it’s holy, then gently wraps his fingers around it, so tender, so careful.

I watch them-my son and the man I thought I’d lost forever, and something inside me begins to stitch itself back together.

“I didn’t expect this,” Bucky murmurs, looking up at me with tear-glassed eyes. “But I want it. All of it. If you’ll let me.”

“I already have,” I whisper. “I told you before, Bucky. I want you in our lives.”

And for the first time in seventy years, we’re not just surviving.

We’re starting over.

Together.

Our little family

[giuli4nna]

SUNDOWN

☀︎ 09 : DAY FIVE

dresses, drinks, and sideways glances. the evening tears open fresh wounds, shattering any newly made progress.

the air filtering through the open windows is warm, but tinged with a slight coolness that comes only at the edges of the day’s fading light. the whole group is bubbling with excitement about going out to a fancy dinner at a local lakeside restaurant, a treat provided by martin.

there’s a sense of anticipation in the air as everyone gets ready, as if the night is promising something more than just a meal.

you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the long, flowy dress you picked out for the occasion. the fabric hugs your waist, flaring gently as it falls to the ground. you admire your sun-kissed cheeks, the tan you’ve been working on all week, and the newfound glow of your skin accentuated by your makeup.

you look different tonight - not just in the dress, but in the way you feel, too. for once, you look at yourself and see someone who isn’t caught up in the tension, in the mess that hamzah’s been stirring up inside you.

when you walk out of your room, he’s already waiting in the hall. the second he lays eyes on you, something shifts. his gaze softens for the briefest of moments, a flash of admiration in his eyes that he can’t completely hide. his breath catches, just a little, as he takes you in.

you notice, of course. the way his eyes travel down the length of your dress, lingering on each curve that seems more pronounced in the soft light.

he quickly masks it with his usual indifference. “you look.. nice,” he says, though his voice betrays him. It’s quieter than usual, softer. he shakes his head, like his thoughts are too much for him to handle. “..not just nice. you’re beautiful.” he corrects himself sheepishly.

“thanks,” you reply, giving him a teasing look. “you don’t look half-bad either.”

he raises his brows, a flicker of amusement crossing his features as he takes in your words, but it’s brief. he doesn’t say anything else, and the moment stretches - until he reaches a hand out towards you and places it on your hip, dragging you closer to him until your bodies are pressed flush against each other.

his hand is warm and steady over the thin fabric of your dress. your breathing pattern becomes uneven at the closeness, your chest brushing his with every inhale. for a second, neither of you move - you’re caught up in that slow, suspended gravity that always seems to pull you back to each other.

you glance up at him through your lashes. his jaw is tight, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth - but he’s mostly looking at your mouth.

“i shouldn’t,” he murmurs, although he’s already leaning in.

“but you want to,” you reply softly, a grin tugging at your glossed lips.

he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to. he just closes the gap.

it’s not rough, not rushed. it’s soft and tentative at first, as if he’s asking permission with every brush of his lips. you melt into it, your hands slipping up to cup his jaw, your fingers tangling in the edge of his hair.

he kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.

the hallway is quiet. the only sound is the subtle catch of your breath, the faint rustle of his shirt under your fingers, the soft press of lips.

his hands slide to your back, holding you with a kind of gentleness you hadn’t known he was capable of until recently.

“HELLO?” chase’s voice suddenly booms from downstairs. “are you guys fuckin’ coming or what?”

you both jolt apart, hearts pounding, lips swollen.

hamzah lets out a groan, head dropping to your shoulder. “i swear to god.”

you try not to laugh, breathless and flushed as you shove him lightly. “we should go.”

“yeah.” he leans in one last time, pressing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth. this one’s short, stolen - like a secret. you have to wipe off the reside of your lipgloss that’s smeared across his lips.

the group finally gathers to begin walking down to the restaurant, and the casual chatter flows.

martin, who’s a bit too tipsy already (courtesy of his causal day-drinking while he went fishing off the dock), starts to laugh too loudly. mandy and chase are trying to get him to calm down, and claire is half-distracted by her phone.

as you all make your way to the restaurant, walking alone the sidewalk, you can feel eyes on you as you walk alongside hamzah. there’s a definite shift in how the group is behaving. chase, for the first time, glances back at hamzah, noticing the subtle change in his expression, the way he’s not quite as detached as usual when he looks at you.

chase’s grin widens, but he doesn’t say anything. he knows something’s up, but he’s not quite sure what it is.

the restaurant is everything you imagined - a cozy place on the lake, dimly lit with candles and a breathtaking view. you all are led to a huge round table, but once you settle in, you realize the seating arrangements have put you and hamzah next to each other. the proximity is tense, the air between you charged with something unspoken.

you both avoid eye contact for the most part, though every time your leg bumps against his under the table, the contact is like a jolt. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of your dress, and his body shifts closer. neither of you acknowledge the way you increasingly draw nearer to one another.

martin, being a little too loud for his own good, starts spewing jokes. but after a few too many glasses of wine, his tone takes on a more curious edge. his gaze shifts between you and hamzah as he leans in, looking too eager.

“you two,” he slurs slightly, pointing his fork between you two with a goofy grin. “you guys have been so weird lately,” he chuckles at his drunken observation.

claire snorts into her drink while chase leans back in his chair, smirking. mandy shoots martin a warning look, but the ball is already rolling.

“i’m just saying!” he insists, waving his fork around like it’s part of some grand declaration. “i’ve never seen two people pretend, like, so hard not to be into each other. it’s crazy.”

there’s a bit of broke laughter around the table, but you and hamzah are dead silent.

hamzah’s jaw flexes as he pushes some food around on his plate with the edge of his fork.

“alright, martin,” mandy mutters, trying to rein it in, but martin just grins wider.

“c’monnn, don’t act like you haven’t noticed,” he says, turning toward hamzah directly now. “seriously, what’s the deal, bro? you gettin’ with her or what?”

chase coughs in surprised. claire’s eyes widen, and mandy’s face twists into a silent what the fuck type of look.

your stomach drops. hamzah is glaring daggers at martin. “watch it, man.” he says lowly, his tone dangerously clipped.

martin raises his hands in surrender, still smiling. “okay, okay, chill. i’m kidding, dude, seriously - i didn’t think it was, like, a secret or anything.”

“it’s not,” hamzah says quietly, eyes darkened. “because there’s nothing happening. there’s no secret.”

martin blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “alright, man.” he mutters, but something in his gaze tells you that he’s not quite finished.

the rest of the table falls into a tense silence. mandy glances at you, then at hamzah, her eyes narrowing slightly, but she stays quiet for now. claire just watches with a small smile, clearly entertained, but a little unsure.

you can see the way hamzah’s hand is gripping the edge of his glass a little too hard. a pit of dread opens up within you.

he’s wearing the same expression he had while he was kicking you out of his room. some deeper sense of frustration within himself.

martin leans in further - clearly not aware of when he should shut his mouth - and it makes your stomach twist all over again. “i mean, i’m just sayin’, you two are acting so different..” he muses. “i’m just looking out for my friends.”

“we’re fine,” you speak up suddenly, shrugging and trying to appear unfazed. “we’re enjoying vacation, like everyone else.”

but martin isn’t done yet. “right, right. it just seems like you guys are-”

“martin, man, can you fuckin-” hamzah starts to cut martin off, dropping his fork to his plate with a loud clatter, but mandy’s even more fed up with the awkwardness.

“okay, enough. that’s enough of that,” she says, her voice firm, shutting both of them up for everyone’s sake. “let’s not make this awkward. this is supposed to be fun.”.

martin and hamzah both look at her, blinking dumbly, words getting stuck in their throats. the rest of the group falls into an awkward silence, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

you can practically feel hamzah’s discomfort now, the tension building between you as he shifts in his seat, rubbing his thumb over his glass absentmindedly.

you give him a soft, apologetic look, trying to communicate without saying anything. he meets your gaze briefly, his expression stoic and slightly angry, before looking away.

chase tries making a joke that falls flat in the thick silence. martin’s now trying his best to keep things light, his laughter echoing awkwardly in the background.

the rest of dinner proceeds quietly, but it’s clear to everyone at the table that something’s shifted all-too-suddenly between you and hamzah. the others start to chatter away once more, but there’s an unspoken awareness. everyone’s catching on.

mandy and claire share a brief glance, and though they might not understand the full scope of what’s going on between the two of you, they know enough to see the distance that’s grown in a matter of seconds.

you focus on your food, pushing it around your plate, trying to force yourself to just get through this dinner, to ignore the turmoil with hamzah. it’s seemingly impossible, because no matter how many times you try to swallow the lump in your throat, it’s always there.

finally, after dinner and a slightly tipsy walk back to the house, the conversation shifts to plans for the evening as the group stands in the yard.

claire suggests a late-night swim off the dock, a casual offer to help everyone unwind after the heated energy at dinner. but you catch hamzah’s eyes as she speaks, and the subtle shift in his posture doesn’t escape your notice.

he’s not up for it.

“m’going to bed,” hamzah murmurs, the words clipped, his tone colder than the night air. he turns and heads straight for the house, and even though he doesn’t look back. it feels like he’s already cut the ties of whatever fragile thread was left between you.

you glance at mandy, then over to hamzah’s retreating figure, a familiar ache rising in your chest. it feels like the air has gone thin. your heart pounds in your ears.

go after him.

the thought rings in your head like a whisper, soft at first but soon to be adamant.

however for a split second, you think about staying to swim with everyone else and pretend that things are fine - leaving him to wallow in whatever the fuck he’s dealing with internally.

mandy’s voice breaks through your hesitation. “go,” she urges you softly, giving you a reassuring nod when your eyes meet. the way she says it, as if she knows exactly what you’re battling with inside, only makes it harder to ignore the persuasion.

the decision is almost too simple, but your legs feel heavy and your feet don’t seem to want to move.

what if he’s already too far gone, too closed off to let you in? what if you go after him, and it only makes him push you further away?

you look back toward the house, where the soft lights from inside glow through the windows. you want to be angry, but instead, you’re just exhausted. exhausted from the back-and-forth, the fear of trying to navigate whatever it is between you two.

but then - you think about last night. about how you both let go of everything, about how things felt like they were finally heading toward something more.

he’s hurting too. he’s just too afraid to admit it.

you start off in the direction of the house, still deeply uncertain if he’s even worth chasing after.

a/n: plz refer to the author’s note on part eight.. yeah.

also if you saw any typos no you didn’t

xoxo giulia

taglist: @gulicore @sturniyolo @slushingmynoob @testdrivethv @ecstqzy @slushyboob @ldrvinyl @xoxoange1l @sleep9times @chrissvalentine @str8fromttpd @elysiumb @hamzahsbiggestfan @ilovezah @screamertannie @i-miss-summer24 @willowpeaks @slushedup @harrys0nlyange1 @venus-planetof-love @milkteabish @xarerie @gabwilliams @slushypoopz @isathefantastic @modernbaseball17 @rock678 @hoe4hamzah @anginluv @slushingkoala @simonegrimes @marixoa @brlwla

[watermelongirl01]

Sweet Rescue - 05

Firefighter!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: SMUT, Fluff, fluff lots of fluff, and a tiny bit of angst.

A/N: Soo, you're going to need to buckle up cause after this chapter, a lot of your questions are going to be answered.

Sweet Rescue Masterlist

It was past closing time, and you were focused on the bowl in front of you, whipping the mixture with more determination than patience. You were looking for the perfect shade of pink for the final dozen macarons, the same ones you’d nearly forgotten to bake.

Three failed attempts surrounded you. The first batch was too bold, practically neon. The second was far too fuchsia. The third? Technically fine, but your tired eyes didn’t let you see it.

You were so deep in your head that you nearly screamed when you felt two strong arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“It’s me, sweetheart,” Dean’s raspy voice whispered against your ear.

You exhaled hard, a mixture of relief and weariness. You had been dating for six months now, so this kind of late-night or early-morning visit wasn’t unusual. More often than not, after his shift at the firehouse, instead of heading home with Sam, he’d ask his brother to drop him off at your place.

He once told you that falling asleep next to you after a long shift was all he needed. After enough early mornings spent shuffling to the door in pajamas, you gave him a key of his own.

It had surprised both Charlie and Donna when they found out, especially since only four sets of keys existed for the place. Not because they doubted the relationship, but because that key didn’t just unlock your apartment. It opened the bakery, too. No one who wasn’t staff had ever been trusted with it.

That was the moment they realized: Dean wasn’t just passing through your life. He was planted firmly in your heart.

“How late is it?” you murmured, still not turning from the bowl.

“Very,” he said, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders. “It’s 6:30 a.m.”

“Shit,” you groaned. “I lost track of time.”

“Come back to bed. Let’s get a few hours of sleep, huh?”

“I can’t. I need to finish this. I can’t get the pink right.”

Dean gently turned you around, his hands firm but tender. “Sweetheart, you’re not going to get it right like this, not when you're this sleep deprived. Finish it tomorrow.”

You sighed. “Dean…”

He laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, you let him lead you out of the kitchen, the pull of his hand and the warmth of his presence enough to remind you that perfection could wait.

This wasn’t the first time Dean had led you to bed like this. After months together, he’d found you in this state at least four times, exhausted, dusted with flour, lost in your own perfectionism. And every time, he’d scoop you up from your work, guide you to bed, and hold you close until you fall asleep.

But tonight, he paused with a soft chuckle, brushing a stray bit of white powder from your hair.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got flour all over. You need a shower first.”

“It’s almond flour,” you mumbled, rubbing your tired eyes.

“Still flour,” he smiled, brushing a kiss over your temple.

Without another word, he took your hand and led you into the bathroom. There, he gently untied your apron and let it fall to the floor. Then, he peeled away each layer of clothing, his fingers slow and careful, as if undressing you was an act of devotion, not just habit.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to. Your gaze followed his every move, soft and full of trust and love.

Dean turned on the water, one hand hovering under the stream until it was just right. He looked back at you with that boyish grin you’d come to adore.

“Step in, baby.”

You loved it when he called you baby. At first, you weren't so sure about sharing the nickname with his beloved car, but the truth is that you melt every time he calls you that.

You stepped into the warm water, letting it soak through your hair, washing away the tension in your muscles and the weight of another sleepless night. A sigh slipped from your lips.

“Are you joining?” you asked.

His voice was quiet. “If you want me to.”

You reached out, palm open and waiting. He didn’t hesitate. Dean shed his clothes quickly, taking your hand in his, a beautiful contrast of calloused roughness against your softness.

You expected him to adjust the water temperature like he always did, claiming it was “too hot.” But instead, he reached for your favorite shampoo, the one that smelled like wild berries. The one he secretly used sometimes, just to feel close to you.

He squeezed a generous amount into his hand and gently turned you so your back was to him, your face toward the warm stream. Without a word, he lathered your hair, massaging your scalp in slow, soothing circles. His fingers worked tenderly, tangling in your hair, easing the day from your mind. A quiet moan escaped you.

“Dean…”

He hummed in response, soft and content. His hands rinsed through your hair, taking the last traces of flour and fatigue with them. When he was done, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his lips found your shoulder, pressing warm kisses along your damp skin, lingering at the base of your neck.

“Dean…” you breathed again, your voice no louder than the water trickling over you both.

He smiled against your skin and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you gently back into his chest. And for a moment, the world was just this: his touch, your heartbeat, and the steam around your bodies.

You leaned into him, your back pressed against his chest as his arms wrapped around you with quiet strength. The water poured down your bodies, warm and steady, but it was his touch that made your skin shiver.

His lips moved slowly up your neck, to the curve of your jaw, then just below your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, like it was a secret he couldn’t hold in anymore.

You turned in his arms, facing him, your hands resting on the solid line of his chest. His eyes were on you, steady and soft, full of something deeper than desire. But still, the heat in his gaze was unmistakable.

Your lips met his slowly, tenderly, but aching with something simmering just beneath the surface. His hand cupped your cheek as he kissed you like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you. Your fingers slipped into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss as your bodies pressed flush under the cascade of water.

His mouth left yours only to trail lower, kissing a path down your throat, across your collarbone, tasting the droplets that clung to your skin. Your breath hitched when his hands moved, strong and deliberate, sliding along the curve of your waist, down over your hips, then back up again, taking his time as though he had all the time in the world.

“Dean…” You barely got his name out before his lips captured yours again, more urgent now. His hands gripped your thighs, and in one swift, fluid motion, he lifted you, guiding your back against the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, gasping as the heat of his body pressed fully into yours.

Water rushed around you, your skin slick and glistening, but nothing felt as overwhelming as the way he looked at you, like you were everything. His thumb brushed along your lower lip as he caught his breath.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice rough, his forehead resting against yours. Even now, even here, he wanted to be sure.

You nodded, your voice breathless but steady. “I need you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, claiming every sound you made as your hands gripped his shoulders. Your moans echoed off the tiled walls, mixing with the hum of the water and the rhythm of your bodies moving together, every motion soaked in urgency, intimacy, and need.

The second your body touched the mattress, exhaustion swept over you like a wave. Your eyes fluttered shut, heavy and unwilling to stay open.

Dean slipped in beside you, pulling the covers over both of you and wrapping an arm protectively around your waist.

“I love you,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean froze.

For a second, he wondered if you were talking in your sleep. But then you shifted closer, pressing your cheek against his chest, your fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, so soft it nearly got lost in the quiet. “You don’t have to say it back… just wanted you to know.”

And then you were gone, fully asleep, tucked into him

He swallowed hard, guilt and warmth tangling together in his chest. He wanted to say it. God, he wanted to say it. But something locked him in place, fear, maybe. Of messing it up. Of not being good enough.

So instead, he just held you tighter, resting his cheek against your head and closing his eyes.

And he stayed like that, holding on to you like a lifeline, letting your love settle over him, even if he wasn’t ready to speak it back. Not yet.

————————————————————————

The next morning, Dean was woken up by the sound of your apartment’s door opening. He looked to his side, watching the big 10:00 am on the clock. You were still soundly asleep and snuggled into his chest, and he already had an idea of who that might be.

He carefully exited your embrace, not wanting to wake you up, and walked out of the bedroom to greet the redhead intruder. 

“What a surprise, an almost naked firefighter.” Her hand immediately covered her eyes.

“Oh, what a surprise, a nosy redhead.” 

“I was concerned about my boss.”

“She’s sleeping now, she went to bed a few hours ago.” Dean explained.

Charlie lowered her hand to fully see Dean and narrowed her eyes at him. 

“I’m about to say something, but don’t let this get over your head.” 

Dean's eyebrows lifted while he looked at her expectantly, silently inviting her to continue.

“I’m…” Charlie’s trailed her words so fast that Dean didn’t quite catch what she was saying.

“What was that?” He smirked while holding a hand next to his ear. 

Oh, he did understand what Charlie said, he just wanted to hear it a little more loudly and articulately.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “I’m glad she has you in her life.” But she gave him a sincere smile.

Dean smiled back. “It’s almost like it pains you to say something nice about me.”

“It doesn’t, but you did steal my best friend, so there’s still a little grudge in there.” 

Dean chuckled. “Well, today I'll be the best, best friend you can ever have.” 

Charlie frowned when Dean took her downstairs to the bakery and reached down to the cabinet to grab an apron.

“Oh no.” 

“Yep.” Dean turned to her, wearing a pink apron with the logo of your bakery on it, commonly used by your employees. “I’ll be your boss for this morning.” 

“Nope, I’ll be your boss.” She pointed to herself. “But I appreciate the effort.”

“Fine.” Dean said, holding both of his hands up. 

“And you are banned from the kitchen.”

“That’s just mean.” 

————————————————————————

You woke up around 1:00 PM, the empty, cool sheets beside you triggering a pang of panic. You sat up abruptly, heart racing, as the realization hit, you’d overslept. Horribly.

Where the hell was Dean? And why hadn’t anyone woken you?

You scrambled out of bed, throwing on the first sundress you found and slipping into the heels that were still scattered across the floor from the night before. Your hair went into a messy ponytail as you hurried downstairs, only to pause at the sound of two very familiar voices bickering from the bakery.

“Dean, stop eating the cookies and help the customer!”

“I am helping. The cookies are just... part of the process.”

“You’ve had five, Dean. We’ll be out by the afternoon!”

“It is the afternoon, Charlie. Ever heard of a clock?”

You couldn’t help but smile, the chaos strangely comforting. You leaned on the doorway, watching the playful banter unfold for a moment before speaking up.

“Then I guess I'd better start baking more cookies.”

Charlie practically sagged with relief. “Oh, thank god.”

Dean turned at the sound of your voice and lit up instantly. “Sweetheart, you’re awake.”

He crossed the space to you in seconds, grinning as his eyes trailed over you. “And you look amazing in that apron.” You laughed softly, and Dean swore, just like every other time that your laugh was his favorite sound in the whole damn world.

He cupped your face gently, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks before pressing a tender kiss to your lips. It was brief, but lingering.

When he pulled back, you smiled against his touch. “Well, I’m here now,” you said brightly.

Dean didn’t move away right away. He just watched you, like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

“I missed you,” he said under his breath, just for you to hear.

You nudged his chest playfully. “You saw me this morning.”

“Not the same,” he murmured, pulling you back in for another kiss.

————————————————————————

Thanks to the extra hours of sleep your boyfriend insisted you take, you’d managed to catch up on all your orders just in time, including the cake tasting for an upcoming wedding.

“So?” You smiled, watching the couple in front of you closely. “What do you think?”

“This is so good. I seriously can’t decide,” Meg said, licking a bit of frosting from her thumb.

“I have to say... the carrot cake is my favorite,” Castiel chimed in, smiling softly.

Meg turned to him. “Seriously?”

Dean, mouth full of that very same cake, nodded. “Of course you'd pick that one.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Dean shrugged like it was obvious. “You’re an old man, Cas.”

“Carrot cake isn’t just for old people,” Cas huffed, clearly offended.

You grinned. “It’s my favorite, too.”

 “Baby, your favorite band is ABBA, of course, carrot cake is your favorite.”

You gave him a dramatic frown, but then nodded. “Fair.” You chuckled and reached behind the counter. “Last flavor.”

You placed three plates of coconut cake slices in front of them. Meg took a bite, her eyes lighting up instantly. You stiffened for a moment, not sure what the expression meant, until she smiled.

“I think this is it,” she said, looking at Cas, who nodded in agreement.

“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice soft as he looked at her.

They exchanged a quiet knowing look, one of those moments where they could practically see their future. Sharing cake. Dancing. Saying “I do.”

Dean cleared his throat. “I also like it and approve,” he added, finishing his slice.

Meg blinked at him. “Wait, what are you doing here again?”

“I work here,” he said with complete seriousness, gesturing proudly to the flour-dusted apron he was wearing. “Can’t you see the uniform?”

You laughed, reaching for Dean’s hand. “He covered for me today. I was going crazy, and he stepped in.”

“The way you can trust Dean surrounded by all this pie… It’s beyond me,” Cas muttered. “I think I might need to check your head again.”

Dean smirked. “Please, I’m a professional.”

“Professionally stealing samples?” Meg quipped.

“You gotta taste the product to sell the product,” Dean said with a wink.

————————————————————————

Cas and Meg had stayed a few more hours, going over cake decorations and tiny details until they finally left around 8:00 p.m., just in time for you to close the bakery and enjoy the quiet comfort of your place with Dean.

You wandered into the living room where he was sprawled out on the couch, nursing a beer and watching TV with his legs comfortably stretched out.

“I’m gonna cook dinner tonight,” you said, standing in front of him.

Dean looked up at you, brow raised. “But I cook dinner every night. That’s my thing.”

You smiled and stepped a little closer. “You did a lot for me today, baby. Let me return the favor.”

Dean's lips tugged into a small smile. “Well, what can I say? Gotta keep my ‘Boyfriend of the Year’ title.”

You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head. “I’m serious, though. You didn’t have to help like you did, but you did anyway, and it meant the world to me.”

He set his beer down and looked at you with that soft gaze he reserved just for you. “Sweetheart, you bake pie for me every day. And after every crappy shift, you somehow know exactly what I need. Taking over for a few hours? That’s the least I could do.”

You leaned in closer, voice dropping a little. “Still... I’m thinking of a few ways I could say thank you.”

Dean tilted his head. “You really don’t have to.”

“Oh, but I really, really want to.”

Before he could respond, you slid between his legs, your hands resting on his shoulders as you leaned down and kissed him, slow, intentional.

His lips tasted like beer and comfort.

Your tongue teased his, and Dean didn’t hesitate to deepen it, his dominance always familiar. His left hand gripped your waist with a firmness that sent a shiver through you, fingertips digging into your skin. His right hand slid lower, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer into him.

You gasped softly against his lips, and he used the moment to take control again, groaning into your mouth.

“Dinner can wait,” he muttered, voice gravelly, breath hot against your skin.

You grinned. “Good. I was never really planning to cook.”

Your hand traveled between your bodies, trailing down his chest until finding its way to his crotch. You used both of your hands to unbuckle his jeans, granting you access to rub his boner over his boxers.

Your mouth never left his as you pull his underwear down and release his big and hard boner. Your hand immediately took over and started stroking him. Dean’s mouth opened, letting a gentle moan leave, and you used your leverage to dominate the kiss again.

You left a short kiss on Dean's lips and slowly backed down onto your knees. He slightly straightened in his seat while his eyes were fixed on your pretty face.

Dean’s head instantly was thrown back on the sofa’s backrest when he felt the warmth of your mouth surrounding him. 

“Oh fuck.” He whispered, placing his hands on the back of your head. “So fucking good, baby.”

You sped up your movements, bopping your head up and down.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” He mumbled as his fingers ran through your hair.

You took more and more of his length while your hand kept stroking what you couldn’t reach yet.

“I’m close, baby.” He whispered, and his legs began to tense up. 

His hands slightly pulled your hair to warn you, but you groaned, dismissing him. Dean’s eyes closed as he reached his orgasm, and you felt content as you took him in your mouth and swallowed.

“You are so good to me, sweetheart.” 

After that, Dean couldn’t just leave it like that. You were so good to him, and he rewarded you at least four times that night. It was slow this time, no rush, no urgency. Just hands and mouths and the messy moans that slipped from your lips.

The next morning, although you woke up with an empty bed, knowing Dean was already on shift, your kitchen table awaited you with a plate of pancakes and a note.

“Good morning, sweetheart 

See you tomorrow.

Can't wait to kiss you later.”

-Boyfriend of the year. 

You smiled to yourself as you ate the breakfast he left for you and started your day with a perky attitude.

————————————————————————

The bakery bustled with its usual morning chaos, customers grabbing coffee to fuel their day, donuts to lift the mood at morning meetings, and cupcakes for a last-minute peace offerings. A few moms rushed in to pick up full-size cakes, clearly forgetting about their child’s school bake sale until the last second.

There was always something for everyone, sweetness tailored to every mood, every moment, every person who walked through the door.

But that morning, someone stepped in with an energy that didn’t match the rest.

“Welcome! What can I get you?” Charlie greeted cheerfully as you focused on sealing up the morning’s delivery pink box labeled “Fire Station 67” in your handwriting.

“I’m looking for an apple pie for my husband,” the woman said, her tone light, but sharp in a way you couldn’t quite place. “I just got back into town and want to surprise him.”

“Oh, you’re in luck,” Charlie began, then paused. “Actually… not quite. They're still in the oven.”

You turned from the counter to glance at the customer and offered a polite, apologetic smile. “They’ll be ready soon, though. We can have one aside or delivered if you’d like.”

The woman tilted her head, eyeing you with a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “You do deliveries?”

You nodded and slid a form across the counter. “Just write down your name and address. We’ll make sure it gets to you fresh.”

She took the form and pen with slow, deliberate movements. “Lucky me.” Her gaze flicked toward the box you’d just finished labeling. “Fire Station 67?” she asked, a hint of curiosity or maybe amusement in her voice. “What a coincidence. My husband works there.”

Your fingers stilled on the ribbon you were about to tie.

Charlie, ever friendly, chimed in before you could respond. “Yeah! They saved my boss.” She pointed at you with a proud smile. “So now we spoil them in return.”

“If you want me to, I can deliver it for you guys, I’m heading there anyway.” She handed you back the form.

The woman’s gaze landed on you again, heavy, like she was watching for a reaction. She handed the form back across the counter.

Something in her tone made your fingers hesitate as you reached for the paper. That smile again, cool, unreadable, like she knew a secret you didn’t know yet.

“Oh, we already have a regular arrangement,” Charlie said easily. “Dean comes by to pick them up most mornings.”

“Dean Winchester?” the woman repeated, her gaze locked on you now, unreadable.

You felt your stomach dip.

“Yes, the very same,” Charlie replied, her voice losing a bit of its cheer.

Your eyes drifted to the form in your hand and froze.

Amara Winchester.

Your chest tightened. The name echoed in your head like a warning bell. You barely heard her next words over the thundering of your heart.

She chuckled, “Isn’t destiny big, and this city small?” 

Charlie looked at you, sensing something had shifted. Her eyes flicked between you and the woman as a heavy silence fell between the three of you.

You looked up, and her eyes were already looking at you, locking on like a predator sizing up its prey. 

Then came the smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, it wasn’t warm or polite. It was knowing. And a little cruel. She leaned in and looked directly at you, never blinking.

“I’m Dean Winchester's wife.” 

She said it as if she were claiming something, not just stating a fact, but planting a flag. And she wanted you to see it. She wanted you to feel it.

Charlie’s brows pulled together sharply, her body shifting closer to you. She glanced between you and the stranger with a quiet wariness.

But you couldn’t move.

PLEASE, Pleaseee let me know if you already saw this coming, I want to know your reactions.

Taglist: @aylacavebear @deans-baby-momma @ladysparkles78 @spxideyver @lunaleah @muhahaha303 @charismatic-writer @deansimpalababy @spnaquakindgdom @globetrotter28 @vsplanet

@narcissustulip @formulas-bitch @mandee7 @bollzinurmouth @screaming-les-bean @stoneyggirl2

[mwphisto]

Sylus needs your eyes on him.

He needs the feeling of your soul boring into his own to feel like he’s doing something right.

He needs those pretty eyes — all glossy and dilated — to be locked in on his every movement. To watch his tongue trail from one thigh to the other, like a kitten watching and waiting to pounce on a laser pointer.

He needs to see you fall apart because of his doing, his movements, his body, his mouth. He wants to see you lose yourself to him because of how good he makes you feel.

To see fat globs of tears leak down your heated cheeks, pretty chest heaving as you whimper and whine out his name — a mix of something that sounds like “so embarrassing!” and “s’too much!” When he stops his movements because you break that needed eye contact.

He’ll make sure you not only feel, but see every ounce of love he has for you. How deeply he desires you, craves your touch, longs for the sweet sound of your voice.

“One more, kitten, you can give me one more.”

You’re sweaty, panting like a dog, thighs trembling with the need to snap them shut but his blissed out face is anchored between the plush of your thighs.

“Sy-can’t! I can’t!”

Because you’re positive your body will lose all function if he makes you cum one more time — especially since you know that the “one more” is not really just one more.

Never with Sylus, he’s too greedy, too proud of it, and way too insatiable to ever really be done with you.

Banner from @cafekitsune <3

[bebop-haiiiiii]

Wrapped Around You

Leon Kennedy x Reader . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Leon comes home late, worn down and quiet. You’re half-asleep in your favourite PJs, waiting for him like always. He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. And maybe you are.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ You’re already half-asleep, curled up in the softest blanket, wearing that cute pyjama set he always teases you about—the one that makes his eyes linger just a second longer. The apartment is quiet, peaceful, when the front door creaks open, soft enough to blend into the silence of the late night. 1:47 AM. The clock glows faintly. Leon’s home.

You roll over blinking drowsily as you hear the faint sound of his boots being kicked off and the rustling of his jacket coming off. You didn’t mean to wait up, not really. You’d just wanted to see him- wanted to feel him beside you. The bedroom door opens with a soft click, and he stands there in the dim light—exhausted, his hair messy, but still managing a small smile when he sees you curled up in your favourite PJs, waiting for him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from the day. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” You smile into your pillow, barely opening your eyes. “You didn’t. I was waiting.” Leon sighs, almost in relief, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Thought you’d be asleep by now.” “I was trying to wait,” you murmur, still soft with sleep. “Wanted to say hi.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh and drops his shirt to the floor before climbing into bed behind you. The bed dips beneath his weight, and then suddenly you’re surrounded—arms sliding around your waist, his chest pressing against your back, his face nuzzling into the side of your neck.

His voice is muffled there when he whispers, “Hi.” You giggle, reaching to rest your hand on his forearm where it’s wrapped around you. “Rough day?” He hums, and you can feel it against your skin. “It was long and boring, I missed you.”

His words are warm against your neck, and when he kisses you there—just a soft press of lips to skin—you shiver. It’s instinctual, your body already relaxing into him like muscle memory. Like he’s home. Like he’s always home.

Leon shifts just enough to pull you closer, if that’s even possible, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your pajama top to settle on your bare stomach. He’s warm, all heat and muscle and exhaustion, and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away in your sleep.“I hate coming home late,” he murmurs. “I hate not getting to spend the nights with you.” You turn your head slightly, enough to look back at him with sleep-heavy eyes. “You’re here now.”

“Yeah.” Another kiss, this one slower. “I am.” Your eyes flutter shut as he brushes his knuckles across your stomach, his other hand tracing lazy circles into your hip. His lips press another kiss to the back of your shoulder. Then your neck. Then just behind your ear.

“ Are you gonna fall asleep on me?” he whispers. “Maybe,” you breathe. “Unless you keep doing that.” He chuckled, “I missed you,” he hums. Leon wraps his arm around you tighter, pulling you even closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. His voice is soft when he speaks again—low, like a secret whispered into the night. “Love you.”

You smile. Sleepy. Safe. Loved. “Love you more.”

[clowncroccharms]

I think we don't talk about the fact that Kim was not only kidnapped and held hostage for an unknown period of time, but enough time for him to worsen pretty severely in the sense of his physical state from when he arrived, but that he was beaten so badly that his apartment looked like someone took a hose and sprayed tomato soup everywhere. Like, we don't talk about how Kim likely has legitimate trauma from that and we don't talk about how he was going to be killed by Tony and had to wait in a cell for god knows how long, dreading the day they showed up to quite literally snatch his organs. Like, all of that happened.

I really hope it gets addressed in S2 because as much as I want Kenta's trauma to be addressed, I don't want Kim's to be ignored when he's living with and falling for someone so closely tied in with that situation. I want to see them address it, I want to see Kim heal from it and work through it, I want to see this complicated relationship fully navigated and explored thoroughly.

[baocean]

Okay I have a blurb idea them moving in together but also maybe them finally having sex for the first time in the apartment they share or house if you feel comfortable if not then just them moving in together

the kitchen smelled like fresh paint and takeout food, the result of a long day unpacking.

your friends were taking up any space available on the couch and arm chairs, as you stood in the kitchen.

noah, sarah and john's three year old, was sat on the kitchen counter in front of you as you slyly handed him another oreo, one of the only foods jj packed before the move.

"busted." jj catches your attention from the doorway, leaning against it as he smiles.

you turn back to noah, a fake look of shock painting your features as the little boy giggles through a mouth full of cookie.

he stepped closer, his arms coming around your middle and letting his head fall to your shoulder.

"how many of these have you had today?" jj lifts another oreo towards noah. just as his little hands come to grab it, jj pulls back and pops the entire thing into his mouth.

"too many. but he keeps asking and i can't say no." you say, turning your head ever so slightly to meet him for a kiss.

"i'm gonna have to play bad parent one day, i just know it." jj shakes his head, before smiling when he sees the look on your face.

you'd never talked about having kids with jj, it was always sort of implied. it never got old, the feeling when jj reassured you he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

"is he eating oreos? yn!" sarah scolds from across the room, jj flying away from you.

"now you're really busted. let's get out of here, kid." in one swift motion, jj picked noah off the counter and set him back down on the floor, grabbing his arm to run out of the kitchen.

you're laughing when jj turns to look over his shoulder at you, grinning so big it makes your heart hurt.

it’s sometime past midnight when the house finally settles. the only sounds now are the hum of the fridge and the low rustle of blankets as you and jj lay in bed, tangled in each other.

your muscles ache in the best way, worn out from a day full of lifting, laughing, and life. the mattress is still too firm, the sheets smell like the cardboard boxes they came out of, and yet, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

jj’s on his side, facing you, one hand lazily tracing patterns on your stomach under the hem of your shirt. his hair is still a little messy from earlier, a rogue piece falling into his eyes.

you reach over and smooth it back, fingers curling into his hair just to keep touching him.

“this doesn’t feel real yet,” you whisper, your voice quiet in the darkness. “it’s like…we played house all day. and now we’re just waiting for the grown-ups to come home and tell us we made a mess.”

jj smiles at that, tired and soft and so deeply him. “except we are the grown-ups now,” he says. “terrifying, right?”

you let out a little laugh, nose scrunching as you nod.

he watches you for a second. then, more serious, more real, he says, “but if i’m gonna screw up adulthood with anyone, i’m glad it’s you.”

"jj. dont say things like that, were not gonna screw up."

"definitely not with your detailed, color coded lists for every situation were in." he smiles, brushing his thumb gently along your cheekbone, "i love you."

you smile, because it’s the easiest thing in the world to do when he’s looking at you like that.

“i love you too,” you whisper, kissing him slow, like you’ve got forever. because you do.

and when the kiss deepens and he pulls you closer, closer than close, you know there’s no need to rush. this is just the first night of the rest of your life.

masterlist

taglist -  @dr3amgrlll /  @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 /  @abigailovesz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily /  @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias / @4jjsbank / @blythee1

[shadesofhogwarts]

(2) Poly!marauders x reader after a tough order mission

Word count: 563

The door creaks open at half past three, the kind of hour that feels unreal, like the world’s holding its breath. You stumble in first, arm clutched tightly around your side, robes torn and sticky with blood. It isn’t all yours– you’re almost certain– but some of it is, and that’s enough to make the floor sway under you.

Sirius is right behind you, breathing heavy, his wand still in a white-knuckled grip. James comes next, one lens of his glasses cracked down the middle. Remus slams the door shut, then presses his back to it like he's still expecting someone to burst through.

The apartment is quiet in the way only a place that’s been waiting for you is. The lamp in the living room hums dimly. There’s a blanket crumpled on the sofa from the morning, a half-finished crossword on the table. Home, somehow.

No one speaks at first. You just... look at each other. All of you standing in a tiny circle of wreckage and relief. Then Sirius breaks, crossing the distance in two long strides to cup your jaw.

“You’re okay,” he whispers like a prayer, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

You nod– once, slow– and let yourself lean into his palm.

James drops his wand on the table and reaches for the first aid kit without a word. He’s still shaking, but his hands are steady when they find the antiseptic. He always gets like this after missions– all focus, no feeling until later. Later, when he’s sure you’re all breathing.

“Sit down,” Remus says gently, guiding you toward the couch. You go without protest, your legs grateful to fold under you.

It becomes a quiet choreography after that. James kneels at your feet, cleaning the gash on your arm. Sirius sits beside you, still in his blood-streaked leathers, eyes locked on your face like you’ll disappear if he blinks. Remus is in the kitchen, heating water with trembling hands, his shoulder torn and bruised purple under a ripped sleeve.

“Does it hurt?” James asks softly.

“Not much anymore.”

“That’s shock, sweetheart,” Remus calls from the kitchen, voice raw. “Give it twenty minutes, you’ll be whimpering.”

You huff a tired laugh and rest your head on Sirius’ shoulder. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Sirius presses a kiss to your hair. “You did good tonight.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were brave,” Remus corrects, appearing again with mugs of tea and a handful of pain potions. “And next time, we stick tighter. We don’t split, not for anything.”

James doesn’t say anything, just nods, then taps your knee to tell you he’s done. His hands are stained pink from cleaning you up.

You reach out instinctively and tug him closer until he’s sitting on the floor between your legs, head resting against your knee. Sirius shifts to give him space, pulling your legs across his lap. Remus slumps onto the other side of the couch, eyes already fluttering shut, tea forgotten on the table.

No one speaks. The room smells like blood and tea and sweat. You’re all too tired to move, too grateful not to. It’s the aftermath, and you’ve all made it home.

You let your head fall back against the couch and close your eyes, letting the quiet hold you.

For now, this is enough.

[karusthings]

.⋆˚࿔ g l a s s e s - h. yamada ࿐˚⋆.

ꎫ──[ fiance au ; one shot ]

character dynamicꎫ── fiancé!present mic x f!reader

summaryꎫ── after a long trip, you come back as a surprise to your fiancé.

content warningsꎫ── 18+, MDNI, nothing too explicit, suggestive talk, lingerie, noisy, straddling, kinda fluff, funny, maybe a two-shots indeed.

wordsꎫ── 1.9k

¡! ❞ masterlist mha.

You missed him. Oh, you really missed him. And you could just tell, by the picture you had of him in your mind.

His blonde hair was just as bright as his smile. White teeth that made everyone light up at the sound of his warm, heartfelt laugh. That grin that curled on his juicy lips every time he told one of his silly jokes, or even just saw you.

He smelled good. In a way that made you follow him when he walked by, like a catchy song on the radio. Like a sunny summer day, sipping some fresh lemon juice.

And oh, those sunglasses. They were part of his everyday outfit, and you fucking loved them. But even more, you loved those bright green eyes.

That’s why you preferred when he wore his simple glasses, the ones that helped him see things far away. Especially, the way he’d take them off every time he was going to kiss you for a long, slow while.

It had already been three months since you had seen each other due to your work trip, and the wait was killing him. He didn’t mind spending a few days alone: after all, after so many months by himself in his apartment, he was used to it.

Besides, being so far away was the only way he could make sure you weren’t waiting for him to return from the radio station on Fridays, well into the early hours of the morning.

What he didn’t know was that you were waiting for him anyway. And even though you were miles apart, you listened to the entire program, smiling with pure excitement at the sweet voice that filled the room.

You wrote to each other every day, sharing the trivial things of everyday life that, even though they could be completely unnecessary, you both were excited to share them with one another. Sometimes, when you weren’t too tired, you opted for a “quick video call”, which we all know wasn’t going to last less than three hours. Even then, neither of you dared to be the first to say you were tired, even though all you could see were soft laughter and yawns.

You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want to stop seeing each other because you’d created such a connection that, even though you could live apart without much more than the loneliness of the night, you longed to look into each other’s eyes and share a “I love you” before falling asleep.

And, after seeing the beautiful lingerie model in the photo you sent him from the hotel mirror, he knew those two weeks left for you to be away were going to feel very long.

Or, at least, that’s what he thought.

“Honey, please, please, send me another picture…”

“Hizashi, sorry, sorry, but you’ll have to wait and see it when I’m at home.” You teased him a little about how needy he sounded, with a smile on your lips.

“That’s in two weeks…” He sighed through the phone. You could hear the desperation in the back of his throat. Not just from having to keep his voice down after the neighbors’ complaints, but from the desire to have you next to him at that very moment.

“Well, you’ve made it through a whole… three months! I think you’ll manage. It’s just fourteen days.”

“The fact that you say a bigger number now it’s even worse…” He complained, sounding like a real child.

“It’s the same amount.” You couldn’t help but laugh at what your partner was saying, while walking through the city, admiring the pretty shop windows lit up at night.

“It looks bigger though.” You could hear a small smile in his voice, but you could also tell something wasn’t quite right.

“Are you okay?” You asked, after a brief silence. He took a moment to answer, and when he did, his smile seemed to have completely disappeared.

“To be honest, it has been a day.”

“Oh… Sorry.” And you hadn’t been able to be there for him. You had made him wait a couple more hours. With a reason, of course.

“Why? You’re not the one who gave me a thousand exams to grade, ma’am” You smiled at his words. He knew you loved when he called you that.

“But I haven’t been able to talk with you today.”

“It would’ve been a tiring day anyway. Besides, we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

And the smile that appeared on your face was priceless. Not just because you loved your partner so much, but because of how happy the place you had just arrived at made you feel.

“About that… I’ve got bad news. I’ve arrived at the meeting place, and I have to hang up.”

The silence lasted a few seconds, and just when you were about to ask if he was still there, his sweet, soft voice came out again. “ ‘key hon. Good luck.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

You got into the elevator in silence, carrying your suitcase and trying to avoid making too much noise. When you reached the top floor, you gently opened the door, with your heart in your throat, and stepped quietly into the beautiful apartment.

You didn’t have to walk far to see him. He was standing in front of the huge tinted glass of the living room, looking out at the view of the bright night city from above. You couldn’t say anything more than... “Wow.”

There wasn’t a single strand of hair in a bun, like it used to be. It all fell down his back and strong shoulders gently, like a beautiful gold waterfall, grabbed directly from a fairy tale.

He was only wearing his loose pajama pants, leaving his torso as exposed as a work of art in a museum, allowing you to admire every muscle barely defined by the hard work of being a hero.

The house smelled like him. That citrusy mix of his cologne and the scent of the leather from his hero suit. You inhaled softly, taking in the air as he turned to look at you. And then, you saw them.

His glasses.

He was wearing those beautiful glasses that made his eyes slightly smaller. The ones you loved seeing on him, but you liked even more taking off.

Then, his face was a poem. You could feel the exhaustion you heard in his voice on the phone, but the surprise and happiness that now showed his expression were something completely different. He opened his mouth, with an excitement that filled his chest.

“Honey!”

You were sure the neighbors were going to complain about the shout at this hour, but you couldn’t care less. Right now, all you wanted to do was run toward your fiancé and hug him with all your soul.

And that’s exactly what you did. You left your suitcase in the hallway, quickly walking toward him with excitement, while taking off your coat. He stretched out his arms, hugging you as soon as you were close to his body.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He murmured, with his face hidden in your neck after a few seconds of silence. “I could’ve prepared something. Are you hungry?”

“Don’t worry. It was a surprise.” And he pulled away to look you in the eyes. Those beautiful emeralds making you feel like a little girl gazing at the stars.

“And I loved it. Come on, you’re going to tell me everything about the trip.”

He carried you in his arms to the sofa, where he sat down and placed you straddling his legs, starting to make gentle circles with his fingers on your skin.

“I’m all ears, honey.” And eyes, apparently, because he couldn’t stop looking at you, from top to bottom, with detail, trying to save his beautiful fiancée in his mind.

“Well, I didn’t have any drama on the plane. And that’s weird. Everything was really calm, and I even…” You rested your hands on his neck, softly massaging the curve that connected it to his shoulders. “...I even managed to sleep a little.”

“Oh God, but what are my ears hearing?” He exaggerated, with a smile. “I hope you didn’t disturb the whole plane with your snoring.”

“Hey!” You gently hit his shoulder, while the blonde’s loud laugh echoed through the room. You looked at him with a sparkle on your face that was impossible to describe. But he noticed.

“I love you.”

Then, his words pulled you out of your thoughts. The smile on your lips grew even bigger, raising your flushed cheeks to cover your eyes a little. “And I love you.”

He stayed there, in silence, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear and gently brushing the rest with affection.

“Are you going to kiss me then? ‘cus I think if I stay here for five more minutes, I’ll end up looking like a porcelain statue–”

And before he could finish the sentence, you had already pressed your lips to his in a needed kiss. Just three months had been enough to long for his kisses more than breathing. He, despite seeming more tired, returned it with the same passion, holding your waist firmly.

“I’ve –fuck– I’ve missed you.” He whispered in between kisses, that were never calmed. He was almost desperately devouring you, his hands exploring your legs, nearly breathless from the need to steal yours with his lips.

“I know.” You tried to speak as little as possible, focused on kissing him. Until the frame of his glasses brushed against your skin, and you knew what was coming.

He pulled away for a moment, and in an instant, almost with irritation, he took off his glasses and throwed them carelessly to the other side of the sofa.

And with that simple gesture, you knew he had you at his mercy. And he seemed not to even notice, so focused on consuming your lips that he didn’t realize how your legs were tightening around his.

“Is riding me on your agenda tonight, babe?” Or, maybe, he did notice.

The whisper in between made you squeeze his thighs with more strength. Then, with his charismatic smile, he put his hands on your ass and got you closer to where he wanted you.

“‘cus I can be on top if you’re tired from your trip, what do you want?”

He was always such a talker. And, why would you lie? you loved it. But, right now, the last thing you wanted was talking, so you began to move your hips against him, slowly and deliberately.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, and a flame surged through your body as you watched his head fall back. “Oh… That’s it… fuck…” His voice was beginning to grow slightly hoarse, but it never lost that strong, loud tone that was so his.

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. His beautiful green eyes disappeared behind his eyelids, while you felt your fiancé slowly growing beneath the fabric of your pants.

“Fuck, you don’t know how much I missed that skin...”

His hands slid into your pants, and the moment his fingers brushed the fabric, his gaze shot up. That familiar sly smile tugged at his lips as his eyelids fell slightly. 

“So it was on your agenda, huh?” he said, beginning to stroke your skin slowly, toying with the lace waistband using his slender, slightly calloused fingers. “If not, why would you put on that beautiful clothes, huh?”

“Maybe I just wanted to~.” You played along, flashing a mischievous smile.

“Yeah, fuck you.” He gave you the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen.

“Yeah, fuck me.” You whispered back.

And he took it as a challenge.

¡! ❞ masterlist mha.

¡! ❞ little note; Hey everyone! I hope you're having a good day. This is my first one-shot. It was supposed to be much longer and include an explicit part, but I'm pretty tired and just can’t find the inspiration. Anyway, I have no doubt that I'll work on a second part in the future. So… it’ll be like a "Two-shot"! Thank you for reading!!

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