#maybe he’s already got someone lined up

[joelsrose]

hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!

i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand

im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!

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Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”

But still—he tugged his jacket on.

Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.

And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.

But he walked anyway.

Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.

His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.

He knew where you’d be.

You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.

He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.

And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.

Try.

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You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.

Joel.

Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.

His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.

And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.

To leave.

To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.

You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.

But his voice stopped you.

Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.

“You don’t gotta run.”

The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.

He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.

“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”

You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.

“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.

You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.

“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.

“It’s bread,” he muttered.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”

He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.

You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.

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You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.

Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.

There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.

It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.

And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.

He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.

You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.

“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.

His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.

Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.

“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”

Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.

“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”

Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.

“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.

Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.

And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.

Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.

“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.

You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.

“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.

Joel squinted. “Your what?”

“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”

Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.

At his name, scratched out no less than three times.

And then back at you again.

“You’ve got moon signs in there?”

“Mhm.”

“And me.”

“Yes.”

“Scratched out.”

You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.

“You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

But he stayed.

And you smiled.

And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.

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You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.

You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.

“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”

Joel shot you a look. “What?”

You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”

You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”

He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”

“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”

Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.

“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.

You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”

“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.

You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.

Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”

“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”

“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.

“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.

You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.

“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”

Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.

“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.

You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”

Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.

“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”

He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.

Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”

You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???

He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”

“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”

Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.

“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”

That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.

“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”

You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”

You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.

You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.

The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.

“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”

Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.

Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”

You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.

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[criminalyapping]

due for trouble | you're mine

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm actually going to murder my keyboard i am so done with the extra letters and spaces you're gonna yell at me about the end but i'll pick up straight where this leaves off tomorrow :)

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, language, the girls are fighting!! he's big mad, they yell, etc. gets saucy near the end but no smut

< part 5 | part 7 >

Jack loves working on the night shift. He loves his coworkers, being able to watch the sun rise, and he loves the relative peace in his shift when compared to what he knows the day shift is like.

Lately, he's been thinking about the downsides, though.

When the baby is here, god, he's having a baby, but when it's here does that just mean that its your job to take care of it all night and then go to work all day? He can afford daycare no problem, but maybe he should look into nighttime nurse for you. He adds it to the mental list of things he needs to figure out.

There's approximately 4 million other things on his list as well.

It's another of his string og three days off, and he's seated on his couch trying to enjoy a movie that he put on. He'd much rather be with you, but you're out with your friends at some new country bar that popped up.

When you had first told him your plans for the night, he cringed. Thinking about the hot, sweaty environment you must be in, the opportunities for slips and falls on the sticky dance floor, and in his darkest thoughts, the possibility of you getting something put in your drink, regardless of if it was just water or a soda.

But be a controlling ass he will not, so he wished you and your friends a fun night and left it at that.

He's regretting that now as he looks at his phone and the message he got from your friend Emily. He scrambles for his reading glasses, slips them on, and inspects the text message thouroughly, trying to decipher it.

'miss girl fully eating with her fit'

She had sent along a photo as well, highlighting your cowgirl boots, your cute little sundress, and the intricate way that you had styled your hair for the evening. Jack, however, is focused on the tall cowboy character that you're talking to in the picture, smiling up at him as he looks down at you.

He puts his phone down, biting his lip and thinking about how hard he wants to take this. He's not taking it well overall.

'Do you guys need a ride home?'

He asks. It's about 11:30 now, so he would be able to get there at midnight, which he thinks is a perfect time to leave a country bar.

He's already up and changing out of his sweatpants before he gets a text back.

'uhhhh we were all going to get an uber home'

Emily had texted back.

Jack rolls his eyes.

'I'm on my way, be there in 30'

Jack has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he gets closer to the bar and finds a parking space.

He has to wait in line to get in and pay a $15 cover, which only sours his mood more. He's borderline seething as he enters, his eyes quickly scanning the open space.

He finally spies you, standing at the bar talking to someone.

Instead of being your friends, it's a tall, cowboy-hat wearing tool with a few too many buttons undone on his shirt.

He makes his way through the bar to you, and you don't even notice his presence until he has wormed his way into your conversation, standing directly in front of you.

Your eyes flick over, at first just preturbed about the man in your space, then your expression shifts to shock and a little bit of fear. The look on his face must be severe.

"Jack..." you trail off, "what are you doing here?" you ask.

"Emily texted me." he says, "I'm here to give you all a ride home." he says.

The man you've been talking to seems to think now is a good time to speak up.

"Hey, man, we're in the middle of talking," he argues.

"Not anymore," Jack says, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along with him as he turns to go.

"Jack," you start to argue as he sucessfully pulls you away from the man, deeper into the bar and looking for the other three.

"Not right now." he cuts you off harshly, not letting go of your wrist.

You trail behind him as he finds the other three, and goes to leave with the four of you trailing behind him like ducklings. You give Emily a severe look, pointedly looking down at your wrist caught in his grasp and back to her.

She looks a little guilty, but the look she shares with Jada afterwards tells you that they're enjoying this.

Jack unlocks hiis truck, opening the passenger door for you and then shutting it hard after you're seated.

As he climbs in the drivers side, he opens his phone and gives it to the backseat.

"Where am I going first?' he asks. Jada lives closest, so she types in her address and Jack pulls out of his parking space.

The car is silent, an unseen tension filling the air as he makes his way around the city dropping off your friends.

As Jack pulls up to his home, you scoff.

"What?" he asks in a monotone voice.

"Can you take me home, too? I thought that was where we were going." you ask snidely.

"No," he disagrees, "we're going to go in and we're going to talk." he tells you.

"Oh, are we?" you argue.

"Yeah," he says, getting out of the car and rounding to the other side, opening your door. "Come on," he urges.

You roll your eyes and clilmb out of the truck gingerly. Jack keeps a hand on yoour shouder like you're about to run away as you walk to his door.

As soon as his door is shut behind him, you lay into him.

"What the fuck was that?" you ask, not quite yelling but definitely close.

"I was trying to have a good time with my friends," you complain.

"Your friends? Your friends who were halfway across the bar while you flirted with some guy?" he spits.

"Oh, fuck off," you scoff.

"No, no tell me." he insists, "Tell me about how much fun you were having."

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him. He grabs your shoulders and angles you towards him. He's standing close enough that your head has to be tilted back to look at him.

He looks pissed. His eyes are wide, a red tinge covering his whole face and neck, and his intense look is focused soley on you.

"I told you," you start, measured, "that I was going out out of courtesy," you spit, "I can do what I want, and it was not okay for you to show up and ruin our night-" you're interrputed when Jack cuts you off.

"Ruin your night?" he repeats.

"Yeah, ruin our night!" now you really are yelling. "You show up, make us all go home, and for what? For what, Jack, so stake some kind of claim?" you yell. "You're not my boyfriend, Jack!" you yell.

Jack chuckles wryly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.

"You know," he starts, crowding into your space again, grasping the tops of your arms. "I don't have to stake any claim," he tells you lowly. "I don't have to, because I already fucking did," he says, pressing you against the length of his body. "I didn't think I had to spell it out for you, but I will." he continues.

"You're mine," he says, and you open your mouth to argue, but he stops you before you can.

"And don't argue, okay? I'm telling you." he's all but whispering now, his face a few milimeters from yours as he speaks with an intensity that has your toes curling in your boots.

"You're mine," he repeats. "I'm not just around because of the baby, but it gives me a damn good excuse." he tells you. "Call me your boyfriend, or your baby daddy, I don't give a shit. You want to call me your fiance and I'll go get a ring right now," he growls. "But whatever you want to call it, you're all mine, and you need to get that through your head."

Despite being 100% sober, his words give you a floaty feeling in your heads as you struggle to put together a string of words, intoxicated by his presence.

"And I get no say in this?" you finally ask.

"I think," he starts, "that if you really wanted to put up a fight, that I wouldn't have even gotten you out of that bar, let alone into my house." he argues. "I think you just wanted to put up a fight and be a little brat."

You don't say anything, but look up into his eyes and keep your gaze locked there.

"Am I right?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and try to move away, only to be stopped by his renewed grasp on you, pulling you into him as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"You wanna be mine, baby," he says into your cheek, "that's okay," he assures. He drags his lips down the side of your face and presses his lips to yours in a messy kiss.

His tongue plunges into your mouth annd tangles with yours, overpowering any attempt you make at turning the tides of the kiss. He wrenches his lips from yours and skims them down your neck, leaving licks and kisses and at least one bite, for good measure.

"Yeah, I do," you agree breathily as his mouth works on your collarbone.

"Yeah, you do," he parrots around your skin, "good girl," he sighs.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog

let me know if you want a tag!

[berryispunk]

More Than This

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: friends to lovers, (mutual) pining, failed date trope, Frankie being the consent king, car sex, unprotected PiV, Frankie talks you through, no physical description of reader despite having hair and wearing a dress, kissing, first time, swearing, banter

summary: Two longtime almost-somethings finally cross the line in the front seat of a truck, laughter still on their lips and feelings too big to name.

word count: 4,1 k

You bought a dress for that date—maybe that was your first mistake. You hate dresses. You’ve never felt comfortable in one. The last time you wore one was to a friend’s wedding, and your best friend Frankie had joked, “Geez, hermosa. You look like someone stuffed you into a suit made of glass.”

You shot him a venomous look, so he added, “You look really beautiful, though.”

And you hated how that made your cheeks burn.

Now you’re standing in front of the mirror. The way-too-expensive dress hugs you in all the right places, the color flattering your skin and eyes perfectly—and yet, you’ve never felt more costumed than you do right now.

You sigh at your reflection and mutter, “What am I even doing?” before swiping on some lip gloss—not just pretty, but one that actually tastes good. You wanted to play it safe. You wore the dress, put on the light makeup you rarely touch, even tamed your wild waves into a half-up, half-down situation.

And for a fleeting moment, when you really look at yourself—setting aside the years of low self-esteem and doubt—you think you might actually look… decent.

You give yourself a final, uncertain nod before grabbing your purse and heading out, the apartment door clicking shut behind you.

An Uber ride later, you’re standing in front of the Italian restaurant he picked. Fancy outdoor seating, cozy fairy lights, the kind of place where the pasta costs more than your weekly paycheck. One look at the menu outside tells you he either wasn’t messing around—or he thought spending big would guarantee he’d get you into bed.

It’s already dark. The city hums around you. Every time the restaurant door opens, you catch laughter and the clink of glasses.

Ten minutes pass. You check your phone. No message.

Twenty minutes. You call him. Straight to voicemail.

Thirty minutes. That’s when it sinks in.

You’ve been ditched and your shoulders slump in defeat. Of fucking course this happened.

Like the universe saw you trying and decided to point and laugh.

Almost on instinct, you dial Frankie's number.

It’s Friday night—his usual night out with the guys—and you’re not even sure he’ll pick up. But he does, after just three rings.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm through the speaker. There’s muffled chatter in the background.

“Hey, sorry. I know it’s your night with the boys… I just—” You exhale. “I got ditched.”

There’s a pause. Then he mutters, “What an ass. I’m sorry, hermosa.” And it’s sincere. You can picture his brown eyes soft with sympathy, his brows furrowed.

“Well… it is what it is, I guess. It’s just… I’m standing in front of this way-too-fancy Italian place, all dolled up and totally stood up.”

“You got dressed up for a guy who didn’t even show? Didn’t even have the balls to cancel?”

“Guess so,” you say with a shrug he can’t see.

He scoffs. “Where’s this fancy place?”

“Downtown. You know—the neighborhood with all those restaurants that are way out of our league. It’s next to that sushi spot where you order everything on a tablet.”

“Oh!” He laughs. “Are you sure you’re not in a parallel universe?”

You smile despite yourself. “I don’t know… are you still a pilot?”

That earns a deep, rumbling laugh—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. That sound alone fills your chest with something warm and familiar.

“Guess I am. You want me to come pick you up in the chopper, or is my truck good enough?”

“Betsy’s more than good enough,” you say, your mood already lighter.

“Give me twenty. You have a jacket?”

“Yes,” you lie.

“I’ll spot you easily. You’ll be the one in the dress,” he teases. “Can’t miss you.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He whistles low. “A dress, even? Damn. You really went all in.”

“Shut up.”

“Nah, no bad words now or I’ll make you call another Uber,” he threatens playfully.

You grin. “Drive safe.”

“See you soon,” he says, and the line goes dead.

For a moment, you press your phone to your chest, eyes closed, letting that feeling settle inside you—just for this little fragment of time.

--

It takes just under twenty minutes like he promised, and when his truck pulls up to the curb, the window rolls down and Frankie leans across the seat.

“Damn,” he whistles low, eyes trailing from your heels to your half-done hair. “You clean up scary good, hermosa.”

You shoot him a look as you climb in. “Don’t start.”

He grins but dials it back, sensing the edge in your voice even if you’re trying to hide it. His truck smells like leather, old cologne, and the gum he always chews when he’s trying not to smoke.

“You wanna just head home?” he asks after a beat, voice gentler. “Or… we can still go in. Use the reservation. What’s the guy’s name?”

You blink at him. “You’d go in there like that?”

Frankie looks down at his faded pale blue t-shirt—the one you love, the one stretched snug over his broad chest and shoulders like it was made for him. His jeans are dark, casual, ripped at the knee. His old cap sits low over his curls. Sneakers just a little dirty from god knows what.

He shrugs. “I look like money, baby,” he says, smug. “Just… not in the wallet.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself.

“His name’s Ethan,” you mutter.

“Ethan,” Frankie repeats, exaggerated and dramatic. “Yeah, no way that guy wouldn’t ghost someone. Let’s go ruin his night by enjoying his reservation.”

You snort as he hops out and jogs around to open your door. He offers a hand with an exaggerated bow and a ridiculous accent. “Madam.”

“Stop,” you laugh, slapping his hand lightly, but he just grins and tugs you out anyway, hand lingering at the small of your back as he guides you toward the host stand.

Inside the fairy-lit patio, Frankie squares his shoulders. “Reservation for Ethan,” he says with a deadpan face that makes your lips twitch.

The hostess glances down at her list, then smiles. “Right this way.”

You both follow her to a small table tucked under a string of lights. Frankie steps ahead and—without missing a beat—pulls out your chair and gestures with a grand flourish. “After you, my lady.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you sit. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot tonight.”

He settles across from you, slouching just a little, his cap still on like this is some burger joint. You’re surrounded by people in collared shirts, dresses with price tags that probably have commas. And yet somehow, Frankie is the one you’d bet on if things went south.

The menus arrive. You both open them—and his eyebrows immediately shoot up.

“Thirty dollars,” he says in disbelief, leaning across the table, voice lowered like he’s sharing government secrets. “For garlic bread. What’s it made with? Gold?”

You snort, covering your mouth, and suddenly the ache in your chest feels a little lighter.

You murmur, “It’s probably infused with unicorn tears or something.”

He nods sagely. “That tracks. Comes with a side of pretension and a tiny napkin you’re afraid to use.”

You’re smiling before you realize it, teeth and all. He catches it, and something shifts—just for a second—in the way he looks at you. His eyes linger. Not just at your face, but at you. At all of you. And for a breath too long, it’s quiet.

Then he clears his throat and leans back, casually flipping the menu like he didn’t just undo your whole night in a single glance.

“Alright, what’s the cheapest thing on here that won’t make me regret being born poor?”

--

By the time the plates are cleared, your shoes are kicked off under the table and Frankie’s halfway into a story about one of his army buddies who tried to use a drone to deliver flowers to his long-distance girlfriend and nearly took out a neighbor’s cat.

You’re wheezing, head in your hand, tears prickling your eyes from laughing. “Stop, stop—I can’t breathe.”

Frankie just grins, legs stretched out lazily under the table, wine glass in hand. “I swear on Betsy’s rusty tailpipe. Dude duct-taped a bouquet to the drone. Thing went rogue. Looked like an airborne threat. The girl screamed and hit it with a broom.”

You lean back, the last laugh still stuck in your throat, and you shake your head with a sigh. “God. Why do I always feel better after talking to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches you. And it’s not playful now—it’s quiet. Steady.

You glance away quickly, your skin heating under his gaze, needing to shift the air between you.

“Alright, change of subject,” you say, reaching for your water like it might save you. “When was your last fancy date?”

Frankie leans back, sipping the last of his wine. He takes his time answering, eyes drifting somewhere just past you, like he’s thinking about it.

Then, without looking away, he says simply, “This one.”

Your fingers freeze around the glass.

You blink. “This—Frankie, this isn’t a date.”

He shrugs, casual. “Pretty much is one. Look around.”

And you do. The candlelight. The wine. The faint hum of music and laughter around you. The tiny table you’re leaning across like it’s just the two of you in the world.

You shake your head, trying to fight the grin creeping up. “You got me there.”

His answering smile is slow, a little smug, all charm with a flicker of something else underneath.

He tilts his head. “You think there’s a chance for a second one?”

You inhale too fast and almost choke on your drink. Frankie reaches across the table immediately, laughing as you sputter and wave him off, your face burning hotter than ever.

“Oh my god,” you manage once you’ve recovered, wiping at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just watches you with that same look—the one that sees more than you want to admit. Warm and focused, like he’s waiting.

And suddenly, your heart won’t stop pounding.

--

The ride back is quieter than usual.

Not awkward—never awkward with Frankie—but different. The kind of quiet that hums with unsaid things, like the air’s tuned to a frequency only your heart can hear.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, other draped over the center console, fingers tapping softly to some old Eagles track playing low from the speakers. You’ve ridden shotgun in his truck more times than you can count, but tonight—even barefoot and with your heels kicked off in the footwell—something about the way your knees brush when he turns, the way the city lights catch the profile of his face, it all feels sharper.

Like you’re suddenly aware of everything.

He pulls up in front of your place, kills the engine, and for a moment, neither of you move. The sudden silence makes the air feel heavy. Dense.

“Thanks,” you say, soft, fingers curling around the strap of your purse but not moving to open the door yet.

He nods, eyes on the windshield. “Course.”

Another second passes. Then another.

And then he turns to look at you—and it’s different than before.

No grin. No teasing smirk. Just that steady, unreadable look that pins you in place. His eyes flick down, just once, to your lips, then back up. And something in your stomach flips so hard it feels like free fall.

You swallow, suddenly unsure where to look. “You okay?”

His voice is low, almost rough. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect this night to feel like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, then shakes his head. “Like I don’t wanna say goodnight.”

Your pulse trips. He’s still looking at you—calm, unhurried, but there’s something behind his gaze. Intent.

“Frankie…” you start, but you don’t even know what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly, enough that you can smell the hint of wine on his breath, see the way his eyes search yours.

“Can I…” he pauses, and his voice drops even softer, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

You freeze.

Not because you don’t want it.

Because you do.

And that terrifies you a little more than being ditched in front of a five-star restaurant ever did.

But you nod, just once.

And that’s all it takes.

His lips brush yours first—barely there, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. A whisper of warmth. A test. But when you don’t pull back, when you lean into it instead, the kiss deepens—slow, searching. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like this isn’t the first time he’s thought about it.

You feel the heat of his palm as it lifts to your jaw, thumb grazing the line of your cheek. The rasp of stubble on his face against your skin. The warmth that blooms in your chest, low and deep, and spreads like fire in your veins.

And then the kiss shifts—gentle becomes hungry, careful becomes aching. His breath catches when your fingers twist into the front of his shirt. You feel the hitch of his chest under your palm, the subtle tension in every muscle of his body.

That’s when it hits you.

That pang of fear—sharp, cold, and sudden. Like a crack down the middle of something you didn’t know was fragile.

You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing his. “I don’t… I don’t want this to mean nothing.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the space between you like glass. “You’re too important to me for that.”

His eyes flicker open, dark and burning, but there’s something wrecked and tender there too—like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“It could never mean nothing,” he says, voice tight with restraint, “not when it’s you.”

And before the moment can shatter under the weight of what’s unspoken, you’re already moving. Climbing into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, your dress hiking up around your thighs. His hands go instinctively to your hips—hot and sure—steadying you as your mouth finds his again, desperate and deep.

You grind down without thinking, seeking friction, seeking him, and the groan that tears out of his throat nearly undoes you.

“Fuck…” he hisses, jaw tight as your hips roll again. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the soft curve of your sides through the thin fabric. You can feel everything—the hardness beneath you, the heat between you, the way his self-control is hanging on by a thread.

“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with…” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, voice thick with restraint and want. 

But then his hands slide up, just slightly, thumbs brushing the edge of your panties. He swallows hard, eyes searching yours with something devastatingly tender.

“Do you really want this?”

You cradle his face between your hands, feel the roughness of his jaw, the tension in his throat, the question caught in his breath.

“Yes,” you breathe, sure now, all fear swallowed by the way he’s looking at you.

And that’s what breaks him.

His mouth is on yours again, all hunger and heat, and the next moment, his hands are under your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t stand a single inch of distance between you. Your hips move in rhythm, desperate and dizzying, your moans muffled by his mouth, and it’s not soft anymore.

Your fingers fumble impatiently at the zipper of his jeans, and he lets out a low breath as he lifts his hips to help, the moment messy and rushed but needed. You manage to drag the denim and his boxers down just enough to free him, and then—

slap—his cock springs up, thick and flushed, hitting against the flat of his stomach just below the soft trail of hair leading down his torso.

Your breath catches. Eyes going wide.

“Where were you hiding this?” you laugh, half breathless, half shy, and more than a little dazed.

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, grinning in that way that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you for real right now?” he laughs, incredulous, but there’s something in his tone—relief, maybe, or just the sheer sweetness of the way your wonder makes the moment lighter. Less about desperation, more about this. You and him. Real and present.

Your hand wraps around him and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips twitching under you. He’s hot in your palm, heavy and pulsing with need as you stroke him slowly, dragging your fingers down his length and then back up again.

His other hand slides down to your thigh, then under, gripping the soft swell of your ass like he’s grounding himself. You shift above him, and your soaked panties brush against his tip, dragging a choked sound from his throat.

“Fuuuck…” he groans, low and raw, head tipping back against the headrest as his grip tightens. “You’re killing me…”

But it’s you who feels undone—your whole body humming, skin oversensitive, panties damp and clinging between your thighs. You grind again without meaning to, searching for the friction, and he meets you there, hips bucking up with a groan, one hand guiding you, the other gripping your ass like he never wants to let go.

You can feel the heat of him against your soaked center now—barely held back by the thin fabric. The way he twitches under your touch. The way your own body aches to take him in.

And still, even in all of it, the need, the panting want, there’s something tender under it—his eyes locked on yours, wide and wanting, asking silently even now:

Are you sure? Are we really doing this?

Your answer is a kiss—slow, deep, reassuring. And the way he sighs into your mouth, the way his body melts just a little even in his tension, tells you everything.

You lift your hips just enough to reach between you, pushing your soaked panties to the side, and you both shudder at the touch—his head falling back for a moment again, jaw tight, eyes nearly fluttering shut.

"Jesus," he murmurs, voice barely there, breath hot against your cheek. "You’re—mierda, you’re so wet."

Your hand guides him, the thick head of him slipping through your slick folds, not quite inside yet. You’re both holding back. Just for a beat.

And then, slowly, you sink down onto him.

The stretch pulls a gasp from your lips—burning and full, inch by inch, your body molding to fit him, claiming him. His fingers dig into your hips, breath caught in his throat like he’s trying not to come undone too fast.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, shaky, already trembling around him as he fills you completely. You feel split open, raw, but not in a way that hurts—in a way that feels real. Like nothing else has ever quite touched you like this.

He exhales your name like a prayer. Like maybe he’s been saying it in his sleep.

“You okay?” he breathes, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, unable to speak at first. The only sound you can make is a soft whimper when your hips shift and he grinds up into you. You're so full it makes your thighs quake, your pulse hammer in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your back to pull you closer, his other hand cradling your jaw like something precious. “You feel—shit, baby, you feel so good.”

It nearly unravels you the second his baby hits the air. It’s not like he’s never said it before—he has, usually with a smirk or in some over-the-top teasing way. But not like this. Not in that breathless, low voice that sends a flush up your neck and down your spine. You never thought you’d hear him sound like that—raw, wrecked—and more than that, you never thought you’d see him like this.

You start to move again, slow and searching. Your hips roll in a rhythm that’s less about pace and more about feeling—chasing heat, chasing closeness. Each motion builds something between you, heat coiling low in your belly, the drag of him inside you sending flickers of pleasure that grow brighter with every pass. He meets each shift of your hips with a steady thrust of his own, syncing to your rhythm like second nature—like there’s no space left between you, like you’ve both forgotten where one ends and the other begins.

You tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, breathing his name, and he groans into the skin of your throat, lips ghosting kisses over every inch he can reach. So soft and loving it makes your heart ache. 

The car creaks faintly with every shift of your bodies, and the windows are fogged up completely now—your own little world, sealed off from everything but the heat between you.

He’s panting by now and when he thrusts up just a little harder, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch and your nails dig into his shoulders, he mutters, “That’s it… just like that, hermosa, ride me just like that. You’re so beautiful like this.” 

It’s not just sex—it’s something else, something deeper. It’s the way he watches you like you hung the stars. The way your body responds to his like it’s been waiting all this time. The way you already know what each other needs.

As the pressure starts to crest in your core, your moans grow more desperate, head falling back, hips moving faster—he grips your ass tighter, guiding you, grounding you even as you fall apart. “Frankie—” you gasp, the way his name sounds half like a sob, half like something sacred.

“I know, baby, I know,” he groans. “Let go. I’ve got you, promise.”

And you do—coming with a cry, pulsing and clenching around him, and the feeling of you unraveling is what finally tips him over the edge too. He buries his face in your neck and lets go, warmth spreading deep inside you as he spills, every muscle taut, breath coming in short, reverent gasps, holding you tight.

The only sound left in the car is the soft panting of your shared breaths, the thudding echo of your hearts trying to slow down.

--

After a few steadying breaths, you lift your head and look at him—really look at him. His cheeks are flushed, beautifully pink, his hair wild and damp with sweat, a few strands stuck to his forehead. You’re sure you’ve never seen anything more devastatingly handsome. He’s watching you too, eyes gentle and searching. One of his hands rises to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

Then—just a beat later—he laughs. Soft. Unfiltered. And it startles you a little, the sound tugging a smile from your lips that quickly grows into a laugh of your own. You're still joined, and the movement makes everything shift, drawing a shared breathless sound between you. It’s ridiculous. Intimate. Familiar in a way that makes something tight in your chest loosen.

You’ve laughed together a thousand times before. But this? This feels different. Like the echo of something that matters.

“Well…” he murmurs, his hands sliding back to your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into your skin, “that wasn’t exactly how I pictured our first time.”

You smirk, still a little shaky. “You pictured having sex with me before?”

He grins, all faux innocence and flushed cheeks. “Maybe…”

You raise a brow, clearly not buying it, and he catches your look, chuckling as he adds—almost sheepish—“Think next time we could do this at mine or yours? Might be a bit more comfortable than Betsy.”

You nod, no hesitation. “Next time,” you say, “I want you to take me out first. But not to a fancy place like tonight. Something more us. Okay?”

His whole face lights up like you just gave him the best news of his life. “Okay,” he says, beaming.

thanks for reading 💌

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[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over the Rainbow pop-up event.

born to run

Prompt: Red | Song: All Too Well by Taylor Swift | Word Count: 1978 | Rating: T | POV: Eddie | CW: Self Isolation, Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, But He's Isolated, And Steve's Having None of It, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Lots of Springsteen References

'cause there we are again on that little town street, you almost ran the red 'cause you were lookin' over at me

The criminal case had fizzled into nothingness, dismissed before it began with some strings pulled from places higher than Eddie will ever understand. Of course, the court of public opinion has been less forgiving. Eddie's not surprised, not at all. It's always that way for guys like him. 

Different. Weird. Freak.

Guilty.

Even if he's not.

He still feels trapped, caged, locked up. Like he can't leave the house. And as someone who wants to run by nature, that's been torture. 

At the new house, the backyard is fenced, and that's Eddie's prison yard. He walks the fenceline, pacing in a big circle, the only energy outlet he has. Just a never-ending loop, wearing a path into the grass. Alone with his thoughts.

Unless he isn't. He hears footsteps brushing through the leaves, and freezes. Then he sees the hands reach up and grasp the top of the tall wooden fence. Seconds later, Steve is hoisting himself over the backyard wall with ease, like some sort of knight in shining armor.

Eddie laughs, though his heart is still beating against his chest, just a little. 

"Front door didn't work?" Eddie asks as Steve swings his body over, sliding to the ground.

"Uh, forgot my key. You didn't answer. I knew you had to be out here," Steve says, wiping his hands on his jeans, "And look! You were!"

It's far too excited of a tone, especially when there was nowhere else Eddie could have possibly been. It's not like he leaves the yard. Eddie starts pacing again, and Steve falls into lockstep. Walking in circles right beside him.

He'd never tell Gareth, wouldn't even admit it under pain of death, but Steve's been the best friend he could ask for these past months. Nobody else is even close. It's just different. What they both know. What they've been through. Seen. Survived. Together.

He finally gets the old war buddy bond that Wayne talks about. It's no joke.

"I'm going stir crazy in this prison," Eddie says, because there's never a reason to lie to Steve.

Steve's seen his worst days. Maybe someday he'll see his best, too. Eddie is optimistic that this isn't forever, even if it feels like it right now.

Jogging a couple steps ahead, Steve turns so he can walk backwards ahead of Eddie. 

"I have an idea."

"And that idea would be?" Eddie probes. He's open to anything right now.

"It's your birthday, right?" Steve asks, and Eddie didn't even realize he knew that.

"Uh, yeah. Tomorrow."

"Come for a ride with me," Steve says, and Eddie's already shaking his head. No way. 

Steve's eyes are pleading, but Eddie can't.

"Later tonight. When the town is quiet. Nothing will happen. Not while you're with me. Not on my watch," Steve says, and Eddie feels his resolve crumbling. He doesn't want to leave the house, but Steve's using those fucking eyes of his against Eddie. It's really, truly unfair. 

Eddie doesn't say no, but he doesn't say yes either. 

For now, they'll just pace the yard, loop after loop.

Laying on Eddie's bed, Steve's got a cigarette dangling from his lip, head upside down off the edge of the bed as he holds up the liner notes of Born to Run, reading them. It was Steve's turn to pick the record. Some of Steve's have slowly migrated to Eddie's room, collection intermingling.

"Hey, Eddie, this guy, he's the real thing," Steve says, just before Springsteen sings the same line of lyrics. 

Eddie laughs.

Steve's proving a point with this album, has been all night. He wants to hide out on the backstreets. Wants a meeting across the river. He wants to ride out tonight to case the promised land. 

Eddie, after all, is born to run.

Wayne appears in the open bedroom door, and they both look over at him. He's got a six-pack held up, "First legal drink on me."

"I'm not twenty-one yet," Eddie banters, tapping his watch.

"Well, I gotta get to work, wise guy. Show some restraint for once and don't crack one open until after midnight."

"What about Steve?" Eddie teases. "He's a minor. Don't make me call Chief Hopper."

Wayne laughs, putting the beer down on the desk, having to scoot some shit to the side to make room for it, "What I don't know won't hurt me."

Eddie grins. He knows before all this bullshit happened, Wayne would have taken him out to his favorite bar for that first drink. That's not really an option now, unfortunately.

Wayne smiles back at him, "Happy birthday, kid."

"Thanks, old man."

"Birthday breakfast?" Wayne asks, "Both of you?"

And they both nod. Eddie tries to not read into the fact that Wayne just assumes Steve's staying all night. Eddie knows he probably will. Steve's made it his personal mission to keep Eddie company.

"Stay out of trouble," Wayne says, a relic of years gone by. And then he's gone. Eddie's definitely not getting into trouble these days.

Steve goes back to studying the lyrics printed on the album flap.

"This town rips the bones from your back," Steve reads, and then looks up at Eddie, "Who knew Springsteen has been to Hawkins?"

Eddie laughs. Ain't that the goddamn truth. It is a death trap. But maybe that's a more universal feeling than he's considered it to be.

It's quiet for a while, Steve reading, both of them smoking. Springsteen crooning from the corner.

"Wanna go for that ride?" Steve asks, interrupting the silence, looking hopeful and earnest.

Eddie shakes his head on instinct, but for some reason he still agrees anyway. For Steve. 

"Okay, big boy. Take me out into that town full of losers."

Playing it safe at first, as promised, Steve hugs the side streets. Long patches of inky darkness only broken up by dim street lights on corners. Revealed with the soft swish of the windshield wipers. A summer shower that'll probably stop as quickly as it started.

Eventually they move out onto the main drag. Eddie isn't sure how it looks exactly the same, but also so different. They've cleaned it up well. Fast. He's shocked. The world, the town, is spinning on without him as he stays stagnant, trapped in that house.

Steve's looking at him. Staring. Eddie can feel his eyes on him.

The light changes.

"Red," Eddie says.

"Huh?" Steve asks, brow furrowing.

"Light's red!" Eddie shouts, and Steve slams on the brakes. Sliding a little on the wet road before coming to a stop. Squeezing the steering wheel, laughing.

There's not another soul on the road, but they still stop and wait for it to change back to green.

"Green means go, red means stop," Eddie mocks.

"One stoplight in town, and I almost ran it," Steve giggles, looking back over at Eddie, just like he had been before the jarring stop. Eddie can't help smiling. It's nice, and Steve's car feels safe. Like the house, like the backyard. Another extension of home.

That's all Steve. 

When the light changes, he pulls away from the intersection and the wind whips through Eddie's hair.

The clock flips over to midnight, and Eddie's a year older. Maybe this one will be different. Better.

"Happy birthday," Steve says.

"It's just another day," Eddie answers, because he can't get his hopes up for anything to change.

Steve reaches over and rests his hand on Eddie's knee, and it's shocking and comforting and inevitable, "You're turning twenty-one. That's supposed to be fun."

Eddie covers it with his own, and feels his heart flip in his chest.

"You're a poet and didn't even know it," Eddie says, deflecting, because anything else feels too big, too real.

Steve laughs and pulls his hand back to his own lap.

Eddie misses it, immediately.

So much for a summer shower. It's a full-on downpour by the time they pull back into the driveway. They run back into the safety of the house, laughing, Steve locking the deadbolt behind them. Then his hands are on Eddie. One hand sliding around the back of Eddie's head, tangling in his damp hair, pulling him close.

Looking right in his eyes, Eddie feels trapped, pinned down in another way now.

This way is much better.

"Green," Eddie whispers, and Steve furrows his brow just for a second, then he smiles.

"Green means go," Steve says back, and hell yes it does.

Steve goes, because he's brave, and Eddie feels Steve's mouth covering his for the first time. Eddie reaches for him, clings to him, kissing him back.

After three months in the grave, locked away in this tomb, Eddie feels alive again. Warmth flooding his cheeks, kissing Steve Harrington. 

It suddenly feels like a home, not a prison. Just like that. Eddie's world shifting, being illuminated with the warmth that Steve has offered him.

Eddie squeezes Steve's biceps, and Steve walks him back towards his bedroom. And Eddie goes more than willing, letting Steve pull off their damp clothing, tossing them away. He sighs as Steve presses him down into the mattress, covering Eddie's whole body with his own. Shielding him, protecting him, still. 

Harrington's got him. 

Steve finds his hand, laces their fingers together, squeezing tight. Eddie tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Humming with happiness as Steve eventually pulls back, and moves to kiss his neck instead. Lips dancing across his skin, his tongue peeking out, brushing against the juncture of his neck, making Eddie laugh, delighted.

It's soft, and sweet. 

It's everything Eddie never knew he needed. 

Even in their underwear Steve isn't asking for anything other than this, even if Eddie would willingly give it. This is enough, more than. Steve's hand holding his tightly, his body grounding Eddie's to his own, to the bed, to the world.

The noise of Hawkins, of death, of destruction finally pushed to the back burner with Steve lighting better fires to attend to with his mouth, his fingers.

Eddie's never had this, what feels like hours of staying so close, kissing, touching, just holding onto one another. They've shifted, now face-to-face in Eddie's bed. Steve's hand holding his. Like he might never let go.

He hopes he doesn't.

This was overdue, Eddie realizes.

Inevitable.

"Tramps like us," Steve says, and Eddie laughs, rolling on the bed, but not letting go. And he lets Steve tug him closer. There's no place left to hide.

Nowhere to run.

Eddie can't tell him he loves him. Not yet. Even if he knows he does. Probably has since he was stumbling through the woods of the Upside Down, trailing after Steve Harrington like a lost puppy.

Thinking he had no chance. Flirting to flirt, teasing to tease.

"Wild and real," Eddie says instead, and the way Steve smiles means he gets it. He knows what Eddie is saying without saying it.

Steve Harrington speaks in Springsteen, and after being around him for months, Eddie does, too. 

Eddie surges forward this time, taking the lead, kissing Steve again. He never wants to stop kissing him. He never wants to stop loving him with all the madness in his soul.

He's the one.

In the morning, they drink Eddie's warm birthday beer with breakfast. If Wayne notices that things have changed between them, if he sees their swollen lips and their stupid grins, he definitely doesn't mention it.

He just slides eggs and bacon and toast onto their plates before joining them at the table. Smiling as he gets to share that first legal drink with Eddie after all.

Wayne clinks his bottle against Eddie's, "Twenty-one will be better than twenty. You'll see."

Eddie grins, eyes cutting over to Steve who's already eating, wearing one of Eddie's threadbare shirts, a hickey on his neck.

Looking back at Wayne, Eddie smiles, maybe bigger than he has since before.

Fuck yeah, it will.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the Somewhere Over the Rainbow popup event!

Notes: Let's be so for real. Wayne totally already thought they've been together for months. 🤣

Tons of references to the album Born to Run in this one. Maybe more than the Taylor song that it was built around after all was said and done, lol.

[kirayamee]

.。o○ [ simon riley and his one-night stand ]

another spicyyy one and simon who basically just realized he was into you (*｀▽´*)

MDNI 18+

cw: p in v, one-night stand, implication of free sex w strangers, a not loyal simon

ㅡ

Heat line of sunlight through the curtain hits his face gently, waking him up from the deep slumber. Simon stirred in his sleep, before finally rising to sit up, blanket falling from his body. Looking to his side, there's you sleeping on your stomach, facing away from him. The way he could see subtle bruises and bites that started to fade made him smirk.

Still, he moved himself off the bed to stretch. He took your dress and underwear, placing them near the nightstand so you could find them easily. It was a good one-night stand, and he might be enjoying it more than he should, but he still had to return to his reality.

Simon turned one last time to look at your sleeping form, no expression on his face as he closed the door, ending whatever he had with you that night.

"Care to spend a night with me?"

Another week passed by and Simon found himself wrapping his arms around another woman, under the dim light of the bar. He knew her answer, knew exactly what he was doing, and that's how he ended up in the hotel room, mounting her and listening to all her whines and whimpers.

But something was off.

His brows furrowed when the woman looked like you. Her voice doesn't sound like you, but why... with every thrust he pushed into her, his mind filled with you?

Still, another night and more to come, he never fails to find a new woman. Just for a night, just for the sake of his needs without any feelings attached. He wanted to spend his money the way he wanted it.

But that one night changed everything. He thought you felt so good maybe because you're someone who giggles when he got his dick pressing against your womb. Thought that it felt so good because you kissed his scars like it was treasure. Thought that it felt good because your fingers touched him like he was a broken thing, despite his massive form.

Simon thought, oh he thought. But after that one night with you, doesn't matter how good the women he slept with felt like, his name on your lips never fails to fill the back of his mind every time those women squeeze his dick inside them.

You dominated him. And he's addicted.

"Sleep with you?"

Your pretty eyes reflected his expression as if he was the only thing in your eyes. He nods, without giving you any opportunity to resist.

"But we haven't booked any hotel-"

"My car." Simon tapped the hood of his car without breaking eye contact. He was picking you up from your workplace, after making sure your schedule was free. The sight of your surprised expression only made him groan deeply, not wanting to hear any refusal. "Stay with me."

You almost yelp when he has his arms around your waist, trapping you against him and the car. Your back pressed against the window as he kissed you deeply, capturing your tongue in his mouth, the way he knew you liked it. The sound of your soft moans, surrendering to him without hesitation despite where the two of you were right now spurred him on even further.

"What a little exhibitionist," Simon whispered, tracing his lips along your jaw down to your neck, leaving small bite marks that make you shudder. "Enjoying this while we're still in the parking lot."

You let out a low scoff, a breathless chuckle as your arms wrapped around his neck. "I have no choice," you said, with your hips rolling to tease him, and it made his eyes wide with surprise. "You're already so hard for me."

Simon was so focused on having you again in his arms that he didn't notice what it was doing to him.

"Oh, kitten," he growled into your ear, gripping your thigh tight as he forced your legs part, hooking one leg to his waist so that his bulge could press against between your legs. "You feel that, then? How badly I need you?"

One thing you knew was that you were on your back, on the passenger seat of his car, legs spread wide open. His strong hands grip both of you by the hip, while the other holding your thigh part, as his hips pistoning in and out of you that made the car shake from his strength alone. You barely care about anything else but him, moaning his name shamelessly with your heels dug into his ass, keeping him so close until he had nowhere to move but inside you.

"Such a needy little kitten," he grunts, breathing heavily against your neck without losing his rhythm. "So clingy... must've been thinking about me all weeks, huh?"

You moaned in reply, clawing his back as his tip nudged your sweet spot perfectly, making you tremble uncontrollably. He smirks, liking the way you respond and making sure he keeps you stimulated by ramming his bulbous head against the spongy spot. "Simon...!"

You whined, so desperately, but he relished in every second of it. His name rolled off your tongue like a spell. It feels so right, somehow, with you here, in his car, getting his dick deep inside you and he probably would love to feel your cervix kissing his sensitive tip inside you.

And when he did, watching you gasp so sweetly, with your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You're losing your mind. What a lovely sight.

He wants to see more. More of this. Tonight, tomorrow morning, the next night, next week, months, years... he wants you. Every day of you.

"Stay with me, yeah, kitten?"

ㅡ

kirayamee, 2025 ][ do not copy

[agirlandherquill]

writecamp - day 8, june 8th

welcome to day 8 campers - before i start this post i've got a little bit of an update for you all!

i'm going on a little trip, holiday, whatever you wanna call it from monday-friday, and i'll be doing my best to prep beforehand by queuing all the posts so they'll all be ready, and as for the tag list i might not be as able to keep up as i'd like to be with just my phone to hand but rest assured i'll do my best - and who knows? maybe getting to visit the brontes house and whitby abbey (the dracula fan in me rejoices) could lead to some very fun inspo for prompts the following weekend <3 i absolutely cannot wait for this trip, it's a dream for the literature lover and writer in me, and fingers crossed writecamp should still go smoothly enough whilst i'm away and left monitoring just from my phone :)

the rules are as follows: choose a prompt (or as many of them as you like) from the list, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared! and of course, tag me in your responses because i cannot wait to see them!

as usual, the prompt list will be under the cut!

The Prompt List

Dialogue Prompts:

"If you want my respect, you're going to have to earn it, and that won't come easy."

"You haunt me. Demons are better than you. The darkness is kinder than what you do to me."

"Would you really surrender so easily? I'm disappointed. Truly."

"Ever since I learned right from wrong, I've been toeing the line. My balance was perfect. Until you came along."

"I have nothing left to give. Nothing else you could possibly take, save for my life - but you'll be alone without me. That loneliness is my power."

Setting Prompts:

A crumbling noose

A rowdy market

A lonely ballroom

A misty graveyard

A broken deal

Narration Prompts:

She fled for the exit, the hem of her skirts soaking up the liquid remains of her former brethren, her own blood was soon to join them.

He whispered his pleas, he bartered with silence, he bargained for someone that was already gone.

The withering stare sent their way was worse than any word, any speech, any possible weapon - with that stare, they had not won.

There is nothing quite like the calm of an end, but what if we were to go back? What if we were to try it all again?

A good man would turn away, a good man would put an end to all of this, but he could not find his good, he was resigned in that moment to be bad.

Feeling Prompts:

The twinge of guilt

The searing of suspicion

The trembling of chills

The devastation of magic

The silence of slaughter

all the best for day 8, you've all made such a brilliant start to the challenge, and i can't wait to see what you write!

~ A Girl and Her Quill

~ ~ ~

now for the tags! for writecamp, because i have a feeling there's going to be so many of you, i'm going to do tags a little bit differently and instead tag all you lovely campers in the comments! (to hopefully get around any tag limits/difficulties because we all know there's going to be problems, it's inevitable and i'm going to do my best to avoid any issues in that area) (the tag list will also be completed a short while after this post comes out seeing as i unfortunately cannot queue comments, but i'll get there in the end :) )

but of course, if you would like to be tagged in future daily challenges for writecamp, all you've got to do is interact with this post - it'll be monitored throughout the entirety of the challenge to ensure nobody who wants to be tagged misses out!

[biellescouts]

days ⬂

jeong jaehyun x f!reader

« you weren’t a part of me, what did i lose? »

a/n; ouuuu sorry guys🙂‍↔️

cw: jae being a dumbass? i’m running out of adjectives for him lowkey, arguement, angsty, realisation… 😛

summary: jaehyunnie pulls you in for a chat babes x

<- back to pt1

jae cracks his eyes open slowly. a stinging pain twangs in his head, at which he winces— he’s hung over as fuck. and when he fully opens his eyes to take in his surroundings, he realises he’s not even home but in what looks like a girls apartment. & i mean shit!

all he can do is sigh and remain completely still, careful not to move and wake the woman beside him. he moves at snail pace to slide his phone out from under the pillow and check the time. 8:53am. and almost as if she can hear him frantically planning his escape, her hand starts to drift around from its place on his chest.

“hi, you.” she smiled at him and sat up on her elbow. “you’re awake?”

no response.

“hey, don’t try to play me i know your awake.” she huffs poking his cheek and he can’t help but crack an embarrassed smile. she returns it.

“you got me.” he sits up in the bed and looks around. the words ‘i have to go.’ are just ringing in his head as he ruffles his own hair roughly. almost as if he’s looking for something. maybe why he even did what he did this.

jae rolled himself off the mystery woman’s bed with a huff and rapidly collected his clothes off the floor before tiptoeing towards the bedroom door as if the girl wasn’t already awake.

“so am i gonna see you again, or what?” the girl yelled as he started sliding on his sweats.

“not likely!” he flashed his panty-dropping smile at her and then he was gone. he could hear her exasperated sigh from when he reached the door which evoked a sigh out of him. he didn’t like to hurt people and yet he had just killed two birds with one stone. deep down he knew that you and mark would have never done anything, but he was driven by emotion last night. just the idea of it was enough to set him off. and did.

it wasn’t like you and jaehyun liked eachother or any of that gross stuff, but before you had started your little arrangement, you had explicitly told him that you could not go through with it if you were going to fuck loads of other people— too messy. and at the time he had ensured you, promised you, that he wouldn’t break this rule. now he knew he was fucked.

he had to think, hard, about how he would go about this. would he sit on the information and wait for it to come out in the worst way possible? perhaps not. he knew he had to talk to you about it. and he was hugely dreading it.

the first thing he did when he got home was fish his phone out of his sweats pocket dial your number. and when you saw his name light up on your phone, you immediately knew something was off— he never calls.

“y/n?”

“mhm, you okay? you never call. always fuckass insta dms” you laughed.

he sighed. ‘you okay’ ? way to make him feel worse.

“i’m fine, but i think you should come over.”

“oh you think so? i don’t. i’m kinda mad at you, sir, if you didn’t catch that from last night.” there was a playfulness in your tone.

“i just think, we need to talk.”

your heart dropped, “oh.”

you arrived to his apartment in a comfortable, baggy outfit— ready for any heavy news, and quickly greeted his roommates before following him into the living room.

“what’s up, jae? you look.. kinda like shit.” you tried to smile at him but he didn’t return it.

“i’m hungover.”

“ah.”

it was never usually awkward between you, but the silence you sat in was excruciating. jaehyun’s brows were knit together and you could almost hear the thoughts fluttering round his head. “uhm, say your piece, jae.”

“i- la- uhm, last night? i slept with someone. like i went home with someone, a girl.”

you were stunned. on your way over, you had a deep down feeling that it would be something like this, something along those lines, but hearing out loud made it real. and it was crushing.

as much as you hated to admit, under all the thick layers of your cool girl facade, you viewed you and jaehyun’s relationship to be somewhat.. important. you, maybe, didn’t rely on him for all things in the same way you would in a relationship. you didn’t really feel the need to tell him you loved him, or even want to spend all of your time with him, but the time you did spend together was special to you. in some sense. you viewed your monogamy sort of like a pinky-promise to eachother. there was a level of devotion there.

so to hear that he had blown that devotion off, didn’t care in the same way that you did? made you feel hurt and a little tiny bit delusional. you sighed heavily.

“jaehyun? be serious right now.”

“i am.” he closed his eyes, raising his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“you broke our one rule?”

“yes.”

“wow.” you got up.

“and i’m sorry! but i need to explain,”

“dude, what is there to explain? it was only one rule. pretty simple, you broke it.” you shrugged. and he stayed silent, trying to figure out if.. you even cared.

“why are you so mad?” — & maybe this was the wrong way to go about finding out. you froze in your tracks and just laughed, incredulously. jaehyun tried to save himself, “like-

“the reason i’m mad is because you freaked out over me driving mark home! then you go and break the one promise we had made to eachother! why wouldn’t i be mad?”

“look, this should be something we can just get over, it’s not like we’re dating. you dont have to leave like this.” ‘it’s not like we’re dating’ …

“jae, like what?” you just rolled your eyes.

“mad at me… we’re supposed to make up, that’s why i called you over.” he furrowed his brows, rubbing the back of his neck.

“you’re ridiculous, jaehyun. you know, you can’t just do something that you know is wrong and then call me to come over and forgive you.”

“i’m sorry. i just-“ he sighed and it was clear he was struggling with what he was about to say, “seeing how much mark was making you laugh made me uncomfortable as fuck for some reason.”

you furrowed your brows at him.

“and then you left with him? and something in me was like ‘they’re fucking in her car.’ and i freaked out.”

“so, because you thought i broke our rule, you went and did the same?”

“no i- i know you hadn’t. and it’s not even about the rule, it’s about.. my feelings—

“you know what? i actually just don’t wanna hear it. nothing you can say right now can change what you’ve already done.”

“y/n—”

“i’m gna go, mkay?”

“‘kay fine.” sighing, jaehyun ran a hand through his hair. it was weird how calm you were being, almost scary. of course, he didn’t break your rule to upset you, but deep down he knew it would have some effect. or at least, he thought it would. he stood up to see you off but you had already left the room before he could. he sighed out a heavy breath.

you smiled and waved at ten and taeyong in the kitchen on your way out of the apartment before going down to your car. slowly you lowered your head down to the wheel and scrunched your eyes shut.

literally why should you care? why would you care?

you headbutted the wheel.

“fuck, man.”

a/n; mmmm maybe YOU should have stayed a little while to hear him out.. maybe YOU would have had a different reaction. but alas.. it’s too late for that now. [🤣] yalllll don’t hate me

[svt-ara]

𝓚 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 '95 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘴

꒰୨ 𝓜asterlist ୧꒱

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓢.𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘴 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 જ⁀➴ protective big bro & sassy lil sis

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ cheolA / seara

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 90%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 since ara is the only female in the group, from day one seungcheol felt like she was his little sister— someone he needed to protect, even if they are only a year apart. back in the traniee days, even though the choice to add a girl to the group last minute seemed strange to him, he couldn't bring himself to not want her. he could see how troubled she was— she didn't want to mess up all the dynamics had already been built, but at the same time, she didn't want to turn down an opportunity like this. even if she already was an extroverd, she didn't want to overstep and seungcheol could tell. that's why he adopted her immediatly and scolded the member who— lowkey, weren't nice to her.

as someone said— somethings never change, and that was their case. if not, their bond only became stronger as the years passed and suddently ara wasn't just the girl who randomly joined. the girl always looks out for the leader who is completely down for her— sometimes the members even call him out mentioning the fact she is the favorite child and he didn't even try to hide it.

one time, they were on a variety show, and when the mc asked who was the member the leader would never scold, half of them answered without even thinking— mentioning how shamelessly obvious he was about it. another time, during a fansing, a fan asked him who he would trust the most if he had to step down, his eyes immediately spotted the long haired girl among all the members saying how she already kept all of them in line when he wasn't around.

on the other hand, ara is way sassier than seungcheol. ofcurse she will always admires his hard work as a leader and how well he took care of her when she was just a small fish in a big pond, but teasing is part of her and hes no exception. shes always teasing him about how he is "down for her", and no matter how much she jokes around, it doesn't change the way he treats her.

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

aras leaning on his shoulder backstage when she is tired

when the tension is tick between members maybe because something happened, ara cracks a joke and he is always the frist one to smile

sometimes ara calls him "big bro" and he gives her a playful scold or a playful pout

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓙𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘯 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 જ⁀➴ partner in crime, mbti compatible duo

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ arahannie

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 94%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 knowing jeonghan, he teased ara since day one. ara still doesn't know to this days if he was just messing around with her or if he genuinely didn't like the way she suddently showed up and sneaked into something. he was— and wanted to be, lowkey mean but he always got away with it thanks to his angel-look-like face. basically, he didn't liked her at all but he didn't ignored her. he used to call her some weird and funny nicknames or mimicked her accent— and yet he was always there, oddly enough he never treated her badly

with the time, ara realized that was his weird way of welcoming her. he included her in the chaos, dragging her into pranks and let fall the blame mostly on her, prentending to blame her when things went wrong, he made sarcastic comments under his breath so only her could hear and shared snacks with her when he thought none was looking. he was annoying— very, but present.

he didn't obviously affection, he did playful bickering, dramatic sighs and "ugh, why are you sitting next to me again?" but his voice slightly cracked because of his smile betrayed him every time. and ara played along, teasing hin right back and somewhere in between fake argoument and secret shared snacks, they clicked. jeonghan practically raised her to be a mini him. he taught her how to lie with a straight face, how to play everyone during games and how to stretch the trurth to avoid problems.

post-debut things only got worse— jeonghan loved causing chaos and then blaming it on ara when things went too far and he didn't know how to defend himself. during one of their going seventeen, he looked at the members and blamed everything on her "don't look at me, ara did. shes evil". or when during a weverse live someone asked who he respected the most among the members and he casually said her name just because "she lies well".

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

jeonghan randomly patting her head with a proud smirk

joking about how among 13 other mbti type, they only get along well with each other

sarcastly arguing on weverse and one time they even pranked everyone by pretending to argue mid-live

him making a nickname for her by taking the frist letter of her surname and of her name, taking the "y" and the "a" so it sounds like jagiya

⁺ ⑅ ꫂ ၴႅၴ 𝓙𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘢 ꕀ

# 𝗗𝗬𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗖 જ⁀➴ californian buddies

# 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘 જ⁀➴ joara

# 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 જ⁀➴ 73%

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 from the very frist days as trainees, joshua and ara naturally found each other. they were both coming from california, they didn't just share the birthplace and the language, also the culture. joshua, thinking back to those times, says she really helped with the languange struggle— english was their secret comfort. ara still remembers the frist time joshua noticed she was overwhelmed after a long day in the loud green room— he offered a granola bar and reassured her shed get trough it. well, it wasn't that helpful in that moment, but it still meant a lot to her. plus, with that cute smile and his crescent moon eyes maybe something was really fixed.

their bond wasn't usually lound and dramatic, it was steady and calm. they became each other safe place when the pressure got too much, sitting togheter during breaks, sharing playlist with a lots of english songs recommends or just sitting in silence trying to recover from the loud chatter.

even if after their debut the schedules were even more demanding, joshua and ara still found the time to connect in their quiet way. it didn't matter whether it was— if sharing late night text messages or small moments backstage when the noises died down. but hers— or their— tease never missed like the time when joshua caught ara sneaking snacks from the dance pratice fridge and jokingky called her the "official food thief" of the group. ara laughed it off and dared him to tell anyone— which, of curse, he did in insomnia-zero

# 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 જ⁀➴

sharing airpods and playing their shared playlist

giving her the nickname of raye because it sounds like "ray" in english

still helping him with korean, but it just ends up with both of them being confused

[honeyandruin]

Between the Shadows

Chapter Eight: When the Fever Breaks

“Not all disasters arrive screaming.  Some slip in quietly—   on bare feet,    with warm tea,     and the illusion of peace.”

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Emotional intimacy, injury recovery, sickness POV: Second person Status: Ongoing

 “You start to feel safe.  And that’s exactly when it happens.”

----

You’re already half-dressed when someone bangs on your door.

Not the kind of knock that waits for an answer—not polite. It shakes the frame, fast and desperate. Two fists, maybe. You’re on your feet before your mind even catches up, yanking the coat off the hook and stepping into your boots with your laces trailing.

It’s still dark out. Early enough that the frost hasn’t started to melt. You shove the door open and blink into the blur of dawn.

Jesse’s standing on your porch.

Hair damp. Breath clouding in front of him. Hands braced on his knees like he ran all the way across town.

“He collapsed at the gate,” he says, breath hitching. “Think he’s sick. Real bad. Maria said—she said get you.”

That’s all it takes.

You don’t ask if the man’s infected. You don’t ask why Jesse looks like he’s about to puke. You just grab your bag and run.

The air slices at your skin as you move, biting into every patch of exposed flesh. The trail between your house and the clinic isn’t long, but your lungs burn by the time you hit the steps. Someone’s already waiting on the porch—Tommy, arms crossed, jaw locked tight.

“In there,” he says, tilting his head toward the door. “Hasn’t woken up since we got him inside. Fever’s fuckin’ wild. Thought he was seizing.”

You nod once, tight, and shove through.

It’s warm in the clinic, but not in a comforting way.

Stifling. Still. Like the heat is trapped in the walls instead of rising from the little stove in the corner. The man on the table is stripped to his undershirt, soaked through with sweat. His lips are cracked. Fingers twitching, jaw locked tight like he’s grinding his teeth.

You set your bag down and don’t speak.

You’ve done this a hundred times. Pressure in the chest? You check the lungs. A rash? You trace the lines, check the color, make the connections. A broken bone? You steady your hands, brace the limb, ignore the screams.

But this is different.

You peel his eyelid back and his pupil is blown wide—only one. The other trembles. His breath is shallow, rattling.

“Has he said anything?” you ask, voice quiet.

Tommy shakes his head. “Didn’t even get a name. He just stumbled up, collapsed in front of the gate. Couldn’t get two words out.”

You look over the rest of him—no obvious wounds. No sign of infection. Nothing to explain this.

You press a cool cloth to his forehead. His skin hisses beneath it. Not literally, but it might as well. You’ve never felt someone burn like this and still breathe.

And then—

He seizes.

His whole body arches off the table, rigid and violent. A guttural sound tears from his throat like he’s drowning. You drop the cloth and pin him down with your forearm across his chest, fumbling for your bag with the other. Jesse rushes in, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hold him!” you snap.

And he does.

You find the old injectable Maria let you keep locked up—used it once for a broken leg that wouldn’t stop spasming. You jab it into the muscle and whisper something to no one as the convulsions start to slow.

His body slumps.

Silence crashes into the room like a wall.

You’re still shaking when you sit back. Hands slick. Heart racing.

“I need everyone out,” you say.

Tommy hesitates. Jesse swallows. But they both nod.

You scrub your hands clean in cold water and stay beside him for the next two hours. You monitor every breath, every twitch. He doesn’t wake.

And then he doesn’t breathe.

You try to bring him back.

God, you try.

CPR. More meds. You tear into your supplies like a wildfire—but you know it’s over the second his mouth falls open and his eyes stop tracking.

The fever wins.

You sit there beside his body long after his skin cools.

Not crying. Not shaking. Just sitting.

A quiet creak sounds behind you.

You don’t turn.

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” a voice says, low and rough.

Joel.

You exhale slow. “You already did.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

You finally glance back—and find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, that damn frown carved deep into his face. But his eyes are soft. Heavy. Like he knows exactly what just happened, even if no one told him.

You rise slowly, the motion stiff and hollow. Like your limbs forgot how to hold your weight.

There’s a pause, heavy and awful.

Then he speaks.

“You need anything?”

The words are simple. Quiet. But they crack something wide open in your chest.

You step toward him—once, twice—and then you’re against him before you can think better of it. Arms around his waist. Face pressed to his chest. You don’t sob. Don’t break. Just hold on.

Joel doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t breathe, at first—but then one of his arms lifts. Hesitates. Settles at your back. A hand fisted gently in the fabric of your coat.

It’s not a long hug.

It’s not soft.

But it’s real.

And when you finally step back, eyes wet but not spilling, he doesn’t ask questions.

“What else do you need?” he says.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand.

“Water.”

Joel vanishes.

Returns a minute later with a chipped mug, filled halfway. You take it without thanking him. He doesn’t expect you to.

You sip it slow, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The body is still on the table.

Joel doesn’t look at it. Only at you.

“You’ll tell Maria?” He asks.

You nod.

“She won’t like it,” Joel adds.

You know.

Because this man wasn’t registered. He wasn’t assigned housing. He had no ID, no schedule, no task. He shouldn’t have been in Jackson.

And he died here.

Which means someone let him in.

Or worse—someone brought him.

——

After Joel leaves, the silence stretches too wide.

The clinic feels emptier than it did a moment ago. Not just quiet—abandoned. Like something had been holding the room together, and now it’s gone.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the creak of old wood and the distant churn of wind through the trees. The stove crackles softly in the corner, but the warmth feels hollow. Like it’s heating an empty shell. Like it’s pretending to be comfort.

You scrub the blood from the table in slow circles.

It’s not much. Just a little smear on the edge of the mattress. Dried now. Flaked to rust. But your hands keep moving anyway, like they don’t know what else to do.

You’ve been here before. Different town. Different table. Same feeling. That low, heavy throb in the back of your skull—the one that says something’s wrong, but doesn’t know how to explain it yet.

The man’s body is already gone. Jesse and Tommy wrapped it up in silence, carried it out under the hush of falling snow. You didn’t ask where they were taking it. You didn’t want to know.

You toss the cloth into the basin and grab the shirt he’d been wearing. It’s soaked through—sweat, maybe something else. You check the pockets before burning it, like you always do. Habit. Protocol. Survival instinct.

There’s something folded tight in the chest pocket.

You pause.

Not a note. Not cloth. Thicker than paper. Rougher. Slightly damp at the edges.

You pull it free and unfold it slowly, smoothing the creases with your thumb.

A ration card.

But not one of Jackson’s.

The logo is wrong. The color’s off. It’s thinner than it should be, almost translucent near the folds. One corner is torn, and the printing is just slightly crooked—enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t looking.

You frown.

No name. No registry number. Just a date stamped across the top—expired. Months ago. Someone reused it. Tried to pass it off. Fake it.

You flip it over.

There’s handwriting on the back. Faint. Just one line.

A name.

Your breath stalls.

You’ve seen it before.

It takes a second to place it, but once you do, your gut drops like a stone. That name was on one of your clinic rosters a month ago. A team assignment. Supply run. It had been scribbled down in Maria’s hand, then scratched out in someone else’s—bold, hard lines that tore the page a little.

You remember asking Jesse about it at the time. He’d shrugged. “Guy backed out, I think. Got reassigned.”

Except now he’s dead on your table.

And someone gave him a forged ration card.

Your fingers tighten around the paper.

You try to tell yourself it could be nothing. That maybe this man found the card, maybe he didn’t know what it was. Maybe the name was someone else’s, just a coincidence.

But you’ve survived too long to believe in coincidence.

You’ve seen what happens when people try to disappear. You’ve seen what happens when they crawl back in through the cracks.

This wasn’t an accident.

Someone let him in.

You fold the card again, tuck it into your coat pocket, and try not to feel the sweat gathering at the back of your neck.

It’s not the fever anymore. It’s something else.

You lock the clinic door behind you.

And go find Maria.

—

The council building is quiet, but not empty. A few people linger in the hall outside the map room, whispering in low voices, glancing toward the windows like they’re waiting for something. You don’t stop to listen. You don’t have to—you already know the tension in the air.

Something is coming. They can all feel it.

You knock once on the office door and let yourself in.

Maria is standing beside her desk, flipping through a set of inventory logs. She looks tired. Eyes shadowed. There’s a half-empty mug of coffee on the windowsill behind her, and her coat is still on, like she never planned to stay long.

She takes one look at your face and straightens.

“What happened?”

You reach into your coat and pull out the ration card.

Her thumb runs over the crease, slow. Then she flips it.

“This name…” she murmurs. Not to you—almost like she’s talking to herself.

Her voice trails off, and for a moment she just stares at the writing like it might change if she waits long enough. When she sees the name, her face changes—but not in the way you expect.

Not alarm. Not confusion. Just a stillness.

A quiet, deliberate kind of still.

You know that look. You’ve seen it in soldiers. In lieutenants. In people who already know the thing you’re telling them, but are trying to decide what they can afford to admit.

“Where did you find this?” She asks.

“Shirt pocket. On the man who died.”

She’s silent again.

Then: “Did anyone else see it?”

The way she says it makes your stomach turn.

“No,” you answer, slower now. “Just me.”

She nods, as if that confirms something.

Then she folds the card sharply—one clean crease—and slides it into a folder beneath a stack of papers. The folder has no label. Just a blank, dark cover.

You wait.

Nothing.

“Do you know who he was?” You ask.

Maria lifts her eyes to yours. “You said the name looked familiar.”

“It was on one of your rosters. A month ago. But it got crossed out.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything that shows up in my clinic.”

Maria presses her mouth into a tight line.

Then, quietly: “Tell no one about this. Not yet.”

The room feels colder than it should.

“Why?” Youu ask.

“We don’t know anything for sure.”

“But you suspect something.”

Maria doesn’t answer.

Just turns her back and starts stacking papers again. Like you didn’t just hand her a piece of evidence. Like a man didn’t just die on your table with someone’s forged card in his pocket.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says.

You feel the weight of it settling behind your ribs.

The quiet. The evasion. The shape of the lie, even if it hasn’t been spoken yet.

You look at the folder. At her hands. At the little muscle twitching in her jaw.

“What do I tell Tommy?”

She exhales through her nose. “Tell him the man died. Tell him you did what you could.”

“And the rest?”

She looks at you for a long time. Not unkindly. But not like a friend, either.

“Leave the rest to me.”

You stare back. You could push. Could demand answers, names, context. But you don’t.

Because you already know what it feels like to be told nothing. You know what it means when people start hiding things. When they start folding lies into paper and tucking them away in drawers.

You recognize the shape of this silence., and you know it always ends the same way.

Outside, the air bites sharper than before. The sky is darkening by inches. The wind hums low against the eaves. Smoke drifts from chimneys all across town—harmless. Ordinary.

For now.

You walk back to your home with your hands shoved deep in your coat pockets and your jaw clenched tight. The ration card is gone, but the weight of it is still there. Sinking. Heavy.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it. That you’re being paranoid.

But deep in your gut—you know better.

You’ve survived too much to believe in safety.

And tonight… for the first time since Jackson let you in—

You don’t feel safe anymore.

The house feels colder than usual when you get back.

You don't know if it's the weather or your nerves, but the air inside clings to your skin like damp cloth. You light the little lantern on the counter, its glow stretching shadows against the walls. Soft. Familiar. Safe.

You toe off your boots at the door and peel off your coat, fingers stiff with exhaustion. Your hands still smell faintly of antiseptic and woodsmoke and something metallic underneath it all. You scrub them under the faucet for longer than necessary before reaching for the old tin mug you keep by the stove.

There’s still a little of the tea Maria gave you last week—dried pine needle and mint, bitter but soothing. You don’t bother boiling water properly, just heat enough to steep it and pretend that counts.

You change while it brews—shed your shirt, your thick pants, the layers that helped you survive the cold this morning but now just feel heavy. You pull on a long, soft shirt you sleep in—something faded and fraying at the hem—and thick socks over bare legs.

The weight of the day settles low in your spine.

You carry the mug to the window and lean against the wall beside it, watching your breath fog the glass. From here, Jackson looks like any small town. Quiet. Peaceful. Little points of light flickering behind curtains. Voices echoing faintly in the distance. You spot a group of kids walking toward one of the communal houses—laughing, shouting over each other.

It almost feels normal.

It almost feels earned.

You sip your tea slowly, letting it burn the inside of your throat. Your mind drifts back to the man on your table. The way his pupils had moved. The card. Maria’s face.

You think about Joel, too.

The way he didn’t flinch when you touched him. The way he looked at you like he’d already seen the worst of this before.

You close your eyes for a second and exhale.

And that’s when you see it.

Not movement.

Not sound.

Just a color—reflected in the window glass.

Amber. Gold. Flickering.

At first, you think it’s the lantern.

You turn to look—just a glance toward the far side of town. Your stomach turns before your mind even catches up.

A glow.

Not a soft one. Not candlelight. Not a hearth through a window.

This is brighter. More violent. Stretching across the sky like fingers.

You drop the mug.

It shatters against the floor, the hot liquid scalding your ankle. You flinch, but only halfway—your body lurches before your brain can register the pain. The tea burns, your bare foot slips slightly in the puddle, but your instincts are louder.

You’re already moving.

Already grabbing your coat.

You forget the socks. The boots.

Something’s wrong. Worse than wrong.

And it’s already too late.

You don’t even feel the cold as you slam the door open and run barefoot into the night.

[tidbitch]

When Your Wings Break

Part 1

141 x Reader

Ranch AU

This fic will contain some dark topics such as abuse, assault, and suicide. Please read at your own discretion <3

After getting nearly kidnapped at a bar, Reader gets rescued by Price and brought back to tf 141's ranch. Lots of daddy issues ahead

Big thank you to @leyavo !!!! I couldn't have done this without your support and our talks <3333

I’m awoken by the pounding in my head. The smell of something cooking alerts me to the fact that I’m not in my own bed. I can’t remember the last time I cooked something, much less had breakfast. 

The dim light of dawn is an unfamiliar sight, and not one that’s easy on my weary eyes. No matter how much I squint, I can’t seem to ease the pain behind my retinas. I let out a groan and throw the covers back of my head. They smell strange but not unpleasant. Notes of woody warmth fill my nose as I try to remember what I’d been up to last night. I can only hope to figure out where I’m at before I’m found out. 

I know I just got off the plane yesterday and I can’t imagine having been in the highlands too terribly long. I’ve always wanted to travel - cliche, I know - but that doesn't make it any less true. I've grown disenchanted with the hectic hustle and bustle of city life and I wanted to finally see something green for once. Lord knows I'll never find it in my wallet, that's for sure. I'd spent the past half year saving up for this trip. 

So far the UK's lived up to the hype. And being able to drink here sure is a bonus. Not that it was ever hard finding someone willing to turn a blind eye back home, but still. A win is a win, I suppose. And I haven’t been having many of those lately. Or in general. 

I can remember being in some quaint little pub. It was maybe the third or fourth one I'd been to last night despite being so fresh off the plane that I still had a pocket full of airline peanuts. I don’t even eat peanuts. There was this group of creeps that kept showing up no matter how uninterested I tried to come across. I remember getting a drink I hadn’t ordered, but when I tried to tell the bartender that, he gestured towards this group of  weirdos sitting at a table. Every single notion of “Stranger Danger” and basic bar safety screamed at me, but, in my defense, I’d already started drinking it before I considered the implication. I know it's stupid. I know I'm an idiot. But hindsight's always 20/20 and at the time I had been seeing through drunk goggles. 

After a few minutes, I was really feeling the drink. More so than I should have. I know I'm no lightweight. I've had a few too many more than a few times and I know that's not what this is. One of those crazy bastards had drugged me and I can only guess what he wants from me is nothing good.

A man from that awful table approached me. I can’t remember what dumb pick-up line he had tried on me, but I remember immediately connecting the dots and wanting to get away from him.

“Leave me alone!” I snarled. I recall the way I had tried to chuck my glass at his face, but my arm felt awkward and far too heavy. The cup fell on the floor, glass shards spraying up and coating the ground of the bar. 

“Aw c'mon, baby, don't make a scene now.” The man's hand cupped my ass and alarm bells were finally blaring full force.

“Stop!” I tried to scream, but words failed me. I slurred out something vaguely terrified, but no one seemed to notice. Or at least they hadn’t cared enough to do anything about it if they had.  Before I had the chance to berate myself, the man was leading me towards the door, about to steal me into the night and who knows he had planned. Well, I had a few guesses but I really didn’t want to have to face any of them. 

I kept trying to flail and get someone's attention, but the man just mutters out apologies and explains I had a few too many. At this point I had begun to notice the tears falling down my burning cheeks as whimpers try to bubble from my dry mouth. 

“Right, what’s going on over here?” Another man, one far too large, suddenly blocks the door. He has the facial hair of a chipmunk and what appears to be a cowboy hat dropout on his head. 

I once again attempted to separate myself from the pervert, but he’s holding me flushed against him. His terrible stench might never leave my nostrils.

“My girl’s just had too much to drink. We had a little scuffle, tha's all.” 

The man in the hat hums for a moment before studying my face. 

“Too much to drink, yeah? Reckon some water would do her good then.” His smile made a strange “v “shape. He has the cheek fur of a drowned rat, but the piercing gaze of a hawk about to strike. He turned and grabbed his own cup. He bashed it right over my captor’s head and ripped me away. I fell into the booth he has previously occupied and the last thing I saw before my vision had gone black was my savior getting surrounded by the creep’s buddies. The sounds of anguished cries and smacks of fists against flesh, maybe some boots getting a stomp or two in as well, are the last things I remember.

I quickly open my eyes, much more alert now especially once I pick up on the sound of something moving. Or rather someone.

I try to move but my body's still far too heavy.  

“Shh, shh, easy does it now. Be gen’le with yourself.” The man slowly pulls the blanket away from my face. The sunlight warms my cheeks.

I finally manage to crack open an eye and I'm face-to-face with what might be the kindest looking brown eyes I have ever seen. But looks can be deceiving.

I level a glare at him but end up wincing as the pounding in my head reminds me of its presence.

“Here, drink some water.” He reaches a straw towards my mouth, but I shake my head. 

“It's safe, love, I promise,” he takes a sip. “See?” He lets out an “ahh” as he tries to make the water seem more palatable. “Just a few sips, yeah?” His brow scrunches and I have to look away, the amount of concern in his russet gaze boring into my very soul.

I can’t let this guy trick me. I can’t let my guard down again. 

I take in a deep breath, the burn in my throat following the air down. 

“What do you want?” I bite out, finally able to push myself into a seated position. 

“I  jus’ wanna help.” The brown-eyed guy kneels next to the bed. “I know what happened must've been pretty scary, yeah? So how ‘bout you le’ us take care o’ you.” He slowly reaches out, obviously worried about spooking me, and offers me his weathered hand. “I'm Kyle.”

I study the guy. He’s tall and muscular. Definitely not anyone I'd wanna take in a fight.

 I swat his hand away, trying not to think too much about just how tiny mine looked next to it. Just what are they feeding these guys?!

The door flies open and the room is flooded with light from the hallway. Kyle looks like he’s about to say something, but the guy’s interrupted by a sudden commotion of barks and nails against hardwood. I barely have time to shield myself with the blanket again as a flurry of fur and slobber slams against the bed. 

“Brace yourself…” Kyle rubs a hand over his face.

“Oi! Get!” He barks out a command and the dogs surprisingly listen. The big white one even hangs its slobbery head as I peek out from under the covers. “Don't mind the dogs. They're friendly, I promise.”

“Is that our wee bon I hear?” Some man with the mohawk scampers towards the bed and drags me into a hug. He softens and coos out apologies as I let out a small “oof” from the impact. He pulls away for a moment to look me in the eye. 

I can only hope I don't look half as lost and befuddled as I feel. 

“Och! Poor wee scone,” he pouts, rubbing at my heating cheeks. “Yer alright, lass, I've goch-ye.”  It was impossible to get a word in, he just kept yapping and yapping! He was somehow saying so much yet so little and barely varying his enthusiasm. 

Kyle has moved to push the dogs out of the room. From his mild scolding I can gather that their names are Lucy, Clyde, and Whiskey. The big one, Lucy, seems to be giving him a hard time. The border collies listen exceptionally well despite giving the man the most tragic puppy dog eyes as they exit. 

Just what have I gotten myself into?

[secondpersonpoetry]

you’ve probably already read it before, but the poem Party by Kim Addonizio really got me tonight. first thought was “oh man. yeah” and then my second thought was “how can i make this about my hockey guys somehow………..”anyway! have a good one! 

oh. oh.

​

[voidimp]

i never actually got to play bit, my (goblin) dhampir roguelock, but i was thinking the other day about how they wouldve first met their patron, strahd...

get adopted, idiot

[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.

[holeforzenin]

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE GOOD.

Tw - light angst, roommate trope, reader has daddy issues and seeks comfort from toji, Age gap (20, 40), Not proofread.

I’ve always had this angsty roommate trope with Toji in the back of my head— where the reader is a college student who gets kicked out by her parents and is forced to share an apartment with someone else because you can’t afford a place on your own.

Somehow, you either got lucky or unlucky and ended up living with an older man who’s nearly as old as your own parents.

But he always minded his own business, and the two of you only exchange brief hellos and the usual polite pleasantries. You’d think living with an older man might be weird or even a little fucking creepy, but it’s clear he has no interest in you in that way.

The thing is, you have a lot of unresolved issues and wasn’t treated the best growing up, leading to a lot of personal problems and issues. As the days pass, you and Toji start talking more, gradually getting used to each other’s presence while still maintaining a respectful distance.

He didn’t seem to have a lot of hobbies— just a typical older man working the usual 5 to 5.

You had no idea what his job was, nor did you care enough to ask but he had a fond of working out— considering that most of the time when you get home from your part-time, you’d find him in the living room doing push-ups or bicep curls while half-watching some random horse racing show on tv that you’re 100% confident that no one else cared to watch.

You don’t remember when exactly the lines started to blur. When the occasional greetings turned into quiet conversations over late-night meals. When the awkward tension of cohabiting with a stranger faded into something resembling familiarity. Toji was still Toji— distant, extremely rough around the edges, and uninterested in prying into things that weren’t his business.

But maybe that’s what made it easy to be around him.

He never asked why you flinched when your phone buzzed with a call you refused to answer. He never questioned why you worked yourself to the bone at a part-time job that barely paid enough to cover rent. And he sure as hell never brought up the nights you came home with your eyes red-rimmed, shoulders tense like you were holding yourself together with sheer will, alone.

But he noticed.

Maybe that’s why, on nights like these, when the weight of it all felt unbearable— when the ghosts of your childhood clawed their way to the surface to fucking torture you, leaving you hollow and exhausted. You found yourself in the living room, drawn to the quiet presence of the only person who never asked for more than you were willing to give.

Tonight was no different.

Toji was exactly where you expected him to be, sprawled out on the couch in nothing but sweatpants, a hand lazily resting on his stomach as he watched another horse racing rerun. His other hand held a half-empty beer can, the faint smell of cheap alcohol lingering in the air.

He didn’t acknowledge you right away, but you knew he saw you.

“You look like shit". His voice was rough and tired like he’d already had a long day and didn’t have the energy for sugarcoating. But there was no malice behind it. Just an observation.

You let out a dry laugh, softly rubbing your arms as you hesitated near the edge of the couch. “Thanks toji. real comforting".

He lowly grunted in response, tilting the can to his lips before glancing at you again. “Something happened?”.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to talk about it. The words were there, lodged in your throat, tangled with years of resentment and hurt that you never got the chance to voice.

But where would you even start?

“My dad called,” you muttered instead, settling for the simplest truth.

Toji didn’t react right away. He took another sip of his drink, his gaze unreadable. But he didn’t need to say anything— you could tell he already understood.

“And?”

“And… nothing,” you whispered, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Just the usual bullshit. Asking where I am. Acting like he gives a damn after throwing me out like I was nothing”. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, gripping it tight. “I didn’t answer”.

There was a long silence before Toji let out a slow exhale. “Hmph. Probably for the best.” You turned to look at him, searching for judgment, for some offhand remark about how “he’s still your dad” or how you should “at least hear him out”. But there was none of that.

Just quiet understanding.

Something inside you lit.

Before you could stop yourself, you shifted closer, curling your knees up against your chest as you leaned against his side. Toji tensed for a moment but didn’t pull away.

“You’re warm,” you murmured, closing your eyes.

He sighed through his nose, shifting just enough to get comfortable. His body heat seeping into your skin. “Yeah well, you’re freezing”.

A part of you expected him to brush you off, to push you away like everyone else had. But he didn’t. He just sat there solid and steady, letting you rest against him without a word.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel completely alone.

You don’t know how long you sat there, curled into his side like some pathetic thing seeking warmth and comfort. Toji doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shift to move you off. He just sits there, the low hum of the television filling the silence between you.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe it’s the fact that no one has ever let you just be without demanding something in return but you find yourself inching closer, practically climbing into his spawled lap before you can think better of it.

Toji tenses beneath you, his body going rigid as he feels your weight settling on top of him. For a second, you think he’s going to push you off, tell you to go to bed, or deal with your shit somewhere else.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, one large hand coming up to rest against your back, broad and grounding. “You really are touch-starved, huh?” he mutters, amusement barely masking something softer beneath his tone.

You don’t answer. You just press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in— cologne, sweat, and the faintest trace of whatever cheap beer he’s been drinking. It should be embarrassing, the way you’re practically clinging to him, an older man you’ve only known for about four months but shame is a distant thing compared to the bone-deep exhaustion squeezing tightly around your ribs.

For once, Toji doesn’t make you feel stupid for it.

After a moment his hand moves, dragging up your spine in slow, deliberate strokes before slipping into your hair. The gesture is clumsy at first, like he’s not used to comforting anyone this way but his fingers are warm, threading through the strands with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten.

“Damn,” he mutters, his voice rumbling beneath your ear, “when’s the last time you brushed this?”

You huff against his skin. “Shut up”.

He chuckles, low and rough but his fingers don’t stop. If anything, he grows more methodical, smoothing out the tangles with a patience you wouldn’t have expected from someone like him. It’s oddly soothing, the way he works through each knot with careful precision, his other hand resting against the small of your back, keeping you anchored on him.

No one has ever touched you like this before—without expectation, without ulterior motives. Just quiet, wordless comfort.

Your eyes burn, and you squeeze them shut, pressing yourself closer. “You don’t have to do this,” you whisper, though you don’t pull away.

Toji sighs, his fingers still carding through your hair. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t seem like anyone else has”.

It’s a simple statement but it cracks something deep inside you.

You don’t cry. Not really. But your hands clutch at his broad shoulders and Toji doesn’t say a damn thing when your breath stutters when you shake just the slightest bit against him.

He just keeps brushing his fingers through your hair, steady and patient. Like he’s got all the time in the world.

And for tonight, at least you let yourself believe it.

You don’t know what came over you. The urge rising like a tide that you couldn’t hold back. Maybe it’s the way Toji’s fingers are moving through your hair, the warmth of his chest against yours. the steady, comforting pressure of his body under yours. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that’s been simmering in your chest, the raw need to feel something else other than burden.

Your lips hover near his throat, your breath shaky and fingers clenching on his shirt as you tilt your head. The space between you is thin and fragile. He’s close enough that you could close the distance, and you find yourself trembling, your heart pounding too loudly in your chest.

Before you can even think it through, you tilt your head up just a little more, your lips brushing against the side of his neck. It’s a light touch, barely there, but enough to send an electric shock through your body. The warmth from his skin makes you ache for more. A soft, quiet need you’ve kept buried for far too long.

But Toji’s body tenses, his hand freezing in your hair. “Hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with a warning that makes your pulse spike in sheer anxiety. “What are you doing?”

You pull back, your heart thudding as the weight of what you’ve almost done settles in. But before you can apologize, to retreat into the usual walls you keep around yourself, his eyes are soft but firm.

“Don’t”. His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. A certain caution you hadn’t expected. The hint of strictness almost making you cry.

You open your mouth, words trapped on the tip of your tongue but nothing comes out. He doesn’t move away though. Doesn’t push you off. He just holds your gaze, his eyes dark but kind, not angry, not judgmental— just… something else?

“You’re just a kid,” Toji says. His voice was low, almost a murmur. “I don’t see you like that”.

You flinch, even though the words shouldn’t hurt, even though you knew somewhere deep down, this was where it would go. The distance was inevitable. He wasn’t like the others— he didn’t want you in that way and you weren’t ready to be wanted like that anyway. Not from someone like him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, unable to look at him. You try to pull away, to move off his lap, but his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you back in.

“Hey, none of that”. His voice softens as he steadies you. His palm strokes gently down your back, grounding you in the silence between you. “I’m not mad. But I’m not that kind of guy”.

You swallow hard, nodding slowly— trying to push back the sting that rises in your chest. The air feels colder now, the warmth of his body less comforting, like a reminder that you’re still just a kid in his eyes.

But then without warning, Toji shifts his position, pulling you closer to melt into his body, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm beneath you. His lips lazily brush the top of your head, just a light touch, like a reassurance.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something you can’t place. “I’m not gonna push you away, kid. Just… just need you to know your place, alright?”.

Your breath catches in your throat as you settle back into him, the weight of your emotions flooding back in full force. It feels too much, too complicated and you don’t know what to do with all the things you’ve never said. But for now, you let yourself sink into the safety of his arms, the warmth of his embrace enough to silence the chaos in your mind.

His fingers trace gently down your spine again, a comforting gesture you can’t ignore and then his lips press a soft kiss to your forehead. It’s simple, tender— a reminder that while he might not want you in the way you want, but he’s not leaving you to fend for yourself. Not tonight.

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and Some of Their Kinks

Includes: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x implied female reader (separate of course)

Warning, this post includes: somnophila, dacryphilia, brat taming, scent kink, squirting, masturbation, master/pet play, spitting, cockwarming, and more.

A/N: I finished all of my work for university! Now I just have a final presentation next week (which I already did), and then I'll have earned my bachelor's degree! Now I can do some celebratory smutty writing to get back into the swing of things :)

Xavier

Somnophilia is high up there on Xavier's list, but not because he wants to use your body while you sleep. No, Xavier wants you to use him while he is somewhere far off in dreamland. He really wants to wake up to you with his cock down your throat. Even better? He's positive he'd cum on the spot if he woke up to you riding him.

Mutual Masturbation could send Xavier into a frenzy. He loves watching you pleasure yourself, especially when your eyes are glued to the way his fist pumps up and down his length. But he can never truly handle it for long, losing his composure before either of you can make yourselves cum. You're just too cute for him to resist.

Outdoor sex is right up Xavi's alley, though it really should count as he loves fucking you on his balcony. Xavier is quite accustomed to falling asleep in the cozy paradise he has put together on his balcony. Which means, it's also well equipped for him to fuck you stupid. Maybe it's the thrill of someone hearing, perhaps even seeing, or maybe his need to make sure everyone knows you are his (looking at you, Charlie). Regardless, he's rather fond of making you his.

Rafayel

Master / Pet had started off as a joke, almost an inside joke between the two of you after Ebb day had passed. Then, slowly, the joking terms of "pet" and "master" made their way into your intimacy. It didn't matter who donned what role; it just depended on the mood and perhaps even the situation that led both of you to the bed.

Squirting, Rafayel is utterly addicted to it. The first time he got you to cum that intensely, he ended up cumming himself. The lemurian isn't satisfied anymore if he doesn't end up soaked in your juices. He'll go as far as to ensure you are well hydrated before making any moves. This man has done his research, and so far it hasn't failed him.

You're his real-life canvas. Rafayel was shocked that you agreed the first time he asked the question. You had shamelessly stripped for him, nothing but a pair of panties clinging to your ass and hips. Your skin was his canvas, and the gentle, cool strokes of the paintbrush had goosebumps erupting across your arms. He didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you than he already was, nor did he think it was possible to crave you as badly as he did when he dragged the paint-slick brush over the swell of your tits.

Zayne

Brat-taming just comes naturally for Zayne. Lucky for him, being a brat just happens to be second nature for you. Cool, calm, collected Zayne being pushed to his limits over and over again until he finally cracks. It's the outcome you've been craving from your stoic lover. And once you got it - ass cheeks bruised and your entire lower half being so sore that you're limping - you find that you're utterly addicted. Good thing your lover is on the same page.

Quickies in public spaces are a guilty pleasure. Everyone always expects Zayne to be so good, to follow the rules. Stepping out of line is far more addictive than being the goody two-shoes he's been his whole life. Having you half undressed, speared on his cock while your back is pressed into his desk? Your tits bouncing as you ride him in the front seat of his sports car? Fingering you while you sit beside each other in a dimly lit and crowded restaurant? He's on cloud nine.

Recording your little escapades had been the outcome at the end of the spiral. A spiral you started one evening as you bounced yourself stupid on Zayne's cock, the legs of the couch creaking under your efforts. You were being bratty, and he hadn't quite crossed the threshold yet to feel comfortable putting you in your place. Testing your limits, you had reached for your phone and began taking pictures of you and him as you ground down on his dick. Faces flushed and eyes glossy, Zayne still had those selfies on his phone, under a special album only he could see.

Sylus

Dacryphilia caught Sylus by surprise. He didn't realize how badly it would turn him on until you were choking on his cock with fat streams of tears flowing down your cheeks. You looked like such a mess, so utterly destroyed and he hadn't even gotten into that sweet pussy yet. Bless him, he came before he could warn you, too entranced by your sobbing face and mouth full of his dick to speak.

Cockwarming you has been Sylus' favorite activity besides getting to love you so thoroughly it left you breathless. He wants to be close to you, as close as his body could get and as close as you'd allow. Even on nights when you two haven't made love, he'll ask you rather shyly if he can slip it in. Much to his pleasure, you always let him, especially since you know he sleeps much better when he gets to hold you close... inside and out for that matter.

Sex toys are not off limits for Sylus, honestly, he quite enjoys them. He's well aware of his capabilities and, in turn, he is well aware of his limitations. He can finger fuck you until you're crying, sure. But shoving a vibrating dildo in that pretty little cunt is far more amusing to him. He gets off on having the control, watching your entire body tremble from vibrations so intense that nothing he could do himself would ever get close to replicating. His trick is that you don't get any access to the toys he uses on you. They are his use only, taken out just to drive you mad before he gives you what he really wants. You genuinely have no idea where your lover hides them afterwards.

Caleb

Spitting but not in a way you'd think. Caleb wants you to spit in his mouth, on his dick, use it as extra lubricant. Doesn't mean Caleb will deny you if you ask him to spit on or in you, but god does he crave the feeling of your saliva coating his tongue. He wants to devour you whole, in any way he can, spit included.

Power play is right up his alley. As long as you are consenting, Caleb will go to whatever extreme you desire. It could be as simple as using "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" or as complicated as full-on BDSM with safe words and real leather, cuffs, gags, and paddles. Whatever you're willing to give him to fulfill the fantasies, the colonel is willing to accept, and never once will he complain.

A big ole scent kink, he can't help it, you just smell so utterly addicting, it drives him insane. Your shampoo, your body wash, your perfume, your sweat, your arousal. You name it, if it's something on or from you, Caleb will probably love it. You didn't realize it started with your worn panties, ones he stole from the hamper after you would hop in the shower. Caleb was a pervert for it, and he knew it damn well, but it didn't stop him from fucking his fist while inhaling the heady scent of your dirty panties.

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐅𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 .ᐟ — 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You’ve faked it with every guy you’ve ever worked with. Every scene, every moan, convincing, but never real. Then Bakugo happens. One scene turns into something else entirely and now you can’t stop thinking about him, and you’re starting to wonder if it was ever just a scene.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ content. smut, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, fingering, rough sex, praise, light degradation, dirty talk, light choking, possessiveness, semi-public sex (on set), creampie, light aftercare, porn industry setting, blurred emotional lines, language.

PART TWO

You weren’t nervous. Not really.

You’d done this a hundred times. With all the big names—Keigo, who liked to make everything a performance; Touya, who had a thing for whispering filth like he was telling you a secret; even that wild three-way with Shindo and Hitoshi that still topped your subscriber requests.

So no, this wasn’t nerves.

This was something else.

Maybe it was the name on the call sheet. Bakugo Katsuki.

He was the guy. The one who didn’t just act like a powerhouse on camera—he was one. Every scene he was in got clipped, shared, memed, thirsted after. The kind of raw intensity people couldn’t stop watching. Or jerking off to.

You included. Not that you’d admit it out loud.

Okay. Maybe once. When you were wine drunk and swiping through his catalog. Maybe twice. Maybe more.

You’d watched him wreck other girls. Watched the way his hands gripped hips like he owned them. The way his mouth dragged moans out like he knew exactly what buttons to push. You always told yourself it was research. Prep for the inevitable scene.

Now here you were, in the makeup chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the clock. You didn’t even get this antsy for award shows.

You shifted your hips a little. God, you needed to get a grip.

“Five minutes, Y/N,” someone called from set.

You gave a casual wave, sliding your phone into your bag. Cool. Easy. You’d done this before. You were the girl. The one who always looked good, always knew her angles, always gave the most convincing moans. No one ever knew they were fake.

No one needed to.

You only did this for the money. Never caught feelings, never chased orgasms. You could finish on your own time. You always did.

But when you walked onto set and saw him—arms crossed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like the cameras were already rolling—your breath hitched.

And then his eyes locked on you.

Bakugo didn’t smile. He smirked. All sharp teeth and slow drags of his gaze. Like he was already undressing you in his head.

“‘Bout time,” he said, voice low and cocky.

You raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky, Dynamight.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up. He smelled like something spicy—cologne, sweat, and danger. His smirk widened.

“Too late, princess. I’ve seen your work. Bet I could make you actually cum.”

You laughed. It came out a little shaky. “You think you’re the first guy to say that?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek like he had every right to touch you already. “But I’ll be the first one to prove it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped anyway. Cocky bastard. You weren’t new to bold claims—hell, you’d heard that same line from half the industry. But something about the way he said it, all low and sure like it was a promise, made your pulse skip.

You turned away before he could see the heat rising to your cheeks.

The scene started like any other.

Lights. Camera. Action.

You were on your back, legs spread, eyes half-lidded. Your moans were perfectly timed, your hands moving just how they were supposed to.

Bakugo was above you, teasing at first, fingers trailing up your thigh, smirking like he had all the time in the world. You tried to stay in character. Tried to focus.

But then his fingers actually slipped inside, and holy shit—

You bit your lip.

That felt… different.

His fingers weren’t just thrusting. They curled. Pressed. Rubbed against the spot you usually had to hunt for on your own. And when he looked down at you, his eyes weren’t blank or performative. They were locked in. Watching every twitch of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath.

“You always fake it this early?” he muttered under his breath, so low only you could hear.

Your stomach flipped. Your thighs tensed.

“What?” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Bakugo chuckled. It rumbled low in his chest.

“You’re tight,” he said, dragging his thumb over your clit just right. “But you ain’t clenching like you mean it. Not yet.”

And then he sucked on your inner thigh.

Not for the camera. Not for show.

For you.

Your back arched on instinct.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin. “I got you.”

And you hated—hated—how badly you wanted to believe him.

He didn’t start slow.

He licked into you like he was starving, like he’d been starving, and this was his first meal in weeks. His tongue was hot, wet, relentless—flicking against your clit in firm, practiced strokes that had your legs trembling before you could even bite back the first moan.

You weren’t acting.

Not anymore.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you, white-knuckled, and your lips parted like you wanted to say something, but all that came out was a broken little gasp.

“Oh fuck—”

He hummed against you. Smug bastard.

“Don’t hold back now, princess,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up your slit slow, then latching back onto your clit like he owned it. “Let’s show ‘em what it looks like when it’s real.”

You whimpered. Whimpered. You didn’t do that.

Not even when Keigo pulled out the toys. Not even when Touya did that breathy thing in your ear.

This was different.

You tried—tried—to keep it together, but his mouth moved like he already knew every inch of you. Tongue swirling, lips sucking, fingers still working inside you like he wasn’t giving you a fucking choice. He knew exactly where to press, where to flick, when to slow down and when to pick it back up again.

And it wasn’t even for the camera.

It was for you.

Your stomach coiled, tight. Too tight.

Your breathing hitched. Your thighs started to shake. You were going to—

“No,” you gasped, voice panicked, eyes fluttering. “Don’t—fuck—I’m—”

“Yeah you are,” Bakugo growled, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His mouth was wet with you, lips swollen, eyes wild. “C’mon. Don’t fake it. Just fuckin’ let go.”

And then he sucked—hard—right over your clit.

Your body snapped.

The orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, ripping the air from your lungs. You didn’t fake it. You couldn’t. Your moans were raw, broken, punched out of you like the wind got knocked from your chest. You shook, hands flying to his hair, thighs locking around his head as your back arched off the bed.

And he didn’t stop.

Kept going. Licking, pressing, dragging your orgasm out like he wanted to ruin you.

You came again, again, before you’d even come down from the first.

Your voice cracked. “Bakugo, I—I can’t—”

“Yeah you can,” he muttered, not letting up for a second. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your vision blurred. Your whole body was buzzing, on fire, shaking like you’d lost control of every single nerve ending. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t lose it like this.

But god, he was still licking you through it, fingers still curling right there, his voice low and wrecked as he talked you through it like he wanted to brand the sound of your orgasm into your memory forever.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, voice gravel and heat, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, desperate, lost.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say it’s real.”

Your lips trembled.

“It’s real,” you gasped, breathless, broken. “It’s real, fuck I’m gonna—”

And just like that, you came undone again. Loud. Messy. Helpless.

Bakugo didn’t stop until your hips were twitching, your thighs were soaked, and your moans turned into soft little sobs of overstimulation.

The lights above you still burned hot. The cameras were still rolling. But everything else felt far away—muted, blurry, unreal. Your legs were jelly. Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon. And Bakugo was still between them, licking his lips like he’d just tasted something forbidden and planned to do it again.

Your brain was still fogged when he stood, stretching to his full height.

Then his hands were back on you, big and warm and so sure, gripping your waist like he owned it. He flipped you over effortlessly, face down, ass up, skin still hot and damp with sweat. Your thighs trembled when they spread open again, already overstimulated and soaked.

Bakugo slid his hands up your back. Slow. Possessive.

“You feel that?” he murmured, leaning over you, his cock grinding against your ass with lazy pressure. “That twitch in your legs? That little shake?”

You nodded weakly, eyes fluttering.

“That’s mine now.”

Your breath caught as he pulled his hips back. You barely had time to process before the thick head of his cock was pressing against your entrance—hot, heavy, and already wet from you.

“You ready?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was a warning.

Then he pushed in.

Slow. All the way to the hilt. Letting you feel every inch. Stretching you open, filling you to the fucking brim. You choked on a moan, fingers gripping the sheets like your life depended on it.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside you, letting your pussy throb around him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, hips flexing. “So fuckin’ tight. Can feel you squeezing me already.”

You were. He hadn’t even started moving yet and you were clenching around him like you didn’t want him to leave.

Then—he moved.

A slow drag out. A sharp thrust back in. Deep. Deeper. Your mouth dropped open. No sound came out.

“That the spot?” he murmured, hips rolling again, hitting the same angle, slow and deliberate.

You nodded, gasping.

“You better fuckin’ tell me when you’re close,” he growled, pace still maddeningly slow. “I wanna feel it. I wanna hear it.”

He reached around and pressed two fingers against your clit, rubbing soft, teasing circles that made your arms give out. You dropped to your elbows, back arching like he’d wired you for pleasure.

Then he started really fucking you.

Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Every. Single. Stroke. Reaching places that made your eyes roll back. His hips snapped forward with just enough force to jolt you up the bed, his fingers never leaving your clit.

You moaned into the mattress, voice high and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the fuckin’ sound I wanted.”

You were spiraling. Every thrust, every rub, every low growl in your ear sent you closer to the edge.

“Bakugo, I—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he grunted, hips picking up speed, still hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Then fuckin’ cum for me.”

You shattered.

You clenched around him so tight he groaned, biting down on a curse as your body trembled under him. Your moan punched out of your throat, high and wrecked and real.

But he didn’t stop.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—” you gasped, hips twitching as he kept thrusting, dragging you straight into another orgasm with no break.

He leaned over you, voice low in your ear. “Not fakin’ now, huh?”

You shook your head wildly, whining into the sheets.

“Bet you never came like this on set before,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you cum like this off it either.”

He wrapped a hand in your hair and pulled gently, just enough to lift your head.

“Say it.”

You could barely speak. “No one. No one but you.”

“Damn right.”

His thrusts sped up, rougher now, deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, joined by your wrecked little gasps, your whines, the slick mess between your thighs.

“You hear that?” he said, low and smug. “That fuckin’ sound your pussy’s makin’? That’s all me.”

You whimpered, and he slapped your ass—not hard, just enough to make you clench again.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

And then he slammed into you. Hard. Once. Twice. Over and over. You screamed—literally—as another orgasm crashed through you, your body locking up, eyes rolling back.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gasped, and then pulled out just in time to stroke himself twice, thick ropes of cum painting your back, his voice ragged as he came with a low, wrecked growl.

You collapsed.

No faking. No poses. Just you, ruined on the sheets, shaking and soaked and completely fucking gone.

Bakugo dropped to his knees behind you, panting. He grabbed a towel off the edge of the bed, wiped you down gently—so gently it made your chest ache.

“You good?” he asked, voice quiet now. Careful.

You nodded, still dizzy. Still pulsing. Still floating.

“I came so many times I lost count,” you whispered, dazed.

He chuckled, cocky and low. “Good.”

You rolled onto your side, trying to catch your breath.

“That was supposed to be a scene,” you mumbled. “That felt like a fucking movie.”

Bakugo leaned in, kissed your bare shoulder, then smirked against your skin.

“Baby,” he murmured, “that was just the warm-up.”

You snorted softly, still breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

Your legs were still trembling, body wrecked and used and buzzing. But something else was humming under your skin now. That ache in your core—not from need, but from power.

You rolled over, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers down his chest. His eyes tracked every movement.

“Get on your back,” you whispered.

Bakugo raised a brow but didn’t argue. He leaned back against the pillows, smirking like he thought he still had the upper hand.

His hair was damp with sweat. His lips were swollen. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths. You’d never seen him like this.

Your grin widened.

You leaned down and kissed him—soft, slow, way too good to be acting. Then you sat back, hips lifting off him, and slid down his body.

“Where you goin’?” he rasped, half-laughing, half-breathless.

You looked up at him from between his thighs, eyes dark, lips parted. “Didn’t say I was done with you yet.”

His breath caught.

You licked up the underside of his cock—slow, teasing, wet. He twitched in your hand, muscles tensing as you took your time, letting your mouth work him like you had something to prove. And maybe you did. Maybe you just wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d done to you.

You looked up, mouth wrapped around the tip, and saw it—the crack in his composure. The soft clench of his jaw. The desperate twitch in his thigh. The helpless sound he made when you sucked just right.

“You’re so sensitive, you’re not gonna last,” you said around him, lips brushing the head.

His fingers gripped the sheets. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You kept going, messy and perfect, tongue flicking and mouth sinking deeper, until he was panting, until he was cursing under his breath, until his hips jerked off the bed.

And then you pulled off, slow, dragging your tongue over the tip one last time.

He made a noise—wrecked.

You climbed back up his body, straddling his hips again. His hands found your thighs like muscle memory, gripping tight.

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“Beg.”

He froze. “What?”

You rolled your hips once, just enough to feel the slide of his cock against your slick entrance.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Tell me you want it.”

Bakugo swallowed hard. His voice was low, rough. “I want it.”

You licked the shell of his ear, teasing. “Not good enough.”

His hands trembled where they held you. Then he growled, breath hot.

“Please.”

You stilled.

“What was that?”

He gritted his teeth. Looked up at you like he hated how much he meant it.

“Please,” he repeated. “I want you. Need you. Fuck, I’ll say whatever you want—just ride me.”

You smiled. Real. Slow. Lazy and smug.

Then you sank down on him—deep, wet, tight—and his whole body arched beneath you, a broken moan punching out of his throat like you’d ripped it from his chest.

His hands flew to your hips.

You rode him slow. Sweet. All control. And when he finally came again—loud, raw, completely undone—you kissed him through it. Held him through it.

And when he whispered your name afterward, soft and stunned, like he didn’t know what just hit him

You smiled. Because for once, it wasn’t just acting.

Neither of you moved right away. His arms were still around you, chest rising and falling under your cheek, skin damp with sweat, muscles twitching beneath your fingers. Your heart was still beating too fast, and so was his.

Eventually, though, you had to get up. Had to move. The spell didn’t break, exactly—it just faded enough to remember where you were, who you were, what this was supposed to be.

You pulled on your robe in silence, legs still shaking slightly, and glanced at him across the bed. He sat up slow, pushing his hair back, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like maybe he had more to say, but didn’t know how. Or didn’t think he should.

You hesitated.

So did he.

“Um…I’ll see you around,” you said, trying to make it sound casual, even though your voice came out a little too soft.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and reaching for his clothes. “Guess you will.”

Your stomach twisted, weirdly tight, but you smiled anyway. You nodded once, turned, and walked off set without looking back.

You didn’t see the way he watched you go.

Didn’t see the way his fingers flexed like he wanted to reach for you.

Didn’t hear the low, quiet fuck that slipped from under his breath when the door finally shut behind you.

You got home and didn’t even shower right away.

You peeled off your clothes slow, every muscle sore in the best possible way, and collapsed into bed wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and your post-fuck glow. Your thighs ached. Your voice was half-gone. Your lips were still swollen.

You looked wrecked.

You felt worse.

And yet somehow, the only thing you could think about was him. The way he’d looked at you. The way he sounded saying your name. The way his hands had held you after like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You tried to distract yourself. Pulled up the scene, freshly posted not even an hour ago.

It already had thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments. More than anything you’d dropped in months.

You scrolled.

StepOnMeY/N: Holy shit, that was unreal.

BbyBakuGo: not y/n faking with everyone but bakugo

ToyasToy: Was that real? Tell me that was real.

It was.

You scrolled further.

KeigoOfficial: I feel personally offended. Gonna have to step my game up. Rematch y/n?

TouyaTodo: faked it? With me? damn. i must be losing my edge. hit me up when you wanna make it real doll.

You smirked.

Your DM notifications were blowing up. People you’d worked with. People you hadn’t. Everyone suddenly curious. Hungry. Competitive.

Your stomach flipped. It was fun. It was flattering. But none of it hit quite the same.

Then you saw it.

BakugoK: Already need more from my favorite girl.

You stared at it.

Read it once.

Twice.

A third time, just to make sure it was real.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers went numb. You sat up in bed, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. Because what the fuck did that mean?

You clicked on his profile. Double checked that it was him.

It was.

No emoji. No game. Just a single comment that said everything and nothing all at once.

Already need more.

Favorite girl.

You slammed your laptop shut and screamed into your pillow. You kicked your feet like a schoolgirl. You laughed—hysterical, breathless, completely losing your mind.

Then you opened your laptop, stared at the comment again, and whispered out loud to no one

“Oh my god.”

Because yeah—you’d done this a hundred times. But this one was different.