#I genuinely miss my Windows Phone

[slyandthefamilybook]

the fact that the Google assistant can't set location-based reminders—something my Windows Phone could do more than a decade ago—is frankly embarrassing

[lesbiansanemi]

God nothing hits like early bleach, the substitute shinigami arc and rukia’s execution arc are just. Ugh. Something about the crunchy-ass early 2000s-ness of it that the rest of the series lost (not just animation wise but aesthetic wise), when there was still hope that all the potential would be capitalized on, idk, it was just fun and getting to fall in love with all the characters because pretty much every single one introduced was great and engaging. I just really really wish the series had kept that early vibe that it started losing once the visoreds were introduced, they got the last little tail end of it. As soon as we got to the heuco mundo arc this all vanished and it’s so upsetting, the series just lost a lot of its personality, if that makes sense, I wish it had kept it so badly

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content (mdni), kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him ��� you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[httplilyyy]

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 || 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐒𝐎

pairing: alessia russo x reader

summary: surprising your girlfriend at the euro final

warnings: nothing but fluff

words: 5.1k

a/n: after being on hiatus for nearly a year… only being back to back champs could make me write a one shot again!

woso masterlist

The call rings just once before you answer.

“There she is,” you say, settling further into the corner of your sofa, wrapped in a worn, oversized jumper. Your laptop is balanced on your knees in front of you, and Alessia’s face fills the screen, tired but warm, framed by the soft yellow glow of her hotel bedside lamp.

Outside your window, London is beginning to settle in for the night. The July air is thick with humidity, the kind that makes the city feel almost slow. A fine mist has started to fall, slicking the pavement below in a shimmer of streetlamp gold. The occasional car swishes past, headlights cutting across your ceiling in brief flashes.

Your flat is dimly lit—just the lamp in the corner and the string of fairy lights you never bothered to take down after Christmas. A half-finished mug of tea sits on the coffee table beside a stack of paperwork you’d abandoned hours ago. Your phone buzzes somewhere nearby with unread emails, but you ignore it.

Alessia’s sitting cross-legged on a crisp hotel bed in Switzerland, her England hoodie slightly rumpled, damp hair twisted into a lazy braid. You can hear the faint buzz of her teammates in the hallway beyond her door—laughs, the closing of a door, someone yelling for a charger.

“Hey, you,” she says, her voice softer than usual, her eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorise every part of it. “I’ve missed you.”

You smile, tired but genuine. “Missed you more.”

There’s a quiet beat, the kind you’ve both grown used to over the past few weeks—squeezed between training camps and work obligations and time zones. Then you ask, “How are you feeling?”

Alessia shrugs, but you can tell from the slight droop of her shoulders it’s not her usual pre-match energy. “I don’t know. Bit nervous, obviously. But mostly just… wishing you were here.”

You glance down for a second, guilt prickling at your chest. “I know. Me too. I wanted to be more than anything, Less. You know that. But with the client flying in early, the meetings stacked all weekend—I tried everything, but I just couldn’t move it.”

“I just—” She pauses, adjusting her phone slightly. “I know. I know it’s not your fault. It’s just… it’s the final. It’s kind of a big deal,” she adds quickly, gently. “And I’m not mad. Just sad, I guess. I really wanted you in the stands.”

You lean back against the cushions, voice steady despite the lump rising in your throat. “I get it. But please don’t let my absence take away from tomorrow. You’ve worked too hard for this moment to carry anything but pride into that stadium.”

She gives you a tired smile, eyes glassy. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”

“Only because I know how incredible you are.” You pause, then grin. “And because I’m the one who gets to say ‘that’s my girlfriend’ tomorrow while shouting at the telly like a lunatic.”

Alessia laughs, a real one this time, the sound soft and familiar. “Promise you’ll actually watch? Like, the full match?”

You gasp. “Are you kidding? I’m clearing the flat, stocking up on snacks, and wearing that jersey with your name on the back.”

She grins. “That’s the one.”

There’s a beat where you both just look at each other, and it’s quiet in that kind of intimate, stretched-out way that makes you feel like time has slowed down.

“Get some rest,” you say softly. “Big day tomorrow.”

Alessia nods. “I love you.”

You smile so hard it hurts. “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

Alessia doesn’t hang up right away. She just stays there for a moment, watching you through the screen, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“Hey,” she says, voice barely above a whisper now. “Can you… would you stay on with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

Your heart softens instantly. “Of course I can.”

“I know it’s stupid,” she says quickly, eyes darting down. “I’m just… a little in my head tonight. It helps hearing your voice. Just knowing you’re there.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” you say gently, settling more comfortably into the couch.

She smiles at that, a slow, sleepy sort of smile. “Okay. Good.”

You watch as she shifts beneath the covers, tucking her phone against the pillow beside her so that your face stays in frame. The hotel room lights are dim now, casting soft shadows over her features. She blinks slowly, lashes fluttering as she starts to unwind, the adrenaline from the day finally wearing off.

“Tell me something,” she murmurs.

“Like what?” you wonder, furrowing your brows.

“Doesn’t matter. Just your voice,” she shrugs tiredly.

So you talk. About the sun setting outside your window. About the fox you saw earlier darting across the street. About how the city feels different when you’re not in it together. You tell her that you bought extra snacks for tomorrow even though you’ll probably forget to eat anything because you’ll be too nervous for her.

She hums quietly here and there, eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

Eventually, her breathing slows. Her body stills. You watch her chest rise and fall, peaceful now, one hand curled slightly under her chin.

“I love you,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear it anymore.

But you don’t hang up.

Not yet.

You just sit there, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dim room, casting soft shadows across the walls. Outside, the city hushed. It feels like the whole world has paused.

You watch her—her face softened in sleep, brows unknotted now, tension gone. It hits you then, a sudden wave of something that makes your throat tighten.

She needed you. Not in a grand, dramatic way. But in the quiet, essential kind of way. The kind of need that builds in the small hours, when the world feels too big and the room feels too empty.

Your jaw clenches as you exhale through your nose. You glance at your phone on the coffee table. It’s almost midnight. You should be sleeping. You should be preparing for the meeting with the international client. You should be thinking about logistics and agendas.

But all you can think about is her.

You chew your lip, stare out at the street for a moment, then make a decision.

Swift. Certain.

You reach for your phone, careful not to drop the laptop from your knees. Your fingers hesitate just briefly over the contact name—Boss—before you press it.

He picks up groggily after two rings. “Everything okay?”

You steady your voice. “Yeah, sorry to call this late. I know we’ve got the meetings tomorrow, but I need to make a change.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Go on.”

“I’ll still handle them,” you say quickly. “But I’d like to move them up—early morning, if possible. I’ll be at home. Zoom should work fine. I just—” you hesitate for the first time, “—I need to be on a flight to Switzerland by the afternoon.”

Another beat of silence. Then: “Is this for Alessia?”

You smile, small but sure. “Yeah. She’s playing in the final tomorrow night. And she thinks I can’t be there.”

He exhales, but it’s not annoyed. “We’ll make it work. I’ll send a new calendar invite in the morning. Safe travels.”

“Thank you,” you say, more relieved than you expected.

When you hang up, you glance back at the laptop. Alessia is still fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, hair falling across her cheek.

You gently pick up your laptop and head into your bedroom. Placing your laptop down, you quickly spring into action.

Your suitcase—half unpacked from a work trip two weeks ago—is dragged out from under your bed. As you toss in essentials with one hand, you’re already navigating flight apps with the other, your phone screen casting a glow over your determined expression.

Your fingers move fast, jaw tight, eyes flicking between routes. London to Zurich. Zurich to Basel. No direct flights left this late—not surprising the night before the EURO final—but there’s a seat on a 12:25 p.m. flight that gets you into Zurich just past two. Enough time to make it to the stadium, if everything goes right.

You hesitate for half a second at the price—ridiculous, of course—but then scoff at yourself. What’s a few hundred more for the chance to watch Alessia?

You book it without thinking twice.

As the confirmation email pings through, you drop onto your bed and open your texts.

Tooney. Your thumbs hover for a second before you start typing.

[ you ] hey tooney, sorry it’s late — i’m flying out to surprise less. is there any way you can help me sort a ticket for the match? i’ll take anything. stand, staff list, taped to the goalpost — don’t care lol. totally understand if not, just thought i’d ask!

You send it, chewing your thumbnail nervously. It’s well past midnight, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Ella doesn’t respond until morning.

But a second later, the typing bubble appears.

[ ella ] YOU’RE COMING?!?! ok yes hang on i’ll speak to our media guy first thing — i’ll get you in even if i have to smuggle you in my boot bag! less has been in a MOOD all night, she’s gonna lose it when she sees you!!

You grin, heart thumping.

[ you ] you’re the best. thank you thank you thank you. i owe you a drink. or five. see you tomorrow <3

You toss your phone on your bedside table with a deep breath, your chest tight in the best way. There’s still packing to finish, and a cab to the airport to book, and barely four hours of sleep ahead of you, if that. But you’re going to see Alessia and that’s all that matters.

You’re up before your alarm. Not that you slept much anyway.

The sky outside your flat is still inky blue when you’re gulping down a quick coffee, hair tied up hastily, laptop balanced on your knees as you log into your early meetings. You’ve managed to move everything forward—just enough to squeeze everything in before your flight.

The first call starts at 6:45 a.m. sharp, your voice surprisingly steady despite the storm of adrenaline under your skin. You keep glancing at the time, barely focused on spreadsheets and projections, mentally already halfway to Switzerland.

By 8:15, you’re shutting your laptop with a snap and practically throwing it into your carry-on. A cab’s already waiting downstairs, and you slide into the back seat with a strange mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in your chest.

At Heathrow, the queue for security feels eternal, even though it moves fast. You fidget in line, glancing at your phone every few minutes—no missed messages from Alessia. She still has no clue.

The flight boards on time, and you manage to snag a window seat. The whole time, you stare out at the clouds and try to picture her: in team meetings, out on the pitch for the warm-up, maybe pacing her hotel room. She thinks you’re in London right now, probably just finishing work.

By the time the plane touches down in Zurich just after noon, your heart is racing.

Ella texts the second you land:

[ ella ] you here??? meet me by the side media gate at 4:30 x

i’ve got your wristband — don’t lose it or they’ll probably throw you in UEFA jail

You laugh out loud and text back.

[ you ] i’m coming. wrist ready.

You navigate your way onto the train toward Basel, the Swiss countryside flashing past in blurs of green and gold. It’s beautiful, but your mind is elsewhere—tracking every second, every train stop, every red light like it’s a countdown.

By the time you reach the stadium, it’s buzzing. England and Spain fans are everywhere—flags draped across shoulders, chants starting in waves. The atmosphere is electric.

And there, just outside the staff/media gate, is Ella—hood up, oversized England hoodie on, sunglasses perched on her nose like she’s trying to go incognito (poorly).

When she sees you, her face lights up. “Oi oi, look who actually did it!”

You rush to her, grinning, and she pulls you into a quick hug before handing over a lanyard with a neon wristband attached.

“Wristband gets you into the family and friends zone. She won’t see you until after the match unless you want her to.” She pauses, smirking. “You sure you don’t want to break her now and save her the emotional breakdown later?”

You shake your head, gripping the band tight. “I want her to think I didn’t come. I want to see her face when she sees me after. When it’s done.”

Ella whistles. “Cold-blooded. I respect it.”

Together, you walk through the side entrance, your heart thudding as you pass through security and step into the underbelly of the stadium.

You hear the buzz of the crowd above, distant shouts of fans filtering in through the open-air sections of the stadium. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

Ella walks beside you, hands in the pocket of her England hoodie, shoulders bouncing ever so slightly with pre-match energy. She’s clearly been trying to stay calm, but now that you’re inside, you can feel her heartbeat picking up in the silence between steps.

You glance sideways at her as you both head toward the designated family-and-friends zone near the lower tier.

“You alright?” you ask gently.

She snorts. “As alright as you can be before you play a European final in front of forty thousand people and live telly.”

You laugh with her, but your voice softens. “I meant… really. You okay?”

Her smile falters, just a little. She doesn’t answer right away.

You slow your pace, nudging your shoulder against hers lightly. “I know this is your first major tournament since your dad passed. I’ve been thinking about you. Just wanted to ask properly, not with cameras around or people yelling tactics over your head.”

She takes a breath. It’s a quiet one, but it catches in her chest.

“Yeah,” she says eventually, blinking ahead. “I’ve thought about him all day, to be honest.” You smile, gently. Her voice goes a little quieter, more reflective. “I was scared it’d feel empty without him here, y’know? Like… something big would be missing. But weirdly, I don’t feel alone. I feel like he’s with me tonight. Not in some floaty spiritual way, just… he’s part of this. Always will be.”

You reach over and squeeze her hand. “He’d be so proud of you, Ella. Not just for tonight. For everything.”

She nods, jaw tight, but her eyes are glassy. “Thanks. That means a lot. I haven’t really let myself talk about it today. Just trying to stay in game mode. But… it’s nice. To be asked. So thank you.”

“Always,” you say, voice low and sure. “You girls are going to smash it tonight.”

She clears her throat, smiling again now. “Well, let’s hope so. I’d hate to be responsible for you flying all this way and Alessia not scoring.”

You grin. “If she does, I’ll tell her it was all my doing. Lucky charm and all that.”

“Absolutely shameless,” Ella mutters, but she’s laughing again. “She’s going to cry, y’know. When she sees you.”

“That’s the plan,” you smile, chuckling softly.

You both reach the designated family & friends seating, wristbands scanned, and step out into the light—into the roar of the stadium. The view from pitch-side is surreal—so close you can see the blades of grass catching the stadium lights.

Ella stands beside you, taking it all in for a moment. Her jaw’s clenched, but her eyes are steady now—focused. Grounded.

“Well,” she says, straightening the hem of her hoodie. “Time to go pretend I’m not about to throw up.”

You laugh softly. “That’s the spirit.”

She turns to you, more serious now. “Thank you. For coming. This… this is going to mean the world to her.”

You nod, your throat thick with emotion. “I couldn’t not be here. Not for this.”

Ella smiles—small but warm—and then pulls you into a quick, tight hug. “Right. I’m off to the changing room. Gotta get my game head on.”

“Go make history,” you whisper as she jogs away, disappearing away surrounded by staff and the pulse of expectation.

You turn toward the stands, your wristband granting you access to the reserved family and friends section. An usher directs you to your seat, and you slide into the row just a few minutes before the official team lineups are due to be announced.

You sit low, pulling the collar of your jumper up slightly, heart pounding in your chest. The buzz of the crowd swells around you—flags waving, chants building, the floodlights gleaming brighter as dusk settles over the stadium.

A few moments pass and you’re scrolling through your phone when the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, and the stadium erupts.

A roar tears through the stands as the players begin to walk out, shoulder to shoulder, led by the referees. The teams emerge into the golden light spilling across the pitch.

And then you see her.

Alessia.

She’s in full kit, jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes locked ahead as she walks onto the pitch with her teammates. Her expression is all focus, that signature game-day intensity carved into every line of her face—but your chest tightens at how beautiful she looks, how ready she is. This is her moment.

You watch her step onto the grass, heart pounding louder than the crowd. The Spanish national anthem was played first then the English national anthem was played.

The players lined up, linking arms with one another and the entire stadium rose. You do too, though your eyes never leave her.

And then—

Right before the first verse begins, Alessia lifts her gaze.

She scans the crowd, just for a second, almost out of instinct. Like she’s searching for something she’s told herself she won’t find.

And she sees you.

Your eyes lock across the distance.

Her expression falters—just for a beat. Her mouth parts slightly, and her shoulders visibly jolt like she’s just had the wind knocked out of her. Her brows draw together in disbelief. You see the flicker of recognition give way to full-on shock.

Her lips move, barely, like she’s whispering, “What—?”

And suddenly her eyes are glassy, blinking rapidly as her gaze stays fixed on yours. She’s meant to be singing—so is everyone else—but you know in that moment, the anthem has faded into background noise for her. Her teammates are singing. The fans are roaring.

But Alessia is standing still, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, staring at you like you’re the only person in the stadium.

You lift your hand in a small wave, your eyes never leaving hers.

She swallows hard, biting down on her bottom lip like she’s physically holding back tears. Her hand tightens at her side, her jaw clenches, and then—just for a second—she smiles. Barely there. Just the corner of her mouth twitching in disbelief, in overwhelming emotion.

The anthem ends.

The crowd erupts.

And Alessia finally blinks and turns her head just enough to join her teammates, wiping the corner of her eye quickly with the back of her hand.

But you know she saw you.

The match begins at an unforgiving pace.

Spain took control early—relentless in possession, passing through the thirds with the ease of a side that had already beaten England once on a world stage. Every time England try to settle, Spain disrupt. The midfield feels crowded. You bite your lip, clutching the hem of your jumper as the clock ticks.

And then, in the 25th minute, your stomach drops.

A sharp cross from Ona Batlle slices into the box. Mariona Caldentey rises, perfectly timed, and buries it with a header into the far corner. 1–0 to Spain.

The Spanish fans erupt. You slump back, heart sinking.

England looked shaken. The rest of the half plays out with Spain commanding nearly all of the possession, pushing England deeper and deeper. Alessia barely gets a clean touch in those moments—tightly marked, frustrated. But every time the camera pans to her, you see the fire. She’s not done.

At halftime, you glance around. Ella’s family a few rows over. Sarina Wiegman pacing on the sideline. You wonder if Alessia’s thinking about you sitting here, if your presence is pushing her through the nerves.

And then the second half starts.

Something shifts.

England come out sharper, hungrier, pressing higher. You watch your girl find space again—barking instructions, dropping deep to link up, fighting for every 50/50 like her life depends on it.

And then it happens.

57th minute. Chloe Kelly bursts down the right and delivers a perfect, whipped cross into the box.

Alessia breaks free of her marker, times her run, and leaps.

Her header is thunderous—angled back across goal, catching the keeper off guard. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–1.

The crowd explodes. You do too—on your feet, hands over your mouth, eyes wide as Alessia shouts in celebration. She looks radiant—roaring with pride, teammates swarming her.

But just before they reach her, she glances toward the stand. A flick of her eyes.

She sees you again.

You know it.

The game stretches on. Tension builds. Spain threaten once or twice, but England hold their line. When 90 minutes end, it’s still level. 1–1.

Extra time. Nails bitten to the quick. You can hardly breathe.

And then, penalties.

It felt as though you held your breath the entire time. Chloe Kelly steps up and you don’t even blink.

She buries it.

England win. 3–1 on penalties. European Champions. Again.

The crowd was thunderous, a sea of flags and arms and tears. On the pitch, it was just as chaotic.

Amid the whirlwind of screams and camera flashes, you spotted Alessia — not running toward the touchline, not yet. She was beside Ella, who’d had her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with something far heavier than victory.

You watched from the family section as Alessia stood beside her, arm slung over her shoulders, forehead pressed to Ella’s temple as she spoke quietly — words you couldn’t hear, but could feel. You knew it had hit Ella hard. Her first major final without her dad. Even in joy, grief finds its place.

Alessia didn’t rush. She stayed with her for a while, anchoring her there with a kind of unspoken understanding only best friends share. When Ella finally composed herself, wiping her face, Alessia gave her a small nod and a tight hug before they both turned toward the stands.

And then Alessia spotted her family.

Her expression shifted—eyes wide, mouth stretching into a full, tearful grin. She broke into a sprint toward the family section, climbing the short barrier and immediately throwing her arms around her mum. The two of them held on like the world had narrowed down to just that moment. Her dad. Her brothers. Hugs, kisses, tears. Photos being taken. Laughter through sobs.

You watched it all quietly, a few steps behind.

You stayed back, deliberately—hands gripping the barrier, heart hammering. You knew how much her family meant to her. Knew that this moment, this connection, had to come first. She’d look for you when she was ready.

And she did.

Just as she pulled back from her brother, still breathless, eyes glassy with everything, her gaze swept the row — and stopped.

On you.

At first, she didn’t move.

Just stared.

You saw the exact second her brain caught up to what she was seeing. Her eyes filled again, this time with a different kind of disbelief. Her lips parted, one hand lifting slowly like she couldn’t trust the sight of you until she touched you herself.

You smiled softly, letting her have the moment.

Then, wordlessly, she stepped past the arms still reaching for her, and walked straight toward you — like the noise had vanished, like the stadium had gone still, like all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat and the memory of your voice.

You wrapped your arms around her waist, anchoring her there, letting her shake in your hold. You felt her whisper it more than you heard it.

“I missed you so much.”

“I’m here,” you say, holding the back of her head, fingers sliding gently into the braid she’d worn for the game. “I’m here, Less. You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, hands on either side of your face now, eyes scanning every inch like she didn’t quite trust it.

“I don’t know how you did it,” she said in a whisper, eyes closed. “But this… this made everything even better.”

“You made me proud,” you smile. “Every second of tonight. And now we’re going to celebrate properly. Champagne. Victory dance. The whole thing.”

She smiled, eyes still closed, nose brushing yours. “Just stay close. That’s all I want tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly.

And with that, in the middle of a crowded, roaring stadium, Alessia kissed you like the world had finally aligned — as a champion, yes, but more than that… as yours.

The stage had been built in record time, lights flashing, confetti cannons primed. Alessia stood shoulder to shoulder with her teammates on the podium, arms linked, cheeks still wet from tears. The medal around her neck gleamed under the stadium lights.

Leah Williamson raised it high and the crowd roared. Red and white confetti burst into the air, raining over the Lionesses as they jumped and screamed and clung to one another in pure, unfiltered joy. Alessia looked out into the stands, scanning instinctively for you even in the chaos, eyes bright with something fierce and gentle all at once.

Later that night, the city was quieter now, a hum outside the window — car horns, celebratory chants drifting up from the street below. The room smelled faintly of peppermint shampoo and hotel linen, but it was Alessia’s presence that filled the space, the adrenaline of the night slowly ebbing from her body.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath you. She stood across from you now, fresh out of the shower, your hoodie hanging off her frame — the kind that swallowed her, sleeves too long.

And you just… watched her.

Eyes full of awe. A small, dazed smile playing on your lips. Like seeing her in this quiet moment, barefoot and flushed with warmth, was somehow even more overwhelming than watching her lift the trophy hours earlier.

She caught you staring and let out a soft, bashful laugh, cheeks pink as she padded across the room.

“What?” she asks, voice scratchy from cheering.

You shook your head slowly. “You were incredible tonight.”

Alessia looked at you for a long moment, eyes soft, heart so full it almost hurt. And then she sank down beside you, resting her forehead against your shoulder with a hum of contentment.

“This is all I wanted after today,” she whispers. “You. This. Quiet.”

You kissed the top of her head, gently. “Then it’s all yours.”

And for the first time since the final whistle, she let herself breathe — not as Alessia Russo the goal scorer, the champion, the headline — but as the girl who was finally, completely, home.

Alessia stayed curled into you, warm and still slightly damp from her shower, her cheek pressed to your shoulder like it belonged there. You could feel her steady breathing slow even further, like your presence was finally letting the tension of the night melt away.

You couldn’t stop looking at her.

The shape of her nose. The slight flush still on her cheeks from adrenaline. Your thumb traced a slow line down her arm, memorising her again, even though you already knew her by heart.

“Stop staring at me,” she mumbles, voice muffled by your hoodie.

You grinned and leaned in close. “Can’t help it. You’re too pretty.”

That got a groggy laugh out of her, low and a little embarrassed. “You’re such a nightmare.”

“And yet,” you say softly, tilting her chin up with one finger, “you love me anyway.”

Her lips curved into the smallest smile, and before she could give some tired, teasing reply, you stole a kiss — soft and deliberate. Then another. And another. Quick, feather-light ones along her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

“Oi,” she murmurs, giggling now as she half-heartedly swatted at you. “You’re impossible.”

You laugh. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

“Mm,” she hums, leaning up to meet your mouth properly this time. The kiss lingered — slow and full of warmth, her fingers curling around your wrist like she couldn’t let go even if she wanted to.

You pulled her in closer by the waist, and she came easily, like her body had been waiting to slot into yours. Her thigh slid between yours, and her fingers threaded into your hair as your mouths moved together, breathing through soft laughter and groaned half-sentences.

“I should sleep,” she murmurs against your lips, but doesn't move.

“Mm,” you reply, kissing just under her ear. “So sleep.”

“Can’t. You’re making it impossible,” she grumbles.

You laugh softly and kiss her again, this time slower, deeper. All she wanted was you.

Her hands slid beneath your shirt again, fingertips skating across your ribs, and you sighed into her mouth, curling your hand into the hem of her hoodie in return. She tugged it up lazily, grinning when you shivered under her touch.

“Missed touching you,” she says, her voice low.

“I can tell,” you reply, a teasing lilt to your voice.

You kissed her again, and again. She rolled on top of you briefly, forehead pressed to yours, hips grazing just enough to make you gasp before she settled back beside you, smiling in that way that made you feel like the only person in the world.

Neither of you said much after that. You just kissed — slow, exploratory, indulgent in the way that only happens when the distance has been too much for too long. Every movement was a silent reassurance: I’m here. I missed you. I love you.

Eventually, Alessia let out a long, spent sigh and buried her face in your neck, nuzzling in like a sleepy cat.

Within minutes, her breathing evened out, body lax and completely curled around you, one hand tucked beneath your shirt, her leg thrown over yours. You reached out with your free hand and flicked off the bedside lamp, the room plunging into a hush of moonlight and soft shadows.

You lay there, wide awake for a moment longer, just watching her. Holding her.

And finally — finally — you let your eyes drift shut, heartbeat slowing to match hers.

[charlotteking27]

Red Hair, Fast Cars

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You are a redhead with curly hair dating Max Verstappen, but after the Netherlands GP, you are spotted at the redhead festival, and the fans go crazy.

Warning: none

Requested: yes, anonymous

The roar of engines at Zandvoort still echoed in your ears as you drove through the Dutch countryside. Your curly red hair caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the car window.

Max had won his home Grand Prix again, and the celebration had been amazing. Now you were ready for something completely different.

"Are you sure about this?" Max asked that morning, gently twisting one of your copper curls around his finger. "You know the cameras will be everywhere after yesterday's race."

You just smiled and kissed him goodbye. "It's been three years since I attended a proper redhead festival. I'm not missing Roodharigendag for anything—not even for the world champion."

Walking through the gates of Tilburg's Stadspark, you felt like you had entered another world. Hundreds of people with every shade of red hair imaginable filled the park—from strawberry blonde to deep auburn, straight hair to curls wilder than your own. For the first time in months, you didn’t stand out. You were just another redhead in a sea of beautiful, fiery locks.

You had been careful—sunglasses, a simple sundress, and your hair pulled back into a bun with curls escaping everywhere. But apparently, you weren’t careful enough.

"Oh my God, is that Max Verstappen's girlfriend?"

The whisper carried on the wind, and you felt that familiar flutter of recognition ripple through the crowd around you. You had been photographed enough times in the paddock that dedicated fans knew your face, especially with your distinctive hair.

"It is! She's here! At the redhead festival!"

Within minutes, your quiet afternoon celebrating natural red hair had turned into something else entirely. Phones appeared everywhere, and suddenly, you were at the center of attention among a crowd that was made up of redhead festival attendees and Formula 1 fans who had somehow appeared out of nowhere.

"Can we get a picture?" "Are you here with Max?" "Your hair is gorgeous!" "Is Max coming?"

The questions came from all directions, but what struck you most was how different this felt from the usual racing crowd attention.

Here, surrounded by a sea of redheads, many comments were about your natural curls, representation, and how cool it was to see someone like you dating a world champion.

"I love that you never straighten it for the cameras," said a teenage girl with bright red ringlets similar to yours. "My mum always says I should, but seeing you... I don’t want to anymore."

Your heart swelled as the young girl took inspiration from you. You hoped to help more redheads—those who needed someone to talk to or look up to—feel confident in themselves. You wanted to be the person you wished had been there for you when you were growing up.

You found yourself relaxing despite the growing crowd. These weren't just racing fans—they were your people, in a way. People who understood what it was like to have hair that couldn't be ignored, who probably faced the same comments and questions throughout their lives.

"Excuse me, everyone!" A familiar Dutch accent cut through the chatter, and the crowd parted as Max appeared, still wearing his Red Bull polo from earlier sponsor obligations. "I heard my favorite redhead was causing trouble without me."

The crowd erupted. Here was the Dutch racing hero at their local redhead festival, grinning as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"I thought you had meetings all afternoon," you whispered.

"Cancelled them," he murmured back, loud enough for nearby phones to catch. "Couldn’t let you have all the fun with your fellow redheads without me."

What followed was magical chaos. Max happily posed for pictures, signed autographs, and listened with genuine interest as festival organizers explained the history of redhead celebrations.

What made your heart swell were the moments watching him with the kids, especially the young redheads who seemed starstruck that someone who looked like them was dating their racing hero.

A young boy, no more than thirteen, shyly approached Max, holding a notebook and pen in one hand. Max greeted him with a smile. "Your hair is so cool," Max told the boy with bright orange curls. "Just like hers. You should never let anyone tell you to change it, okay?"

By the time you escaped the crowd, the sun was setting, and social media was buzzing. #RedheadFestival was trending, filled with pictures of you and Max surrounded by hundreds of redheads, your curly hair finally free from its bun and wild in the evening breeze.

"Well," Max said as you walked back to the car, his fingers intertwined with yours, "I think we just started something."

Your phone was buzzing nonstop with notifications. Twitter was going crazy:

@F1RedQueen: "STOP EVERYTHING. Max's girlfriend is at the REDHEAD FESTIVAL, and I'm crying; she's literally found her people."

@CurlyHairDontCare: "The way she's never hidden her natural curls and now she's celebrating at the redhead festival... WE LOVE A CONFIDENT QUEEN."

@DutchGPFan: "From Zandvoort to redhead festival in 24 hours, this girl really said 'watch me live my best life' and I RESPECT IT."

@GingerPride2025: "Seeing Max Verstappen's gf at Redhead Festival is the representation we needed. Natural curls in F1! RED HAIR SUPREMACY!"

Your best friend texted: "Girl, Twitter is going crazy. There's already fan art of you as the 'Redhead Racing Queen', and three different people have started Instagram accounts dedicated to your curls. Also, redhead festival attendance just tripled for next year."

You showed Max the message, and he laughed, the sound mixing with the distant music still playing in the park behind you.

"Think you can handle being the unofficial spokesperson for redheads in motorsport?" he asked, playfully tugging on one of your curls.

You grinned, standing on your toes to kiss him as someone in the distance shouted, "There they are!" A fresh wave of camera flashes began.

"I think I can manage," you said. "After all, someone has to represent the curly redheads in the paddock."

"Good," Max replied, pulling you closer as fans started approaching again, "because I have a feeling this is just the beginning."

As the crowd surrounded you both once more, filled with racing fans and redhead festival attendees alike, you couldn't help but smile even brighter. Looking around at all these young redheads taking selfies with newfound confidence, you realized you could finally turn the insecurity you had felt growing up into the representation they deserved.

Watching Max sign autographs while complimenting everyone's hair, you thought it might just be the best beginning you could have asked for.

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

the cure to his curse

sylus x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || drabble out of boredom that spiraled into a series while listening to linkin park's song - heavy || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is not smut || story masterlist : love and deepspace

next

ONE

It’s 3 AM in N109 Zone, the city’s usual hum a distant murmur as you stare at the glowing screens of Onychinus. Another late night, another stack of reports. A cold cup of forgotten coffee sat beside your keyboard. Your phone, usually a lifeline, was silent. You knew why. He was with her. Again.

The first time it truly hit you was during that emergency mission. A major spacetime anomaly, and of course, MC was at the heart of it. Sylus, his voice a low, focused rumble even over the comms, had been all about her safety, her well-being.

"MC's position is critical," he’d said, his eyes glued to the holographic map.

"I'll go."

And he went, leaving you to coordinate the sprawling chaos of Onychinus alone. You remembered the knot in your stomach then, a premonition of all the knots to come.

You found yourself humming, a quiet, almost morbid soundtrack to your unraveling.

He’d return, of course, always with a new anecdote about MC’s unique abilities, her latest near-miss. He’d look at you, a flicker of that familiar warmth in his eyes, but it was always fleeting, always overshadowed by the ghost of her presence.

"You're doing excellent work, as always," he'd say, almost as an afterthought, before disappearing into his lab to analyze data from her latest mission.

I don't like my mind right now. Stacking up problems that are so unnecessary. Wish that I could slow things down, I wanna let go but there’s comfort in the panic

You’d watch him, the way his brow furrowed in concern when MC’s name came up, the way his voice softened, just a fraction. He was so attentive to her, so protective.

And you?

You were the steadfast anchor, the one who held everything together while he soared.

You started noticing the changes in yourself. The vibrant energy you once possessed was draining away, replaced by a quiet weariness. Your eyes, once bright with ambition and affection, now held a perpetual sadness you couldn’t quite mask.

The dinners became a joke in your head. An internal, bitter laugh.

"Something came up," he'd text, always an hour or two after you’d meticulously prepared his favorite dishes, or dressed in something you hoped he’d notice.

"Emergency situation with MC. Next time."

There never was a 'next time' with him and you.

There was always a 'next time' for him and MC.

One evening, he caught you staring out the window of his lab, a faint, melancholic tune escaping your lips. You immediately turned, forcing a smile.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, his gaze surprisingly sharp, almost accusatory.

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "Just thinking. The city lights are pretty tonight."

He didn't press, but his eyes lingered. He noticed the way your shoulders slumped when you thought he wasn't looking, the way your laughter had become a little less genuine, a little more forced.

I'm holding on Why is everything so heavy? Holding on To so much more than I can carry

You were working so hard, not just for Onychinus, but for him. For the ghost of a relationship you desperately clung to.

"You seem… quieter these days," he remarked one afternoon, surprising you by actually stopping by your office. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing you with that intense, analytical gaze.

You busied yourself with a file, avoiding his eyes. "Just a lot on my plate, Sylus. Onychinus is always demanding."

"Is that all?" His voice was low, a hint of something unreadable in it.

You finally looked at him, your gaze unwavering despite the tremor in your heart. "What else would it be?"

You wanted to scream, to ask him, ‘Can't you see what you're doing to me?’ But the words caught in your throat, replaced by a dull ache.

It's not like I make the choice To let my mind stay so fucking messy

He sighed, pushing off the doorframe.

"You're always so dependable. I know I can always count on you to keep things running smoothly here."

It was a compliment, you knew, but it felt like a dismissal, a confirmation of your role as the silent, reliable support.

You watched him walk away, his mind already, you suspected, on the next mission, the next emergency involving MC. You were heavy, weighted down by unacknowledged feelings, by a love that felt unrequited.

You were holding on, but to what? A phantom limb of a relationship he refused to acknowledge, even as he leaned on you for everything.

He thought he was being close, prioritizing you for missions, helping you. But he wasn't.

He was prioritizing MC, and in doing so, he was slowly, meticulously, breaking you. And the heaviest part of all?

He had no idea. Or perhaps, he simply chose not to see.

[aryaryxoxo]

Class 1-A really wants to meet Katsuki’s mystery girl, and it happened in the most unexpected way possible! #katsuki bakugou x neighbor!reader

prev || next

Without a doubt, Class 1-A really wants to meet this mystery girl that Kaminari, Kirishima, and Sero claim they saw. And it’s painfully obvious—because every single day after that, they (very unsubtly) spy on Katsuki. Peeking through doorways, lurking around corners, and randomly popping into conversations just to fish for hints.

They even resorted to interrogating Midoriya for clues, but he shut his mouth tight—too terrified to slip up. He knew all too well what Kacchan might do if he said a word too much. So, with no answers and zero subtlety, the rest of the class went back to their (very obvious) spying.

Unfortunately,  if their future missions involved stealth, they’d fail miserably—because Katsuki noticed immediately. Annoyed, he switched up his entire routine just to throw them off. Not because he cared that much—he just found it incredibly annoying.

“Those extras don’t have anything better to do?!” he snapped, slouched beside you on the bus, arms crossed and eyes narrowed out the window.

You just chuckled, unbothered, as you started digging through your bag. “I think it’s pretty normal for them to be curious,” you said casually. “After all, you are Katsuki Bakugou. I bet they just wanna know you better.”

You paused mid-rummage, frowning slightly.

“…Hold on,” you muttered, “my headphones are probably swimming at the bottom of this thing.”

A moment later, you triumphantly pulled out your wired earphones, a little tangled and battle-worn. With a soft grin, you held one of the buds out to him.

“Wanna drown them out with me?”

He scoffed, like it was a stupid offer—but he took the earbud anyway.

Didn’t give it back, either.

The music was good, the scenery on your way home was soft and golden through the bus windows, and the temperature inside was the perfect kind of chill—the kind that made you subconsciously scoot closer to Bakugou. The warmth radiating from his side was comforting, and with everything so calm, your eyelids began to feel heavier.

Bakugou, who’s been by your side your whole life, barely reacted. He just let out a quiet breath, then wordlessly raised a hand to gently guide your head to rest against his shoulder.

You didn’t resist. In fact, the moment your cheek touched him, your body relaxed completely.

Within seconds, you were fast asleep.

The ride was peaceful, the bus humming softly as it rolled along, casually stopping at yet another station. Bakugou kept still, your head resting on his shoulder, the shared earphones still playing quietly between you.

He told himself he wasn’t going to look. 

But he did.

Just a quick glance.

And then another.

You looked so warm, so unguarded—completely at ease beside him. Like you knew, without a doubt, that you were safe with him. The thought made Katsuki’s heart stumble in his chest. Just a little.

He pried his gaze away from you, glancing absentmindedly at the bus stop outside—where a small crowd had gathered near the bench.

What the actual fuck.

What met him was the entire Class 1-A… staring straight at him.

Kirishima looked way too pleased with himself, beaming like this was the proudest moment of his life. Kaminari was pointing directly at you, whisper-shouting something that was definitely not subtle. Sero was mouthing “I told you!” to Mina, who already had her phone out, camera app open and ready. Midoriya wasn’t even trying to get involved—he turned away immediately, eyes wide, clearly refusing to meet Katsuki’s gaze. Todoroki looked genuinely confused, as if he’d missed the memo entirely. And the rest? A chorus of shocked expressions ranging from slack-jawed disbelief to barely contained grins.

They didn’t expect to actually see you—after all, Katsuki had been acting like a half-feral guard dog about it all. A somewhat domesticated animal, sure, but still one that would absolutely bite if provoked.

And now here you were, asleep on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes at the crowd outside as the bus pulled away.

Dead. They were all dead.

taglist: @magicalrainbowfish @vnstennis @g-cf2020 @kitwantsseconds @eliankm @xxchaosjojoxx @notellaxx @lipstainedgemini @kerelkim @kitwantsseconds @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @d4wnyjlk @ettesxythia @badslittlemuffin @darklyinfiniteskull @yougottobekittenme @vnstennis

Ary’s Note: School has officially started (╥﹏╥) but don’t worry—I’ll still sneak in some fics for y’all when I can! Hehe~ This one was inspired by a real-life moment: I saw my friend sitting next to the girl he swears he doesn’t like (◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜) Suspicious, right? 👀 Anyway, I’ve been getting so much inspiration from school lately, so expect more fun, chaotic little moments to show up in my stories soon! (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝) Thank you for patiently waiting for part 3!

[angeastrd]

. . . late night calls .ᐟ

natasha romanoff x fem! reader. fluff!

after a hard mission, all she wants to do is talk to her girlfriend

“Did I wake you up?” The hoarse voice of Natasha Romanoff is the first thing you hear in your bleary haze, as you blink, willing yourself to wake up. You stare at the unknown number on your screen – burner phone. She wasn’t supposed to communicate with you during missions.

“. . . Huh?” you mumble. Your eyes glance over to the clock; 2:14 A.M. glares back at you, as you focus back on the voice crackling through your phone. You shake your head, before seeming to remember that she can’t see you on the other side of the line. “No,” you correct, perhaps a little too delayed. “You didn’t wake me. Been up. For a while,” you lie. She snorts. She still didn’t understand why you tried to lie to her– she was a professional spy, for god's sake. She was always going to know. Still you liked to try. 

She doesn’t comment, instead admitting, “I needed to hear your voice.” She pauses. Was that too vulnerable? Sometimes Natasha worries that you may be in love with the Black Widow the world sees, and not the broken-down, morally gray Natasha Romanoff. She was a fragmented soul, and she dreaded the day that you would gain clarity of that and take your leave. Being with an Avenger already wasn’t easy work – hell, the title had at least a decade of trauma attached to it. It probably was in the contract. Being with the Black Widow? That was more trouble than she was worth.

“I missed you too,” you responded simply, and she was thankful that you were able to read in between the lines of what she was not brave enough to say. “I’m sorry for waking you up,” she starts, and before you can reassure her, she continues, words flowing now that she had begun, “I had to exterminate a target today. He was a HYDRA agent. He had a picture of his kids in his wallet,” she confesses, voice cracking as she tries to recompose herself. “You probably think I’m being ridiculous. Having more empathy for this random man than he had for everything I stand in,” she mutters. 

“I don’t think you’re ridiculous, Natasha. I’ve never thought that,” and you can picture the way her shoulders relax at your words. She had always worried that her flaws were too varied – and her strengths too lacking. “I think you’re incredibly strong, especially to feel so much empathy over someone who was not on your side. I love you,” you tack on, almost like a reminder that she's allowed to feel with you – she’s allowed to admit things and be vulnerable and it's okay. 

She clears her throat, and your heart aches for her. Long distance truly never got easier, but absence did make the heart fonder. “When do you come home?” you offer. Natashas' window of vulnerability had closed by now. But every time, that window got a little longer (for you. The S.H.I.E.L.D. appointed therapist still didn’t even have a window). 

She hums at that, and you can hear ruffling on the other line – she liked to talk to you before bed. It was her version of long distance pillowtalk. “Should be home tomorrow night.” she answers, as a yawn escapes your lips. “You’re tired,” she notes, and there's a hint of apology in her words. 

“‘M not even tired,” you mutter in protest, “I have never yawned in my life. Swear,” you grouse, and she lets out a soft laugh at your words. Your lips curve up at that. You always liked being able to make her laugh; she didn’t laugh unless it was genuinely funny. She laughed with you quite a lot.

“You’re a liar,” she chides. “And you snore. I miss your snoring,” she admits.

“That's gay,” you mumble, head lolling against the pillow. 

“So was the phone sex we had last night?” she counters, and you both delve into giggles. Even though the two of you were apart, you can tell that she muffled her laughs in her pillow – just like you did. 

“Shut up. I need to go to bed,” you mutter, trying to change the topic. You would probably never get used to how easy it was to talk to her. “Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up”

“Needy. Have I ever hung up on you?” she asks, the indulgence in her voice ridiculously evident. “One time your phone died,” you retort, before letting out a big yawn. “Tell me about the rest of your day” Mid-way through her story, she hears a soft snore crackle through the line. “Are you asleep right now?” 

“. . .” 

If you were awake, you’d be able to visualize the fond look on her face. “Goodnight. I love you. Sleep well,” she whispers. 

[ccupcakqs]

— jet lag & juice boxes ౨ৎ✧˚

warnings: pure fluff, a kiss, sleepy alex, light swearing pairing: alex albon x female reader a/n: i love tired boyfriends who just want juice and forehead kisses :)

you check the time again. it’s nearing midnight, and the arrivals board finally blinks to life: flight landed.

the car is warm, engine idling softly, your playlist humming low through the speakers. you’ve been parked here for almost forty minutes — early, on purpose. alex’s texts had been sporadic since he left japan. spotty wifi, exhaustion, time zones that didn’t line up with your own. still, you knew the drill. race week was chaos. you didn’t mind waiting. you’d rather be early for him than late for anyone else.

the backseat is lined with little comforts: his favorite sour gummies, a neatly folded hoodie he left behind last time, and a juice box — grape, the only flavor he insists is “actually elite.” you’d laughed while grabbing it at the gas station earlier, imagining the look on his face.

outside the windows, the airport looks quiet and damp. puddles reflect the yellow-orange glow of the streetlights. you chew on your thumbnail, nerves fluttering even though there’s no real reason to be nervous. he’s just been gone two weeks. not even that long. but the missing always stretches time out like elastic. it makes everything feel further than it is.

when your phone buzzes, your heart jumps.

alex 🤍 just off the plane. you here?

you smile, thumbs already flying.

you row c, under the covered pickup. look for the world’s sexiest civic.

he replies with a single laugh emoji. your smile grows.

minutes later, you see him.

he’s dragging his carry-on like a man twice his age, backpack slung one-shoulder, baseball cap shoved backwards over messy hair. he’s in joggers and the team hoodie you’ve stolen more times than you can count. he looks like the inside of a sunday morning. like comfort. like home.

he doesn’t see you at first. his eyes scan the row of cars, squinting through the low mist. then you wave — a quick, ridiculous little jazz-hand thing out the window — and his entire face changes.

he lights up like the sun cracking through cloud cover.

you jump out of the car as he nears, rushing around the front bumper just as he drops his suitcase. he opens his arms without a word and you go right into them, arms around his waist, head tucked against his chest. he smells like recycled plane air and something faintly citrus, probably the shitty in-flight hand wipe.

"you’re real," he mumbles into your hair.

you laugh, squeezing him tighter. “barely. you look like a zombie.”

“i feel like a zombie.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still low on your back. “but, like, one that would only eat you. for emotional nourishment.”

“mm, romantic. truly.”

he leans down, forehead pressing to yours. “hi.”

“hi.”

you stay like that for a moment, the kind of quiet that fills you instead of empties you.

then you remember what you’ve stashed in the backseat.

“come on, race boy,” you say, slipping from his arms and reaching for the back door. “i brought you something.”

he squints suspiciously but follows, kicking his suitcase closer to the trunk. “if it’s another protein bar disguised as chocolate, i swear—”

“behold.” you flourish the juice box like it’s sacred.

alex stares. then blinks. then grins, slow and wide and genuine. “you’re kidding.”

“grape,” you confirm. “imported all the way from... the BP on smith street.”

he takes it reverently, like it’s a trophy. “you really do love me.”

you roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm. “you said it helps with jet lag.”

“and my soul,” he adds, sticking the straw in with the confidence of someone who’s done it a thousand times before. he takes a sip and sighs dramatically. “god. that’s the good stuff.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“you’re perfect.”

the words slip out so easily it makes your chest ache. he says it like it’s a fact, like it’s always been true.

you duck your head, smiling. “get in the car, albon.”

he climbs in, still sipping his juice, and you start the drive home with soft music playing and his hand finding yours across the center console.

the world outside is quiet. but inside this little car — grape juice, sleepy smiles, your fingers intertwined — everything is full of light.

the rain has started up again, soft and rhythmic on the windshield, casting slow-moving shadows across the dash. alex is half-asleep in the passenger seat, hood pulled up now, mouth slightly parted, straw of the juice box still sticking out like a cartoon.

your hand rests in his lap — not doing much, just there. his fingers play with yours absently every so often, like he’s checking if you’re real.

“you didn’t have to wait that long,” he murmurs suddenly, voice raspy and low.

you glance at him, smile soft. “i wanted to.”

he hums. “your texts felt like... landing lights.”

you pretend not to melt at that. “okay, poet laureate.”

“i’m serious.” he leans his head back, looking at you sideways. “everyone else was asleep or busy. but you were there. always.”

your heart does this gentle stutter. like it’s catching up to something it already knew.

“always,” you echo.

the car is warm. the hum of the freeway, the rain, the low sound of your playlist curling through the speakers — it all swirls into something that feels domestic. like this is a moment pulled from some future where you do this all the time.

you glance over at him again. he’s watching you, eyes soft, tired. the kind of tired that makes everything quiet inside.

“you look good,” he says quietly. “like... annoyingly good. considering i feel like a bootleg corpse.”

you snort. “a sexy corpse, though.”

“mmm. i should crash in your bed and never leave it.”

“that was already the plan.”

he grins, all sleepy teeth and slouch. “god, i missed you.”

your hands find each other again.

you’re pulling into your apartment building’s garage now, headlights sweeping across concrete pillars and faded yellow lines. as you park, alex sits up a little straighter, blinking away the daze.

“home sweet home,” you say, turning off the ignition.

but he doesn’t move to get out.

instead, he reaches over, cups your jaw gently, and says, “wait.”

you still.

he leans in, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek. his eyes are so close. so full of affection it makes your throat tighten.

“you really brought me a juice box,” he murmurs, smiling like it’s the most tender thing in the world.

“and a hoodie,” you whisper.

“and gummies.”

“and a playlist titled alex jetlag boy.”

he laughs under his breath. “you spoil me.”

then he kisses you.

it’s soft. not rushed. not deep. just lips against lips in the still dark of the car, the rain still pattering gently overhead. it tastes like grape and tiredness and something golden behind your ribs.

when he pulls back, his eyes stay closed for a moment longer.

“best welcome home ever,” he whispers.

you bump your nose against his. “and there’s leftover pad thai in the fridge.”

he groans. “marry me immediately.”

you grin. “carry your suitcase first.”

he kisses you again, quick and laughing.

“fine. but only because you bribed me with food.”

he opens the door, grabbing his bag. you step out too, the concrete cool under your shoes, and for a brief second — under flickering garage lights and the scent of rain and petrol — he looks at you like you hung the stars just to guide him home.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

[doitbuckley]

36, 37, or 41 for the setting prompts ☺️

for the setting prompt 036, a long, winding road (8x12 coda)

“Someone peed.”

There’s silence for one unbearable second, and then Buck’s voice crackles over the line, muffled and thready but there. Always there. Thank God, Eddie thinks. “Huh?”

Buck is usually the one in charge of saying something off-the-cuff when he picks up the phone. And then Eddie will say Hi, Buck, and Buck will say Hi, Eddie and get back to whatever it is he needed to say, unperturbed. “Someone peed in my backseat,” Eddie sighs, rolling his window back up so he can hear better. They have to be down, usually, when he’s by himself. The whipping of the wind manages to loosen some sort of invisible noose cuffed around his neck, whatever’s been making him feel suffocated and hollowed out. Eddie’s alright with being trapped for now, stuck inside of the familiar four walls of Buck’s voice. “My last rider today. He was really drunk.”

“Oh,” Buck coughs out, like he’s holding back a laugh maybe for Eddie’s sake, but it doesn’t really work. Something similar to relief skitters down Eddie’s spine, settling down near his tailbone. “That’s, uh, geez.” He clears his throat, swallowing down the rest of his laugh. Eddie can imagine the twist of his mouth, a peek of pearly white coming out to bite down on his bottom lip. “How even–did he just like, whip it out or something–”

“You don’t wanna know the specifics,” Eddie interrupts before Buck can let his imagination run wild, a shiver running through him at the not distant enough memory. “I had to perform black magic to get the fuckin’ smell out.”

Eddie turns right, the road long and winding before him, seemingly endless. If he had to choose one thing to miss about El Paso, maybe it’d be the sunsets. They were always so orange, almost angry in their vibrancy, setting alight all the buildings and the roads and the yuccas. “Sorry,” Buck says, and he has the audacity to sound genuine. “If I were your passenger, I’d at least have the decency to not do it on your seats.” 

“Ah,” Eddie says, cranking up the shitty AC that doesn’t blow nearly hard enough, undoing the top button of his shirt. The driver’s seat will probably don a permanent sweat stain in the shape of his body soon. “‘Preciate it, bud.”

There’s the scrape of a chair against wood on the other end, an exasperated groan. 

“Old man knees,” Eddie says.

“Fuck off,” Buck huffs, but there’s no trace of heat behind it. “One to talk, I can hear your bones when you sit down.” There’s some shuffling, a puff of breath. “I could,” Buck corrects himself softly, almost like Eddie’s not supposed to hear it.

Eddie swallows, dryness creeping up his throat in one fell swoop. The road keeps winding, the sky darkens to something more burnt and final, contrails making pretty patterns in it. “Hey,” Eddie speaks up after a beat. “Chris hugged me today.”

“That–” There’s a pause, and then the shuffling stops. “Shit, Eddie, that’s great.”

He sounds so pleased about it that Eddie can’t help but smile to himself, rubbing over an aching spot in his chest, tender like a damp spot of soil.

“Mhm. Thanks for, uh, getting me out of my head.”

“No biggie,” Buck says, and Eddie can picture the boyish up-down flop of his shoulders as he shrugs, his no big deal, just doing what I do shrug. He’s probably ducking his head too, though, blinking and looking off to the side like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

Eddie shakes his head even though Buck can’t see him. “Yes biggie. I know it’s not all fixed, but. You really helped a lot, Buck.”

Silence, then clinking. He must’ve sat down for coffee, probably his second of the day. It’s early enough in LA for it. Something constricts inside of Eddie’s chest then, like a big old iron fist clenching at the cage of his ribs. “Okay,” Buck acquiesces, so gentle Eddie barely hears it. “What are you doing? Anymore rides for today?”

“No,” Eddie says. “I’m driving over to Red Sands.”

“Red Sands?”

“I guess it doesn’t technically exist, it’s not regulated. It’s sort of what people call that giant desert area in the East—you know Hueco Tanks?”

“Of course.”

Yeah, Buck probably knows about every state park in existence. it just seems like something he’d be into. “Yeah, it’s not too far from there.”

The East side off of Montana Ave, Eddie remembers. He and Shannon used to drive out around Hueco Tanks in his beat up truck to get away from the city, park it, watch the sky. Maybe fuck on the truck bed under a blanket if it was dark enough, but that was neither here nor there. He’d look up and he wouldn’t feel so trapped for once, those precious minutes of stillness and quiet, the sky endless and all-encompassing. He didn’t know shit about constellations, so he’d make stuff up just so Shannon would laugh and bury her cold nose into his neck. 

“Why’re you going there?”

“See the stars,” Eddie says. The sun continues to retreat farther, hiding itself away, and everything blazes red.

“Oh,” Buck says kind of wistfully. “Feeling sentimental?”

“Something like that.”

Eddie used to hate the sand. The desert, it just stretched on for miles and miles, that boring, ugly sand. He doesn’t really mind it now.

“Looks just the same,” Eddie says as he slows down on the road. Red-orange sand, dunes, small hills, sagebrush and yucca. There’s a couple of people zipping over the sand. “White guys love to come out here and ride their ATVs.”

Buck snorts. “I bet they do.”

Eddie wishes, with a sudden blinding ferocity, that Buck were there with him. He could picture it, even, Buck riding one of those eyesores over the blazing red sand dunes, the mostly reformed adrenaline junkie that he is. 

“Wait,” Buck says suddenly. Eddie can hear him set down his mug. “Let me tell you what to look out for in the sky.”

That aching feeling intensifies tenfold, unrelenting. No matter how hard Eddie rubs at his chest, he can't work out the knot.

“Hm. Oh! You should be able to see Jupiter with your naked eye tonight. Mars, too.”

“Got it,” Eddie says, digging his knuckles into his ribcage. It hurts something fierce, but he keeps nudging. “I definitely know what those look like.”

“You can’t miss ‘em,” Buck insists. “You’ll know them when you see them. Trust me.”

Well, Eddie has never had any reason not to. “Sure,” Eddie says. “Yeah, just call me Galileo.”

Buck huffs and then laughs in that way he does that calls Eddie lame without actually saying it. “Man,” Buck says suddenly, forcefully, like it’s bursting out of him. “I really love you.”

Eddie swallows, the ache spreading down to his stomach, stale water trickling from a leaky ceiling. “Hm?” he asks, even though he heard Buck loud and clear.

“I didn’t.” There’s silence. “Mean to, uh.”

Eddie blinks at his steering wheel. “So you don’t love me?”

“No! Uh, yes? Uh, no, I just meant. That.” Eddie wishes he could see whatever face Buck is undoubtedly pulling right now. “That felt weird.”

Eddie doesn’t want to think about why he doesn’t like that. “Why?”

“Maybe, I-I don’t know, because. We don’t really. Say it, I don’t know.”

“Friends love each other,” Eddie says, and it doesn’t feel quite right.

There’s more silence. Eddie feels wrong-footed all of a sudden, cold sweat on his brow. Man, I really love you. Of course Buck loves him, that’s—of course he does. Eddie already knew that. Of course. But it hits him then, like a horse kick to the chest, how they don’t really say it. They just do it.

Man, I really love you, it knocks him right upside the head.

“Yeah,” Buck says after what feels like an eternity times two. He sounds muffled and far away again, and Eddie wants to tell him to speak directly into the microphone, maybe get him to say it again with even more certainty and veracity, but that’d be asking too much. “Yeah, they do.”

The desert stretches on for miles. The wind whips. The ATVs sparkle under the last dying rays of sun. Man, I really love you.

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows, keeps rubbing at his chest that must be caving in. “I love you too,” Eddie says, and it feels too raw. “For the record.” 

Buck laughs, more of an exhale of air than anything else. “Yeah. Yeah, good to know.”

Eddie is able to see Jupiter that night. Mars, too.

[hanniebaeee]

All of you

Chris Bang x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of period.

Genre: established relationship, fluff

Summary: You and Chris are going on a weekend getaway, and you were so excited. Until an expected twist has you completely thrown, and Chris is the most sweetest boyfriend ever.

a/n: Very short, but I needed comfort (also Channie's big hug) 😭

The pout on your face says it all. It gives a very good picture about how you're feeling at the moment - absolutely miffed. 

This is supposed to be the perfect weekend getaway. The two of you had planned so meticulously for it. A cozy cabin in the mountains, no phones, no friends - just you and Chris. And lots of sex in front of that beautiful fireplace you'd been obsessing over since the minute you saw it on the website. 

But no. Your uterus decided to pull a fast one, surprising you with your period a week early. A WEEK. Classic.

Chris is currently inside a convenience store, buying you something to eat since you've been crabby all morning, especially so because you weren't prepared for this disaster. 

When he comes out of the store after a few minutes, he’s got your food in one hand and - oh god, you scream in your head - is that a pack of pads he’s casually tossing in the other? 

He slides into the driver’s seat, hands you the food, and chucks the pack of pads casually into the backseat. 

“Why are you pouting?” he asks, his voice tinged with genuine confusion. “Cramps?”

 “Why am I pouting?! Chris, why are YOU not pouting?!”

“Uh, why would I?” he replies, pulling back onto the highway.

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, and he sighs.

“Babe, you needed pads. I got pads. Problem solved. What’s the big deal?” He glances at you before focusing back on the road.

You cross your arms and glare out the window, refusing to dignify that with a response.

“Baby.” He says, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Why are you so stressed about this? We're taking this break so you can relax? And you've done nothing but stress over it.”

“I’m not stressed!” you snap, even though you’re very obviously stressed. “I’m sad, okay? My period came early, and now the weekend’s ruined. We had so much planned -” You cut yourself off, cheeks flaming as your brain conjures images of everything you’d really been looking forward to.

Chris doesn’t miss it though. He grins, wide and wolfish as he says, “Ruined? And when has your period ever stopped us from having fun?”

“Chris!” Your jaw drops. "We have never!”

“What?” He smirks, eyes still on the road but so clearly enjoying your flustered state. “There's a first time for everything. You think I care? Babe, we’re going away to relax, yeah? So relax. We’ll have fun, period or not.”

You press your lips together, fully aware that you have nothing to say because, as much as you hate to admit it, he’s not wrong. This man has seen you at your most unfiltered, unhinged, and, yes, all the icky phases. He obviously doesn’t care about a little blood. 

“Besides,” he continues, voice dropping to that husky, teasing tone, “you’re acting like I planned this trip just for the sex. Which, for the record, I didn’t. I also booked it because I want to watch you beat me at Monopoly and make fun of my attempts at cooking.”

“Your cooking is pretty tragic,” you mumble, unable to keep the smile off your face.

“There she is.” He grins, sliding his hand onto your thigh, his thumb rubbing gentle circles just above your knee. “See? You’re smiling already. And don’t worry - I’ve got chocolate and snacks all ready, in case you need it.”

You turn to him with a lovesick face. “You bought me chocolate too?”

“Of course I did,” he says, giving you a wink. “What kind of boyfriend do you think I am?”

The cabin is straight out of a Pinterest board - wooden beams, floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the foggy woods, and a fireplace that is literally begging you to curl up in front of it. It should’ve been perfect. But instead of basking in the cozy vibes, you flop face-first onto the fluffy couch, still feeling the faint weight of disappointment.

The kind who drives you absolutely insane, you think. But also, the kind who makes you feel like the luckiest girl alive.

Chris walks in, lugging your bags with one hand and a grocery bag in the other. He shuts the door with his foot and glances over at you, eyebrows quirking at your dramatic sprawl.

“Babe, you good?” he asks, dropping the bags and peeling off his jacket. His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a note of concern in his eyes as he crouches down next to you.

You groan into the pillow. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he says, placing a hand on your back and rubbing soothing circles. “You’re still hung up on this, huh?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “Chris, you don’t get it…uh, nevermind” You trail off, sighing dramatically.

Chris just grins.

“Oh, I know. My poor baby.” He leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “But I'm here, yeah? Gonna take good care of you.”

You roll onto your back, fixing him with a look.

“Okay.” You say, rolling onto your back and giving him a tiny smile.

He laughs, and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“No more pouting, and sighing. Just let me do my thing, okay? You know I’m not here for just the easy stuff. I’m here for all of it.”

Your chest tightens at his words, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. God, why does he have to be so… him?

“But -”

“Nope.” He cuts you off, pressing his finger to your lips. “No buts. You’re not gonna miss out on anything. I’ll make sure of it.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “What does that mean?”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss you, soft and slow. And when he pulls back, his voice drops an octave, dripping with promise.

“Means you should stop overthinking and let me take care of you.”

And that’s exactly what he does. He starts by bringing you your hot water bag, lighting the fireplace and pulling you into his lap, wrapping you in a blanket and feeding you bites of the chocolate. Then he cranks it up with a massage that has you melting into his hands, tension forgotten.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

By the time the sun sets, you’re fully convinced: this weekend isn’t ruined. In fact, it might just be better than you’d ever imagined.

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120

[inkpetrichor]

Something Like Home | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

paring. timeskip! kuroo x f! reader cw. long oneshot. exes. second chance. use of yn. drinking. cursing. nekoma being menaces (and matchmakers). a little angsty. lemme know if i missed anything<3 tldr. after years of studying abroad, you return to japan—older, wiser, and absolutely, definitely over your high school ex. probably. to celebrate, your old friend group plans a beach trip. sun, sea, and long-overdue rest. the only problem? he'll be there too. the boy you once called home. the one you let go over a phone call full of sobs and I love yous. the one you never really stopped thinking about. you tell yourself the past is behind you. that you're fine. that your heart won't betray you the second you see him again. but what if his never stopped beating for you either? wc. 7.6k an. written for @nekomasmngr for the summer fic exchange! i really hope you like it<3 i had a lot of fun writing it. i was afraid at first but then i ended up with so many words i'm so sorry. i blame blink 182 and insomnia for this.

Don't waste your time on me, you're already The voice inside my head (I miss you, miss you)

Your leg bounced nervously in the back seat as the smell of salt and summer drifted in through the open car windows. Akane howled with her head halfway out like a dog on the loose, the embodiment of someone who'd earned her break after crushing her finals.

"OKINAWA BABYYYYY!" she screamed into the wind.

"Okinawa babyyyy!" Lev echoed, his head joining hers outside.

"Levochka! Don't stick your head out like that—it's dangerous!" Alisa scolded from behind the wheel. But her smile betrayed the affection behind her tone.

She sighed contentedly, running a hand through her hair while the other stayed steady on the wheel.

"Okinawa, baby."

Everyone needed this.

You needed this.

Cause' it had only been two months since you returned to Japan after years of studying abroad, and your job—though related to your field and something you genuinely loved—was already killing you in that special way only Japanese work culture could.

With all of that, coordinating a time-off vacation with twelve other people who all had jobs, college, and life in general?

A nightmare. True nightmare. You felt so bad for whoever had to.

(It was Alisa, It was always Alisa.)

But some things aren't about convenience. These vacations were a need.

Everyone needed this.

You needed this.

And yet—there was a part of you that wanted to open the car door, tuck and roll onto the asphalt, and maybe break a bone or two just to escape the weight slowly pressing down on your chest.

"Y/N. You okay back there?"

Alisa's gentle voice pulled your gaze from the endless stretch of sea beyond the cliffs. You met her eyes in the rearview mirror as she rolled up her window to hear you better.

"I… I'm fine," you muttered.

"She's nervous to see him again," Akane purred, poking your cheek with a manicured finger.

You didn't answer. You didn't need to.

"Who? Kuroo-san?" Lev asked, chewing through a konbini sandwich like the flight to Okinawa never fed him.

He tilted his head and studied your face, which was glued to your thighs, and offered you an onigiri like a consolation prize and an emotional life raft.

"Well, he is too," he mentioned, gently. "Apparently, he was gonna back out of the trip with some 'I've got too much work' excuse—until Kenma told him you were coming."

Your head snapped up. Lev grinned at your wide eyes like a proud matchmaker and gently pushed the onigiri toward you. You took it from him with a quiet thank you.

"Aaand apparently he paced so much while packing at Kenma's place he nearly wore a hole in the floor."

"What are your sources, Haiba?" Akane asked, skeptical.

"The boys' group chat! Super reliable."

"Men aren't reliable," she fired back.

"Is that... really true?"

Your voice was small. Softer than you meant it to be. But the bickering stopped between them on its tracks.

Akane and Lev both blinked at you, as if surprised to hear you speak at all. That silence made you fidget again, eyes quickly flicking away, out the window, out into the sea again, where your sanctuary was.

"Not that I care," you added quickly. "It's been years. I'm over it. I really am."

Akane leaned back in her seat, slow and wordless. Lev mirrored her. They watched you for a beat or two, probably wondering if they should believe you.

You didn't notice the soft, knowing smile pulling at Alisa's lips as she turned back to the road.

It wasn't like you and Kuroo had ended things on bad terms. If anything, that was what made it worse.

You'd been together all through high school. Three full years of being each other's person. The couple everyone looked at and whispered 'endgame'.

Late-night calls even on school nights. Matching phone charms. Forehead kisses at train stations. The kind of love that makes you feel like the future is something you can hold in your hands.

Everyone thought that by the time you came back from your studies, you and Kuroo would be planning your wedding. Moving in. Settling down.

You thought so, too.

You'd tried the long-distance thing. And for a while, it worked.

You stayed up through time zones, made promises, sent photos. But school got harder. He got busier.

Eventually, the daily texts faded into silence. Missed calls. Exhausted apologies. Into 'Sorry, I've got a test tomorrow' texts or 'I might crash early, work was rough.'

At some point, when the dreading realization that you were starting to lose him dawned on you, you thought about pausing everything. Freezing your degree, flying back home, fixing it.

But when you brought it up, Kuroo shut it down.

Not harshly. Not unkindly. But with that same calm resolve that always made you want to scream.

He said he'd never forgive himself if you threw your dreams away for him. That he loved you too much to let you do that. That he was proud of you.

And somehow, that broke your heart more than anything.

When you finally broke it up, it was over a call that left both of you sobbing. You were the one who brought it up, who actually ended things. And Kuroo—sweet, steady Kuroo—didn't stop you.

He didn't beg. He didn't ask you to stay.

He just… let you go.

And even though your head knew why—even though you understood—your heart still carried the bruise of it.

Because if he'd just fought. If he'd just asked you to stay… maybe you would've.

Your brain had long since made peace with it. But your heart?

Your heart didn't agree.

Not on the cold nights where sleep didn't come. Not when you'd clutch your phone and whisper goodnight into nothing.

Not when you'd picture him walking home alone, and wonder if he still thought of you at crosswalks or coffee shops or old bookstore corners.

And especially not now, when you were staring at the sea as conversation picked back up in a rental car that suddenly felt too loud and too small and too full of memories.

The waves blurred in your vision. You blinked hard.

Yeah. Throwing yourself out and rolling onto the asphalt was sounding better by the minute.

When the rental car came to a stop in front of the small beachside inn you'd be staying at, Taketora was already waiting just outside, arms crossed and grinning like a dork.

The moment Akane stepped out, he opened his arms wide and caught her mid-jump as she launched into a squealing hug.

You smiled softly at the sight—something in your chest unclenching just a little.

You'd always loved how close they were. It made the world feel safe, like some things did stay the same since you'd left.

"You guys got here fast!" Taketora beamed. "Come on inside—the obaasan at the counter was so excited when she heard there were even more people staying over. Says they don't get many visitors around here. No idea why—this place is gorgeous."

"Is everyone else here already?" Lev asked as he popped the trunk and began unloading the bags. He waved off you and Alisa when you went to help. "Nope. You two are banned from lifting stuff. Vacation mode."

"They're at the beach," Tora said, slinging Akane's duffel bag over his shoulder. "Playing beach volleyball. Couldn't even wait five minutes to unwind. I was holding out for you guys, but I was starting to get twitchy."

"Typical," you murmured with a soft smile. "Volley addicts."

"Woah. Y/N—you look good!" Tora said, doing a dramatic double take once his brain caught up. "Haven't seen you since forever. That foreign air really did wonders for you!"

You felt your cheeks heat up, smiling despite yourself.

"Thanks, Tora. You haven't changed one bit."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said with a wink. "Speaking of seeing again—there are a couple people who might pass out when they see you."

His smile faltered as Akane, standing behind him, widened her eyes and violently shook her head.

"Wait… she doesn't know he's here?" he asked in a very loud, very bad whisper.

"She knows," Akane hissed. "But just—"

"I'm right here, you know."

"Right, sorry," Tora muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, okay—how about we check in, drop your stuff, and head to the beach?"

The inn was small and cozy, with polished wooden floors and a faint smell of tatami and ocean breeze drifting through the halls. The woman at the counter bowed brightly and handed out keys with practiced cheer, chatting with Alisa about breakfast times and bath schedules.

You went ahead, climbing the stairs and getting to your room. On your bed, your bag's zipper caught for a second on something inside, and when you tugged it loose, your fingers brushed against a cold, familiar feeling.

You knew exactly what it was before you looked at it.

Tucked in the corner of your luggage,—where it had lived for the last four years—was the old enamel pin Kuroo had given you in second year.

It was stupid—a cartoon cat in a graduation cap—but he'd handed it to you after an exam and said it was your 'academic protection spirit'.

"You're gonna go places, y'know?" "What if I don't?” "Then I'll drag you there myself."

You should've taken it out years ago. Should've let it go when you let him go.

But there it was.

Your thumb traced the chipped paint automatically, like it might still bring you luck—or maybe just a little courage.

"Hey," Alisa's voice snapped you back. She stood at the frame of your room's door, a hand on her hip and a warm, curious look on her face.

"You good?"

You shoved the pin back in the bag and zipped it up quickly. "Yeah. Let's go."

The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across the beach where four familiar silhouettes danced in harmony across the sand.

Fukunaga and Yaku on one side. Kuroo and Kenma on the other.

The game was intense. Yaku was barking orders like a general. Fukunaga, as silent as ever, slammed a serve over the net like it owed him money. Kuroo dove for it—just barely managing to send it flying back—his hair the sweaty, chaotic mess as it was always.

Kenma sighed, clearly tired of sweating outside in the burning sun, and still managing to ace a surprise drop shot that made Yaku trip face-first into the sand.

"They really can't help themselves, huh," Akane muttered beside you and walked toward the group.

You hung back a second longer. Watching him.

It had been years.

But that—that was still Kuroo.

Still chasing the ball like it mattered more than gravity, eyes sharp and alive, hair a mess of wind and salt and sun. Still calling out to Kenma like no time had passed, like they were seventeen again—like their rhythm hadn't dulled with age or distance.

And it knocked the air out of you.

Because no matter how many years had gone by—no matter how many goodbyes or missed birthdays or moments you'd swallowed like pills—you realized the heartbreaking truth that you'd never fallen out of love with this.

With him.

With the boy who had memorized your favorite songs and made you study with color-coded chemistry flashcards.

The boy who once sat outside your house for two hours because he didn't want to end an argument over text. The boy who called volleyball his first love but always, always saved a place for you in his future.

Still that boy.

Still your boy.

And it hurt.

The rest of the group had already begun to rush to you guys—Lev yelling greetings, Taketora dragging Akane into the shallows, Shibayama waving frantically when he spotted you.

"Y/N!!!" Inuoka cried, spotting you. He dropped the volleyball he was bouncing on his forearms like it meant nothing and ran over, arms open wide. You barely had time to laugh before he crushed you in a sandy, sun-warmed hug.

"God, we missed you," he said into your hair. "Seriously. I didn't think you'd ever come back."

"Of course I came back," you said, breathless with joy. "I missed you guys."

Lev threw his arms around both of you, nearly knocking Inuoka to the ground.

"We're all here again! It's like high school—but hotter!"

More greetings came. Kai ruffled your hair. Kenma gave you a nod and the faintest smile from the court. Someone handed you a cold soda. Akane was already floating in the sea, yelling for you to come join.

You didn't notice Kuroo looking.

But he did notice you.

Mid-play, mid-pivot, he turned toward the sound of your laugh—and then—

SMACK.

A volleyball collided directly with his face.

"AGH—Fukunaga!!"

Fukunaga stood calmly on the opposite side of the net, not even pretending to be sorry.

"…Give that head a good shake," he mumbled. "Put your thoughts back in order."

Yaku gave him a thumbs-up.

Everyone burst into laughter.

Kuroo, red in the face—from impact and embarrassment—, picked up the ball and muttered something under his breath as he approached.

He met your eyes.

And then he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a playful tease. Just a soft, quiet thing—like the ghost of a memory.

"…Hey," he said.

"Hey," you breathed.

There was a beat. Just the two of you in the sun-drenched sand, years stretching and collapsing between you.

"You look good," he said, voice barely audible over the waves.

"So do you."

More silence. But not empty.

Everyone was pretending not to watch. The group had scattered—some suddenly very interested in seashells, others way too invested in building sandcastles.

But no one said anything. Not yet.

You and Kuroo just stood there. Soft. Civil. Gentle.

Like maybe the next thing you said would shatter the peace, or put it back together.

Either way, it was your heart in danger.

The rest of the afternoon blurred in warmth and noise—games of chicken in the shallows, Fukunaga building the world's ugliest sand sculpture of Coach Nekomata, Kenma reluctantly joining a water balloon ambush. Kuroo stayed near, but not too near—just close enough that you caught each other's glances now and then. Just enough to feel like something had shifted.

And then, as the sun dipped low, someone suggested a bonfire.

By the time you were all back on the beach, the sky was turning to ink, and the fire crackled low in a sand pit, flickering gold against the navy blue of the early night. Someone pulled out a Bluetooth speaker, and old playlists filtered softly into the salty breeze—half-forgotten songs from high school, the kind you only remembered the lyrics to after the second verse.

You sat curled up on a beach blanket, legs tucked beneath you, the warmth of the fire licking at your shins. The sky above was ink-dark, stars beginning to blink through the fading dusk, and laughter buzzed all around like embers riding the wind.

Someone had managed to buy way too much alcohol for the trip, and no one was entirely sober—not wasted, but buzzed just enough to be honest, giggly, and maybe a little sentimental.

"I swear the sea air gets you drunk faster," Yaku said, already flushed and swaying as he poured another splash of umeshu into his plastic cup. "It's science."

"It's hydration, actually," Kenma said, barely lifting his head from where he was lying flat on a towel. "Or lack of it."

Lev was mid-rant about how much taller he'd gotten since high school ("I grew! You guys just forgot how tall I already was!!") while Akane and Alisa giggled into their ciders, making faces as they passed around a half-eaten bag of konbini snacks.

You felt it in your chest—the kind of full, quiet happiness that only came when you were surrounded by the people who once made your youth feel like magic.

Then—

"Hey," came a familiar voice beside you, low and a little raspy from the ocean breeze.

Kuroo.

He crouched beside you and handed over a red solo cup.

You blinked at it.

"You still drink this, right?" he asked casually, like it was nothing. Like this drink didn't need preparation—and three different ingredients to make—. Like he hadn't just remembered a detail about you from four years ago without even trying and making time to make your favorite drink.

"...Yeah," you said, fingers brushing his as you took the cup. "Thanks."

He sat down next to you—not too close, but close enough that the side of his leg grazed yours when he shifted.

It was so familiar it hurt.

"Do you guys remember the Nekoma school festival?" Taketora said loudly, clapping once as if to summon everyone's attention. "When Lev tripped on a lantern and set his pants on fire?"

"Hey! That was Kenma's fault!" Lev said, scandalized.

Kenma, eyes closed: "Nope."

"I told you they were real candles!" Yaku cried, snorting into his drink.

The laughter rose and fell like waves—stories tumbling over one another, each one more embarrassing than the last. Someone played a clip from an old volleyball match they found buried in a group chat. Fukunaga mimed a dramatic dive that had the group roaring.

It was warm. It was chaotic. It was perfect.

And then—just as everyone was catching their breath, nursing their drinks and grinning like fools—

One of the boys (you weren't sure who—maybe Kai, maybe Inuoka, already a little too far gone on sake) raised his can and slurred out:

"Man, I really thought Y/N and Kuroo were gonna be endgame."

Silence.

Just for a beat.

Not sharp, not awkward—but full. Weighted. Like the fire sucked all the oxygen from the circle for a split second.

Your breath caught.

Kuroo's fingers twitched beside yours.

You didn't look at each other.

Instead, your eyes dropped to the sand. He turned to stare into the fire.

Your heart thudded painfully behind your ribs. Because for a moment—for that one moment—you felt it again. That invisible thread between you. Tugging.

Still there.

Still taut.

Still holding.

"…Who the hell let this guy drink?" Yaku said suddenly, breaking the silence with expert timing. "Cut him off before he starts listing everyone's high school crushes."

Everyone erupted into laughter.

Taketora leaned back with a wheeze. "No, wait, now I wanna hear them!"

"Lev was in love with the kiosk lady," Fukunaga muttered behind his plastic cup.

"I WAS NOT—"

The moment passed. The laughter filled it in, like seawater over a footprint. You laughed too. You smiled and sipped your drink and let the heat of the fire chase the chill from your skin.

But your heart?

Still reaching across the space between you and him. Quietly. Longingly.

And when you finally glanced at Kuroo again from the corner of your eye—you caught him already looking.

He didn't say anything. Just gave you that same soft, half-smile from earlier.

It lingered like the taste of soju on your tongue.

Like something you could almost name.

That night, you couldn't sleep.

The inn had gone quiet hours ago. Only the sound of cicadas in the bushes and the steady rhythm of waves rolling against the shore filled the silence now.

Wrapped in the hotel's thin robe, you sat curled on the small balcony outside your room, knees pulled to your chest, fingers absently running over the rim of a mostly empty glass of water. The ocean shimmered under the moonlight, dark and endless, humming its song just for you.

You hadn't realized how much you missed this sound. This place. Japan. This part of you that had once been happy—young, stupid, and in love.

The sea air still made your hair tangle the same way. The salt still clung to your skin.

You took a deep breath.

It should've been easier. Coming back. Seeing him again.

But nothing about this was easy.

Every smile hurt. Every memory dragged behind it the echo of a goodbye you hadn't wanted to say.

You tipped your head back and let the wind brush your face, your eyes burning. You weren't even sure why.

A quiet slide of a door broke the moment.

You froze.

Footsteps padded lightly onto the balcony next door—connected by a small divider.

Kuroo stepped around the edge, hoodie pulled on over his sleep shirt, hair a soft, sleepy mess.

He looked at you like he'd half-expected you to be there.

"…You always were kind of an insomniac," he said.

Your heart squeezed.

Another thing he remembered.

You smiled faintly, turning back to the ocean. "So were you. Especially during exam weeks."

"I had to match your texting energy somehow," he said, leaning his forearms against the railing beside you. "Someone had to answer all your 3AM crisis texts."

You huffed a soft laugh. "I remember that. You used to call me even when I said I didn't want to talk."

"I knew you didn't mean it," he said, quietly.

The air between you settled into something tentative. Comfortable, and yet not. Like slipping back into an old coat that didn't quite fit the same anymore.

"So," he said, after a pause. "How's… life? Work, family, all that."

You told him the basics. Where you were living now. The vague outline of your job. You didn't mention how lonely it got. Or how often you still reached for your phone, thinking about messaging him, before stopping yourself.

He told you about Kenma's company, about his job at the JVA, coaching gigs he took on the side, about how Yaku had given him a houseplant that he kept killing and reviving like a weird ritual.

There was a lull where a particularly strong wave crashed against the rocks. And then—

"So… are you seeing anyone?"

He tried to say it casually. Like he was just curious. Like it didn't matter.

You stared at him.

"You think you're being subtle, but you're not."

He winced. "...Worth a shot."

You turned back to the ocean, resting your chin on your knees.

"No," you said finally. "I'm not seeing anyone."

He was quiet for a moment too long.

You felt the shift. That hope. That little inch forward.

And it made something in you ache.

Because part of you wanted to let it happen. To fall into him again. To close the gap and feel like you never left.

But another part—deeper, colder—held you back.

Because what if it happened again?

What if he let go again?

You couldn't hope for something that might vanish when things got hard.

And so you cut the moment off.

Abrupt. Not angry. Just… protective.

"I should get some sleep," you said, rising to your feet and brushing off your robe.

Kuroo blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Yeah. Of course."

"Goodnight, Tetsurou."

He didn't try to stop you. He just nodded, looking down at the water like it might give him something to hold on to.

"Goodnight, Y/N."

You stepped inside and slid the glass door shut behind you.

And even though your bed was soft, and your eyes were heavy, and the ocean kept singing outside—

You didn't sleep.

And neither did he.

The next morning, the sun was already high when you wandered into the common room, hair damp from a quick shower, hands curled around a cup of lukewarm tea. The kind of tea that didn't really help, just gave your fingers something to hold.

The exhaustion clung to you like salt air—gritty and hard to shake. Heavy behind your eyes, settling into your bones.

Akane caught sight of you first. She blinked once, then narrowed her eyes.

"Oof."

"What?"

"You look like you got hit by a truck," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch.

"A truck made of thoughts," Fukunaga muttered from her other side, not even looking up from his coffee.

You flopped down with a groan.

"Hungover?" Akane asked.

"Kinda," you mumbled, resting your cheek against the back cushion.

"Well, you should've seen Lev. He practically had to be dragged down to the beach for another volleyball match. Honestly, are these people real?"

"Real addicts is what they are," you muttered, eyes closed, but not asleep.

"Even Kuroo looked half-dead this morning," Akane added. "I think he got even less sleep than you."

That made your stomach do something weird.

But you didn't ask.

The sun was already high when you finally made it down to the shore. Yaku was mid-argument with Lev over some questionable line call, and Kenma sat in the sand with a water bottle balanced on his head, looking approximately this close to quitting again. Everyone's hangover from the night before was starting to show.

But Kuroo wasn't on the court.

Your eyes scanned the beach once before landing on him—half-buried in a towel, lying in the sand a few meters away from the game, one arm slung lazily over his eyes like he'd passed out mid-thought.

Not playing.

Just there.

Asleep. Or something close to it.

You watched his chest rise and fall slowly with the breeze, the curve of his lips slack with exhaustion. He looked peaceful. Yet exhausted.

And somehow that made your chest ache.

You sat down a little ways away from the chaos, letting the sun warm your legs. As the match resumed, your eyes followed the ball lazily across the net—until a shadow fell across you.

"Lie down for a bit, honey," Alisa whispered, crouching beside you. Her fingers combed gently through your hair. "You look like you need it."

The sleepless night had left you hollowed out, and the sun felt too soft to resist. So you laid back on the towel, curled under the heat, and let your lashes flutter closed.

"I'll just rest my eyes a little," you mumbled, barely aware of your own voice.

The breeze was warm. The sound of the waves rolled steady and soft. For the first time in a long time, your mind was quiet.

But your dreams wouldn't let you keep it that way for long. Their whisper hit. As usual. Close.

It was less of a dream and more of a memory.

It was spring again.

You were standing behind the school gym where cherry blossom petals had collected in the gutter like pink snow. You'd gone out there after your last class, needing air, needing quiet.

He'd followed you.

It wasn't unusual. You and Kuroo had a rhythm, a closeness that lived somewhere between casual teasing and something more. You'd been friends since the beginning of first year. Study partners. Late walks home, teasing texts type of friends.

The type who knew each other's favorite vending machine snacks and finished each other's complaints about teachers.

But lately, something had changed.

There'd been tension—an awkward silence too heavy to joke through, a lingering look that lasted just a second too long.

You leaned back against the wall, feeling the warm bricks behind your shoulder. He stood a few feet away, scuffing his shoe against the dirt.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he said suddenly.

Your head turned sharply. "Do what?"

He hesitated. Bit his cheek. Rubbed the back of his neck like he was stalling for time he didn't have.

"This," he said again, voice softer now. "Us. Being… friends."

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

"Oh." You blinked. "Okay."

His eyes widened, and his ears pinked. "No!—I mean—wait, not like that." He stepped forward quickly, shaking his head. "I didn't mean I don't want to be around you. I meant—shit—I meant…"

You stared, throat suddenly dry.

"I feel like a fraud," he admitted, and it came out in a rush. "Because I never wanted to be just your friend. Not even at the start."

You froze.

"I tried." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away, then back again. "I really tried to be. I told myself it was enough. That hanging out like this and walking you home and listening to you talk about your day would be enough. But it's not."

His eyes flicked to yours like he couldn't help it—and they were wide and glassy with fear, with hope.

"I like you. Like really like you. And I didn't know how to tell you without risking losing you. But I'm tired of pretending I don't feel it. I'm tired of acting like I don't want more."

You stood frozen, every heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.

"I know this might ruin everything," he added, hands clenching at his sides. "But I needed you to know. Even if you don't feel the same."

There was a pause. A long one.

And then you spoke, quietly:

"You're an idiot."

"…I mean—yeah."

You stepped closer, heart thudding somewhere between relief and disbelief.

"I was supposed to confess to you during the Hanami festival we were going to..."

His eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what?"

"I like you too, Kuroo."

He stared at you for a second.

Then his mouth dropped open in that stunned, stunned way of his you'd always secretly loved.

You laughed, unable to help yourself.

And he just stood there, gaping, like the sky had fallen and dropped all the stars in his lap.

"Wait—during the Hanami?" he asked, blinking "That's so cute—You can still do it! I'll pretend to be surprised."

You snorted, ducking your head as your cheeks warmed. "It's okay. I mean… we can just go on a date there. It's fine."

"No—no, come on," he said, stepping in close, hands gently resting on your shoulders as he bent to meet your eyes. "Please. It's literally so adorable. Please do it."

"Kuroo," you laughed, flustered. "We don't have to—"

And then you looked up.

And it became evident how close you two really were. Way closer than you expected.

The words caught in your throat and you could see the warmth spreading across his cheeks.

His eyes flicked to your lips when a soft exhale escaped you, and his voice dropped to something small and barely there.

"Can I—?"

You nodded, already breathless. "Yeah."

He leaned in, gentle and uncertain, and kissed you like he didn't quite believe it was real—like he'd been holding back for months and was finally allowed to breathe.

His lips were soft, just slightly chapped, and so, so warm you thought you might melt.

Above you, the cherry blossoms drifted down like snow. And beneath it all, your heart beat so wildly, so fiercely, you felt like it might tear out of your chest.

In that moment, you knew—

Yeah.

This was love.

For the first time in a long while, the weight of time didn't feel so heavy.

And then, a cold hand on your arm—

You woke with a sharp inhale, sun pressing hot against your skin, towel tangled around your legs. You blinked blearily—and were met with Akane's concerned, wide-eyed stare hovering above you.

"Y/N. Where you having a nightmare?" she asked, lovely as ever.

"Kinda," you rasped.

It was honest, in a way.

"We're heading back to the inn for lunch—wanna come?" she asked.

You groaned, rolling over and clutching your towel closer.

"I'm good. You go ahead."

"You sure?"

"Mmhmm," you muttered, already half asleep again. The sunlight pressed against your shoulders like a warm hand.

You hadn't slept, and even if you had—for a little—it didn't feel like rest, so you didn't have a say, your body was begging for at least an hour or two more.

Akane saw this, so she let you be.

You didn't dream after that.

Just silence.

Just sun and waves.

Just a stillness you hadn't felt in a long time.

The kind of sleep that didn't ask questions you weren't ready to answer. No dreams about Kuroo, no memories, no confessions.

You'd maybe slept an hour when someone gently shook your shoulder.

Your eyes blinked open to gold—those familiar, cat-like eyes.

"Y/N. Where is everyone?" Kuroo asked, voice scratchy from sleep.

"They went for lunch," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "Didn't they wake you?"

He shook his head, brow furrowing slightly.

You stood up, brushing sand from your legs—and then your eyes caught on his chest.

Your mouth dropped open.

"What?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Kuroo," you breathed, eyes wide. "You're cooked."

His chest was as red as a stop sign, sunburnt all over, save for a hilariously pale strip where the chain of his necklace had shielded his skin. His face wasn't much better—rosy and already peeling around the nose.

You tried to hold it in. You really did.

But then you snorted—hard—and doubled over laughing.

"Oh my god. You're like… aggressively sunburnt. Sis you fall asleep in the sun?"

He looked down at himself, eyes going wide, and tried not to laugh too. "Why didn't you wake me up?!"

"I was also asleep!!" you said through giggles.

And just like that—he broke. He threw his head back, laughing, loud and reckless, his whole chest moving with it. You laughed too, harder than you had in what felt like forever.

It was stupid. It was simple. But it felt good.

The awkwardness from the night before unraveled, washed away with the tide and the laughter that wouldn't stop. Something about being ridiculous together again made it easier to breathe.

You held out your hand for him.

"Come on, hot stuff. You need to cool off before you combust."

He groaned. "Hot stuff? Really?"

"Didn't hear a no."

You grabbed his wrist, and together you ran toward the water.

It started as splashing—just a few kicks, a few flicks of saltwater. Then it escalated into a full-blown splash war: shrieking, ducking, Kuroo flailing dramatically and pretending to drown while you howled with laughter.

You laughed until your sides ached. Until the burn in your throat gave way to something lighter, something free.

Then you swam. Further out than he did—braver with the deeper water, like always. Kuroo lingered closer to the shore, watching. He didn't follow. You remembered he hated not feeling the ground beneath him. The open water made him uneasy.

But he didn't say a word about it. Just waited.

And when you came back, wading through the waves, he was there—hand outstretched, steady and warm as he pulled you in.

"You went too deep!" he called over the crashing waves.

"Sorry!" you beamed, cheeks flushed. "I missed the sea!"

He just stared at you, shaking his head like he couldn't believe you.

But his smile said something different.

"Makes sense," he muttered, almost to himself.

Then—

A drop.

Then another.

You looked up.

A shimmer in the air. A soft warning in the clouds.

Then the sky split.

A curtain of silver poured down all at once, rain hammering the beach, darkening the sand and soaking through your clothes on the shore in seconds.

You shrieked. "Oh my god—"

"We're cursed," Kuroo yelled over the sudden downpour. He grabbed your wrist. "Bus stop—down the hill—come on!"

You ran.

Half-blind. Soaked. Shoes slapping through puddles and freshly carved rivulets in the sand.

By the time you ducked into the tiny bus shelter, the world around you was nothing but white mist and the sound of the storm.

Kuroo kicked at the drainage grate, trying to keep the water flowing. You stood shivering, clutching the damp strap of the bag you barely had time to pick up in one hand and your soaked sarong in the other, the fabric clinging uselessly to your skin.

You were drenched. Breathless. Still laughing.

And then you looked up.

And suddenly, you noticed how close you two were. Closer than you expected.

It was starting to feel a little familiar, dangerously so.

But this time, you tried to ignore the way his eyes flickered to your lips.

"You were always a storm magnet," he said softly, smiling tentatively.

You rolled your eyes, a soft sound escaping your chest—half amused, half something else.

Something heavier.

"You and your memories," you muttered, almost fond. Almost.

But your voice cracked at the edges.

Because every little thing he remembered about you—

The drink, the insomnia, now this—felt like a tug on an old, half‑healed stitch.

Unraveled you in ways he probably didn't even realize.

He swallowed. "Means I never really forgot. Any of it."

Rain streamed off the roof in silver sheets. The sky was full of sound—but it was nothing compared to the noise inside your chest.

"Are we really doing this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Because it hurts."

His jaw tightened. "Hurts me too."

You nodded slowly. You should've stopped.

Should've let the rain carry it all away.

But the words were already rising.

They broke free before you could hold them back.

"Do you know how much it hurt," you said, "that you didn't fight for me?"

Your fists curled around the soaked fabric of your sarong.

"I kept waiting—for you to say something. 'Don't go.' 'We'll figure it out.' Anything. But you just… let me end us."

Kuroo flinched like you'd struck him.

Rain clung to his lashes, streaked down his face, mixed with something else now.

"Do you know how much it hurt to let you go?" His voice shook.

Your breath stopped.

He raked a hand through his dripping hair, stepping closer—like he couldn't keep the distance anymore.

"I wanted to be selfish," he said. "I wanted to beg you to stay. But every time I pictured you giving up your dream because of me—I just… I couldn't do it, Y/N."

You stood frozen, lips pressed tight to keep the sob down.

"You didn't even ask," he whispered. Tears blurred his eyes until rain and grief were the same wet sting. "You made the choice for both of us."

"Don't," you whispered, voice wobbling as you turned, like maybe you'd walk away. Like maybe the storm could muffle the ache again.

But then—

Something slipped from your bag.

A soft clink on wet concrete.

Kuroo's breath hitched.

Lying between you, half-soaked in rainwater, was the old enamel pin he gave you.

The dumb little cat in a graduation cap.

Its colors chipped. Edges dulled.

But still whole.

Still yours.

He bent slowly, almost reverent, and picked it up like it might fall apart in his hand. He turned it over, lips parted.

"You kept this," he breathed.

You said nothing. Your throat was too tight.

You reached out instinctively to take it back—but he didn't let go.

Instead, he took your hand in his. His fingers curled gently around yours.

Held it. And the pin. And everything that had been left unsaid for years.

His eyes lifted—wide and shining with something close to awe. Like he was seeing it all for the first time.

"You still feel it," he whispered.

And you?

You could've swallowed the whole storm, and it still wouldn't have been louder than your heartbeat.

"I said this was your good luck charm. Said it'd remind you that you could do anything," he murmured, gaze still fixed on the pin caught between both your fingers.

"But I..." he hesitated, voice breaking softer "I honestly gave it to you because I wanted to be close. Because I wanted to be a part of wherever you were going."

You pressed a palm to his chest—somewhere between a shove and a plea.

"Stop, Tetsurou," you begged, voice tight. Fragile.

But he didn't.

"I was terrified," he rasped. "Terrified I'd drag you down. Terrified you'd resent me someday if you came back just to see me. I thought—if I loved you, really loved you—letting you go was the only way to prove it."

Lightning lit the sky behind you, a silver bolt that painted his face in stark gold for a breath. Thunder rolled after, low and trembling through the ground beneath your feet.

His hand trembled as he lifted the one still tangled with yours—the pin cradled between your palms—and pressed your fingers to his lips, slow and aching.

"But you kept this all this time..." he whispered. "You didn't let go either… did you?"

Your throat burned. Your eyes blurred.

His other hand came up to cover yours on his chest, pressing it tighter over the frantic rhythm of his heart.

"Do you feel that? I never stopped loving you," he said—barely more than a breath. "Not one day. Not one hour."

And something inside you cracked open. A sob slipped free before you could stop it; you tried to pull back, but he followed, seeing the signs, cupping your soaked cheeks with gentle, sure hands and not letting you look away from his eyes.

"I'm still scared," he admitted, voice raw. "But I'm more scared of another year without you."

Another sob tore loose. Your hands found his shirt, fingers fisting in the wet fabric like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

"Fight me," he whispered. "Yell at me. Make me prove I love you every damn day—I will. I'll do it. Just… don't walk away again, Y/N. I can't live without you."

Air hitched between you. Then the last sliver of distance collapsed—

You surged forward. His arms caught you like they'd been waiting, and your lips met in a kiss that landed sharp and desperate—like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

A kiss that tasted like salt and rain and relief.

So sharp it almost hurt.

It was clumsy—teeth knocking, noses cold—but it felt like stepping over a threshold into a warmth you'd been locked out of for years.

Rain trickled down your neck, his hands tangled in your hair, your sarong slipped to the concrete, and still—neither of you pulled away.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, you couldn't stop shaking.

He smiled first, just barely.

"I warn you, I'm not letting go this time. Even if you try to run."

You nodded, breathless.

"Not even in a hurricane," you whispered.

He let out a watery laugh and brushed his nose against yours, still trembling.

"I missed this so much," he murmured, then kissed you again.

And again.

And again—until your chest hurt from how hard you were smiling, until you giggled into his mouth, and he laughed into yours.

It was messy. It was soaked. It was everything.

And this time—this time it didn't feel like a beginning or an end.

It felt like coming home.

Inside the inn, the dining room buzzed with the low clatter of chopsticks and overlapping voices. Steam curled up from hot bowls of rice and miso soup, the scent of grilled fish and soy sauce warm in the air.

"Lev, you can't just take food from other people's trays—" Yaku hissed.

"But he wasn't eating it!"

"I was breathing, you giraffe!"

"You can't call me 'giraffe'! You know it hurts my feelings!" Lev whined.

Kenma didn't even look up from his phone. "You deserve that."

Taketora snorted into his drink, face flushed from one too many sips of his favorite umeshu.

"It's a little romantic, don't you think?" he muttered after a while of staring into his rice. "The two of them out there in the rain? If they don't come back holding hands, I'm suing."

"Yeah, and you're paying me!" Yaku added, mouth full of food.

"Oh, they're definitely making out right now," Kai said with a confident smirk, poking at his pickled vegetables.

"Love is a holy mystery, ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. That makes it holier and better," Fukunaga muttered, not even looking up from his plate of food.

"Stop quoting Dostoyevski!"

Akane glanced toward the door, fingers drumming idly on the table. "I mean, if they don't get back together after this trip, I'm staging an intervention."

Kenma hummed in agreement, pressing his cheek to the table.

"Kuro gets all bummed about it every time he gets drunk. He always brings it up. I really hope they do. For my sanity and his."

For a split second, no one spoke.

Then the front door slid open.

And there you were.

Dripping wet. Hand in hand. Shoes squeaking on the floor, soaked from the summer storm. Your sarong clung to your elbows. Kuroo's hair was flattened to his forehead, water still streaming from his sleeves.

Everyone froze.

And then—

"HEY—!" Lev's voice cracked over the table. "They're holding hands!!"

A chorus of gasps, claps, and groans followed, rising like a sudden wave.

Akane actually stood up, hands on her hips.

"FINALLY."

Taketora whooped. "I told you! Pay up, Yaku-san!"

Yaku sighed and started digging in his pocket for bills.

Kenma, half-asleep with his cheek still on the table, just muttered, "You're twenty minutes later than I predicted."

You froze, suddenly self-conscious, hair dripping onto the floor, Kuroo's hand still tangled with yours.

You covered your face with your free hand, blushing furiously, but Kuroo just grinned beside you—wide and unashamed and so stupidly in love it was unbearable.

Before you could say anything, Alisa was already moving—grabbing towels from a nearby hook and tossing them over both your heads like a proud, exasperated big sister.

"You're soaking the floor," she scolded gently, eyes shining. "But you look happy."

You were.

So happy it was terrifying.

Kuroo gave a crooked smile, still catching his breath from the run through the rain. "Sorry we're late."

No one was actually surprised. If anything, it felt like they had all just been waiting—not for something to happen, but for something to finally come home.

As you stepped inside the dining room fully, toweling off your hair and cheeks, you realized something else.

There was a spot already set for you. Your drink poured, your favorite side dish saved, your chopsticks sitting neatly beside Kuroo's.

They'd not only waited—but they'd never stopped making space for you.

You sat down beside him—shoulder to shoulder, hearts still racing from more than the rain. And when Kuroo nudged your knee under the table, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, you couldn't help but nudge back.

You were home.

Finally home.

my masterlist ♡

[raevpng]

in between (pt. 2)

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

part 1 here :)

masterlist

a/n: hey everyonee i’m back :) i genuinely don’t know if i like this part or not and ill probably edit this when im slightly more awake but i hope you guys genuinely enjoy it ! i always love hearing your guys’ thoughts so feel free to talk or reply :)

ps: i’m making this a three part fic instead of two ;)

—

later that night, after the dishes had been washed and the parents had disappeared into their bedroom with tired goodnights and lingering smiles, the house settled into a stillness that felt almost sacred. it was silent, save for the soft hum of the fan and distant tiktok audios playing from azzi’s phone as the two girls scrolled lazily, waiting for the exhaustion of the day to catch up to them.

azzi’s bedroom window was open, letting in a cool breeze that carried the scent of fresh night air. it crept across her skin, sending a small shiver down her back.

paige was lying beside her, the two of them tucked into the bed like puzzle pieces. azzi curled closer, and paige let out a quiet laugh at something on her screen, piquing azzi’s curiosity.

“what’s so funny?” azzi murmured, leaning over her shoulder. she regrets it immediately when she saw what paige was watching, groaning and dropping her head in dramatic shame. it was a tiktok a fan had made – a compilation of them during their usa basketball days.

“oh my god, get it away from me,” she groaned, hiding her face under her hands. “that’s so not funny. i had braces and a unibrow.”

paige grinned, unbothered and utterly charmed. “you were adorable. still are.”

azzi rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the flush rising to her cheeks. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“cute?” paige teased, turning toward her with a glint in her eye. “you think i’m cute, huh?”

“shut up,” azzi muttered, voice a little too soft to be convincing.

“nooo,” paige drawled, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close, “say it again. come on.”

azzi opened her mouth to argue, but their eyes met — and the air shifted.

something passed between them then, quiet but undeniable. azzi’s breath caught in her throat as she realized just how close they were. the warmth of paige’s arm around her. the brush of her thigh. the soft curve of her mouth, just inches away.

as paige’s breath hitched – the static, tension, and ache that had followed them for years but never quite settled became evident in her face, azzi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“sorry az,” paige said quickly, backing off a little. “is this too-?”

“you’re cute,” azzi interrupted, voice barely above a whisper, so quiet paige nearly missed it. “and infuriating.”

paige froze, eyes locked on hers, and something in her chest twisted painfully. she didn’t know what to do when azzi got like this – brave and exposed and real in a way that knocked the breath right out of her lungs.

so, naturally, azzi leaned in and made it worse.

“and,” she added, voice dipping lower, “you’re mine for the next few weeks. no practices. no press. no cameras. just us.”

paige’s stomach flipped. she could feel the warmth of azzi’s breath against her cheek, could see the way her lips curved slightly like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“god az, do you know what you do to me?” paige couldn’t help but wonder out loud, feeling so weak in her knees she could only thank god she was already lying down.

azzi only shrugged, all feigned innocence, though the corner of her mouth curved like she knew exactly what she was doing. “i’m just saying what i want for once.”

and that did it.

—

the clock on azzi’s nightstand blinked 2:37 a.m. in faint red letters.

paige didn’t know when she’d fallen asleep, only that she woke to the sound of shifting sheets, the quiet creak of the mattress, and the warm weight of azzi curled a little closer.

it was dark — the kind of soft, thick darkness that made everything feel more intimate. the fan hummed steadily above them, and a faint strip of light from the streetlamp outside fell across the floor, brushing against the edge of the bed like a secret.

paige blinked the sleepiness away, adjusting quickly when she realises azzi was still awake.

her breathing wasn’t deep enough for sleep, and paige kicks herself internally for being so down bad she knew such a thing. when paige turned her head, she found those familiar brown eyes already watching her. wide, warm, and full of something that made her heart thud quietly in her chest.

“hey,” paige croaked, voice still rough with sleep, “everything okay?”

azzi nodded, slow and thoughtful, then turned to fully face her. her eyes traced paige’s face, soft in the dark, all sleepy lids and messy hair, and paused on her lips.

she didn’t look away.

and god, she noticed – azzi knew paige noticed when she licked her lips – just a reflex – but one that made azzi freeze for a half-second too long.

“what’s on your mind?” paige whispered, not daring to break whatever had settled between them like static in the air.

paige saw it. felt it. the tension that stretched between them like a wire pulled taut. one move, one breath too loud, and it would snap.

and in hindsight, azzi knew this was the perfect moment to tell her everything.

how she couldn’t stop thinking about her when she wasn’t around, how she looked at her like she hung the stars, how just the sound of paige laughing made her want to fall into her arms and never leave. how she couldn’t look at paige without feeling the desire to pull her in and kiss her silly. or that ever since paige came over with her stupid blonde hair that glows under the summer sun and those deep blue eyes that seemed to always find hers like magnets – that this visit shifted something inside her, and she didn’t know how to unfeel it.

but she didn’t – she couldn’t. instead, she settled for their comfortable banter: “you snore too loud.”

paige squinted, caught completely off guard and heart sinking slightly. “i do not.”

“you so do,” azzi said, grinning now. “it’s cute.”

paige rolled her eyes, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks but feeling the desire to be bold. “you’re lucky i like you.”

azzi smiled – the kind of soft, sleepy smile that dimpled her cheeks and made paige feel like the world had gone still.

“yeah?” she asked quietly. “you like me?”

and paige doesn’t know what it is – maybe the way azzi let those words slip so easily or maybe the soft look that was only reserved for her that azzi shot her, she doesn’t know. but she feels the need to say something, anything to relieve the burn in her chest, the self-destructive need to do more, to keep pushing this blurry boundary of theirs, to keep pushing until maybe one of them breaks. “yeah, i really do.”

it was like the room stopped breathing with them. the air between them grew impossibly thick, hot with everything they hadn’t said and everything they’d been afraid to say.

azzi’s hand found paige’s, tentative and trembling, like touching her might make it real. like speaking it aloud might ruin it.

then, something shifted in the air between them.

not in a sudden, shocking way, but in the slow, steady unraveling of a feeling that had been building for years. like every inside joke, every shared glance across the court, every “stay safe” and “call me when you get home” had been quietly leading up to this moment.

“has it been different for you too?” azzi whispered, voice so honest and raw that paige felt something break in her. “please tell me you feel it too.”

paige’s heart soared at azzi’s words, heart racing and mind full of tangled words. she wanted to do something, say something – anything to have azzi close. to let azzi know she felt it too, that this quiet tension between them has been burning for far too long – and it was time to cave into it.

but she didn’t answer with words.

she reached for azzi like she’d been doing it in dreams, like her hand was drawn there by muscle memory. she cupped azzi’s cheek, her thumb brushing the soft skin beneath her eye, and leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

azzi didn’t.

their lips met, hesitant for a breath, like a question waiting to be answered — then everything cracked open.

it was tender at first – unsure and sweet with inexperience and nerves . but then azzi tilted her head and leaned in just a little more, and suddenly it was everything at once, soft, deep, trembling with years of unsaid things.

paige kissed her like she was memorizing her, and azzi kissed back like she was done pretending.

the kiss turned hungry, aching, and all teeth with trembling lips and gasping breaths, like they’d been holding it in for years. like they were trying to make up for every second they’d wasted not doing this. and god, how were they not doing this? why did they choose to miss out on this?

paige pulled azzi closer by the waist, like she needed her in her arms or she might fall apart. azzi’s hands found the back of paige’s neck, fingers threading into her hair as she tilted her head, deepening the kiss with a soft, broken sigh. it was messy, imperfect, too much and not enough.

they kissed like it hurt to stop.

they only pulled apart when breathing became absolutely necessary, their foreheads resting together, chests rising and falling in sync, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

“that answer your question?” paige whispered, voice shaking.

azzi let out a soft laugh, full of disbelief and wonder. “you’re an idiot.”

“but a cute one, right?”

“unbearably.”

they stayed tangled together, cheeks warm and lips swollen, realisation of what this means for them slowly sinking in. yet, there was no trace of panic or denial or regret in either girl’s bodies, and paige felt her whole body exhale in relief.

“can i tell you something?” azzi asked quietly, breaking the comfortable silence that settled nicely between them, her fingers tracing shapes on paige’s arm.

“anything.”

“i think i’ve been falling for you for a while now.”

paige didn’t even try to hide the way her breath caught.

“good,” she whispered back. “because i’ve been falling for you too.”

–

the smell of coffee and cinnamon stirs paige awake first, groaning softly as she rolls over to bury her face in the nearest pillow. sunlight poured rudely through the half-open blinds, the light hitting her directly in the eyes, but before she could even consider throwing a pillow at the window or pulling the blanket over her head, every trace of annoyance evaporated, cause how could she be annoyed at this sight?

azzi was curled up next to her, head tucked near her shoulder, her face resting on paige’s left arm like it belonged there. her curls were a soft, tangled halo against the pillow, and that same cursed morning light that had her ready to riot now made her glow — golden and warm and unfairly breathtaking.

and paige wondered – how had she not come to terms of her feelings towards her best friend sooner? how did she miss the loud banging of her heart against her chest whenever she saw her? how did she miss the tingling in her fingertips, the itch to run her fingers over the younger’s hair, her button nose, and those lips.

paige burned as the memories of last night washed over her, how azzi’s pink lips felt moving heatedly against her own, the soft whimper that azzi let out when paige nibbled her lips slightly to gain more access, the way her stomach felt as paige’s hand had slipped under her oversized shirt to palm the dip of her waist.

and now?

now they were here.

azzi shifted slightly, as if sensing the weight of paige’s thoughts. her lashes fluttered open, revealing soft, sleepy brown eyes, still glazed with that tender warmth from sleep, like morning sunlight lived behind them. she blinked up at paige, and something bloomed in her chest so big and so bright she almost forgot how to breathe. paige couldn’t help the dopey, lovesick smile that formed on her face.

“morning, sleepy head.” paige whispered, her voice still gravelly with sleep, eyes crinkling as she reached out to trail her fingertips along azzi’s cheek lightly.

because she could now.

they could do that now... right?

azzi hummed, a giggle slipping out as she leaned into the touch, impossibly adorable in her half-sleep daze. her cheeks puffed just slightly, and her smile tugged one side higher than the other. paige could practically feel herself melt on the spot.

and damn, azzi thought she seriously needed glasses, because how did she miss how loving paige’s eyes were whenever she looked at her? azzi felt her heart melt at how different paige seemed to look at her, and god she really was oblivious wasn’t she? because this side of paige? it wasn’t new, yet it felt so different, but it was quickly becoming her favourite version of the blonde.

paige wasn’t sure if her chest was burning or floating, only that every second she looked at azzi now made her heart feel like it was trying to spell something — bold, bright letters banging on her ribcage.

“you’re staring,” azzi murmured with a sleepy grin.

“can you blame me?” paige whispered, brushing her thumb over azzi’s cheek. “you’re perfect. too perfect actually, it’s kinda…gross.”

azzi laughed again, face flushed pink and eyes practically closing with how hard she smiled. “gross?” she repeated incredulously, tone light and teasing. “is that your love language?”

“only for you.”

a beat.

then, with the most ridiculous pout, azzi murmured, “i miss you. and i’m hungry.”

she tried to stifle a laugh at how dramatic paige reacted, groaning like she was in pain, flopping onto her back dramatically. “unfair. so unfair. how are you cute and needy first thing in the morning? i’m not built for this.”

azzi rolled onto her side to face her, eyes bright now. “if it helps... you’re making it worse by being stupidly hot and wearing my shirt.”

paige smirked at the compliment, “me? hot?”

azzi hummed, feigning nonchalance, “ridiculously so.”

“well don’t expect it back anytime soon, i’m keeping it.” paige beamed proudly, “you can’t tease me with your scent, say im hot in it, and expect me to give it back.”

azzi flushed again, flustered now and clearly trying not to show it. paige, of course, noticed – and leaned in with a devilish grin. “what was that? is that a blush, azzi fudd!”

“shut up,” azzi muttered, hiding her face in the pillow. “you’re so annoying.”

“but lovable,” paige chirped, springing out of bed. she stretched with a low sigh, tugging the hem of her sleep shirt down before moving to the drawer beside the bed. “okay, okay. breakfast. but only because you pouted. can’t have my princess starving.”

azzi peeked over the pillow. “...princess?”

paige turned with the most innocent expression she could manage to sassily say, “did i stutter?”

“you did not just–”

“shh,” paige said dramatically, quickly pulling her designated drawer to fish her hoodie out and turn around with it. “you’re cold, i can tell. come here.”

azzi rolled her eyes, trying to seem unaffected at how doting paige was being, but the pink on her cheeks betrayed her. “i can put it on myself.”

“nuh uh. not today.” paige stepped close, holding the hoodie just out of reach. “arms up.”

“paige–”

“arms up, princess.”

reluctantly and frankly way too flustered to actually argue, azzi raised her arms, and paige gently tugged the hoodie down over her frame, laughing as it absolutely swallowed her. the sleeves went past her hands and the hem nearly to her knees.

“yep,” paige said proudly. “that’s the look. ten out of ten. belongs in fashion week.”

azzi burst out laughing at her silliness, but buried her nose in the collar, sighing like she could stay there forever. “smells like you.”

paige raised a brow. “and that’s a good thing?”

“mmhm.”

“so you are obsessed with me.”

“don’t push it.”

“too late.”

azzi poked paige’s side playfully, and paige yelped, grabbing her hand in mock betrayal. “okay, rude. no poking the hoodie-gifter. it’s in the rulebook.”

“what rulebook?”

“the one i wrote last night, after i kissed you and you ruined my life in the best possible way.” she raised an accusational finger, laughing at azzi’s offended gasp.

but then azzi’s smirk slipped for just a second – her eyes softening again as they lingered on paige’s. “so... last night,” she said, quieter now. “it changed things, huh?”

paige stepped closer, brushing a curl behind azzi’s ear with infinite care. “yeah. but in the best way. i promise.”

azzi’s breath caught.

“what kind of change?” she asked, though the tremble in her voice said she already knew.

paige leaned in, lips brushing just beside her ear, her voice low and teasing and warm.

“you’ll find out,” she whispered. “don’t you worry, baby.”

azzi shivered from the nickname, from the nearness, from the soft promise wrapped in every syllable. her knees nearly buckled under her, and paige, already halfway to the door, shot her a wink without a second glance.

azzi groaned into her hands, rooted to the same exact spot worried she’d melt into a lovesick goop and slip through the floorboard cracks and away into oblivion.

cause fuck, she was so gone for her.

and she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

–

after an embarrassingly long amount of time, azzi finally gathered herself enough, padding sofly across the hallway to the kitchen. paige’s hoodie was still swallowing her whole, keeping her warm not only because of the thickness, but because of the reminder that it was paige’s. her bare feet made barely a sound against the hardwood, and as she neared the kitchen, she slowed, catching the low hum of voices.

azzi paused just outside the doorway, half-shielded by the wall. she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop — she really hadn’t — but when she heard the unmistakable sound of her dad's chuckle, followed by paige's slightly flustered tone, her curiosity got the better of her.

“so…” tim began, and azzi could practically hear the grin in his voice. “you two have a good sleep?”

paige laughed awkwardly. “uh, yeah. very nice, and uh…peaceful?”

azzi wanted to laugh at the hesitation between each symbol and at the way her voice had gone up maybe three octaves.

“peaceful?” katie echoed, amused. “that’s not what we heard last night.”

there was a clatter, maybe paige nearly dropping a mug – followed by a horrified sputter. “oh my god. what? no, it’s not… we weren’t–”

tim’s serious facade cracked, letting out a booming laugh, clearly enjoying the embarrassment on her honorary second daughter’s face, “relax paige, nothing inappropriate. at least i hope?”

“just lots and lots of giggling,” katie teased, “and maybe a suspicious thump,”

“i– that was— okay, she rolled into me and we— it was a mattress-related accident, i swear!”

azzi bit her lip, a part of her holding in a laugh at how uncomfortable paige was and half horror at how embarrassing her parents were being.

“uh-huh,” tim said, his tone dripping with mischief. “so, just out of curiosity…” he let the silence hang for a moment, and azzi could imagine him leaning in slightly, all faux-serious dad energy. “you do like our daughter, right?”

another pause. then, paige’s voice – softer now, sincere despite the nervous edge.

“yeah. yeah, i really do.”

azzi’s breath caught.

inside, paige rubbed the back of her neck, her cheeks flushed as she met katie and tim’s amused but comforting smile. she looked sheepish, like she’d been caught doodling hearts in the margins of her notes – which i mean, emotionally, she kind of had. katie reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, a quiet nudge of reassurance to keep going.

“i know i haven’t exactly said anything official yet,” paige went on, hands gesturing nervously, “but last night... something happened. it wasn’t just some impulsive thing. it was real. and now that it’s out there, i don’t really want to hold back anymore.”

tim raised a brow at the ambiguity of paige’s confession, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “go on.”

“i want to ask her out. properly,” paige said, eyes earnest now, voice more grounded. “i want to treat her right. not just because she deserves it, but because i’ve been falling for her for a long time. and now that she knows... i want to do this right. not just sneaking looks and wondering ‘what if.’ i want the real thing.” she finishes firmly, slightly breathless at her rambling, but desperate to let azzi’s parents know that she was serious, more serious than she’s ever been.

katie’s face lit up, her expression tender. she reached across the counter again, this time to gently pat paige’s hand. “we trust you,” she said, voice soft with emotion. “we always have. but hearing you say it like that... it means a lot. we’re happy for you two. really.”

tim nodded in agreement, taking a short sip of his coffee, “agreed. i like you paige, i always have. but don’t be fooled, she’s still my daughter. break her heart and you’re running laps at every fudd picnic.”

“deal,” paige said with a sheepish laugh. “and hurting her? wouldn’t even dream of it.”

azzi chose that moment to casually stroll in, feigning obliviousness despite the unmistakable pink on her cheeks. “morning,” she said sweetly, rubbing her eyes as she walked over to grab a mug from the cabinet. she ignored the wide eyed look paige sent her way and her parents’ stifled chuckles, choosing to plop down beside paige as if she didn’t hear every word she said.

paige gave her a questioning glance — you heard that, didn’t you?

but azzi just smiled into her cup, eyes twinkling.

“we saved you a cinnamon roll,” katie said with a wink, sliding a plate toward her daughter.

“ooh, the good stuff,” azzi said as she took the plate, nudging paige’s knee under the table. paige looked at her, eyes searching, but azzi only gave her a coy smile and popped a piece of roll into her mouth. “thanks for the hoodie, by the way. super warm. smells kinda like…” she sniffed dramatically. “love and devotion?”

paige choked on her coffee.

tim snorted as he settled on a chair. katie on the other hand, didn’t even bother to hide a loud and satisfied laugh at her daughter’s boldness.

“you okay there, paige?” azzi asked innocently, offering her a napkin like she hadn’t just murdered her in real time. paige glared at her like a betrayed puppy, a small pout forming at azzi’s teasing as azzi placed a soft kiss on her cheek, making her even redder.

“azzi.” paige hissed under her breath when tim let out a teasing, long whistle at the display of affection, “your parents are right there.”

“so?” azzi whispered in mock confusion, her lips brushing against paige’s ear in such an electrifying way paige almost choked again, “just getting you back for leaving me all bothered earlier.”

paige nearly fell off her stool.

tim and katie just exchanged a knowing look — one filled with amused exasperation and unmistakable fondness. because in all their years together, this moment? it felt familiar.

felt like love.

they settled into breakfast, the four of them sharing easy conversation and laughter, the morning sunlight stretching long across the kitchen floor. katie, eyeing at how little the two girls had eaten and her suspicion that the boys were gonna wake soon anyway, got up to the stove.

“you two want eggs?” katie asked over her shoulder, flipping something expertly on the stove. “or are you still running on teenage love fumes?”

paige was unfortunately mid-sip on her second cup of coffee.

so she choked.

again.

azzi stifled a laugh, blinking innocently over the rim of her mug, fighting a smug smile as she leaned into paige just slightly.

paige coughed as azzi pat her back lightly, “i think i’m good, but thank you, mrs. fudd.”

“katie,” her mom corrected with a smirk. “i think you’ve officially more than earned the first-name basis after stealing my daughter’s heart.”

“she did not steal it,” azzi muttered, her blush betraying her. “i practically gift-wrapped it.”

paige ignored her muttering, grinning proudly while tim came around the island to help plate the eggs katie was cooking up, “you deserve it. azzi’s had a line of admirers since she was like eleven. i still remember that one kid who used to write her love poems during middle school lunch. what was his name? milo?”

“dad,” azzi groaned, dropping her head to the table. “why, genuinely why.”

paige’s head whipped around. “who?”

“it was fifth grade!” azzi protested. “he stood on the bench and serenaded me. with choreo. i ran.”

paige’s eyes widened with delight, nearly sliding off her stool from laughing. “you’re telling me you got serenaded at eleven? and i thought i was down bad.”

“you are,” azzi side eyed her, taking a bite of her cinnamon roll.

katie tossed a dish towel toward her daughter. “and you’re no better. you made heart eyes over her every night on facetime for who knows how many years straight.”

azzi’s giggled with a light blush, not bothering to deny her mother’s claim. she only smiled, soft and unguarded, her hand sneaking under the table to gently brush against paige’s. it wasn’t obvious — not really — just a quiet graze, a silent i’m here. i like this. i like you. and when paige responded by curling her pinky around azzi’s, she didn’t let go.

and as the laughter mellowed and the morning settled into a rhythm — dishes clinking softly, the smell of fresh coffee lingering in the air — paige gently reached over and laced her fingers fully with azzi’s beneath the table. no hesitation this time. just quiet certainty.

azzi squeezed back, her thumb brushing softly over paige’s knuckles. her smile was relaxed, almost dreamy, eyes cast downward as if she could feel every single point of contact magnified tenfold.

no teasing.

no hiding.

no maybe.

just yes.

yes, this was happening.

yes, this was right.

yes, this was hers.

[writeriguess]

Hello there!

I was wondering If you could make a bakugo x fem reader fanfic where the reader is 8 months pregnant with their first child and the reader is visiting katsukis mother and father since katsukis is on a mission.

But little bakugo wanted to come early so in the middle of a conversation the readers water breaks and mitsuki has trouble with contacting katsuki.

Sorry if this is too much to ask! Delete it if you're not comfortable writing it or if this was a vialation of the rules!

Anyways! I really love your writing and k hope you could write this fic❤️

A Little Early

A warm breeze drifted through the open window, rustling the curtains as you sat comfortably on the couch in the Bakugo household. Mitsuki, ever the vibrant and blunt woman, sat across from you with a cup of tea in her hands, her sharp eyes softening just a bit as she looked at your swollen belly.

"Damn, brat. You're really about to pop, huh?" she teased, taking a sip of her tea. Masaru chuckled from his spot beside her, shaking his head at his wife’s lack of filter.

You let out a small laugh, rubbing your stomach gently. "Yeah, only about a month left… hopefully."

Mitsuki snorted. "Hopefully? Trust me, giving birth isn’t a damn cakewalk. That little gremlin is going to come when they damn well please. Just like their dad."

You smiled fondly at the mention of Katsuki, your heart aching a little. He was on a mission and had been for the past few weeks, leaving you to handle the final stretch of your pregnancy alone. Well, not entirely alone. His parents had been kind enough to check in on you, and today, you decided to visit them for a change of scenery.

Everything was going well—until it wasn’t.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through your lower abdomen, making you suck in a breath. Before you could process it, a warm gush of liquid pooled between your legs.

Mitsuki’s eyes widened. "Oh, shit."

Masaru immediately stood up, his usual calm demeanor replaced with mild panic. "I-Is it—"

"Yeah, it is!" you gasped, wincing as another contraction rippled through you. "My water just broke!"

Mitsuki jumped up, already grabbing her phone. "Alright, don’t freak out. Breathe. We’re gonna get you to a hospital."

As she dialed Katsuki’s number, you clenched your teeth, gripping the couch’s armrest. Your baby was coming early, and you weren’t sure if Katsuki would even make it back in time.

Mitsuki cursed under her breath as the call went straight to voicemail. "Damn it, Katsuki! Pick up!" She tried again and again, but there was no response.

Masaru was already grabbing the hospital bag you had brought with you just in case. "I'll start the car!"

"Mitsuki, what do we do?" you panted, fear creeping into your voice.

Mitsuki put her hands on her hips, determined fire in her eyes. "We get you to the hospital, and when that idiot finally checks his phone, he'll be sprinting his ass over here faster than he's ever moved in his life."

You let out a shaky breath, gripping Mitsuki’s arm as she helped you up. Another contraction hit, and you swore under your breath. Your little one was not going to wait.

Mitsuki muttered a string of curses as she helped you out the door, Masaru right behind her with your bag. The drive to the hospital was a blur of pain and hurried reassurances from Mitsuki. "You're doing fine, brat. Just breathe. Katsuki's going to lose his damn mind when he finds out he missed this."

As the hospital came into view, you gritted your teeth against another contraction, your fingers gripping the seatbelt tightly. "I need him here, Mitsuki…"

"I know," she murmured, sparing you a rare look of genuine softness. "And he'll be here. One way or another."

The nurses were quick to admit you, wheeling you into a delivery room as Masaru stayed behind to handle the paperwork. Mitsuki refused to leave your side, barking at the medical staff to move faster, her usual sharp tongue unfiltered.

Meanwhile, somewhere far away, Katsuki was wrapping up his mission, exhaustion clinging to his bones. It wasn’t until his communicator buzzed repeatedly that he finally fished it out of his pocket, irritation flashing across his face—until he saw Mitsuki’s name.

His heart skipped a beat. "What the hell—"

The moment he answered, Mitsuki’s voice practically exploded through the speaker. "Where the hell have you been, dumbass!? Your kid’s coming early, and your wife is already at the hospital!"

Katsuki froze. His brain took a full three seconds to process the words before his instincts kicked in. "Shit! I'm coming!" He was already sprinting toward the transport vehicle before the call even ended, barking orders at the crew to get him back as fast as possible.

Back at the hospital, your contractions were getting closer together, sweat beading your forehead as Mitsuki squeezed your hand. "You're doing good, kid. I swear, if Katsuki doesn't show up in time, I'll make him change every single diaper for the next year."

You let out a weak laugh, wincing as another wave of pain hit. "Deal."

Just as the nurses started urging you to push, the door flew open, and a disheveled, frantic Katsuki burst in, still in his mission gear, breathing heavily. His eyes immediately locked onto you, wide with a mixture of panic and relief.

"Shit—I'm here! I'm here!" he shouted, rushing to your side.

Mitsuki smirked. "Took you long enough, dumbass. Now get over here and hold her damn hand."

Katsuki grabbed your hand, pressing his forehead against yours as he whispered, "I’m so sorry I wasn't here sooner. I love you. Both of you."

Through the haze of pain, you smiled. "Just in time, Katsuki… just in time."

And with that, you bore down, knowing that your little one was about to enter the world—right into the arms of the man who would love them more than anything.

[eternalxvenus]

༻ room for one more? ༺

summary: after many failed dates, you begin to give up on the dating scene until Sarah and John B give you an interesting proposal.

cw: smut 18+, sarah x f!reader x john b, threesome, oral (f and m receiving), face sitting, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, praise, p in v, unprotected sex, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, good girl, baby), brief drug use, lmk if i missed any!

wc: 3.6k

notes: thank you to the lovely @juniebugg for giving me this amazing idea, i loved writing it and hope i did it justice 🙏🏽

☆ obx masterlist ☆

The sun was setting but the day was still hot, a soft wind tickling your skin. You were lying on your towel, opting to enjoy the last few rays of the sun with Kie. JJ, Pope, John B, Cleo, and Sarah were all in the water swimming and playing around. You all had a rough week for different reasons and so JJ called for a mandatory beach day.

As you dozed in and out, listening to the sound of the waves, Kie nudged your side softly. "So... how is the whole dating thing coming along?"

Even though she was genuinely curious, you couldn't help the sting of embarrassment as you tried not to groan. "Not so great. I have a date with Kelce tomorrow, but I'm not over the moon excited." You turned to look at Kie through your sunglasses with a tight smile. "If this one doesn't work out, I'm giving up."

Her nose scrunched up in mild disapproval. "Kelce? I didn't think you'd go for someone in that circle.

Truth be told, you usually wouldn't. Even though the whole Kooks vs Pogues thing isn't as relevant anymore, some Kooks were still stuck in their old ways. "Me either. He came up to me and started a conversation at the boneyard a couple nights ago and asked for my number. Now we suddenly have a date at the country club," you sighed with a shrug.

"Even if it doesn't go well, don't stress it. You don't have to push a relationship anytime soon– you're still young."

You sat up and turned onto your back, deciding to take a nap while you could. "Easy for you to say. You have JJ, Cleo has Pope, and Sarah has John B. I'm the odd one out." Kie gave you a solemn smile but didn't say anything else, which you were thankful for.

A few hours later, everyone was out of the water, and the wind picked up leaving goosebumps on their wet skin. While everyone was drying off, Kie woke you up and said it was time to go.

You asked John B to take you home because you had plans tomorrow. As everyone laughed and joked around with one another, you couldn't bring yourself to be in a cheerful mood knowing they each had their special person within the group.

Once you were home, you immediately took a warm shower to try and let the warm water relax you. It did somewhat, but it didn't stop your brain from overthinking. After what felt like hours of tossing and turning in bed, one melatonin later, you finally were able to fall asleep and stay asleep.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱✩•̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

The room was unbearably hot when you woke up. You flung the covers off you as you wiped the light sheen of sweat from your forehead. You'd left the window open, and your AC wasn't on. With an irritated groan, you got up and closed the window. Wanting to cool down your room as quick as possible, you turned the AC on as low as it could go.

You checked your phone and saw a few missed messages.

Kie: have fun on your date, lmk how it goes!

Sarah: if you aren't busy later come swing by the chateau :)

Kelce: morning, i'll be there at 1 to pick you up for lunch. can't wait to see you.

You sent in your replies and got ready for your date with Kelce. Light makeup and a cute but simple white dress. As you grabbed it from your closet, you saw the red dress you shoved in the back with the price tag still attached. You'd bought it impulsively while shopping with the girls one day but had never worn it. 

It was a mid-thigh deep cherry red with a slit and showed off your cleavage perfectly—according to Sarah, at least. It had never seen the outside of your closet, no matter how many times your friends tried to make you wear it. You never felt like you could truly pull it off.

There were five minutes to spare when you'd finally finished up. As you were spraying your perfume a text from Kelce came in letting you know he was outside. You grabbed your purse and met him outside, where he sat in his car.

A small sigh left your lips. He didn't bother to meet you at the door. Perhaps he wasn't the gentleman type. You got into his expensive car, the leather seat cool from the AC blasting on high.

"Ready to go?" He asked, giving you a once over. You nodded softly and gave him a small smile. Neither of you spoke much the entire ride there. You sat on your phone checking social media, playing games, anything to pass the time.

Kelce parked in front of the country club and beckoned you to follow him. He led you to the outdoor patio that connected to a restaurant. After a waiter sat you both and you ordered drinks, Kelce started the conversation.

"So, is this your first time at the country club?."

"Uh... yeah, it is."

"What do you think of it?" he said, taking a sip of the drink that had been placed in front of him.

You shrugged, "It's nice, I can see why people come here." There was a beat of silence and you knew this date wasn't going to be the best.

"Honestly, I'm surprised we're here right now. I never thought I'd be taking a pogue on a date at the country club. But you're really hot, so I've got no complaints."

His statement made you internally roll your eyes. "Right..."

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱✩•̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

You were back home, feet aching slightly from your shoes, and the heat was making you feel groggy and gross. The date was not good. All Kelce could talk about was himself, the kook life, and how he wanted to bring you to a party at Topper's next week. You declined. He also made slick remarks about you being a pogue which pissed you off.

You: hey sarah, i'll be over in a bit.

She sent a thumbs to your message. You got in your car and made your way to the chateau. When you pulled up, you saw John B out by the deck. 

Inside you could see Sarah walking around so you went in to greet her.

"Hey, I'm here," you said knocking on the door as you walked inside. 

"Hey! Glad you could make it." She sat the plates she was holding into the cabinet and motioned for you to sit. She came over and sat next to you on the couch as you both got comfortable. "Kie mentioned you had a date… how did it go?"

You picked at your nails and shook your head. "Not too great."

Sarah hummed sympathetically. "Well, Kelce isn’t as interesting as he makes himself out to be." You both laughed as you nodded in agreement.

You laid back on the couch letting your head fall back. "When is everyone else coming?" assuming Sarah or John B had something planned for everyone tonight.

"Actually, I only invited you. John B and I wanted to talk to you about something," she sighed. You felt nervousness bloom in your stomach as she stood up. "I'm gonna go get John B, just sit tight."

While waiting for them to come back your mind was wandering, not sure what could be so important that they had to talk to you together and in person. The door swung open and Sarah walked back in with John B right behind her. No one spoke as they pulled up two chairs and sat in front of you on the couch. John B gave a soft smile which helped your nerves just a little.

"Okay so," Sarah spoke up. "We weren't really sure how to go about this so just bear with me here. You're one of our best friends and we've spent a lot of time together over the years..."

You could hear your heart beating in your ears, almost drowning out Sarah's voice. Please don't tell me they don't want to be friends anymore, you thought to yourself.

"Anyways, me and John B have been talking. We both find you attractive obviously. And we wanted to invite you to bed with us! Like a threesome." Sarah had a smile on her face and your eyes widened.

"W-what? You want to have a threesome? With me?" They both nodded.

"Basically, me and Sarah had been talking and we asked each other who we'd want to hook up with if we were single. To our surprise we both said you, so we figured why not just ask."

Your face felt burning hot with shyness and embarrassment. You'd only had sex one time and it wasn't all that great. You and your boyfriend at the time had wanted to lose your virginities to each other but neither of you knew what you were doing.

Sarah's hand grabbed yours and pulled you out of your swarming thoughts. "You don't have to answer right now." She was caressing the back of your hand with her thumb reassuringly. "Go home and just think about it. We'll be waiting patiently for your answer— no pressure at all, okay?"

The air in the room felt a little less heavy. You knew they wouldn't force you or be mad if you decided not to. "Okay," you said with a small smile.

They both hugged you, walked you to your car, and waved you off home. On the ride back, all you could think about was whether you should accept or not. You weren't experienced and didn't want to disappoint them.

You were laying in bed but once again couldn't sleep. You decided to take a few hits of the weed pen JJ had given you a while back, it's lasted you a while since you only use it when you can't sleep or need to relax.

Once you felt the high encompassing your mind you laid down and closed your eyes. Your mind drifted to the thought of being in bed with Sarah and John B. With that, you fell asleep.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱✩•̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

It had been three days since your threesome invitation. You had thought about it a lot. Even though you hadn't spoken to Sarah and John B directly, you all still talked in the group chat with everyone else like normal.

It was still early in the morning when you texted Sarah.

You: hey are you and John B up yet?

20 minutes later, you got a reply.

Sarah: good morning! i am but he's still sleeping lol. what's up?

You: i've given it some thought and i wanna do this but are you sure? i'm not the most experienced when it comes to all that

Sarah: i'm so happy! thank you for trusting us and don't worry we'll both be there to guide you. are you free tonight?

You said yes and she told you to come over at 7. That gave you 11 hours to completely freak out before heading over there.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱✩•̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

The warm air from outside blew into your car as you sat outside the chateau, trying to give yourself a mini pep talk. They suggested that you come in loungewear, so you wore shorts and a cropped tank top with no bra, all things considered.

You went up and knocked on the door and waited. John B came and greeted you with a hug. He didn't hide the fact that he was taking in your body. 

"Hey, come in. Sarah's finishing up in the shower so she should be out in a few minutes." With a brief nod, you followed him inside.

It was so weird, normally the chateau felt like a second home. You'd help yourself to whatever and never felt out of place. This time it was the complete opposite. You didn't want to touch anything or sit without someone telling you to. You felt like a guest, who was visiting for the first time.

John B sensed your nervousness and gave you a smirk. "Don't get all shy now sweetheart, we haven't even started. Speaking of which, is there anything you wanna do? We could have some takeout, watch a movie, anything really."

You gave him a puzzled look. "I thought we were going to... you know."

"I love your enthusiasm," he chuckled. "We are, but Sarah and I both thought it'd be best to ease into it rather than just jump right in. We want this to be as comfortable as possible for you."

It was the little things like this that reminded you that these are your best friends. They knew you like the back of their hand and wanted this to be enjoyable for you and them. "A movie sounds nice," you said with a smile.

A little while later you were all sat on the couch watching some random movie that you'd picked. It wasn't all that good but you were still tuned in. Your eyes glanced away from the TV when you felt Sarah's hand start grazing the inside of your thigh. She was still facing forward almost as if nothing was happening. You looked back at the TV and spread your legs a little wider.

It was summer, entirely too hot for any blankets— even with the cool air of the AC blowing— so if John B looked, he'd see what was happening. The light, teasing touches went on for a few more minutes and you could feel yourself getting more and more worked up. You were ready to break the silence and ask for more until you felt John B's lips on your neck. A soft gasp slipped past your lips as your eyes fluttered closed.

"This okay?" he muttered against your neck, and you nodded. "Use your words, pretty girl."

You managed to whimper out a soft 'Yes' which encouraged them both to keep going. Sarah's hand moved higher, lightly rubbing you through your shorts. A moan slipped from your pouty lips at the contact and you tried grinding your hips against her hand for more stimulation. "Let's go to the bed," Sarah whispered.

The short walk was filled with little kisses and light touches, none of you wanted to stop even for a second. Sarah instructed you to take off your clothes and lay on the bed. She and John B did the same as she sat behind you and John B positioned himself in between your thighs.

"Fuck... your pussy is dripping." You attempt to close your legs but he has a strong grip on your thighs. "Don't try and hide yourself, I wanna see everything."

Sarah brought her hands up to massage your tits, your nipples feeling painfully hard. "John B is gonna use his mouth to make you feel good, okay?"

"Okay– oh!" He wasted no time licking a long stripe to collect your arousal on his tongue.

"How does she taste baby?" Sarah asked. You could hear the lust and neediness in her voice. "She's so fucking sweet, like candy." John B couldn't help but moan as he continued to move his tongue in and out of your hole. You felt one of Sarah's hands leave your breast to touch herself behind you. Her soft moans make you even more turned on.

John B brought his mouth to your clit and sucked hard. That was all it took to have you falling over the edge in pleasure. One hand squeezed Sarah's arm while the other tugged on John B's brown tresses. Your moans filled the room as you rode out your first orgasm of the night.

Sarah replaced your spot in front of John B and once again he wasted no time lapping at her essence. Once she reached her peak John B didn't stop he was pushing her into overstimulation and instructed you to hold her legs open.

"John B! Please– ohmygod– it's too much!" she tried to push his head away but he didn't budge until he pulled another orgasm from her. You watched in amazement as she started to squirt making a mess of the bed and his face. He wore your combined juices proudly, not bothering to wipe any of it off. 

You leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Fuck Sarah you look so hot like this, squirting all over the place, being so messy." She whimpered at your words as John B finally gave her some reprieve.

She pulled you down so your lips collided with hers in a heated bruising kiss. Her tongue swiped across your lip and made its way into your mouth massaging your tongue.

In the corner of your eye, you saw John B stroking his hard cock slowly. Sarah noticed as well and gave you a smirk. "Let's show him how thankful you are for making you cum."

John B positioned himself up against the headboard and Sarah brought you face to face with his length. "Grab the base and take him into your mouth. He likes it really messy," She whispered while keeping her gaze on him. You followed her instructions and did your best to please him.

Once you'd taken as much as you could into your mouth, a light gag leaving your throat, he groaned. "Fuuuuck, that's it, take it all in that tight little throat." You went at your own pace for a bit, then Sarah took over gagging you on his cock at a brutal pace. Your eyes watered and there was spit and drool all over your chin and his pelvis. John B's thighs tensed and without warning his load filled your throat forcing you to swallow it all. 

You coughed a bit and Sarah rubbed your back soothingly while you and John B caught his breath. "You did so good baby." She went to kiss your neck and caress your body.

The praise did things to you. "Thank you." John B pulled you against him and kissed you deeply. "Do you wanna keep going, sweetheart?" John B muttered against your lips. The room felt so hot in combination with all the body heat and the summer air. You were definitely spent, but you wanted to go again. "I want you inside, please."

He nodded and moved you down to straddle him. Sarah moved to sit on his face, facing you. She moaned, feeling his tongue on her clit again. You sink down on his length feeling completely and utterly full. Sarah pulled you in for a kiss as you rocked your hips in a slow rhythm.

The stimulation on your clit from grinding felt delicious, you knew you wouldn't last much longer. One look at Sarah and you could tell she was close too. "I wanna cum together," you whispered against her lips. "Okay, together." she nodded. John B pushed his hips up to get impossibly deeper and gave a harsh such on Sarah's clit, pushing you both over the edge.

You both collapsed onto the bed, your body completely worn out. Sarah and John B left kisses and comforting touches anywhere they could, telling you how well you did and that they were so proud. Their voices faded away as sleep overtook you.

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱✩•̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

A month after your night with Sarah and John B things couldn't have been better. You'd spent many pleasure-filled nights at the chateau. They were always showing you something new and making you feel so good. There were even times when it would be just one of them if the other was busy or not around.

You weren't expecting the text from Sarah asking you to come over considering you were just there two days ago. She asked you the wear that red dress which made you even more confused.

Walking into the chateau, not bothering to knock, you saw the table with lots of food and a candle adorning the middle of the table. "What's all this?" you questioned. John B and Sarah both turned from their spot in the kitchen and greeted you. 

"We wanted to do something special to thank you, you look beautiful by the way," he said leading you to the empty chair. They sat down at the table and you could tell something was coming up. Even Sarah looked a bit nervous. Maybe they were going to end things.

"So, we don't want to keep you here with this uncertainty. We did all these because this past month has been amazing. You've always been a great friend and I think– we think– doing this has made us incredibly closer." You nod in agreement. "We want you to be our girlfriend. We'll be an official polyamorous couple. I don't want to have to give you up to someone else and neither does Sarah. We want you to be ours and we'll be yours completely."

You felt like the wind had been sucked out of you. They wanted you to be their girlfriend. Before you could say anything Sarah chimed in. "Sorry if this seems sudden and we understand if you want to keep things how they are. You don't have to have an answer–"

"Of course I would," you cut her off with a wide smile. You could see the worry leave both of their faces. "God I love you." Sarah laughed leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek, John B following suit.

The rest of the night was spent having an amazing dinner and even better sex with your new partners. Never in a million years did you think this would be your life but you loved it and you loved them. They were your best friends and lovers wrapped in one.

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Mistaken Identity, Perfect Match

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max x reader one-shot.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

Living in Monaco had its perks—glamour, ocean views, fast cars—but love wasn't one of them. Between running your multimillion-dollar tech company and navigating the egos that came with fortune, dating had become a disheartening game of missed connections and shallow intentions. That’s why, when you were venting over drinks with Charles about how every guy either wanted your money, your mind, or a photo with your car, he’d raised his eyebrows and said, “I might know someone.”

You had squinted at him. “If this is a setup, Charles…”

He’d only smirked. “Just trust me. He’s decent. A bit… intense. But you might like that.”

That was three days ago. Now, you were standing in front of a small, quiet restaurant tucked into the hills, one of Charles’ favorites. Your black silk dress fluttered slightly in the warm coastal breeze as you checked the time again. You weren’t nervous. You didn’t get nervous. You were just… curious.

A flicker of movement caught your eye—a tall man walking toward the restaurant. Blond hair and blue eyes.

You’d seen him before. In the paddock. Interviews. On podiums. Max Verstappen.

He was Charles’ friend?

You stepped forward as he reached the entrance. “Excuse me—Max?”

He paused, jaw tight. “Can we not do this right now?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m just here to have a quiet dinner. I get you’re a fan, but can we keep this respectful?”

You were stunned. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he continued, exasperated. “I just want some privacy tonight.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “I’m not—” But he had already walked past you into the restaurant.

Your mouth hung slightly open before you pulled out your phone and called Charles.

“Hey, is your friend here?” you asked, still trying to recover.

“Yeah, he just arrived,” Charles said. “He should be at the table now. Far corner, near the window.”

You lowered your phone slowly and turned to follow the same path Max had taken. You walked in, scanned the tables, and froze.

There he was. Max. Sitting at a table for two, phone to his ear, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

His eyes met yours. For a second, confusion danced across his face—until, slowly, as if the pieces were clicking into place, his expression changed.

You didn’t need to hear the call to know exactly what Charles was saying on the other end.

Max was your date.

His mouth parted slightly as he stood up, still holding the phone, lowering it slowly. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms as you reached the table.

“Well,” you said, unimpressed. “Are you always this charming, or did I just catch you on an off day?”

He winced, slipping his phone into his pocket and rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. I… might owe you a massive apology.”

You sat down, cool and composed. “You might?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “I thought you were a fan.”

“I was trying to be polite,” you said. “Now I’m just curious why Charles thought this would be a good idea.”

Max let out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “Yesterday, after the race, I had a really bad encounter with this woman who followed me into the hotel lobby, tried to grab my arm for a selfie, and when I told her to stop, she screamed and told security I pushed her.” He shook his head. “I’ve just been… on edge. It’s not an excuse. I just… I guess I reacted without thinking.”

You watched him. He looked genuinely remorseful. Not the arrogant persona people always complained about online.

“Well, Charles wasn't wrong about the intense part,” you muttered, and he laughed—quiet, but real.

“Can we start over?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Hi, I’m Max. I was a massive jerk five minutes ago, but I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head. “I’m Y/N. I’m not a fan. I’m a CEO.”

That made him smile. “Now I’m intimidated.”

You smirked. “Good.”

The tension eased a little as you ordered food, the conversation gradually flowing into safer territory—Charles’ terrible matchmaking track record, your ridiculous schedules, your mutual love for sushi.

Max was sharp, surprisingly funny, and attentive. He asked about your company with genuine interest, and when you teased him about being grumpy, he actually took it with grace.

You sip your wine as the tension between you and Max begins to thin, your mutual sarcasm slowly giving way to something warmer. There’s a brief lull in conversation as the waiter sets down your dinner: fresh pasta with truffle for you, a steak for him.

“So,” you say, twirling your fork, “besides offending innocent women at restaurants, what else do you do in your free time?”

He chuckles, dropping his knife for a second. “Mostly racing. Some sim racing. A lot of travel. Honestly, it’s not that exciting outside the paddock.”

You raise a brow. “No hobbies? No scandalous side projects?”

Max leans back, crossing his arms. “I actually spend most of my free time at home with my cats.”

You blink. “You have cats?”

He nods, suddenly looking… almost proud.

“No way.” You grin. “I have two.”

His eyes light up a little. “Seriously?”

You nod. “One’s a Russian Blue named Nero. The other is a street rescue. A total diva. Her name’s Cleo.”

Max’s smile softens. “I have three. Sassy’s the boss, obviously.”

You laugh. “Cleo once locked me out of my own office by lying across the biometric scanner. I had to call tech support to override it.”

Max snorts. “I had to cancel a video interview once because Minoes decided to take a nap on my laptop and overheated the whole thing. The PR guy was not amused.”

“Finally, someone who understands the struggles of working under feline dictatorship,” you say, grinning.

He leans forward a little, playful now. “Do yours do that thing where they ignore you all day but decide to scream into the void at 3 a.m.?”

“Every night,” you say. “I think mine are plotting something. Like a slow coup.”

“Same,” Max agrees. “It’s definitely a coup.”

For the first time since you sat down, the conversation flows effortlessly. You talk about the weird places your cats like to sleep (his: on the kitchen counter; yours: inside your gym bag), share stories about your worst vet visits, and discover you both have the same obsession with those ridiculous cat treat-dispensing puzzles that never actually work.

“You know,” you say, sipping the last of your wine, “this date got significantly better once we started talking about cats.”

Max smiles, a bit softer now. “Yeah. I think that’s when I officially stopped being an asshole.”

You laugh. “There was a brief window before that too. Right after you didn’t run away screaming.”

“I considered it,” he teases. “But then you sat down like you owned the restaurant, and I was too scared to move.”

You tilt your head, feigning modesty. “It’s the CEO energy.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed now. “It’s working.”

You glance at him, his eyes no longer hidden behind defensiveness. And just like that, the earlier awkwardness feels far away—like a bad prelude to something surprisingly enjoyable.

As dessert arrives, Max picks up his spoon and glances at you.

“Thanks for staying,” he says quietly. “After the way I acted… you really didn’t have to.”

You pause. “I almost didn’t. But then I remembered Charles has terrible taste in wine, not people. So I figured I’d give it one course.”

He smirks. “And now we’re at dessert.”

“Guess you passed the test,” you tease, stabbing a spoonful of tiramisu.

He pretends to sigh in relief. “I’ll alert the cats that the mission was a success.”

Maybe, just maybe, Charles had been right after all.