#been a while but its a good warm up every time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wonyowonyo · 3 days ago

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Shot Clock (P. Sohyun X M! Reader)

a hot-headed filipino streetballer and a cold, calculated korean captain clash on and off the court, but when a high-stakes bet threatens everything, their game turns into something dangerously close to love.

w.c: 18.6k

genre: fluff

a/n: this was requested by @theeeeerealllll, a wonderful reader of mine. honestly, i was really pumped writing this one as it’s my first in a while after months of not writing, and somehow it ended up being my longest oneshot yet. i didn’t expect it to go this far, but after weeks of chipping away at it, here we are. i’ve also been meaning to get into tripleS for a bit now, so this request couldn’t have come at a better time. anyway, i’ll stop yapping and let yall dive in. as always, hope you enjoy it—and i’ll see yall in the next one!

The air in Seoul didn’t hug you. It slapped. Dry, sharp, and cold in a way that sank into your bones instead of your skin. Y/N stepped off the shuttle, one foot on the pavement, the other still somewhere back in Manila.

He squints against the pale light, the skyline of Dong Seoul University rising ahead, glass towers and iron gates, all gleaming like they were scrubbed by angels. Elite doesn’t even cover it. It’s a world that screams you don’t belong. He wore his blue hair like a flag—unruly, electric, unapologetic. Students in crisp DSU jackets glance his way, their eyes lingering on his faded sneakers, the patched duffel slung over his shoulder. He flashes a grin—half cocky, half armor—and keeps walking.

He gripped the frayed strap of his duffel bag and adjusted it on his shoulder. The bag had a hand-stitched patch sewn near the zipper, letters faded to near nothing:

“Barangay 143 Champs ‘18”

Below it, a faded Nike swoosh, half-peeled from years of Manila sun.

He could still see it: dusk in the barangay, him dodging a defender twice his size, the ball arcing clean through the hoop as his cousin hollered, “That’s my boy!” That grainy clip, shot on a shaky phone, had blown up online, landing him a spot on Dong Seoul University’s co-ed basketball team. Coach Kim had seen something in him: raw, unpolished, but real. Now, Y/N was here, a streetballer with quick feet and a chip on his shoulder, ready to prove he belonged.

The campus is a sensory assault. Korean chatter hums around him, fast and slippery, words he can’t grab onto. Signs in hangeul line the tiled walkways, their bold strokes mocking his ignorance. A “No Loitering” poster glares from a lamppost, and he snorts.

The campus looked like a rendered simulation—every sidewalk was geometric, every dorm window reflected the same pale light. There were no stray dogs, no kids playing tumbang preso barefoot near the gate, no blaring jeepney horns. Just... symmetry and chill.

His fingers graze the woven bracelet on his wrist, its frayed threads a gift from his grandmother. It’s the only thing here that feels like home. Y/N exhaled, muttering under his breath.

“Tangina… this place is like a museum.”

He slipped his phone from his hoodie pocket, screen cracked, two bars of signal. A single name sat pinned at the top of his contacts: Lola. He pressed call.

It only rang once.

“Anak! Did you eat?” her voice came through, crackly but warm, like a worn-out vinyl playing the same lullaby it always had.

“Not yet,” Y/N grinned. “Still trying to figure out if I landed in the right country.”

“You brought the rosary?”

“Wrapped around my socks.”

“Good. That’ll keep your feet light. Don’t forget to stretch.”

“You sound like Coach Tony.”

“Coach Tony didn’t raise you.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. The familiar Manila noise buzzed faintly in the background—vendors shouting, roosters, the low hum of tricycles zipping down narrow streets. It made his chest ache and warm at once.

“You better eat, ha? Don’t starve yourself. You play better full.”

“I will, Lola. Promise.”

“And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Lagi mong dala ‘yang puso mo, anak.” (Always carry your heart with you, my child.)

He closed his eyes for a beat. Then ended the call.

A breeze whipped through the quad and reminded him: Seoul wasn’t going to wait for him to catch up.

---

The memory hits like a fast break. Eleven-year-old Y/N, barefoot, dances across a cracked barangay court in Manila, the sun torching his skin. His shirt clings, soaked with sweat, as he grips a duct-taped basketball, its seams splitting like an overripe mango. The hoop—a coconut board nailed to a splintered pole—sways in the humid breeze. Neighbors crowd the sidelines, perched on rusted gates or leaning against sari-sari store walls, their cheers a chaotic symphony of jeers and hollers. Every miss gets a laugh; every make gets a roar.

A lanky teen opponent looms over him, all elbows and trash talk. “Maliit ka pa, bata! Go home!” (You're still too small kid, Go Home!) he sneers in Tagalog, smirking through crooked teeth. Y/N’s eyes glint, undaunted. He jukes left, fakes right, spins past in a blur of wiry limbs. The ball arcs high, kisses the coconut board with a dull thwack—swish. The crowd erupts, aunties waving their fans, kids jumping on crates. Y/N grins, blood trickling from a busted lip. He doesn’t wipe it away. The sting feels like victory.

The memory dissolves, and Y/N’s back in the present, stepping out of the dorm elevator. Polished walls reflect his blue hair, his mismatched hoodie, his scuffed sneakers. The silence is deafening, no echo of Manila’s chaos. He adjusts his duffel, the bracelet tight against his wrist. The past and present are worlds apart, and he’s standing in the gap.

---

Dong Seoul University’s indoor gym didn’t smell like basketball. Not the kind he knew.

The DSU gym doors swing open, and Y/N stops dead, breath catching. The court gleams under LED lights, hardwood so pristine it looks like it’s never bled sweat. High-tech hoops gleam, their nets crisp and white. Digital scoreboards blink zeroes. The air’s too clean, too cold, like a hospital room. It echoed too cleanly. No thump of sandals on concrete. No bark of a neighbor’s dog running into the court mid-play. No smoke curling from a nearby tindahan.

It was all sterile perfection—and he hated it.

Y/N stepped onto the hardwood, looking up at the banners hanging like royalty overhead. His footsteps tapped too sharply. The squeak of rubber soles echoed back at him like it didn’t want him there.

He muttered in Tagalog, half to himself, half to the court:

“Walang kaluluwa...” (No soul.)

He crouched, placed a hand on the floor. Smooth as ice. No scuffs, no cracks. Just the kind of pristine surface that felt like it would reject him on principle.

The rest of the team was already there, going through warmups with robotic precision—passing drills, layup lines, zero wasted movement. The kind of basketball that looked good on diagrams.

Y/N pulled out his own ball. Not regulation, not new. It had Manila streets embedded in its grip. Dirt from four barangays. Rubber scuffed thin. He bounces the ball once, testing it. The rebound’s too perfect, no wobble, no fight. He started dribbling low, working into a slow rhythm—bounce-cross, behind-the-back, spin-step. No formation. Just instinct.

A few players glanced his way.

“He brought his own ball?”

“Check the hair, bro. He came to be seen.”

Y/N ignored them, switched to one-foot floaters—streetball mechanics. Ugly to some. Survival to him.

“Keep talking, bro. Wait till I’m on the court.” He drops into a stretch, knees bent, arms loose, his body swaying like he’s about to break ankles on a barangay court. Let’s see what you got.

Coach Kim’s voice cuts through the gym like a whistle, barking orders in rapid Korean. “Line three! Blocking drill! Move!” The words hit Y/N like a dodgeball, fast and unintelligible. He freezes, scanning the court, trying to decode the chaos. Players hustle into position, their movements a blur. A stocky teammate hisses, “Newbie, move!” and jabs a finger toward a line. Y/N bolts, but he’s off, dodging to the wrong side. A shoulder bumps him—light, but pointed—sending him stumbling over a cone.

“My bad, bro,” he calls in English, hands raised, his grin half-apology, half-defiance. The team exchanges looks, eyebrows raised. The buzzcut guy smirks, leaning toward his friend. “Tourist.”

Y/N’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into fists. He mutters in Tagalog, “Sige lang. Isang laro lang, tapos tahimik kayong lahat.” Go ahead. One game, and you’ll all shut up. He shakes it off, lining up again, eyes sharp. The court’s a battlefield, and he’s not here to lose.

Then the door swung open again, and for a split second, time bent.

Park Sohyun walked in like she didn’t have to announce herself, because the room did it for her.

Every player snapped into alignment. Even Coach Kim stopped talking mid-sentence. She wore a black DSU hoodie, sleeves rolled up. Her expression was unreadable, calm but cold, like someone who'd already measured the room and found it lacking.

She looked… untouchable.

“Who’s that?” Y/N asked, his voice low but not soft.

One of the guys in line beside him, a stocky shooting guard, didn’t even glance over.

“That’s Park Sohyun.”

“Is she the coach’s assistant?”

“No. She’s the captain.”

“That girl?”

“That assassin.”

Y/N turned back to her. She was stretching now. Not the performative kind, no bouncing or over-the-top arm flails. Just a quiet roll of her shoulder, a twist of her torso, like someone tuning a machine.

Their eyes met for half a second. That was all.

Sohyun’s eyes flick toward Y/N, catching his blue hair, his mismatched gear, the bandage on his knuckle. Her gaze is a scalpel, cool, assessing, slicing him open in a second.

And then she dismissed him.

Just turned away and kept stretching.

Y/N blinked, grinned to himself.

“Nice to meet you too.”

---

Coach Kim claps, sharp and final. “Three-on-three! Let’s go!”

They paired him against her. Because of course they did.

3-on-3. Open-court scrimmage. Sohyun’s team in white. Y/N’s in black.

The whistle blew and tension thickened. From the first pass, it was clear—they weren’t just different players. They were different philosophies.

Sohyun played like geometry. She flowed through sharp angles, her body always in the right place, her passes never flashy but always fatal. She ran the floor like a conductor, snapping out commands in quick Korean phrases, and her teammates moved like they were tethered to her.

Y/N? He moved like a song with a skipping beat. Dribbling low, changing pace without warning, slipping through gaps that hadn’t existed a second ago. His footwork was ugly on purpose—staggered steps, delayed crosses, jump stops no one expected.

It wasn’t clean. But it worked.

He snags a rebound, spins past a defender, and lofts a floater off the glass—high arc, pure streetball. It drops, and the gym hums, a few players nudging each other. “Lucky shot,” someone mutters.

Y/N catches Sohyun’s eye across the court. Her lips are a flat line, but her gaze narrows, annoyed, like his chaos is a personal insult. He winks, just to mess with her.

She responds with a play so sharp it cuts. She fakes a drive, pulls back, and drains another jumper, her hair snapping as she lands. The bench claps, disciplined. Y/N laughs under his breath, shaking his head. Alright, Captain. Let’s dance.

The first time he drove past Sohyun on a fake-out spin and hit a one-handed scoop that arced just over her outstretched hand, the bench gasped. The ball hit the backboard, then rolled in off the rim.

Y/N landed on one knee and grinned at her over his shoulder.

She didn’t flinch. Just backpedaled to receive the inbound, stone-faced.

Next possession.

He tried again—this time more direct. Hard dribble left. Sohyun anticipated the lane.

Y/N turned on a dime—misstep. His heel slipped on a slick patch of sweat near the free-throw line.

His balance blew out from under him.

Impact.

They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Bodies collided, not gracefully—hard. His chest crashed into hers. She hit the floor with a grunt, and his elbow grazed her ribs, before it thunked off the polished wood with a dull, echoing smack.

Y/N groaned.

And realized, too late…he was on top of her.

Dead silence.

Her hairl fans out across the hardwood, black strands stark against the shine. His heart jackhammers, not just from the play. Her warmth seeps through his thin shirt, and for a moment, the world narrows to the press of her body, the sharp scent of her sweat and something faintly floral.

Every sneaker squeak in the gym paused. Someone dropped a water bottle. A freshman audibly whispered, “Oh, shit.”

Sohyun stared up at him, eyes wide. Not with surprise. With fury.

Then came the voice. Cold and razor-sharp.

“미친놈아.” (You crazy bastard.)

The Korean hits Y/N like a jab, unfamiliar but unmistakable in its venom.

He blinks, scrambling to his knees, his grin reflexive, shaky. “...Was that a thank you?” His voice is light, teasing, but his face burns, embarrassment creeping up his neck. He didn’t mean to crash into her—swear to God. But the way she’s glaring, he might as well have planned it.

Wrong answer.

Sohyun shoved him off—not playfully. Full arm to the chest, legs kicking, getting him off her like a wasp.

Y/N scrambled up, palms out. “I slipped. I swear to God. That wasn’t—”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him again.

She picked up the ball, tossed it to the bench, and walked off the court.

The air’s thick, every eye on Y/N. The buzzcut guy from earlier smirks, muttering to his teammate, “Rookie’s got a death wish.”

Coach Kim didn’t even blow the whistle. He just sighed and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “...Here we go again.”

---

The gym emptied in waves. Players filing out in pairs, joking, stretching, grabbing protein bars from their bags. Coach left early. Sohyun vanished the second the scrimmage ended.

Y/N stayed behind.

His ass hurt. His pride, too.

By now the gym is a ghost town, half the lights dimmed, casting long shadows across the hardwood. Y/N’s alone, barefoot, the cool floor a faint echo of Manila’s concrete. He spins the ball on his finger, a lazy whirl, the hum of it steadying his pulse. His ribs still throb, but he’s not here to nurse bruises. He’s here to move. He dribbles low, weaving imaginary defenders, then lofts a street-style floater,high arc, kissing the glass. Swish. The net ripples, the sound sharp in the quiet.

After a solid minute of hooping, He sat cross-legged near the center circle, hoodie tossed beside him, spinning the ball lazily on one finger. The lights above buzzed softly, an almost peaceful hum if you ignored how much of a disaster the day had been.

He stared up at the ceiling.

“First scrimmage,” he muttered. “Crush a screen. Spin past defenders. Then go full WWE on the team captain.”

He spun the ball again. Let it drop. Caught it.

“Solid debut.”

Footsteps.

He turned.

Sohyun.

She had her bag on her shoulder, loose hair strands clinging to her cheeks from sweat. Her face was unreadable, but she was walking past him, not toward him.

He called out.

“Hey.”

She slowed. Just slightly.

“Sorry 'bout earlier,” he said, keeping it casual. “I slipped. Swear to God.”

She barely glances at him, her expression cold as the court. She didn’t reply and instead took three steps away, and then—“Learn the plays.” Her voice is clipped, each word a deliberate cut.

He blinked. “That your way of saying you forgive me?”

Still walking.

He steps closer, the ball tucked under his arm, his grin widening to hide the sting. “You could say ‘thank you’ for the entertainment. I mean, I did make the bench gasp.”

She stopped.

Turned.

Took two steps back toward him. Her eyes weren’t cold. They weren’t angry, either.

They were cutting. Exact.

“You’re not here to entertain,” she says, her voice low, deliberate. “You’re here to earn.”

He closes the gap, just a step, his sneakers silent on the hardwood. “I’ll earn it when you stop looking at me like I’m some tourist.”

A pause.

Longer than he expected.

Then her gaze sharpens. “Then stop acting like one.” She holds his stare, and for a moment, the gym shrinks to just them, the hum of the lights, the faint lo-fi beat leaking from her earbud, the heat of her defiance. Her lips part, like she might say more, but she turns instead, walking away, her steps steady, unyielding.

Y/N watches her go, his breath escaping in a slow huff. He looked at the door she disappeared through. Then at the court. Then said, to no one in particular:

“Okay, That was kinda hot.”

---

Weeks had passed since he’d crashed into Sohyun like a runaway train, and he was starting to feel the rhythm of Dong Seoul’s co-ed team. Seoul’s neon glow seeped through the gym’s windows, a far cry from the cracked concrete courts of his Philippine barrio, where games were all sweat, shouts, and streetlights. He’d gotten better at catching the team’s Korean—still a bit slippery with slang, but he could hold his own now, piecing together plays and banter without tripping too hard.

The morning light pours through the high gym windows, slicing through the faint haze of dust motes like a spotlight on a stage. The court gleams, freshly waxed, its hardwood so pristine it reflects Y/N’s silhouette as he steps across the baseline. It’s too clean, too perfect, a far cry from the courts he had ever played on. He shifts his weight, his worn sneakers squeaking, a loud protest in the quiet.

Coach Kim’s voice broke the silence before Y/N had both feet past the line.

“Y/N. Park Sohyun.”

Y/N’s step stuttered, his duffel half-slung over his shoulder. Sohyun, already mid-stretch on the sideline, doesn’t flinch. Strands of her hair swings as she straightens, her DSU hoodie pristine, her calves taut as she balances on one leg.

“You two,” Coach said, pacing in front of the assembled team, “are now married. Until further notice.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the team. Y/N’s grin twitches, but Sohyun’s face is stone, her jaw a tight line. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t acknowledge the chuckles.

Coach ignored the laughter. “He learns the system, or he doesn’t play. And you—” he looked at Sohyun, “—make sure he does.”

Sohyun looked like she was chewing glass. Her jaw ticks, a single pulse of tension. She nods, sharp and silent, but her fingers curl into her palms as her knuckles whitened.

Y/N raised his hand halfway, like a student in a class he didn’t sign up for. “Just to clarify, are we talking married-married, or like..training montage married?”

The team’s laughter spikes, but Coach’s glare shuts it down. He doesn’t answer, just blows his whistle, a shrill command that echoes off the rafters. Y/N drops his hand, muttering, “Cool. No pressure.”

Sohyun was already walking toward the half-court line. She didn’t wait to see if he followed, yet her posture was a silent order to do so. Y/N jogs after her, his sneakers scuffing the floor

She barked something fast and clipped in Korean. Something about spacing. Y/N caught maybe one word—"geori," which he was pretty sure meant “distance.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he muttered, catching up to her. “We’ve got emotional distance. That’s healthy.”

She doesn’t respond, just points at his feet. Another burst of Korean—something-something stuff "pivot,” he thinks, catching the word’s shape. Y/N raised his hands. “Look, can I get that in subtitles?”

She sighed through her nose, stepped forward, and grabbed his ankle—not rough, but firm. She shifts his foot outward, her touch quick but deliberate, then pushes his shoulder to adjust his stance. Her fingers linger for a half-second, cool against his sweat-damp shirt, and his pulse skips, caught off guard.

He blinks, his grin reflexive. “You know we just met, right?”

Her eyes flick up, cool and unamused, but she doesn’t answer. She repositions his other foot, steps back, and gestures for the drill to start. Y/N sighs, rolling his shoulders.

“Right. Romance is dead.”

The whistle blows again, and the court comes alive, players darting, balls bouncing, sneakers screeching. Y/N follows Sohyun’s lead, but it’s like trying to read a book in a language he barely knows. Her commands are sharp, her movements a blueprint he can’t follow. He’s a beat behind, his instincts screaming to break free, to dance through the play like he did back home. But her eyes are on him, and they’re not forgiving.

They moved into a give-and-go drill. Sohyun set it up precisely. Markers. Angles. Elbows tucked. Every cut measured in math.

Y/N, though, plays like a melody with no sheet music, all instinct and improvisation. He fakes left, spins right, and throws a no-look pass behind his back, the ball arcing high, a streetball flourish that feels like home.

It landed, technically. is teammate fumbles the catch, the rhythm off, the play stuttering. Sohyun snags the ball mid-bounce, her grip tight, and whips it back at him, hard enough to sting his palm. The slap of leather echoes, and the team pauses, heads turning.

“Don’t freestyle,” she snaps, her voice low but cutting, each word a deliberate strike. Her eyes are fire, not ice now, burning with frustration.

Y/N shakes out his hand, the sting lingering. “But it worked.”

“You broke spacing.” She steps closer, her sneakers silent, her posture rigid. “You threw off the play.”

“You break joy,” he shoots back.

She rolled her eyes and gestured sharply to reset the drill. “Do it again.”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, but he resets, mirroring her stance this time. He keeps it clean, following her lead. The ball moves smoothly now, her pass to him precise, his return steady. It’s not his game, but it’s hers.

The drill ends, and she brushes past him, her shoulder grazing his. He catches a whiff of her scent, something faintly floral, and the sharp tang of determination. Under his breath, he mutters, “Masungit.” (Grumpy.)

She stops mid-stride, her hair snapping as she turns. “What did you just say?” Her voice is sharp, but there’s a curiosity in her eyes, as if she’s caught him at something.

He leans back, his grin slow and deliberate. “It means… beautiful.”

She stared, unimpressed. “Liar.”

He shrugs, his grin widening. “Not wrong.”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips twitch, the barest hint of something softer. She turns away, her steps brisk, but she doesn’t rush. Y/N watches her go, his pulse loud in his ears.

Masungit, but cute.

---

The water break is a reprieve, the gym’s energy simmering down to a low hum. Y/N collapses against the padded wall near the exit, his back sliding down until he’s sitting, legs sprawled. His water bottle’s lukewarm, the plastic creaking as he chugs half of it, sweat trickling down his jaw

Sohyun sat across from him, stretching her calves with surgical precision. Her sweatband’s perfectly aligned, her eyes fixed on some invisible point, her water bottle resting beside her like a prop. She looks like she’s ready for a photoshoot instead of a practice.

Y/N watches her, his head tilted, the bottle dangling from his fingers. She’s a blueprint, every line drawn with care. He’s graffiti, wild and unscripted.

“You play like someone’s grading you,” he says, his voice carrying across the space, light but pointed. She blinks, her stretch pausing mid-motion. “Excuse me?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, the bottle swinging between his fingers. “You play like someone’s gonna mark you wrong if your elbow’s off by two degrees. Like there’s a rubric taped to the hoop.”

She sets her water bottle down, deliberate, the plastic barely making a sound. “You play like you think rules are suggestions.”

He laughs, low and genuine, the sound bouncing off the padded wall. “I grew up playing with a rim tied to a mango tree, okay? No refs, no lines. Just gravel crunching under your feet, tricycle horns blaring, dogs running through the play like they’re part of the team.” He leans back, his eyes distant, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I learned moves watching low-res YouTube vids on borrowed WiFi. Got dunked on by guys in slippers—slippers, pare. Played in the rain, slipped a lot, got up more.”

He pauses, his fingers brushing the woven bracelet on his wrist, the threads worn but strong. “It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t pretty. But it was ours. That court…” He hesitates, his voice softening. “That court saved me.”

Sohyun’s posture shifts, just a fraction. Her shoulders relax, her hands stilling on her knees. She doesn’t speak for a moment, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. “It sounds like chaos,” she says finally, her voice quieter, no edge this time.

He grins, but it’s softer, less bravado. “It was beautiful chaos.”

---

The gym’s energy has bled out, the team’s fire reduced to a flicker as drills wind down. Most players shuffle toward the sidelines, their sneakers dragging, their focus already on the showers or the campus cafeteria. Coach Kim has vanished into his office, the door half-open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling out. The assistant coach, a wiry guy with glasses, hovers near the baseline, scrolled on a clipboard, and overall just pretends to be busy.

The final set is free throws, a quiet test of will. Y/N stands at the line, the ball heavy in his hands, his muscles burning from hours of drills. His legs ache, a dull throb that pulses from his calves to his thighs. Y/N wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, he fabric damp and clinging to his skin. His shots felt off, not by much, just a hair too much push, a fraction too much spin, too much noise in his head.

He takes a breath, bends his knees, and shoots. The ball arcs, too flat, and clangs off the rim, the sound sharp and accusing. He grimaces, snagging the rebound. Tries again. Another miss, this one grazing the backboard before bouncing away. The third shot’s no better…rim, out. He curses under his breath, a low “Pucha,” his Tagalog slipping out like a reflex. The net stays still, mocking him.

Sohyun watches from a few feet away, her arms crossed. She’s a statue, unyielding, but her gaze is locked on him, dissecting every move. “You breathe wrong,” she says, her voice flat.

Y/N rolls his eyes, spinning the ball in his hands. “Gee, thanks, Captain. Want to critique my heartbeat while you’re at it?” His tone’s light, teasing, but there’s a flicker of frustration in his chest. He’s not used to missing, not like this.

She doesn’t flinch, her expression unchanging. “No. You breathe wrong.” She steps closer, her sneakers silent on the hardwood. “Inhale on the bend. Exhale on the rise. Like this.”

Before he can quip back, she takes the ball from his hands and steps to the line, her movements fluid. She bends her knees, inhales softly, her chest rising just enough to notice. Her exhale is a quiet hiss as she shoots, the ball arcing high, a perfect parabola that kisses the net with a soft swish. The sound is clean, final, like the net’s bowing to her.

She grabs the rebound, tosses it back to him, her eyes steady. “Try it.”

Y/N hesitates, his grin fading. Her voice isn’t warm, but it’s not cruel either—just matter-of-fact, like she’s stating the law of gravity. He takes the ball, his fingers curling around the leather.

He steps to the line, feeling her eyes on him, not judging but waiting. He bends his knees, inhales deep, the air sharp in his lungs. Exhale, slow and controlled, as he rises, the ball leaving his fingers in a smooth arc.

Swish.

He blinks, his breath catching. The net ripples, the sound echoing in the quiet gym. He turns to her, his grin creeping back, softer this time, less bravado. “Okay, that… worked.”

Sohyun nods once, a single dip of her chin, like she’s checking a box. “Again.”

He resets, the ball feeling lighter now, his body falling into her rhythm. Inhale on the bend, exhale on the rise. The next shot drops clean, the net snapping. The third follows, just as smooth. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a wizard or something.”

She doesn’t respond, just steps back, her arms crossing again. But there’s a shift in the air. No words, but something subtle passed. An acknowledgment.

She turned away without saying anything. Y/N watches her go, the ball still in his hands, his pulse loud in his ears. He doesn’t need her to say anything. The net’s still singing, and that’s enough.

The gym, after hours, felt like an entirely different place. Empty bleachers, low lighting, and the ghost of sneakers squeaking in the air.

Y/N stayed behind, hoodie shed, his bare shoulders slick with sweat as he runs floaters from the elbow—left side, right side, left again. The ball arcs high, kissing the glass before dropping through, each swish a small victory.

He’s on his fourth set, his breath steady but his shoulder aching, when a voice cuts through the quiet. “You live here?”

He spins, the ball tucked under his arm, his grin flashing before he can stop it. Sohyun stands at the door, her parka zipped to her chin, her hair damp from a quick rinse, curling slightly at the ends. Her arms are folded, her posture relaxed but guarded.

“You stalking me, Captain?” he calls back, his voice bouncing off the walls, playful but testing. He dribbles once, twice, the sound sharp in the stillness.

She steps onto the court, her sneakers silent, and picks up a stray ball from the rack. She starts shooting, her form flawless, smooth, silent rhythm, each shot cleaner than the last. Five in a row, the net barely moving.

Y/N stood off to the side, watching. Not staring. Watching. The way you do when someone moves like they’re dancing with gravity. He’s seen good shooters before, Kuya Tim could sink shots blindfolded, but Sohyun’s different. She’s not just playing; she’s solving the court, every shot an answer to a question no one else can hear.

“You always this intense?” he asked.

She shoots again. Swish. “You always this sloppy?” she replies, her tone dry but not cutting, her eyes flicking to his untied laces, his loose stance.

He laughs, soft and genuine, the sound filling the empty gym. “Touché.” He steps forward, tucking his ball under one arm, and passes it to her, a gentle toss. Their fingers brush as she catches it, the contact brief but electric, like a spark in the dark.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

A pause. The air between them static. Like a slow-burning fuse.

He leaned in. Just a little. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a test. A question waiting for an answer.

The court’s quiet, the only sound their breaths, his a little ragged, hers steady but quickening. Her eyes hold his, unreadable but alive, like she’s weighing him, deciding whether to let him in. The moment stretches, a slow-burning fuse…

Her phone buzzes, a sharp vibration that slices through the silence. She blinks, startled, and steps back. She pulls the phone from her parka, glances at the screen, her expression shuttering. Y/N clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh… that was… almost.”

She grabs her bag from the bench, slinging it over her shoulder. “Learn the plays,” she says, her voice flat but softer than before. She turns, her steps brisk, the door creaking as she pushes through.

Y/N watches her go, the gym swallowing the sound of her departure. He spins the ball on his finger, slow and steady, his lips curving into a soft, certain smile. “Swear she almost smiled,” he murmurs, the words for himself, the court, the night. He shoots one more floater, the ball arcing high, kissing the glass.

Swish.

---

The Dong Seoul University gym had never been this loud.

The stands were packed from the front row bleachers to the upper decks, vibrating with school chants and camera flashes. Vinyl banners swayed above the court, Dong Seoul’s crisp navy-and-gold clashing with Daehan University’s aggressive red-and-black. Local scouts lined the walls with clipboards in hand, murmuring player names into their phones. Student media paced near the baseline, mics in hand, hunting for reactions. Every bounce of the ball felt like a spotlight.

Y/N stood near the baseline, headphones on, bouncing his own rhythm into the polished floor. His electric blue hair gleamed under the fluorescents like he was dipped in rebellion. He shot casually, loose and fluid. His eyes, though, keep drifting sideways, past the crowd, past the banners.

To her.

Sohyun.

Across the court, she warmed up with mechanical precision—free throws, mid-range, corner threes. Elbow tucked. Wrist snapped. Feet aligned. Every motion was clean, automatic. Surgical. She doesn’t look at the crowd, doesn’t acknowledge the scouts or the cameras. She didn’t look at him.

But she knew he was looking.

But Y/N knows she feels it, the weight of eyes, the hum of expectation. And he knows she knows he’s watching. Her shoulders stiffen, just a fraction, when his gaze lingers too long. He smirks, tossing up a lazy shot that kisses the glass and drops through. Swish. He’s not trying to impress her. Not exactly. But he’s not not trying either.

Whispers ripple behind the press row, sharp and curious. “That’s him? The Filipino transfer?” a voice mutters, low but clear.

“With Park Sohyun? No way he’s her type,” another replies, a snicker threading through the words.

Y/N’s grin doesn’t falter, but his fingers tighten on the ball, his next shot a little harder, the rebound snapping off the rim with a clang. He’s used to the whispers, back in Manila until he broke ankles and sank shots. But here, in this polished arena, the words feel sharper, like they’re trying to carve him out of the picture.

The double doors at the far end burst open, and the air shifts, the crowd’s noise spiking into something electric. Daehan University’s squad strides in, their red-and-black jerseys sharp as a warning. They move like a K-drama boy band—tall, sharp-jawed, swaggers synchronized, their steps echoing with purpose. But one of them doesn’t need the theatrics. He didn’t walk, he prowled.

Jang Taewook.

Captain. MVP. Seoul’s basketball prince. His sleeveless jersey shows off arms carved from hours in the gym, his jaw clenched just enough to hint at arrogance. His dark hair is swept back, his eyes scanning the court like a predator claiming territory. And when he stepped onto the court, the crowd noise didn’t rise, it shifted. Focused. Like he was gravity.

Y/N’s eyes narrow, his dribble slowing. He catches Sohyun mid-motion, bending for her water bottle, her hand freezing as her gaze flicks to Taewook. Just for a second. A breath. Her face doesn’t change, but her fingers tighten on the bottle, the plastic crinkling. Y/N sees it, the pause, the tension, the history written in that fleeting moment. His grin fades, his pulse kicking up.

Who the hell is this guy?

---

It started casual. Courtside. Daehan’s squad running warm-up drills, DSU huddled near the scorer’s table, Coach Kim barking last-minute adjustments. Y/N towels off, the sweat-soaked cloth dragging across his neck, his blue hair sticking to his forehead. He’s trying to focus, but his eyes keep drifting to Sohyun, who’s reviewing plays with a teammate, her voice low and steady. She’s all business, but there’s a tightness in her shoulders, a shadow in her posture.

Taewook doesn’t bother with drills. He walks, deliberate, straight to her, his sneakers silent but his presence loud. He stops just close enough to make it personal, his height looming, a smile plastered across his face.

“Still cold, Sohyun?” His voice is smooth, slithering, like it knows exactly where to cut. It’s loud enough for the nearby players to glance over, their warm-ups faltering.

Sohyun doesn’t blink, her stance unyielding. “Still compensating with words?” she fires back, her tone even but laced with venom, like she’s spitting ice that burns.

He laughed. Not with joy—just enough teeth to remind everyone who’d worn the crown. Y/N, toweling off a few feet away, feels the air shift, his fingers pausing on the cloth. He doesn’t know the history, but he can feel the weight of something old and something messy.

Taewook’s gaze slides to him, slow and deliberate, like he’s sizing up a pest. “Ah,” he says, his voice carrying across the court, loud enough to make the media kids perk up. “So this is the upgrade. Neon hair. DIY accent. Imported.”

Y/N stepped forward, slow and unbothered, like he was chewing gum and about to spit it on Taewook’s shoes. “You want a selfie, or you just mad no one’s looking at you anymore?” Y/N says, his voice light but sharp, the kind of tone he used back in Manila when someone tried to talk over the game.

The gym hums, a few players pausing, their eyes darting between them. Taewook’s jaw tightens, just a flicker, but his smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. “Cute,” he says, stepping closer, his height a deliberate challenge. “Let’s see if you’re still grinning when you’re back on whatever island you crawled from.”

Sohyun stayed still. But her eyes flicked to Y/N for a second too long. Something unreadable passed between them. Not thanks. Not yet. But something. She turns back to Taewook, her voice low, almost dangerous. “Warm up, Taewook. Or are you too busy talking?”

Taewook’s smile falters, just for a heartbeat. He laughs again, softer, and saunters back to his team, but the air’s charged now, the court a stage for something bigger than basketball. Y/N watches him go, his pulse loud in his ears, then glances at Sohyun. She’s already turning away, her focus back on her clipboard, but he catches the slightest tremor in her hand as she adjusts her earbud.

History, he thinks. And it’s not done.

The scrimmage is a war, with every possession a battle. Daehan’s up by two at halftime, Taewook orchestrating plays being the primary factor. Y/N’s holding his own, his crossovers and floaters drawing murmurs from the crowd, but he’s a half-step behind DSU’s system, his instincts clashing with Sohyun’s calculated plays.

The halftime buzzer echoes, a sharp cry that cuts through the gym’s roar. The crowd swells as cheer squads storm the court, their pom-poms flashing, their chants a rhythmic pulse. Y/N slumps onto the bench, his hoodie damp with sweat, his water bottle cold against his lips. He’s catching his breath when a commotion erupts at center court, the noise shifting from cheers to a curious hush.

Taewook had a mic.

And a plan.

He’s standing at the half-court circle, his jersey untucked, his grin wide and dangerous. The live broadcast camera pans to him, its red light blinking, the jumbotron flashing his face across the gym. The crowd quiets, leaning forward, phones raised to capture whatever’s coming. Even Coach Kim freezes mid-sentence, his clipboard halfway to his mouth, as a media handler scrambles toward him.

Taewook doesn’t wait for permission. He never does. “Let’s make this fun,” he says, his voice rolling over the loudspeaker like a dare, smooth and confident, like he’s already won. He points across the court, straight at Sohyun, who’s standing near the scorer’s table, her water bottle halfway to her lips.

“If we win the championship…” He pauses, letting the words hang, his grin sharpening. “She dates me. Again. One month. Public.”

The gym explodes. Gasps. Audible. A cheerleader in the front row drops her pom-pom, the plastic rattling on the hardwood. The livestream chat on the jumbotron glitches, messages flying too fast to read: No way! Is this real? Sohyun’s ex?! Sohyun’s face doesn’t move, but her bottle crinkles in her grip, her knuckles whitening. She mouths, “What the hell?” her lips barely parting, her eyes blazing.

Y/N’s stomach twists, a mix of anger and something he can’t name. He glances at her, but she’s locked on Taewook, her expression a storm barely contained. The crowd’s noise is deafening, but it’s her silence that’s louder.

Taewook’s not done. He turns, slow and dramatic, his eyes locking on Y/N. “And Manila Boy here?” His voice drips with mockery, the nickname a blade. “He goes back home. No DSU. No team. No drama.”

The gym detonates again, half the crowd cheering, half screaming, the energy chaotic and raw. The scouts scribble faster, the media kids shove their mics toward the bench, and the livestream chat spirals into a frenzy. Coach Kim lunges toward the court, his face red, but a media handler grabs his arm, muttering something about sponsors. Y/N feels the weight of every eye in the gym, the air thick with expectation, judgment, and something uglier.

He stands, slow and deliberate, his hands loose at his sides.He tilts his head, not angry, not yet—just insulted, like Taewook’s words are a bad shot he’s about to swat away. The court’s a battlefield now, and he’s not backing down. He steps forward.

Y/N doesn’t speak, not yet. The mic’s still in Taewook’s hand, the jumbotron still flashing his smug grin, but Y/N’s presence shifts the air. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, but there’s a fire in his eyes, a quiet defiance that says he’s played on courts rougher than this, faced taunts sharper than Taewook’s. He thinks of his Lola’s voice: Lagi mong dala 'yang puso mo, anak. Always carry your heart.

He glances at Sohyun, just for a second. She’s still frozen, her bottle crumpled in her hand, her eyes flicking between Taewook and him. He doesn’t know their history, not really, but he sure can feel it and shit is not sweet.

Y/N steps closer to the half-court line, his sneakers silent now, his hands still at his sides. The crowd’s noise fades to a low hum, every eye on him.

Y/N steps closer to the half-court line, his sneakers silent now, his hands still at his sides. The crowd’s noise fades to a low hum, every eye on him. He doesn’t need a mic. His voice carries, low and steady, with the kind of confidence that comes from bleeding for every inch of ground you claim.

“Big talk for a guy who needs a mic to feel tall,” he says, his tone light but sharp, like a crossover that leaves you stumbling. “You want to bet on the championship? Fine. But I’m not playing for your drama. I’m playing for the game.”

Y/N doesn’t move, his gaze steady, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. He’s not here to lose—not to Taewook, not to anyone.

“But—”

“Run that back,” Y/N says, his voice low but cutting, carrying over the loudspeaker without effort. “Just so I heard right.”

He glances at Sohyun, standing near the scorer’s table, her water bottle crumpled in her grip, her eyes a storm of fire and ice. He scans the crowd—scouts scribbling, media kids shoving mics forward, students leaning over the rails, phones raised. Then his gaze snaps back to Taewook, who’s still grinning, his red-and-black jersey a taunt.

“If you win,” Y/N says, slow, deliberate, “she’s a prize. I disappear.” He pauses, letting the words hang, the gym holding its breath. “But if we win?”

He turns fully to Taewook now, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a dangerous calm. “You go dark. Delete the DMs. Zip the mouth. Vanish from her life. Forever.”

The crowd erupts, a tidal wave of cheers, gasps, and screams. Sohyun’s mouth parts, just a fraction, her eyes widening—she didn’t see that coming, didn’t expect him to flip the script. Taewook’s smile falters, his jaw twitching, the mic in his hand suddenly heavy.

“Big talk,” Taewook says, his voice smooth but strained, like he’s forcing the swagger. He steps closer, his height a challenge, his eyes glinting with something darker than confidence.

Y/N shrugs, his grin lazy but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. “Nah. Big bet.” He tilts his head, his blue hair catching the light. “You in?”

Taewook’s eyes narrow, his smile tightening, but he can’t back down—not with the cameras rolling, not with the crowd chanting his name. “Deal,” he says, the word clipped, final.

The roar spikes, but before it can settle, Sohyun steps forward, her sneakers silent but her presence a thunderclap. “You don’t speak for me,” she says, her voice low, sharp, cutting through the noise like a knife. Her eyes are on Y/N now, not Taewook, and they’re blazing, not with gratitude, but with fury, or maybe something messier.

Y/N doesn’t flinch. He turns to her, his gaze soft but direct, like he’s seeing through her walls. “Then say you want him to.”

The gym holds its breath, the crowd’s noise fading to a low hum. Sohyun’s jaw tightens, her fingers curling into fists, but she doesn’t speak. Her silence is louder than any words, a confession she can’t voice. Y/N nods once, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile. “Didn’t think so.”

The crowd explodes again, the noise a living thing, but Y/N doesn’t bask in it. He walks back to the bench, his shoulders loose, his grin gone. He feels Sohyun’s eyes on him, feels the weight of what he’s done.

Y/N steps back, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood, his eyes flicking to Taewook one last time. “See you at finals,” he says, his voice calm but heavy, like a promise carved in stone. He walks back to the bench, his shoulders loose, his grin gone. He feels Sohyun’s eyes on him, feels the weight of what he’s done.

---

The locker hallway smells like sweat, bleach, and something heavier, something unspoken that lingers in the air. It’s narrow, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting jagged shadows on the tiled walls. Y/N’s just pulled on his hoodie, the fabric sticking to his damp skin, when a hand grabs his arm, yanking him into a cramped space beside the water cooler. The metal hums faintly, cold against his back as he stumbles, catching himself against the wall.

Sohyun’s standing there, her eyes blazing, her hair loose, strands framing her face like a storm’s aftermath. “Who the hell do you think you are?” she hisses, her voice low, sharp, like she’s cutting him open to see what’s inside.

He blinks, his heart thudding from the suddenness of her grip. “The guy who just made sure he can’t touch you again,” he says, his tone light but edged.

Her jaw clenches, her fingers still on his arm, not letting go. “You don’t get to gamble me.” Her voice tremored slightly, a crack in her armor. Her eyes search his, furious but conflicted, like she’s fighting a war she didn’t sign up for.

“Then say I was wrong,” he says, softer now, his gaze steady. He steps closer, not enough to crowd her but enough to make the air between them hum. “Say you want him back. Say you’re okay with his games.”

Her lips part, but no words come. Her hand drops from his arm, her fingers curling into a fist. The silence is thick, charged, the hum of the water cooler the only sound. Y/N leans back, giving her space, but his voice doesn’t waver. “You didn’t like what he said. Neither did I. So I did what you never let anyone do…I fought for you.”

Her eyes flash, fury cooling into something worse—conflict, raw and unguarded. “You think I need you to fight for me?” she snaps. She’s not sure who she’s angrier at, him, Taewook, or herself.

“No,” he says, his voice low, honest, cutting through her defenses. “But I wanted to.”

The words hang there, heavy, real. Her breath catches, her eyes locked on his, and for a moment, the hallway shrinks to just them.

Silence.

“Did you really like him?” Y/N asks, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid of the answer but needs to know.

“No,” she says, the word sharp, final, but it costs her something to say it.

“Did you like me standing up to him?” He steps closer, just a fraction, his grin gone, his gaze direct.

She opened her mouth, but she doesn’t answer. Her eyes search his, conflicted, like she’s weighing the cost of admitting anything. Then she turns, her sneakers silent on the tiles, and walks off.

Y/N watches her go, leaning back against the wall, the cool metal grounding him. His lips curve into a smile.

But it didn’t quite reached his eyes.

She didn’t say no.

---

The sun slowly sets, as the gym became a ghost town, the emergency lights casting a dim, flickering glow across the hardwood. One overhead bulb sputters near the far end, its hum a quiet heartbeat in the dark. Y/N stands at the free-throw line, alone, his hoodie shed, his tank top clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. The air’s heavy, smelling of polish and rubber, but it’s not sterile anymore—it’s his now, claimed by every shot he takes.

He dribbles once, twice, the ball’s rhythm steadying his pulse. He bends his knees, inhales deep, exhales slow—Sohyun’s advice from yesterday playing in his head. The ball arcs, but it’s off, grazing the rim and bouncing away. He grabs the rebound, tries again. Another miss, the clang sharp in the silence. His hands are steady, but his mind’s a mess—Taewook’s voice, Sohyun’s silence, the crowd’s roar all swirling like a storm.

Third shot. He closes his eyes for a second, picturing the barangay court in Manila—gravel underfoot, coconut hoop swaying, neighbors cheering. Bilog ang bola, pero puso ang direksyon. The ball’s round, but your heart decides the direction. He opens his eyes, bends, inhales, exhales. The ball arcs high, kisses the glass, and drops through.

Swish.

He lets out a breath, shaky, more vulnerable than he wants to admit. He stares at the rim, the net still rippling, and mutters, “You better be worth it.” He’s not sure who he’s talking to—Sohyun, the game, or himself. Maybe all three.

He shoots again, and again, the rhythm building, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood. Each shot is a fight, a defiance against the noise in his head. He thinks of Sohyun’s eyes in the hallway, the way they held his, the way she didn’t say no. He thinks of Taewook’s smirk, the way it twisted when Y/N took the mic. He thinks of Manila, of Lola’s voice, of the court that saved him. The pressure’s mounting, but so is his fire.

The gym door creaks, and he pauses, the ball under his arm. He expects a janitor, but it’s her—Sohyun, her hair loose, her eyes catching the dim light. She doesn’t speak, just picks up a ball from the rack and starts shooting, her form flawless, her rhythm a quiet song. Y/N watches, his pulse loud in his ears, and for the first time, the court feels like it’s theirs.

Y/N doesn’t break the silence, not yet. He dribbles low, his sneakers finding the hardwood’s rhythm, his shots falling into sync with hers. She shoots from the corner—swish. He answers with a floater—swish. It’s not a competition, not exactly, but it’s a conversation, the ball their words, the net their agreement. Her movements are precise, calculated, but there’s a looseness to them now, a hint of something freer, like she’s letting the court breathe.

He catches her eye mid-shot, and she doesn’t look away. Her lips don’t smile, but her gaze softens, just a fraction, like she’s seeing him—not the tourist, not the hotshot, but the kid who fought for her when she didn’t ask. He tosses her the ball, a gentle arc, and she catches it, her fingers steady. “You don’t sleep, do you?” she says, her voice low, almost teasing, but there’s a warmth there, new and fragile.

He grins, spinning his ball on his finger. “Not when there’s a court calling. You here to babysit me again, Captain?”

She shoots, the ball dropping clean. “I’m here to win,” she says, but her eyes linger on him, and the words feel like they mean more than the game.

He steps closer, his grin softening. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

The gym hums, the flickering light their only witness. The court’s theirs now, and the rhythm they’re building feels like the start of something neither of them can name.

---

The gym lights flicker to life, sluggish and reluctant, like eyelids dragged open before dawn. The air is crisp, carrying the sharp tang of floor polish and the faint echo of last night’s sweat. It’s 6 a.m., too early for the campus to stir, but Coach Kim’s whistle doesn’t care about sleep cycles.

Y/N dragged his feet across the polished floor, hoodie half-zipped, headphones still around his neck. He spotted Sohyun already warming up, her arms slicing clean through the air with jump shots so precise they might have been pre-rendered.

Coach Kim barked from the baseline. “Y/N! Don’t forget, if you don’t move like the team moves, you don’t play. Not scrimmages, not showcase, not jack.”

Y/N nods once, his eyes bleary, his grin absent. He’s too tired to quip, but the words sting, a reminder of how far he is from fitting in.

Coach’s gaze shifts, landing on Sohyun, who’s already warming up at the far end, her arms slicing through the air with jump shots so precise they could’ve been programmed.

Park,” Coach says, his smirk sharp enough to draw blood. “Retrain him.”

Sohyun’s head snaps up, her shot pausing mid-motion, the ball frozen in her hands. “Again?” Her voice is low and visibly annoyed

Coach’s smirk widens, his clipboard tucked under his arm like a weapon. “Until he stops looking like a street magician.”

Y/N mock-salutes, his grin flickering but not fully igniting. “Can’t wait, Captain.” His voice is light, but his eyes are heavy, catching the way Sohyun’s jaw ticks, her fingers tightening on the ball.

She rolls her eyes, a quick flash of exasperation, but she doesn’t argue—not with Coach’s gaze still boring into her. The whistle blows again, a shrill order that sets the court in motion. Y/N and Sohyun move to the half-court line, their steps stiff, their postures radiating mutual irritation.

They hate this.

Until, maybe, they don’t.

The gym is a closed session, no crowd, no teammates, just the echo of sneakers and breath bouncing off the walls. The air’s heavy with the scent of rubber and sweat, the hardwood gleaming under the flickering lights like it’s daring them to break it. Y/N and Sohyun are alone, the court their battleground, Coach Kim’s orders a chain binding them together.

Sohyun moves like a drill sergeant, breaking every play into steps as precise as a blueprint. “Pivot here,” she says, pointing to a spot on the floor, her voice clipped, authoritative. “Roll there. Pass on the third bounce.” She demonstrates, her movements a masterclass in control.

Y/N tries. Honestly. He mirrors her stance, his sneakers squeaking as he pivots, but his instincts keep kicking in, like a song he can’t stop humming. He fakes left, spins right, and throws a behind-the-back pass, the ball arcing high in a streetball flourish that feels like home. It lands, technically, but it’s off-rhythm, the play stuttering as Sohyun catches it mid-bounce, her grip tight, her eyes narrowing.

She doesn’t return it. Just stands there, the ball cradled against her hip, her stare pinning him like a specimen. “You freelance too much,” she says, her voice low, cutting, like she’s diagnosing a disease.

He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, defiant but playful. “You breathe too little.”

Her eyes narrow further, a spark of irritation, or maybe something else flaring in them. He grins wider, undeterred. “Masungit,” he mutters under his breath, the Tagalog slipping out like a secret.

This time, she doesn’t let it slide. She chucks the ball at his chest, hard enough to sting, the leather slapping his ribs. He catches it, barely, his grin faltering for a split second. “You don’t take anything seriously,” she says,

He blinks, his hands steady on the ball, his gaze softening. “That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, the words carrying a weight she didn’t expect. He steps forward, his sneakers silent, and moves into her pattern, mimicking her pivot, her roll, her pass. It’s not perfect—his shoulders are too loose, his rhythm still a beat off—but it’s closer, deliberate, like he’s trying to speak her language.

They run the drill again, cleaner this time. He follows her lead, tucking his elbows, keeping his cuts tight. The ball moves smoothly, her pass snapping to him, his return steady. It’s not his game, not the wild, improvisational dance of Manila’s courts, but it’s hers, and for the first time, he feels the rhythm of it, like a song he’s learning to hum.

She steps back, her arms crossing, her eyes assessing. “Better,” she says, her voice flat but not cold, like she’s acknowledging a fact she can’t ignore.

He grins, wiping sweat from his brow. “High praise, Captain.” His tone’s teasing, but his eyes are earnest, searching hers for something, anything that says she sees him.

She doesn’t respond, just gestures to reset the drill, but her posture’s less rigid. They move again, and the court feels alive, their steps a tentative duet.

The drill breaks, and they collapse against the padded wall near the baseline, their water bottles sweating in their hands, the plastic cool against their palms. The gym’s quiet now, the only sounds the hum of the lights and the faint drip of a leaky faucet in the corner. Y/N leans his head back, his blue hair sticking to his forehead, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His shoulder aches, his legs burn, but there’s a calm settling in, like the court’s finally starting to feel like his.

Sohyun sits beside him, her knees pulled up, her bottle resting on one thigh. She’s still, her eyes fixed on the court, “Why do you play like that?” she asks, her voice quiet, breaking the silence like a pebble dropped in a still pond.

Y/N glances sideways, caught off guard. Her eyes are on him now, not sharp but curious, like she’s seeing him for the first time. He rolls his bottle between his palms, the plastic crinkling, and lets out a soft laugh, no sarcasm this time. “Because structure never really… fit.”

She doesn’t reply, just watches him, her gaze steady but not pressing. So he keeps going, his voice softer, his words spilling like they’ve been waiting too long. “I didn’t have a coach. Not really. Just older kids, kuya, ate, who’d show up at the barangay court with a ball and too much attitude. We played on cracked asphalt, a broken backboard, trash cans for cones. We’d tape our shoes till the soles gave up. That was normal.”

He pauses, his fingers brushing the woven bracelet on his wrist, the threads worn but strong. “My kuya, Tim—he was supposed to go pro. He was insane, like, stupid good. Could dunk so hard the rim shook. Then his knee popped. Done. Just like that.” His voice catches, just a fraction, and he clears his throat, his eyes distant. “So I started playing twice as hard. For both of us.”

He looks at the court, the hardwood gleaming under the lights. “I never had a system. Just the ball and whoever tried to take it. That’s what kept me going—keeps me going. The game’s not about rules. It’s about heart.”

The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. Sohyun doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile, but her shoulders relax, the tension in them easing like a knot slowly unraveling. Her fingers loosen on her bottle, her eyes still on him, like she’s piecing together a puzzle she didn’t know she was solving.

He glances at her, his grin soft, almost shy. “What about you? Why do you play like you’re solving math?”

She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze drifting to the court.

When she speaks, her voice is low, measured, but there’s a crack in it, like she’s letting him see something she’s kept locked away. “It’s how I was taught. Control. Precision. You don’t win by hoping. You win by knowing.”

Y/N nods, not pushing, but his eyes don’t leave her. She feels it, and for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

The campus is quiet as they walk away from the gym to take a short walk, their sneakers dragging on the concrete path, the sky bleeding soft gold over the rooftops. The air’s cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and city smog, a stark contrast to the gym’s heavy warmth. Y/N’s hoodie is slung over his shoulder, his tank top damp, his blue hair catching the dawn light like a beacon. Sohyun walks beside him, her parka unzipped, her hands in her pockets, her steps measured but not as rigid as before.

“My dad was a coach,” she says suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “National team.”

Y/N looks over, surprised. She rarely starts conversations, and her words feel like a door creaking open, just a crack. He lets out a low whistle, his grin playful but soft. “Damn. That explains the Terminator energy.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. “He had drills for me when I was six,” she says, her voice quieter now, like she’s pulling the words from a place she doesn’t visit often. “Footwork. Passing. Shooting form. Every day, before school, after school. If I messed up, it wasn’t just a mistake. It meant I didn’t listen. That I couldn’t be trusted. That I wasn’t…” She pauses, her breath catching, her eyes still on the horizon. “Worth betting on.”

Y/N stops walking, his sneakers scuffing to a halt. The words hit him like a loose ball he didn’t see coming. He looks at her, his grin gone, his eyes searching her profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek. She keeps walking, her steps steady, like she’s afraid stopping will make the words too real.

He catches up, slower this time, his hands in his pockets, mirroring her. “Sounds lonely,” he says, his voice low, honest, no trace of his usual bravado.

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t walk away either. Her shoulder brushes his as they move, a fleeting contact that feels like a confession. The campus is waking up now, students trickling out of dorms, the hum of morning traffic in the distance. But for a moment, it’s just them, the sky gold and soft, the path stretching out like a promise they’re not ready to make.

They walk in silence for a while, the concrete path winding past lecture halls and cherry blossom trees just starting to bud. Y/N feels the weight of her words, the way they echo his own—different courts, different rules, but the same need to prove something. He thinks of Manila, of Kuya Tim’s laugh, of the barangay court where he learned to fight for every shot. He thinks of Sohyun’s eyes in the gym, the way they softened when he spoke of his brother, the way they held his when she didn’t answer.

He glances at her, “You know,” he says, his voice light but deliberate, “I’m not trying to mess up your system. I just… play how I feel.”

She looks at him, her eyes assessing but not cold. “And how’s that working out for you?” Her tone’s dry, but there’s a spark in it, like she’s testing him, maybe teasing.

He grins, his shoulder bumping hers, just enough to make her pause. “Getting there,” he says. “You’re helping. Even if you hate it.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s softer, less cutting. “I don’t hate it,” she says, and the words are quiet, almost lost in the morning air. She keeps walking, her steps a little lighter, like it has found a new rhythm.

Y/N watches her, his grin softening into something real. The court’s waiting, the finals looming, Taewook’s shadow hanging over them. But right now, it’s just the two of them, walking side by side, their steps starting to sync. He feels it, the start of something, not just on the court but off it, a rhythm they’re building together.

---

The gym is a different world at dusk, the air soft and golden, the high windows spilling light that makes the backboards glow like they’re lit from within.

Y/N’s hoodie is slung over the bench, his tank top clinging to his sweat-damp skin, his electric blue hair catching the light like a neon flare. He’s teaching Sohyun a no-look pass, his wrist twisting mid-motion, the ball arcing behind his back with a streetball flourish that feels like Manila.

Sohyun scoffs, her arms crossed, her DSU jersey slightly wrinkled, a rare imperfection. “That’s stupid,” she says, her voice dry but with a spark of curiosity.

He grins, undeterred, his sneakers scuffing the hardwood as he resets. “Yeah, but kinda hot, right?” He tosses the ball to her, light but deliberate, daring her to try.

She catches it, her fingers steady, her eyes narrowing. She steps to the side, mimics his stance, her knees bending, her wrist twisting. The ball sails behind her, nailed it,

Y/N claps once, loud, the sound echoing in the quiet gym. “Damn, Captain! You nailed it!”

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile, but her eyes soften, the usual steel giving way to something warmer. “You love being right,” she says.

He catches it, his grin widening, his heart thudding a little too fast. “I love you being surprised.” The words slip out, playful but heavy, and for a moment, the air shifts, charged with something new.

They laugh—actually laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls, hers sharp and fleeting, his low and warm. It’s a sound neither of them expected, like a song they didn’t know they could sing together. He steps forward, closer than he means to, and brushes a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing her skin, soft and deliberate. The contact is brief, but it’s electric, his pulse spiking. “You always this perfect?” he asks, his voice low, half-teasing, half-serious.

She tilts her chin, her eyes meeting his, a challenge in them but no ice. “You always this fake confident?” Her tone’s dry, but there’s a spark in it, like she’s playing his game and liking it.

He leans closer, just a breath between them, his grin softening. “Nah. Just good at hiding when I’m shaking.” His voice is quieter now, honest, and he feels it—the vulnerability, the risk, the way his heart’s out there, unguarded.

Their fingers brush during the next pass, the ball slipping between them, and neither pulls away. Her hand lingers, her skin warm against his, and the gym shrinks to just them—the golden light, the hum of their breaths. The moment stretches, fragile and alive, a question neither of them asks aloud.

Then the lights snap off, plunging the gym into shadow. The janitor’s voice cuts through, gruff and distant. “Still here?”

They jump apart, like kids caught sneaking out, their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Y/N’s heart races, his grin sheepish. “Nope!” he calls, his voice louder than it needs to be. “Totally leaving!”

Sohyun grabs her bag, her movements quick but not rushed, her face unreadable but her cheeks faintly flushed. They head for the door, not looking at each other, but their shadows fall close on the court, overlapping just enough to mean something. The air outside is cool, the campus quiet, but Y/N feels the warmth of that moment lingering, like a shot that’s still ringing in the net.

---

Y/N lies on his dorm bunk, one leg swinging off the side, his phone glowing in the dark like a beacon. The room is small, the linoleum floor cold under his bare feet, the walls bare except for the faded photo of his barangay teammates propped on the desk.

His body aches from practice, but it’s his mind that’s restless, replaying that moment in the gym—the brush of Sohyun’s hair, the warmth of her fingers, the way her laugh made his stomach absolutely flip.

He opens his phone, the screen casting a blue glow across his face. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, words forming and dissolving like smoke.

“Did you feel it too?”

He deletes it, his heart thudding. Too much, too soon.

“Thanks for not killing me today.”

He erases that one too, his grin flickering. Too flippant.

nice shot earlier. bet you practiced.

He hesitates, his thumb lingering. It’s simple, light, but it’s him—playful but real. He hits send, the swoosh of the message a quiet thrill. He stares at the screen, his pulse loud in the dark, waiting for the dots that mean she’s typing.

Bzzz.

The reply comes faster than he expects.

it was the shoes.

He laughs, soft and genuine, the sound filling the small room. He can picture her—sitting on her own bed,typing with that same precision she brings to the court. He wants to reply, to keep the conversation going, to see how far this thread will stretch. But he doesn’t. He sets the phone on his chest, the screen dimming, and falls asleep with it still in his hand, a faint smile on his lips.

—

The next practice is electric, the gym buzzing with the usual chaos, sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, Coach Kim’s whistle shrieking like a hawk. The team’s in full swing, running pick-and-rolls, their movements sharper now, the finals looming like a storm on the horizon. Y/N’s in the thick of it, looking like a blur as he weaves through defenders, his crossovers cleaner but still laced with streetball flair. He’s starting to sync with the team’s rhythm, his passes finding their mark, his shots falling more often than not.

Sohyun’s running point, her commands sharp, her eyes scanning the court like a general. She calls a play, her voice cutting through the noise, and fires a no-look pass to Y/N, the ball snapping through the air like it’s on a string. He catches it mid-stride, spins past Buzzcut, and finishes with a floater that kisses the glass and drops through. Swish. The net ripples, and the bench murmurs, heads nodding.

Sohyun nods, just once, her eyes meeting his for a split second. It’s not a smile, but it’s close, acknowledgment, respect, maybe something more. Y/N grins, wiping sweat from his brow, and jogs back to reset.

The bench starts whispering, their voices low but sharp, like they’re dissecting a play. “They got a thing?” one player mutters, nudging his teammate.

“She never looks at anyone like that,” another says, his eyes flicking between Y/N and Sohyun. “Not even Taewook.”

Y/N catches the words, his grin flickering, but he doesn’t react. He feels their eyes, though—the team, the assistant coach, even Coach Kim, who’s watching from the sideline, his clipboard still but his pen scribbling something quick. Kim’s face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers, like he’s seeing something he’s been waiting for

Sohyun calls another play, her voice steady, but Y/N notices the way her body sways a little looser. She’s still the captain, still the machine, but there’s a warmth in her movements now, a crack in the ice. The team sees it too, and the whispers grow, a quiet current under the gym’s noise. Y/N catches the ball again, his heart thudding, not just from the game. They’re noticing. And for once, he doesn’t mind.

Practice ends, and the gym clears out, the team trickling away to showers and dorms. The air’s heavy with the scent of sweat and polish, the court silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Y/N lingers, his bag slung over his shoulder, his sneakers untied, his tank top sticking to his skin. He’s about to leave when he spots her: Sohyun, under the bleachers, sitting on a folded mat, lacing her shoes with deliberate care.

He hesitates, then walks over, his steps quiet on the hardwood. He sits beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her presence but not so close as to crowd her. The bleachers cast jagged shadows over them, the light dim and flickering, like they’re hiding in a pocket of the world.

Neither speaks for a while, the silence comfortable but heavy, like it’s waiting for something to break it. Y/N rolls his water bottle between his palms, the plastic crinkling, his bracelet catching the faint light. Sohyun ties her final knot, her fingers steady, but she doesn’t stand, doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to stand up to him,” she says finally, her voice quiet, almost lost in the shadows. Her eyes stay on her shoes, like the words are too heavy to say while looking at him.

Y/N leans back, his shoulder brushing the bleacher’s edge, his grin soft but absent. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says, his voice low, matching hers, like they’re sharing a secret.

She pauses, her fingers stilling on her laces, her breath catching. “Why?” she asks, the word barely audible, but it carries everything—her doubt, her fear, her need to understand.

He looks at her, his eyes steady, no trace of his usual bravado. “I don’t know,” he says, honest, raw, like he’s peeling back a layer he didn’t know he had. “But I’m not walking away from it now.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but her eyes lift, meeting his in the dim light. The silence stretches, but it’s not empty—it’s full of things unsaid, things felt, things neither of them is ready to name. They stay there, in the shadows, just a little too close to not mean something.

He looks at Sohyun, her profile sharp in the dim light. He wants to ask about her father, about the drills at six, about what makes her play like she’s solving the world. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he nudges her shoulder, light, playful. “You know, you’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says, his voice teasing but soft, like he’s tossing a ball and hoping she’ll catch it.

She glances at him, her lips twitching, not quite a smile but close. “And you’re not as tough as you pretend to be,” she says, her tone dry but warm, like she’s playing his game and winning.

He laughs, low and genuine, the sound filling the shadows. “Fair,” he says, leaning back, his hands behind his head. “But I’m growing on you, right?”

She doesn’t answer, just stands, her sneakers silent on the mat. But she doesn’t walk away, and when she glances back at him, her eyes hold his for a moment too long. “Keep up,” she says, her voice quiet but carrying a challenge, a promise.

He grins, standing to follow her, his heart thudding, not just from the game. The finals are coming, Taewook’s bet looming, but right now, it’s just them, the court, and the quiet thing growing between them. It’s not practice anymore. It’s something else, something worth fighting for.

---

Finals Day: One Shot Left

The arena didn’t buzz—it roared.

The stands are a tidal wave of bodies, packed to the rafters, vibrating with chants, cheers, and the staccato flash of phone cameras. Championship banners hang like ghosts overhead, their faded navy-and-gold edges whispering of past glories, daring the present to measure up. The court gleams under blinding fluorescents, its hardwood too pristine, like it’s daring anyone to scuff it. Dong Seoul’s navy-and-gold jerseys shine like armor, while Daehan’s crimson players prowl in warm-up, their movements sharp and predatory.

Y/N sits at the edge of the bench, his earbuds in, a faint pulse of a hiphop track from his playlist. His fingers drum against his knee, a restless rhythm that betrays the calm in his eyes. He’s here and he’s ready.

His gaze drifts across the court, past the scouts scribbling on clipboards, past the media kids thrusting mics at anyone who moves.

To her.

Sohyun sat cross-legged on the bench a few meters away, wrapping tape around her fingers with the same precision she used on the court. Her eyes are narrowed, locked on the hardwood like she’s mapping every inch, She doesn’t look at the crowd, doesn’t flinch at the noise, but Y/N knows she feels it, the pressure, the eyes of everyone waiting for her to falter.

No mistakes. Not today, she thinks, her internal voice sharp, unyielding, a blade honed by years of drills and her father’s voice echoing in her head. She adjusts her tape, her fingers steady but her heart racing, a quiet storm beneath her calm.

Y/N’s own thoughts hum, a different rhythm. She’s watching. Don’t fumble now. He pulls his earbuds out, the music fading, and tucks them into his hoodie pocket.

Coach Kim claps loudly, his hands like thunder, calling the team into a circle. His eyes are fire, his clipboard a prop he doesn’t need. “This is your court,” he growls, his voice rough, commanding. “Not theirs. Play like it. Own it.”

The team nods, their chant rising, a unified shout that shakes the bench. Y/N joins in, but his eyes stay on Sohyun, who’s standing now, her posture rigid, her focus a wall. She doesn’t look back. Not yet. But he feels it, the thread between them, taut and alive, pulling them toward the same fight.

The tip-off is a war cry, the ball launching skyward as the arena erupts. Daehan’s press comes down like a storm, relentless and suffocating, their crimson jerseys a blur of aggression. Taewook moves like a blade, cutting through DSU’s offense with practiced spite, his eyes glinting with something darker than competition. Elbows fly, bodies collide, the refs’ whistles barely audible over the crowd’s screams, a chaotic symphony of anticipation and adrenaline.

Y/N plays like a live wire, his speed a spark that ignites the court. He slips screens with dizzying ease, stealing passes mid-air, his spin moves leaving Daehan defenders lunging at shadows. His no-look assist in the first quarter—a flick of the wrist that sends the ball soaring to a teammate under the rim—drops jaws in the second row, the crowd roaring as the shot drops.

Sohyun, though, is the anchor. Where Y/N flies, she stalks, her movements pure calculated—angles, lines, precision. Each possession is a puzzle she solves in real-time: an elbow jumper that kisses the net, a step-through layup that splits a double team, a bounce pass so clean it’s like she’s threading a needle. Her eyes scan the court, calculating, unyielding, but there’s a fire in her now, a spark Y/N recognizes from their late-night practices.

Their tension becomes momentum, a magnetic pull that makes the court hum. Midway through the second quarter, Sohyun sets a hard screen, her shoulder a wall, her eyes flicking to Y/N. He ghost-cuts behind, slipping past Taewook’s reach, and she fires the ball over her shoulder, a no-look pass that lands in his hands like it was meant to be there. He doesn’t hesitate, slinging it back as she sprints to the three-point line. Her feet plant, her wrist snaps, and the ball arcs high, dropping clean through the net. Swish.

The gym loses its mind, the crowd surging to their feet, banners waving, the jumbotron flashing the replay. Y/N grins, his heart pounding, and throws a quick salute to Sohyun, who doesn’t smile but nods, her eyes alive with something fierce. Taewook stares across the court, his jaw locked, his crimson jersey a stark contrast to the navy-and-gold sea around him. His mask is still in place, but it’s cracking, his eyes burning with something that’s not just competition.

The halftime buzzer sounds, sharp and final. The scoreboard glows: Dong Seoul 42, Daehan 45. The teams head for the lockers, the crowd’s roar fading to a restless hum. Y/N feels the weight of the game, the bet, the eyes on him. But more than that, he feels her—the rhythm they’re building, the fight they’re sharing. It’s not just practice anymore. It’s something bigger.

The locker room pulses with fatigue and frustration, the air thick with the smell of sweat and Bengay. The team sprawls across benches, water bottles dripping, towels draped over shoulders. Y/N sits in a corner, wincing as he peels off his sock, his ankle swollen, a red bruise blooming just beneath the bone. He tries to hide the limp, flexing his foot to test it, but the pain bites, sharp and insistent. He mutters a quiet “Motherfucker” under his breath.

Sohyun sees it before he can cover it up. She’s across the room, her own tape fresh on her fingers. She corners him by the lockers, her hand blocking his escape, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “You’re hurt,” she says, her voice low, matter-of-fact, but there’s a current beneath it was concern, and something else.

He leans back against the locker, his grin reflexive but shaky. “I’m fine,” he says, his tone light but defensive, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her.

She steps closer, her sneakers silent on the tiled floor, her posture a wall. “Stop pretending. You play like this, you’ll make it worse.”

His grin fades, his eyes narrowing, the pain in his ankle mirrored by a sharper ache in his chest. “Then say it,” he says, his voice sharp now, a challenge. “Say you don’t want me out there.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, but her voice drops, softer, almost vulnerable. “I want you out there.” She pauses, her breath catching, her eyes searching his. “But not if it breaks you.”

The words hit him like a loose ball he didn’t see coming. He stares at her, his heartbeat louder than the halftime whistle.

Sohyun crouches, pulling a roll of athletic tape from the med kit, and sits him down on the bench, her movements deliberate but gentle. She takes his ankle in both hands, her fingers cool against his skin, and starts wrapping, her touch precise, practiced, like she’s done this a thousand times.

Y/N watches her, his breath uneven, his pulse thudding in his ears. “You don’t have to—” he starts, his voice low, almost a whisper.

She wraps the tape tight, her fingers moving with the same precision she brings to the court, but there’s a softness in her touch, a care she doesn’t voice. When she finishes, she doesn’t pull back, not right away. Her hands linger, her eyes lifting to meet his, their faces close now, too close.

Sohyun whispers, more breath than voice, “I trust you.” The words are raw, unguarded, like she’s handing him something fragile.

Her eyes flicker, not away but into his, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect. The moment stretches, heavy, alive, a fuse burning down. He leans in, just a fraction, his voice a half-joke, half-plea. “Then kiss me.”

Her breath catches, her eyes widening, but she doesn’t pull back. The air crackles…and then…

She does it.

Not soft, not careful, but fierce, like time’s run out and she’s stealing it back. Her lips press against his, urgent, hungry, like she’s pouring everything she can’t say into the moment. His hands find her waist, tentative at first, then steady, pulling her closer, the tape roll forgotten on the bench.

A bang on the locker room door shatters the moment. “Two minutes!” Coach Kim’s voice booms, rough and impatient.

They break apart, gasping, their breaths mingling in the air. Sohyun stands quickly, her cheeks flushed, her posture snapping back to captain-mode. “Now go earn it,” she says, her voice steady but softer, like she’s still holding onto the moment.

Y/N grins, his heart racing, his ankle still throbbing but his fire burning brighter. He stands, testing the tape, and nods. “Let’s do this.”

They come back different, the court feeling smaller, more theirs. Y/N’s movements are sharper, his swagger tempered with purpose. He’s not trying to dazzle anymore—just execute, his passes landing exactly where they should, his shots clean and deliberate. His ankle aches, but the tape holds, and Sohyun’s touch lingers in his mind, steadying him like a rhythm he can’t shake.

Sohyun’s different too. Her plays, once rigid, start to bend—she pump-fakes when she’d usually pass, takes risks that feel like his influence. Her eyes scan quicker, her movements looser, like she’s letting the court breathe. She smiles—just barely—after a give-and-go with Y/N, the ball snapping between them like a shared pulse.

Midway through the third quarter, Daehan traps Y/N near the sideline, two defenders closing fast, their crimson jerseys a wall. He pivots, his sneakers squeaking, his body low, and flicks a high lob over their heads, the ball arcing like a prayer. Sohyun’s there, catching it mid-stride, her eyes locked on the rim. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t calculate—she leaps, her body stretching, and dunks, her hands slamming the ball through the hoop with a force that shakes the backboard.

The Dong Seoul bench erupts, players leaping to their feet, the crowd surging, banners waving. The jumbotron flashes the replay, the arena roaring like a living thing. It’s her first dunk in a live game, a moment no one saw coming, least of all Taewook, whose mask cracks across the court, his eyes narrowing, his jaw tight. Y/N throws his arms up, shouting, “That’s my captain!” his grin wide and wild, his heart pounding with pride.

Sohyun lands, her sneakers hitting the hardwood, her breath heavy but her eyes alive. She glances at Y/N, not smiling but nodding, a silent we’re doing this. The score’s tight—Dong Seoul 58, Daehan 60—but the momentum’s shifting, the court bending to their rhythm. Taewook calls a play, his voice sharp, but there’s a tremor in it, like he feels the ground slipping.

Y/N catches Sohyun’s eye as they reset, and for the first time, they’re not just playing together—they’re playing as one, their movements a duet, their hearts in motion. The finals aren’t just a game anymore. They’re a fight, a promise, a shot they can’t miss.

The fourth quarter looms, the scoreboard a ticking bomb, but Y/N feels alive, the court a canvas where he and Sohyun are painting something new. He feels it now, beating in sync with Sohyun’s, their passes a conversation, their plays a confession.

Sohyun calls a play, her voice steady but laced with fire, and Y/N moves, slipping a screen, catching her pass, and driving to the rim. Taewook’s there, his arm raised, his eyes burning with spite, but Y/N spins, his body a blur, and lays it up, the ball kissing the glass and dropping through. The crowd roars, the bench screams, and Sohyun’s there, clapping once, sharp, her eyes meeting his with something fierce—pride, trust, maybe more.

The clock ticks down, the score tied, the arena a pressure cooker. Y/N feels the weight of the bet, Taewook’s shadow, the eyes of the crowd, but more than that, he feels her—the way she’s fighting beside him, the way she kissed him like time was running out. They’re not just playing for the championship. They’re playing for each other, for the rhythm they’ve built, for the heart that decides the direction.

---

One minute. Tied at 71. The clock ticks like a heartbeat, each second a hammer against the hardwood. Dong Seoul’s navy-and-gold jerseys are soaked, Daehan’s crimson a relentless tide, and the court feels like a battlefield, every inch fought for, every possession a war.

The timeout huddle is a tight knot near the bench, the air heavy with the smell of desperation. Coach Kim’s clipboard is a blur of X’s and O’s, his voice rough as he sketches a safe play, motion screens to free Sohyun, a corner three for the shooter, a fallback rebound plan. His eyes are fire, his words sharp. “Execute, or we’re done.”

Sohyun stands at the edge of the huddle, her taped fingers flexing, hair strands clinging to her sweat-damp neck. Her eyes flick to Y/N, who’s leaning in, his blue hair wild under the fluorescents, his ankle taped tight but his grin absent. His earbuds dangle from his hoodie pocket, the faint pulse of Filipino rap a ghost of his usual swagger. He shakes his head, slow, deliberate, his voice low but firm. “Don’t run it.”

Her eyebrow arches, a challenge in her gaze. “You sure?” Her tone is sharp, but there’s a spark in it, like she’s daring him to prove himself.

He breathes deep, his chest rising, his woven bracelet catching the light. “This time,” he says, his eyes locked on hers, “trust me.”

The huddle goes quiet, the team’s eyes darting between them. Coach Kim’s gaze narrows, but he sees it—the fire in Y/N’s eyes, the steel in Sohyun’s nod. He doesn’t argue. “Win it,” he says, his voice a growl, his clipboard dropping to his side.

The whistle blows, sharp and final, and the court comes alive. The crowd surges, banners waving, the jumbotron flashing the tied score. Daehan collapses on Sohyun the second the ball’s in play, a triple-team closing like a vice. She twists, her sneakers squeaking, her eyes scanning the court like a hawk. She’s a machine, calculating angles, but there’s a spark in her now,

She finds him.

Across the arc, Y/N breaks free, slipping a screen with a ghost-cut that leaves his defender stumbling. Their eyes meet—no shout, no signal, just a look that carries everything. She whips the ball, a no-look pass that slices through the air like a blade. Y/N catches it mid-stride, one bounce, his body low, his ankle throbbing but holding. The rim’s in his sights, Taewook charging from the side, his crimson jersey a blur. Y/N doesn’t hesitate. He rises, his wrist snapping, the ball arcing high, a prayer and a promise in one.

Time dilates, the arena holding its breath. The ball arcs like slow poetry, spinning through the golden light, the crowd frozen, every eye locked on its path. Taewook rushes toward the rim, his arms outstretched, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with desperation. Sohyun stands at midcourt, her breath caught, her taped fingers curled into fists. Y/N watches, his arms still raised from the release, his heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd.

The ball kisses the glass, soft as a whisper, and drops through the net. Swish.

The buzzer sounds, a sharp cry that splits the silence.

The gym explodes, a tidal wave of screams, cheers, and stomping feet. The jumbotron flashes the score: Dong Seoul 74, Daehan 71. The crowd surges to their feet, navy-and-gold banners waving, the stands were a flood of LET’S GO and HE DID IT. The Dong Seoul bench erupts, players leaping, towels flying, Coach Kim’s clipboard hitting the floor as he pumps a fist.

Y/N stands at the arc, his chest heaving, his blue hair slick with sweat, his eyes wide but calm. He feels it—the weight lifting, the court his now, the rhythm he and Sohyun built carrying them over the line. He turns, searching the chaos, and finds her, standing at midcourt, her eyes locked on his, unreadable but alive.

The Dong Seoul team mobs Y/N, their arms a tangle of navy-and-gold, nearly tackling him to the hardwood. Buzzcut slaps his back, shouting something incoherent, while another teammate tries to lift him, their laughter a chaotic symphony. The crowd’s still roaring, the jumbotron replaying the shot, the arena pulsing with life. Y/N pushes through them, his chest heaving, his ankle throbbing, his eyes scanning the court.

He sees her.

Sohyun stands at midcourt, her taped fingers flexing at her sides. Her eyes are locked on him, unreadable but burning, like she’s holding a storm and a sunrise at once. The crowd fades, the noise a distant hum, the world shrinking to just them—the hardwood, the golden light, the rhythm they’ve built.

He walks toward her, his sneakers scuffing, his breath uneven but steady. She doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, her posture still but not rigid, like she’s waiting for something she’s not ready to name. He stops in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of her presence, and cups her face with both hands, his fingers gentle but firm, his woven bracelet brushing her cheek.

She doesn’t stop him.

He kisses her, real and messy, not soft but fierce, like he’s pouring everything into it—the game, the bet, the late-night practices, the way she taped his ankle, the way she trusted him. The crowd loses it, screams spiking, phones flashing, the livestream chat a blur of OH MY GOD and THEY’RE KISSING. She kisses him back, her hands finding his shoulders, her lips pressing with the same urgency, like she’s stealing time back from the clock.

They break apart, gasping, their foreheads touching for a heartbeat, their breaths mingling. The arena’s chaos swirls around them, but it’s just them, the court their sanctuary, their rhythm unbroken. She smiled, one that reached her delicate eyes, soft yet fierce, and honestly it was all Y/N could ever ask for.

---

The arena’s still buzzing, the crowd reluctant to leave, the air thick with victory and adrenaline. Taewook storms toward the exit, his crimson jersey soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something heavier than defeat. Reporters rush him, their mics thrusting forward, questions flying—“What happened out there?” “What’s next for Daehan?” He brushes past them, his shoulder clipping a camera, his silence louder than any answer.

Y/N walks past, his ankle taped but his stride steady. He pauses, his eyes catching Taewook’s, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. A sideline ref fumbles a mic, and Y/N picks it up, the metal cool in his hand. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat, but his voice carries, low and steady, cutting through the arena’s hum.

“To everyone watching, bet’s over,” he says, his words clear, final, the loudspeaker amplifying them to every corner. He turns slightly, his eyes locking on Taewook’s retreating figure. “Now disappear.”

The crowd roars, a mix of cheers and gasps. Taewook freezes for a heartbeat, his shoulders stiff, but he doesn’t turn back. He pushes through the double doors, the creak swallowed by the crowd’s noise, his shadow gone.

Y/N hands the mic back to the ref, his grin soft but real, his heart still racing from the shot, the kiss, the fight. He glances at Sohyun, who’s standing with the team, her arms crossed but her eyes on him, a faint nod signaling something unspoken—respect, trust, maybe more. The arena’s still alive, but the battle’s won, and the court feels like theirs.

The team spills onto the court, their navy-and-gold jerseys a wave of celebration, but Y/N and Sohyun linger at the edge, the noise a backdrop to their quiet.

He looks at Sohyun, her eyes still carrying that storm and sunrise. She’s not the girl who scoffed at his no-look pass, not anymore—she’s the one who trusted his shot, who kissed him like time was running out, who fought beside him.

“You gonna admit I’m clutch now?” he says, his voice teasing but soft, his grin flickering.

She glances at him, her lips twitching, not quite a smile but close. “Don’t push it,” she says, but her tone’s warm, her eyes holding his for a moment too long.

They walk off the court together, their steps synced, their shadows overlapping in the golden light.

---

The locker room is a chaotic symphony, vibrating with euphoria and the raw energy of victory. Steam curls from the open showers, thick and warm, mingling with the sharp scent of Bengay and sweat-soaked jerseys. Towels fly like confetti, players shouting over each other, their voices a jumble of laughter and adrenaline. Someone’s hooked up a cracked Bluetooth speaker, blasting a K-pop track that’s too loud, the bass rattling the metal lockers. Another player bangs a water bottle against a bench, keeping rhythm, his grin wide enough to split his face.

Y/N sits in the far corner, a towel draped over his head like a hood, not hiding but processing, the roar of the arena still echoing in his bones. His ankle throbs beneath the tape Sohyun wrapped, his shoulder aches from the game’s collisions, and his chest feels too tight, his throat too dry for the victory whoops around him. The adrenaline hasn’t worn off, but it’s settling, like dust after a storm, leaving him raw, exposed.

“Bro!” Buzzcut yells, his voice cutting through the noise, his grin all teeth. “You cooked him! Like, rotisserie level, man!” He slaps Y/N’s shoulder, hard enough to make him wince, but Y/N’s crooked grin tugs at his lips, reflexive, playful.

Another teammate, still peeling off his jersey, chimes in, “He’s not going back anywhere. We’re keeping him here forever.” The team laughs, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls, a chorus of belonging that warms Y/N’s chest, even if he’s not sure he believes it yet.

He peels the towel away, his eyes scanning the room, past the chaos, past the steam. There. Sohyun sits on a bench across from him, alone, her posture still, deliberate. She’s peeling off her wrist wrap, her fingers moving methodically, like it’s just another Tuesday, like the championship win and that kiss on the court didn’t just rewrite the air between them.

Their eyes meet.

And hold.

She smiled, again. Y/N feels his pulse kick up, the locker room’s noise fading to a hum. Her eyes are a storm and a sunrise, and for the first time, he thinks she might see him the way he sees her. She doesn’t look away, and neither does he.

Outside, the arena’s emptying, the crowd’s roar reduced to a restless murmur as stragglers spill into the Seoul night. The parking lot is a maze of flashing cameras and neon signs, the air cool and sharp, carrying the faint hum of traffic and the buzz of post-game excitement. Reporters swarm near the exit, their mics thrusting forward like spears, their lights glaring against Taewook’s drawn face. His crimson jersey is soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with something heavier than defeat—humiliation, maybe, or the weight of a bet he never should’ve made. He shoves through them with a raised forearm, his voice a low growl. “No comment.”

Sohyun exits through a side door, she moves with purpose, her sneakers silent on the concrete, her eyes fixed ahead. Taewook’s standing near the exit, his back to her, his shoulders stiff as he brushes off another reporter. He turns slightly, catching her in his periphery, his lips parting like he’s about to say something—her name, maybe, or an apology, or another desperate jab.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Her stride is steady, unyielding, like she’s walking through a ghost. The reporters pause, sensing the tension, their cameras swiveling, but she’s gone before they can catch her, her silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the lot.

Y/N steps out seconds later, his hoodie slung over his shoulder, his ankle still taped, his blue hair catching the neon glow. He catches the tail end of the moment—Taewook’s frozen stance, Sohyun’s retreating figure. His eyes flick between them, his grin absent, his posture relaxed but alert. He falls into step beside her, matching her pace, the space between them close but not touching.

“So that’s it?” he asks, his voice soft, not pushing, just curious, like he’s testing the air.

She doesn’t look at him, her eyes on the path ahead, her parka swishing. “What would be the point of saying more?” Her tone’s flat, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s closing a door and locking it.

He kicks a loose pebble, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Closure?” he offers, his voice lighter, but there’s a weight behind it, like he’s asking for her as much as for himself.

She glances at him, one eyebrow raised, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “The game ended,” she says, her voice steady, final. “That was closure.”

Y/N nods, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He feels it—the finality of her words, the way she’s cut Taewook out like a bad play. He thinks of home, of the barangay court where fights ended with a handshake or a laugh, where closure was a shared soda and a promise to run it back. This is different, colder, but he gets it. He doesn’t push, just walks beside her, their steps syncing in the cool night air.

The Seoul night buzzes softly, a low hum of distant traffic and the flicker of neon signs casting pink and blue glows across the sidewalks. The air’s crisp, smelling of city smog and faint pine from the campus trees, a stark contrast to the locker room’s heat. Y/N and Sohyun walk side by side, their footsteps echoing in tandem, the space between them just shy of touching, like a wire stretched taut but not yet snapped.

Y/N kicks a loose pebble, the clatter breaking the silence. “So,” he starts, his voice light but deliberate, “we kissed. That happened.”

Sohyun exhales through her nose, a soft sound that’s almost a laugh, her lips twitching. “It did,” she says, her tone dry but warm, like she’s playing his game but setting the rules.

He grins, his heart thudding a little too fast. “Just checking we weren’t concussed or anything.” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are searching, watching her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek.

She chuckles, soft and fleeting, the sound like a crack in her armor. “No concussion,” she says, her eyes still ahead, but her steps slow, like she’s letting the moment linger.

He stops walking, his sneakers scuffing to a halt. She does too, turning to face him, her eyes catching the streetlight’s glow. “So… what now?” he asks, his voice quieter, no bravado, just a question hanging in the air like a held breath.

She pauses, her gaze steady, her hands in her pockets. “We practice again tomorrow,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, but there’s a softness in it, like she’s leaving room for more.

He tilts his head, his grin soft but persistent. “That’s not what I meant.”

A beat. The air hums, the neon signs flickering, the city a distant pulse. She looks at him, really looks, her eyes searching his—not for flaws, but for truth. “Don’t know,” she says finally, her voice low, honest, like she’s admitting something to herself as much as to him. “Haven’t planned that far ahead.”

He smiles, slow and real, his heart thudding but steady. “Want me to freestyle it?” he asks, his tone teasing but his eyes earnest, like he’s offering to take the lead if she’ll let him.

She turns to him fully now, her lips twitching, almost a smile. “God, no,” she says, but her voice is warm, playful, like she’s letting him in, just a little.

They laugh, the sound soft but shared, echoing in the quiet night. The streetlights cast their shadows long and close, overlapping on the concrete, and for a moment, it’s just them—the city, the court, the rhythm they’re still learning to play.

The emergency stairwell to the dorm rooftop is a narrow, echoing climb, the metal steps clanging under their sneakers, the air cool and damp with the scent of concrete and rust. Y/N leads the way, a pair of canned energy drinks rattling in his hands, the aluminum cold against his palms. Sohyun follows, The championship’s adrenaline still lingers, but it’s softer now, settling into something new.

They push through the heavy door to the rooftop, the Seoul night opening up before them—a sprawl of twinkling lights, neon signs flickering in the distance, the low hum of traffic a quiet pulse. The air is thin, crisp, carrying the faint scent of city smog and distant pine. The weathered bench near the edge is their destination, its wood chipped and faded, the metal frame cold under the moonlight. They sit side by side, close but not touching, their breaths visible in the cool air, the silence stretching comfortably.

Y/N cracks his can, the sharp hiss cutting through the quiet. He takes a sip, the bitter fizz sparking on his tongue, and leans back, his shoulder brushing the bench’s edge. “You scare the hell out of me,” he says, his voice low, half-teasing but heavy with truth, like he’s confessing something he’s held onto too long.

Sohyun looks over, her eyes catching the moonlight, her expression unreadable but soft, no trace of her usual steel. “You confuse the hell out of me,” she says, her tone dry but warm, like she’s playing his game.

He grins, his heart thudding, his fingers tightening on the can. “Still?” he asks, his voice lighter, but his eyes search hers, looking for the crack in her armor.

She nudges his foot with hers, a small, deliberate contact that sends a spark through him. “Less than before,” she says, her voice quieter, like she’s admitting something to herself as much as to him.

She cracks her own can, the sound sharp, and takes a sip, her gaze drifting to the city skyline. “You play like chaos,” she says, her voice steady but curious, like she’s piecing him together. “But when I watched you today, I realized… you’re not trying to break the system.”

He doesn’t speak, just waits, his eyes on her profile—the sharp line of her jaw, the loose strand of hair curling against her cheek. The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable, like they’re both holding space for something real.

“You’re trying to belong in one that never saw you coming,” she says, her voice soft, almost a whisper, like she’s seen something in him he didn’t know he was showing.

He turns, meeting her gaze, his breath catching. His voice is small, raw, like he’s peeling back a layer he didn’t know he had. “Did I?”

She doesn’t speak right away, her eyes holding his, steady and unguarded. Then she nods, just once, a small movement that feels like a victory bigger than the championship. The city hums below, the moonlight casting their shadows long and close, and for a moment, the rooftop feels like their court, their rules, their rhythm.

The air on the rooftop is thin and electric, the kind that makes your skin hum, the city’s glow a soft halo around them. Sohyun shifts slightly, her knee brushing Y/N’s, a fleeting contact that feels deliberate, like a pass she meant to throw. Her parka rustles, her earbud dangles, the lo-fi beat a faint pulse in the quiet. Y/N’s can is cold in his hand, his bracelet catching the moonlight, his heart thudding but steady, like he’s waiting for the next play.

She looks at him, her eyes softer now, no trace of the captain’s steel, just a girl who’s fought her way through a system and found something unexpected. “Last time,” she says, her voice low, certain, “I kissed you because I was scared.”

He stays still, his breath caught, his grin absent. He feels the weight of her words, the memory of that locker room kiss—fierce, urgent, like time was running out. He doesn’t speak, just watches her, his eyes searching for what comes next.

“This time,” she says, her voice quieter, steadier, “I’m not.”

She leans in, slow and certain, her lips meeting his in a kiss that’s not rushed, not desperate, but earned, deliberate, like a shot she’s practiced a thousand times. It’s soft at first, then deeper, her hand finding his jaw, his fingers brushing her wrist, the woven bracelet a quiet tether between them. The city fades, the hum of traffic and neon signs swallowed by the rhythm of their breaths, the warmth of her lips, the way she tastes like energy drink and victory.

They pull apart, their foreheads touching for a heartbeat, their breaths mingling in the cool air. Y/N chuckles, soft and genuine, his grin flickering. “I was gonna ask,” he says, his voice teasing but raw, “Thanks for saving me the embarrassment.”

She smirks, her eyes sparkling under the moonlight. “You’re still embarrassing,” she says, her tone dry but warm, like she’s playing his game and winning.

He laughs, his heart thudding, his fingers still tangled with hers. “You still love it,” he says, his voice lighter, but his eyes hold hers, searching for the truth.

She doesn’t answer, just smirks again, her lips twitching, a maybe in her silence. They sit like that—shoulders touching, fingers tangled, the city buzzing below, the moonlight casting their shadows as one. No words left to waste, just the quiet rhythm of something new, something real.

The next day, the gym is alive but lighter, the air free of the championship’s weight. The team runs drills, their sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, their laughter echoing off the walls. The fluorescents hum, the backboards gleam, and the scent of polish and sweat is familiar, comforting. Coach Kim leans against the bleachers, his arms folded, his clipboard tucked under his arm, a rare ease in his posture.

Y/N drives down the lane, his blue hair a blur, his ankle taped but steady. He fakes left, spins right, and lays it up, the ball kissing the glass and dropping through. Swish. The net ripples, and he grins, his swagger back but tempered, like he’s found the balance between chaos and control. Sohyun catches the rebound, her movements fluid. She tosses the ball back, lazy but precise, her eyes flicking to him with a spark of something playful.

Coach Kim blows his whistle, sharp but approving. “That was clean,” he says, his voice gruff but warm, like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.

Sohyun smirks, her hands on her hips, her earbud dangling, leaking that familiar lo-fi beat. “See? He’s learning,” she says, her tone dry but teasing, like she’s taking credit but sharing it too.

Y/N jogs over, grabbing a water bottle from the bench, his grin wide and real. “I already knew,” he says, his voice light but earnest, his eyes meeting hers. “Just needed the right teacher.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile breaks through, small but bright, like a sunrise after a long night. “Try not to fall for me again mid-game,” she says, her tone playful but sharp, like she’s daring him to keep up.

He laughs, his heart thudding, his bracelet catching the light. “Nah,” he says, his voice teasing but soft, “that was the best part.”

The team laughs, their voices a chorus of camaraderie, the gym alive with the rhythm of drills and banter. The ball bounces again, the court calling them back, but Y/N and Sohyun linger for a moment, their eyes locked, their smiles shared. The game isn’t over—not the one on the court, not the one between them. But they’ve just started, and the rhythm they’re building feels like a promise, a shot they won’t miss.

#kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #fluff #kpop girls #idol x male reader #kpop x male reader #triples #sohyun #park sohyun #sohyun triples #sohyun x reader #s14 #sohyun x male reader #park sohyun x male reader #triples x reader

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kyokeiii · 17 hours ago

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is there any chance u could write more dad!keigo? absolutely in love with your interpretation!!! o⁠(⁠(⁠*⁠^⁠▽⁠^⁠*⁠)⁠)⁠o

“daddy! daddy’s home!”

weary to the bone, covered in grit and sweat, hair tangled and aching limbs in sore need of a good rest, all keigo had wanted when he got home from his mission in shibuya was to collapse into his bed and sleep his exhaustion away.

“there she is—there’s my girl.”

right after seeing his daughter’s beautiful face for the first time in two weeks, that is.

she comes running up to him, nearly tripping over her clumsy little feet, with your hair and his lambent yellow eyes, glowing with happiness as she flings herself into his arms. keigo lets out a giddy laugh, picking her right up off the ground and swinging her around, pressing kisses against the crown of her head.

“were you good while daddy was away?” he asks sternly, hitching her up onto her hip so he can gaze with mock seriousness into her little face. she giggles.

“no, she was not.” your voice from down the hall makes him turn, and the second his eyes find you, his heart thuds almost painfully in his chest, straining to burst from his ribcage. he has to swallow back the lump in his throat.

they’d told him that the giddy rush of new love would fade quick once he settled down, but it’d been years of dating, a ring on your finger, and a baby girl, and you still made his whole world shift on its axis just by entering a room. he’d run to you and kiss you senseless, if not for the squirming little thing in his arms, the most precious thing in his universe.

“no?” keigo glowers at his daughter, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she laughs harder. “what’d you do this time, huh, chickadee? blow the house up?”

“nuh-uh! you’re in the house right now!”

he taps his chin, pretending to think. “i don’t know...you could’ve built a new one to trick me. well,” he pulls her up a little higher, securing her more firmly, “i guess i’ve gotta go investigate every corner, now, don’t i? make sure everything’s all the same. and if one thing’s out of place...the tickle monster’s gonna get you.”

“no!” she squeals dramatically, wriggling in his gentle but unyielding grip, dissolving into peals of giddy laughter that make his heart swell up with so much love it hurts. “not the tickle monster!”

“well, we’ll see, won’t we? hang on tight. daddy’s gonna take you flying.” walking across the hallway, keigo spreads his wings, veering back and forth from wall to wall while his baby girl giggles in delight.

he passes by you at the end of the hall, pausing for the briefest moment to kiss you. a brief peck, but with all the affection in the world in it. “missed you,” he whispers, finding your hand and squeezing it before your daughter, growing impatient, tugs on a handful of his hair, making him yelp. “okay, alright! jeez, what’d we say about hair pulling, sweetheart?”

“don’t do it?” she asks, blinking owlishly at you from over his shoulder.

“that’s right. let’s go, now. i’ve got a lot of investigating to do.” impulsively, keigo kisses her on her little button nose, glancing at you with the warm smile he saves for you alone. “no place like home, right?”

#‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꒰ ‎ ‎ kyokei ‎ ‎ ‎ ﹒#‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ letters‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ◞ ‎#‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ﹒‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ sweet talk #mha #takami keigo #bnha hawks #mha hawks #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #mha x reader #bnha #my hero academia #hawks x you #keigo x reader #keigo takami

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r0-boat · 3 days ago

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Naga! Solomon part 1

Au Where when someone disappeared he used his magic to turn himself into a beast. Now he won't leave you(a random human) alone.

It was a bright, calm morning, a morning like any other. Like every other morning, humming a tune, while you get ready to go into your backyard garden to water the vegetables, you hear the croaking and cawing of a flock of crows beating their wings as they pack and prod at something. As you opened your back door, you could only glimpse what seemed like a snake wriggling and struggling. You yelled out, rushing toward the scene, scaring away the flock of crows. Its black body curled up into a little ball

It didn't look like a wild snake, that's for sure, and wild or not, you certainly didn't want the poor thing to die. You scooped the snake into your hands, your skin stained with blood. You did whatever you could, whatever you knew, and whatever you didn't. Google was your savior. You breathed a sigh of relief knowing that the creature was still alive. When the snake unraveled, it slowly moved its head to look at you. A behavior quite unusual. It didn't try to squirm out of your hands, just relaxed and stared at you. All you did was smile back, "Hi!"

You stopped all the bleeding for now and had to get back to things you needed to do. You took a better look at the snake that was wrapped around your arm. You didn't realize, but faded yellow stripes and the way its black scales shine more color in the light. At first, you thought it was just a wild snake, but not only did it not look like one, but its docile behavior is nothing like the skittish snakes you would see in your yard every now and then.

Thinking it could be someone's pet, he kept the little guy. Perhaps later in the evening, you could post pictures online to see if anyone in your neighborhood is missing a pet snake. Using a large furniture box, you've never thrown out a folded blanket and an old desk light. You made a shitty makeshift enclosure. You practically pryed the python off your arm into the box, sliding it against the wall. You turned on the desk lamp. You took a quick picture of the snake on your phone. Putting a picture out on that one social media, you only ever used to keep up with distant family and your small community, hoping anyone would come forward.

You spent the entire day, occasionally checking on the snake and constantly refreshing the post you made. The snake was exceptionally well-behaved. You only got truly worried when it tried to slither out of the box every time you approached, almost as if it was excited for your return.

Maybe tomorrow will be different You thought before heading to bed

The desk lamp was fine, but it was not nearly enough for Solomon, and the blanket was soft; it may have been. It wasn't comfortable, not as comfortable and warm as the arm of that friendly human who rescued him. How long has it been since he took this form that he felt the warmth of another? Decades? A century? He does not regret taking this farm, but it has been a lonely life.

Solomon, being hurt and recovering, no longer had enough magic to sustain this disguise form, and he needed all the help he could get to fully recover. He's cold, he's lonely, and you smell so good.

The box couldn't withstand the shifting snake as his human torso ripped through the cardboard. The Naga slid out of the remains of his makeshift enclosure. He cared little about exploring your home as he recounted the many times he watched you go up and down the stairs. He hadn't used his arms in so long as he crawled and slithered up the stairs to your bedroom. Oh, how he missed the sink of a mattress and the softness of a warm-blooded body. And you still smell so good. Snuggling under the covers, His serpent half wraps around one of your legs. His human torso snuggling up to your back, and his arms wrap around you. Oh, he missed this...

Your skeleton jumped out of your skin when you woke up this morning. Something crawling up your leg and a naked man against your back. His long purple hair cascading as he woke up, rubbing his eyes despite his handsome face and his cute bedhead, THIS WAS A STRANGER IN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE. Despite your screams and your shrieks of demands and threats, the stranger just keeps smiling at you like he's meant to be here. You reach for your phone, charging to call the police. Solomon tries to take your arm, wanting to snuggle his cheek against it. His smile fades into disappointment when you pull away.

Before you could scream, you felt terror and more threats. The stranger slid out of bed to reveal his lower half. You found the source of the crawling sensation: a serpentine body wrapping and coiling all the way down to the tip of the tail, slowly swishing from side to side with a familiar scale color pattern and shine. And when Solomon yawned, the creature's jaw unhinged to show you its needle-like fangs and sharp teeth. Your eyes widen as everything clicks. He practically sprinted down the stairs to see the box ripped as if something had outgrown it. You said nothing as you walked back up the stairs, peeking your head into your room.

The mysterious man was still there, lying stomach down on your sheets like he owned the pillow, watching you. That smile never left his face. And the look he was giving you—that look—that look only lovers give to their significant other in a cheesy ass Hallmark movie. He uses his long claws to comb through his hair, trying to tame his bedhead.

You whip your head back and forth. Your shaky hand makes a pointing motion. The cogs in your head are working overtime to comprehend what is happening. Solomon perks up at that small reaction as he slithers closer. "No no no no no!" You repeat. But the creature doesn't listen. As you trip over your heel, the beast catches you before you hit the ground. His arms loosely wrap around you, His naked chest lying against you.

Solomon looks at you, gentle fingers graze against your chin, his eyes half lit, his pupils. You've just noticed where the slits are now blown wide. Every bit of yourself preservation at once flies out of you, only for Solomon to move off of you, trying to help you get back on your feet.

You guess you have to delete that post now...

Now that the snake is more of a man, you tried to urge it to leave to be free to go wherever a snake man goes. But the mother fucker. Won't. Leave. Instead, he just follows you around the house, watching you closely as if he's taking note of everything you're doing. It would be weird if it was an oddly cute. He follows you around like a lost puppy. Lying in the grass in your yard while you water your vegetables, settling next to you on the couch when you sit down, making sure his coils are all tucked up neatly so he's not taking too much space. Trying to snuggle up to you on your bed. Keyword trying, as you actively reject his cuddly advances.

You're so glad you bought that blow-up mattress from when you had a friend stay over. But the problem is, he won't use it. YOU KNOW HE CAN UNDERSTAND YOU (Maybe), but he just won't listen every time. When you go to bed the next morning, you always find him snuggled up to you, coils wrapped in places they really shouldn't be.

This can't be your life now can it?? Things can't get possibly any worse can it?

#whb #what in hell is bad #I like how all of us collectively think he's hot like neither of us blame any of the devils for liking Solomon #whb solomon #whb x reader #whb Solomon x reader

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ordinaryluv · 3 days ago

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𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮 𝘼𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜

𝘿𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧 :

𝘈𝘴 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘴)

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 :

𝘈𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘓𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺.

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:

𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝘽𝙮 𝙇𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 - 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙨 ִ ࣪𖤐 "𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵"

01:23 ━━━━●───── 03:43 ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ

You had a busy couple of weeks lately. Gig after gig, show after show, studio after studio. To say you were exhausted was an understatement, but to say you were not fulfilled would be a lie.

Being singer of a small band in L.A. was not an easy job, if not for your friend Gregory, or Rogy, who has filthy rich parents. Something to do with solar power but you tried not to dig too much into business that was not your own. Thanks to Rogy your band got a loft, a studio, and gigs almost every weekend. But with the rising popularity and connections came the rising demand, and for some (you) it was a bit overwhelming.

You have always been type A. Organizing every little thing and making sure they were fitting into their time slots. So you were in charge of the schedules while Rogy lounged in another hotel room with a groupie or Sam, your drummer, who liked to go on spontaneous adventures without letting anyone know.

So you sat at your desk one night, nothing but your computer screen lighting up your face as you went through emails, contracts, demands. Flashing from one tab to another, from the google calendar filled with events and times and appointments (some that weren’t even yours). So there you were, adjusting the blue light glasses you were not even sure worked and checking one last email.

Your eyes widened as you read it. It was a gig, and a good one at that. It was one of many Rogy’s famous friends, but there was no mention of Rogy anywhere in the email. You were sure they knew he must have been in the band, but the person writing it (a quickly rising model and actress) actually seemed interested in your music and your performances. You pushed the glasses back up your nose, immediately accepting. Another colorful tab added to the google calendar and a quick reminder sent to all the band members. You were going to perform there, even if you had to pull Rogy out of bed, even if you had to hunt Sam down, even if you had to- well Selena was never much of an issue (she was on the keys), but she was a bit of a party animal.

Sure, you had good gigs before, but this was different. This was a larger event, with way more people. And not regular people, but literal stars who’s interviews you watch every day like its your breakfast. Okay, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but this was an amazing opportunity and there was no way you would pass it up.

You stood outside of the borderline mansion you were going to perform in tonight as Selena came up behind you followed by Rogy. Everyone sent a confirmation, even Sam, but he was always at least thirty minutes late. Rogy’s friend, Kayla, who turned out to be the prettiest and kindest girl on planet Earth, let all of you in. She gave warm hugs in her already dolled up outfit and ushered you onto a small makeshift stage.

As you were tempering with the chords and trying to connect your microphone into the correct speaker Rogy was tuning his guitar, Selena was lounging back against a wall on her phone. The low ember lights didn’t do much to help and you held your flashlight to figure out what each outlet was for. With a groan you lifted your head “where is Sam?” Irritation was seeping into your tone though you were trying really hard not to sour your mood before the performance.

“He’s always late,” Rogy spoke lazily, lifting his head to gaze up at you “calm down, angel, he’ll show up.” Your lips quirked up slightly and you forced yourself back to work.

Slipping into the bathroom you were doing a last check. You had to look presentable even after setting everything up. There was only one thought in your head, The Marias would be proud of you if they knew you. The phone in your hand lit up and you really hoped it was Sam complaining about the lack of parking outside, but it wasn’t. With one last prayed and a wish that everyone was ready and would go well you walked back out, a soft smile on your lips even though you felt as if one small mistake would snap you in half.

Sam still wasn’t there.

People were already pooling in, and some music was playing over the speakers since it wasn’t your time to perform yet. No one was really rushing you, but you had your own schedule in your head and you were slowly falling behind. When you approached, Selena and Rogy huddled together, the easy-going energy was gone from both their faces. Apparently Sam has been ignoring their texts and calls all night and they couldn’t get ahold of him. Your fingers began to tremble, this could not be it. You turned away, trying to call Sam yourself, you were so desperate you called his mom, who was in a totally different state, but she had no idea either.

Kayla checked in, but Selena quickly shook her head, “not ready” she murmured over the music as you and Rogy were panicking. Glancing over the crowd of people did nothing to ease your nerves even if none of them payed much attention to you.

Everyone knew you could not precede without your drummer. Not only was it the atmosphere but he set the tempo and your music sounded empty without Sam. This incompetent man! You buried your face in your hands, not caring about your makeup anymore. It wasn’t like you were going to perform- your thoughts were cut off by Kayla’s gentle hand on your shoulder. You were so surprised you didn’t notice she was trailing someone behind her. Eyes wide and your expression still a bit panicked. You must look like a lunatic in a horrible band that can’t control anything. This was a horrible first impression.

But instead of being mad, Kayla smiled and said “heard you need a drummer.” That sly little smile made you understand why the casting directors liked her so much.

“Yeah but Sam isn’t here and I don’t think we can continue without him and I’m so,” she cut you off, pulling the person behind her a bit towards you.

“I got a replacement, and he is much more reliable.” There was something so catlike about her as she let go of the mans arm “This is Lewis.” He awkwardly raised his hand and offered a small wave. You titled your head up, your lips quirking up at him mostly from surprise.

Completely forgetting to introduce yourself you go straight to business “you know how to play? Have you ever performed? You can read sheet music, right?” This solicited a warm chuckle from him and your eyes widened a little more, you felt the blush creep up your neck from the rumble of his laugh. Somehow that sound grounded you slightly, almost like taking a sip of very hot tea after drowning in an icy lake.

“Yeah,” Lewis rubbed the back of his neck “I play, performed before. If you guys need help,” he gestured towards the stage “I don’t mind, I’m sure Kayla here will throw another party soon and honestly,” he leaned in a little closer and you felt your heart speed up as his blue eyes took you in for a second “I’m not in the mood to socialize.”

Kayla patted him on the shoulder “yeah you never feel like socializing, you nerd.” They seemed to be good friends but he simply chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Please let his awkward ass play tonight,” you couldn’t help but laugh along with them. Lewis’s eyes slid back down to you as you laughed, almost a mesmerized expression.

“Honestly we should be the one begging him,” you smiled up at him and he smiled back shyly.

Somewhere in the middle of that interaction Kayla took it upon herself to formally introduce you two to each other.

Lewis went over the sheet music a couple of times before setting it down before him and getting comfortable, spinning the drum sticks between his fingers.

The performance was going well. The yellowing lights added to the soft and slightly intimate atmosphere, the crowds spread all about the house, everything was calm but still buzzing with vibrant energy. This was the perfect gig, even without Sam here. His fault for missing out.

You walked the stage, moving to the beat, you were a performer nonetheless. Some people were by the stage, watching, or sipping their drinks as they moved along with their partners. It was almost like you were performing for yourself. You weren’t aware that Lewis’s eyes were set on you any time he wasn’t looking at the sheet music before him. The way you moved, the delicate hold you had on the microphone, the slope of your body illuminated by a couple of lights that were scattered about kept him in a trance.

Lewis rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, his cap on backwards as his muscular arms focused on getting every beat and the tempo right. You noticed his hands earlier when talking and if you could stare at his hands all night, you might have. Selena smirked as she noticed Lewis watching you, almost hypnotized by your performance though it wasn’t anything crazy, maybe it was just your aura that was drawing him in.

A couple of sets in, you leaned back against Selena’s keyboard as you sang, interacting with other band members during the show might have been your favorite part. Rogy winking at you and your giggling mid song just added charm and character to the performance. There was a song where you would stand behind Sam, your hands running over his shoulders as a little act you both did every show. It was just to get people talking, and it usually worked. You remember leaning over his shoulder, singing to him and not the crowd.

Maybe you still had feelings for Sam, but right now was not the time to dwell on them. The song was coming up, and you slowly strolled over to Lewis. He looked up, another boy-ish smile spread across his lips as you leaned in and whispered by his ear “it’s just part of performance, okay?” His eyebrows furrowed as you stepped behind him. The song was mellow and your hands on his shoulders intensified every feeling in his body. He felt your body behind him as you sang. The show must go on.

Lewis felt his pulse pick up as you sang, your soft hands running over him, your voice like warm honey. This might be a dream, he thought. But he had to play along, just a performance, he recalled your words. Letting you lean over him, look into his eyes, run your hands down his arm and rest against the drums as you moved softly to the music. Is this heaven? Might be. He got to play the drums again and this surreal woman was practically serenading him.

In the little breaks between sets and songs, Lewis heard Rogy call you “angel” and he couldn’t have agreed more with the nickname. Because you were, at least to him, a real life angel. Maybe it was your voice that washed over him like soft sea foam or your presence that just seemed to calm his anxiety. He couldn’t help his eyes trailing you everywhere you went. You were taking a sip of water? And he was dreaming of taking a sip form the same bottle. You were talking to Rogy? And Lewis was dreaming he was part of that conversation.

Selena, ever the instigator, leaned over to Lewis and whispering in her slightly raspy voice “don’t think about it, pretty boy.” Lewis flushed, chuckling awkwardly as he tore his eyes away, already wanting to go back to looking at you. It was becoming a new hobby of his. Like you were a complicated but mesmerizing painting in a museum. “She’s still not over Sam,” Selena continued, “so don’t get your hopes up.”

Lewis knew that Selena was right, if someone wasn’t over their previous lover or feelings, there was no reason in trying to pursue anything with them. But as you looked up and smiled at him, silently asking with your eyes if he was okay, those thoughts disappeared. Sam isn’t here. Lewis is, though. That’s the difference between the drifting, incompetent, man-child and a real man. He nodded and you noticed the way his eyes crinkle as he offered you a small crooked smile, or the way his eyes glisten in the lights. The soft intensity your gazes held made it seem as if you were the only one in the whole mansion.

But you were snapped out of it by Rogy bumping your shoulder with his. Time to continue.

You told Lewis it was fine if he left, you could manage packing everything up, but he insisted on staying. People were filing out of the house and Kayla stood with her hip leaning against the stage as she offered hugs and goop-bye’s to everyone departing.

With your microphone stand and some cords in hand, you hugged Kayla goodbye as she promised to invite you next time as a guest. Selena was already gone and Rogy was leading some girl to his convertable. Lewis was helping you carry the large speakers back to your car. Soft conversation filled the night. His muscles flexing slightly as he hitched the speaker up a bit, and it brought your attention back to his arms. You can only imagine what it would be like to have those arms wrapped around you.

Your smile shallowed slightly and your head snapped forwards as you heard someone calling out your name, slurred and loud. It was Sam. And he was extremely drunk. He didn’t stop, bumped slightly into you and held on to your shoulders as if you were his life line. He was slurring and begging and he was a total mess. Your eyes widened at his spontaneous arrival. You tried to help him stand but it was difficult with your hands full of equipment.

When he leaned in to kiss you out of nowhere, you dropped some cords and pushed his mouth away, but he protected, leaning more of his weight on you. Panic flashed through you before you felt Lewis pulling Sam away, “that is enough,” you heard him murmur in a low growl. You looked up to see the anger painting Sam’s face, but there was no way he could fight back, even though he was trying. Thrashing against Lewis and reaching for you again.

You quickly picked up the cords and stepped back, trying to create some space between the two of you. You felt the dizzying realization that if Lewis wasn’t here, you probably wouldn’t have been able to stop Sam from doing whatever he came here to do.

Sam was sent away on a cab Lewis ordered for him but you were still shaken up from the encounter. After everything was loaded into the car, Lewis turned to you, the red lights illuminating the two of you in the deserted driveway. “Are you okay?” He spoke gently, as if he spoke too loudly you would shatter. You nodded but he noticed the tremor in your hands. “It’s okay, he’s gone. On his way home.” That is when you had to explain that all of the band members lived together and you would have to face him tonight or next morning. You rambled on before he gently pulled you into his chest.

His strong arms circling around you like a vice, his chin resting on the top of your head as he whispered reassurances to you. It should have been weird, you were technically strangers, but right now you didn’t care. Not when the warmth of his body enveloped you and you felt it protect you from the contrasting night breeze. “Lets get you inside, hm?” He pulled back, smoothing over you hair, “I will drive you, you don’t have to worry.” And before you could argue he led you to the door, gently ushering you inside.

Even though he was acting almost like your protector, all confident and secure, you noticed the tap of his finger against the steering wheel, or the glances he threw your way. Almost shy now as he was locked in a small space with you. You smiled at his contradicting actions. Maybe he was just a gentleman.

The streets passing didn’t seem familiar to you, “are we going the right way?” You turned to peer up at Lewis, taking him in in the night time as the street lights illuminated his profile.

“Technically,” he avoided your eyes “I’m not taking you home-“ he shook his head “I mean, I am. But my home. You can’t stay with that drunk, I… I can’t let that happen.”

Silently you reached for you phone, sending your location to Rogy along with a “just in case” text.

Somehow you began talking about Sam, just pouring your heart out to Lewis. Maybe it was wrong, maybe you shouldn’t be so trusting. But apparently tonight you had survival instincts of a tree.

You told Lewis about the relationship you were a part of a while back, how you were kept like a secret, how hurt you were. There was so much, lies, cheating, but this band was your dream and you weren’t going to break it apart because of some shitty relationship.

By the time he parked outside his house, you were almost in tears and his heart was shattering for you. He killed the engine, turning towards you “he’s an asshole” his deep voice calmed the storm in your gut. “And though I have known you for one night, I can tell you deserve more than whatever he’s giving you. You are sitting here, stressing,” his eyes were filled with such sincerity you felt the tears coming back simply because you have never felt so seen by someone. “While he is out there being a drunk idiot. And not even the poetic type. And I think,” he gently reached out, wiping a stray tear you didn’t notice slipped past your insistence not to cry “someone so kind and sweet and goddamn beautiful shouldn’t pay him any attention.” His gaze intensified as the words slipped past his lips, your eyes widened a little. Both of you stayed silent, simply staring at each other. Your heart beating out of your chest, his gaze forward and direct, almost like he could see your soul and was taking it apart, which you didn’t expect from such a sweet and shy individual.

“Please, let me distract you from him.” He spoke in a whisper. And those are the words that spiraled this. Windows fogging slightly as the two of you kissed, his hands pulling and running over you as your hands slid up into his hair. But he pulled back all of the sudden, you could still feel his hot lips on yours and it was almost dizzying “that’s not why I brought you here,” he spoke quickly “I-“ he ran a hand over his hair. “I promise, that’s not why you’re here. I just wanted to offer you my spare room and a shoulder to cry on,” you could practically feel the anxiety rolling off him, hoping you didn’t interpret his actions the wrong way. Lewis did not have this in mind, well he did, but he wasn’t going to act on it. It truly wasn’t in the list of reasons as to why he took you back to his house.

His eyes so soft and worried, it tugged on your heartstrings. “I know,” you whispered, “but I want this… I want you to distract me. I want you to be my only point of focus.” Lewis was sure you could feel how hot he has gotten and probably hear his heart beating too, but with your reassurance came some confidence.

Next thing you know, you’re pulled out of the car back into his arms, into a fervent kiss. His large, slightly calloused hands held your waist, and you felt lightweight as he pulled you even closer. Lewis pulled back, and you were about to protest but he simply hitched you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He chuckled at the look in your eyes, at the pretty rosy glow of your cheeks. “You really are an angel,” me murmured as he kissed your jaw and carried you inside.

You completely lost the track of time as he threw your jacket to the floor, pressing you softly against the wall of his hallway. You whined against his lips as his hips met yours and he drank that sound as if it was the sweetest wine. As he gently led you through the hallway, trying not to break the kiss unless absolutely necessary. He discarded pieced of his own and your clothing. His hands hesitant as if always asking for permission and never pushing, but experienced, always knowing what to do and how to do it.

You only stopped when you felt the back of your legs hit the bed. His hands on your hips lowered you down before he sunk to the floor. His lips now traveled to the inside of your thighs. “My angel,” came one last, low sound, almost like a purr. That is when you realized, the night was far from over.

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trans-fairy-goddess · 3 days ago

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Please Don’t Wake Up

TW// Somno, CNC, intox

You always look so gorgeous when you’re sleeping with your mouth open. But tonight, something was different. “Are you awake baby?” I say softly while I stroke your hair. No response. I carefully take off my belt and my pants, leaving me with nothing but a T-shirt and panties on.

“Hey baby, you awake?” I ask again. Just looking at you resting there, so cutely in your nightshirt and panties… it turns me on so much. As I keep quietly asking if you’re awake, the bulge in my panties grow larger and larger. Suddenly, my girldick is poking out of my panties. I pull my panties off and begin touching my cock while looking at you.

I the press my cock against your lips, making sure to carefully and slowly rub my tip on your tongue “Fuck sweetie, I really need you. You have to be awake right?” No response. As I very slowly and gently please myself using your mouth, I become very aroused. “Baby I can’t wait until the morning. You’re faking being asleep, aren’t you?” Still, no response.

I reposition myself so that the tip of my girldick is touching between your legs. I begin to thrust my girldick between your inner thighs and softly moan in your ear. I can smell alcohol in your sleepy breaths; you were drinking and must’ve passed out. “Baby you’re such a heavy sleeper. You’re too cute.”

At this point, I’m sexually frustrated. I get a good look at your fuckhole while I rub my gock against it, and begin to groan insatiably. “Baby I’m so sorry. I need this. I need you right now” I say softly.

I slowly slide my tip into your fuckhole and let out a soft moan. I carefully make sure to only put my tip in so I don’t wake you up. You feel so wet and warm, almost as if you’ve been wanting this to happen all night. “You have to be faking it baby, you’re such a bad fake sleeper.” No response.

I knew there was nothing that was gonna wake you up; you were out cold, deeply dreaming. So I repositioned myself one last time and forced my girldick into your hole. “Please don’t wake up baby.” I say softly as I begin to slowly thrust every inch of my cock into you. As my thrusts get harder and faster, you remain motionless with your eyes closed. “Fuck baby, I’m so sorry.” I say as I pump you full of my throbbing cock. With every deep thrust into you I let out deeper groans in your ear.

I finally cum deeply inside of you as my thrusting gets slower. When I pull out, I see my cum leaking out of you. I then slap my cock in your face and let cum get all over it too. I quickly kiss you on your cheek and spoon you close as I fall asleep with you.

Author’s Note: This is a part 2 to another post I posted recently, but it’s definitely good enough on its own too.

#t4t breeding #t4t fauxcest #t4t nsft #t4t cnc #intox cnc #cnc somno #cnc k!nk #somno k!nk #somno breeding #intox fantasy #intox play #alcohol intox #intox kink

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thecharacterchronicler · 2 days ago

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Tight shirts and short skirts (Part 4) || Sebastian Sallow || (18+)

Outline: Spring break at Feldcroft wasn’t supposed to change everything, just a quiet escape with Sebastian. But between too-tight school uniforms, a baby you’re not supposed to have, and the terrifying question of what comes next… hiding how you feel is becoming impossible.

Warnings: aged up characters, friends with benefits, (accidental / secret) pregnancy, body insecurities , explicit smut.

(( Part 1 - Exams, poltergeists & supply closets )) - (( Part 2 - Friends with benefits… & a baby )) - (( Part 3 - Mandrakes, dusty books and an apology ))

Spring break had finally arrived, and you had agreed to spend it in Feldcroft with Sebastian. But when you stepped up to Solomon’s front door, seeing the mix of regret and sorrow etched on Sebastian’s face, you questioned whether this was really a good idea. He hadn’t returned since his uncle’s death and his sister’s departure. Every corner of this house was drenched in painful memories for him, yet he was willing to face them, for you.

He pushed the door open and offered you to enter first, placing your bag by the coat rack in the entryway. The house was small, cluttered, but cozy. You slowly circled the main room, noticing dusty dishes on the shelves and a fireplace that clearly hadn’t been used in quite a while. Absentmindedly, you ran a hand along the hem of your cloak and realized you didn’t need to keep it on, not here, not when it was only the two of you. So you removed it, revealing the rounded belly straining the buttons of your shirt. It was still subtle enough to hide under a shawl or cardigan, but not for long.

Sebastian watched you for a moment too long. Every day, he was more stunned by how strong — and undeniable — his feelings for you had become. Just seeing your chest, tight and strained in your shirt, already tested his will. He tried to be a gentleman, avoiding staring, keeping his mouth shut, but it was getting harder by the minute. Especially since the other day, when he overheard Duncan talking about you with Garreth. Those two idiots had absolutely no clue what was really going on, they assumed you’d taken a potion to enlarge your breasts, or that you were trying to seduce one of the professors before exams. Maybe even trying to earn one of the guys’ attention. And when Sebastian heard that… he saw red. He challenged Duncan to a duel and beat him so the message was clear: don’t ever speak of her like that again; no degrading insinuations, no lust-filled comments… because you belonged to him. And the little being responsible for your new, wicked curves belonged to him too.

He softened his gaze as you moved through the kitchen. There, too, the buttons of your shirt were taut and he realized how rarely he had the chance to see your belly. You had to hide it constantly at school, worried someone might notice during classes or in the dorms.

You felt his gaze on you: heavy and warm, making you blush, so you ignored it. You examined the kitchen, its chipped mugs and wooden chairs around a round table until your eyes landed on a stack of books.

"What to expect when you’re expecting a magical baby. The first years of the baby wizard. Potions and mixtures for a painless delivery. The 28 essential spells for future parents… "

Your heart tightened at the sight of those titles. You knew your best friend devoured books on every subject that interested him but you never dreamed future parenthood would become one of his new passions.

“You’re studying all this on top of NEWTs prep?” you asked, a small smile on your lips at his sudden embarrassment.

“Well… I like to be prepared.”

“You’re more organized than I am. I don’t even know how I’ll manage with exams… Not to mention raising this baby.”

“I can help you study for your exams, there’s still some time. And for the baby…” he said, extending his hand to lead you upstairs. At the top of the staircase was a small space turned into bedroom. A double bed took up most of the space, along with a large wardrobe, and there, beside the lamp, you noticed a small wooden cradle. “I thought he could sleep here in the beginning, close to us. And once he’s older, we can give him his own room downstairs…”

“I…” you began, but the words didn’t come. Emotion caught at your throat at the sight of the tiny cradle, still missing blankets and pillows, but it existed. A place for your baby — his baby — and it was the most beautiful gift he could have given you.

“I made space in the wardrobe too. I sorted through Anne and Solomon’s things, there should be enough room for baby clothes, and yours too.”

“You really thought of everything,” you whispered, moved.

“I tried.”

You ran your hand over the soft covers on the bed, then sat to take in your possible future bedroom, your home. Sebastian watched quietly for a moment, tension etched on his face, as if bracing for rejection but it was beautiful. Perfect, even. Except for one detail:

“And you? Where will you sleep?”

Sebastian looked away for a moment, visibly uncomfortable. He fingered his dark hair nervously before daring to answer, with the honesty you knew him for:

“Well, I thought I’d sleep in the big bed… with you.”

“So you plan to keep this friends‑with‑benefits thing going until our child turns eighteen?” you asked, half-joking, but your heart wasn’t in it.

There were worse fates than having an accidental baby with your best friend—but you hadn’t imagined this was how it would look. Not ever, even when you let yourself fantasize about someday being with him. You’d imagined him asking you on a Hogsmeade date, taking you to the Yule Ball, maybe even meeting your parents. But this… this fitted none of the scenarios you’d imagined since fifth year.

“Honestly, I’d have no problem with that,” he admitted, matching your tone, and you smiled, choosing to ignore the growing sorrow in your chest. It was an accident, after all, he was already doing everything he could to help you. You couldn’t ask him for more.

He moved closer and sat beside you. You both gazed around in silence for a long moment. You could only guess at all the happy and painful memories Sebastian had in this house. And now he was ready to create new ones here, with you and your baby. Your hand found his on the covers, and you squeezed gently.

“Thank you, Sebastian. For everything you do…”

He smiled shyly, relief flickering in his eyes, he was happy it pleased you. He’d feared overstepping, since he had no real chance of ever being with you given the strict family you came from and the fact you’d always seen him as just a friend. This baby was the best thing that could have happened, even if it changed your whole dynamic, because it meant that, no matter what happened, you and him would be connected forever.

Despite all the tenderness he felt for you, sitting so close, smelling your scent, feeling your warmth and with such a clear view down into your too-tight neckline, he was brutally reminded that he was only a man. A man crazy about you. His dark eyes traced the path between your breasts, disappearing under the fabric of your uniform shirt where the buttons gaped. That was all it took: heat rising between his legs, his trousers tightening instantly, thinking about anything coherent faded, and there was nothing left but you, your curves, your hypnotic glow.

He told himself he’d have to be smooth, find an excuse to stand before you noticed what the sight of you had done to him, or maybe make a light, funny comment to suggest taking advantage of your friends‑with‑benefits agreement again. But to his surprise, it was you who leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips first.

It was a kiss full of gratitude and softness. You were still close to tears, realizing how much he was willing to commit for you and your unborn child. You wanted him to know it mattered, that it moved you… And the only way to show him felt like a kiss.

Perhaps due to the hormones, or maybe simply because you felt finally free to exist, to be seen, to be pregnant here, alone with him, the kiss deepened into something more fervent and passionate. In no time, he’d undone your top and freed your overburdened chest from its usual cage. His hands roamed over you, making your skin feel aflame.

You pulled him closer, your hands exploring his body until they found his obvious erection. You touched him too, moaning softly against his lips, as he gently pushed you back until your head rested on the pillow… But when he tried to position himself above you, you both realized your belly was in the way.

“I guess we’ll have to get creative…” you sighed, amused.

“I think we’re more than capable,” he smiled. “We’ve hooked up in a closet, in a bathroom, and in the library… a bed seems almost too boring for us.”

You laughed softly. He stood at the edge of the bed, his eyes on you and your finally bare chest. Only your school skirt remained.

“You know this skirt drives me crazy?” he asked, hands tracing along your thighs before yanking you to the edge of the bed in a sharp motion that made you gasp. “Leander and Garreth bet on who can get behind you in the stairs to enjoy the view. It’s so short, and you are so… perfect. They’d do anything just to catch a glimpse of what you’ve been giving me for six months.”

“It’s true that my skirt has been shorter since my belly got so round, I can’t cover much anymore,” you admitted.

“No, it’s nothing to do with your belly. We’ve been making those dumb bets for more than a year, the fact that it’s getting shorter is just a bonus.”

“You mean those two idiots have been trying to stare at my butt for all this time and I never noticed?”

“You never noticed because most of the time I win. I start a conversation with you so I have an excuse to walk right behind you and enjoy the view,” he replied, a sly smile curving his lips as he lifted your skirt to your hips.

“I’m mostly just surprised that you’ve been in on it…”

He paused in mid-motion, looking at you like you’d said something unbelievable.

��Just because we agreed to be friends doesn’t mean I’m blind,” he said, without hesitation. “Even Ominis knows you’re the most beautiful girl in all of Hogwarts, and he’s actually blind.”

You giggled, though your cheeks heated and the way Sebastian roughly undid his trousers, freeing his already glistening erection, didn’t help.

He stepped between your thighs, the bulge of his cock pressing hot and heavy against the inside of your leg. One of his hands slid beneath your skirt to grip the soft underside of your thigh, and the other ran reverently up your belly, over the curve that separated your bodies, claiming it, cherishing it.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathed. “Round, glowing, aching for me…”

You let your head fall back against the mattress, breath catching as his fingers hooked under the waistband of your underwear. He peeled them down slowly, dragging the soaked fabric along your thighs. When he dropped them to the floor, he stepped out of his own trousers and kicked them aside, his cock already thick and flushed, heavy against his abdomen, the tip glistening with need.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, voice low and frayed. “I’ve been trying to be patient, but Merlin, I can’t look at you like this and not want to lose myself in you.”

You parted your thighs further and reached for him. “Then do it."

He hissed when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking his length just enough to make his hips twitch. But he gently pushed your hand away, gripping himself instead and guiding his swollen tip to your entrance. He bent slightly, one hand braced on the bed beside your waist, the other wrapped tightly around the back of your thigh as he aligned with you.

The first push was slow, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds before pressing inside, hot, thick, stretching you perfectly. You gasped, gripping the blanket beneath you as he filled you inch by inch.

“Shit,” he groaned, jaw clenched, watching your body take him. “So fucking tight… You feel like heaven.”

You moaned, arching slightly, one leg hooked around his hip, the other bent up against his chest as he began to move in deep, steady strokes that rocked your body up the bed with every thrust. Your belly rose between you, the evidence of everything you’d done together, everything you were becoming. And gods, he fucked you like he worshipped it.

He kept one hand planted firmly on your thigh, holding it high so he could thrust deeper, the other finding your breast, full, sensitive, heavy from the pregnancy. He cupped it, thumb brushing over your nipple until you whimpered beneath him.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice half-broken, half-reverent. “I’m not gonna last long like this.”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, hips pushing into his thrusts. “Sebastian, please, don’t stop.”

His rhythm faltered for a second at the sound of your voice saying his name like that. He let out a low curse, then picked up speed, his cock slamming into you harder now, deeper, angled just right. You cried out, thighs trembling, fingernails digging into the sheets. You could feel him everywhere, his hands, his cock, his breath, everything focused on you.

“Fuck, I can feel you clenching,” he groaned, eyes locked on your face. “Are you close?”

You nodded, barely able to form words. “Yes… please, Sebastian…”

He reached between your legs, fingers slick and sure as he found your clit and rubbed it in tight, perfect circles. That was all it took.

Your orgasm hit you hard, sudden and overwhelming. Your whole body tensed, back arching, moans caught in your throat as you pulsed around him. And that was it. He growled your name, buried deep inside you with one final thrust, and came hard, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, his head bowed low, forehead resting against your thigh.

You lay there panting, your body still trembling from the intensity of it. Sebastian stayed where he was for a moment, breathing ragged, before slowly pulling out and lowering your leg back onto the bed.

He looked up at you then, hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes full of something soft and raw.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled faintly, eyes lidded, utterly undone.

“I am now.”

You were still catching your breath when Sebastian climbed up onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle your belly, still flushed and a little sweaty, and curled around you without hesitation. One of his arms draped across your waist, hand splaying over the gentle curve he’d just worshipped like it was sacred. His lips found your shoulder, then your collarbone, leaving slow, tender kisses in the afterglow.

“Merlin,” he murmured, voice gravelly against your skin. “If this is what spring break’s going to be like, I never want to go back.”

You gave a breathy laugh, nestling your cheek against his chest. “Don’t tempt me.”

He was quiet for a while, just holding you, thumb stroking slow circles over the bump between you. But you could feel it, the thoughts ticking behind his silence.

“Is there a slight chance your parents would agree to actually let you stay here… with me?” he finally asked, softly.

The question hung in the air, heavy and fragile.

You closed your eyes. “I wish I could say yes. But knowing them… no.”

You felt him tense ever so slightly.

“If they find out I’m pregnant, they’ll get me home before I can graduate. I’ll be stuck with them forever.” You paused. “They’ll probably find me a husband, someone ‘respectable.’ And I’ll have to spend the rest of my life pretending that’s what I wanted.”

Sebastian said nothing at first, but his grip on you tightened just slightly. You could feel how much he hated that idea, how it gnawed at him.

“I won’t let them take you,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You kissed his chest gently, trying to ease the tension before it took hold. “That’s sweet. But they’d probably hit you with a disowning curse just for touching me.”

“They can try.” His tone was sharper than before. “You think I wouldn’t fight for you?”

You reached up and traced your fingers over his jaw, smiling softly. “I know you would. That’s why I have to be careful. If they find out too soon…”

He sighed, leaning into your touch. “Then we keep hiding it. For now.”

Silence again. A long beat. Then, just when the mood threatened to sink too far into the serious…

“At the end of spring break,” he said, voice lighter, more teasing, “We’ll check the wardrobe. See if we can find some clothes I can give you for school, something bigger.”

You blinked, half-laughing. “Why not right now?”

Sebastian leaned back just enough to smirk at you, his brown eyes wicked.

“Because we have two whole weeks ahead of us. Just the two of us. And I fully intend to enjoy the view your too-tight school uniform gives me for as long as I can.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, swatting his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” he drawled, inching down to press his lips to your stomach, “you’re still here, in my bed, carrying my child and wearing a skirt I might never let you take off again.”

“Two weeks,” you repeated, amused. “You think you can survive two weeks alone with me, full of hormones, unpredictable cravings, and a baby pressing on my bladder?”

He grinned against your skin. “Two weeks of you walking around in those skirts and those shirts that barely button? I’ll die happy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was full of something terrifying and real. You didn’t know what would happen at the end of those two weeks. But right now? You were safe. Wanted. Held.

And for the moment, that was enough.

Other stories:

https://www.tumblr.com/thecharacterchronicler/752221385449947136/bloodline-part-1-ominis-gaunt-x-reader

Masterlist:

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mi-co-uk · 3 days ago

Note

What are ur aus doing right now

11.20pm

⤷

blue reader x saviour matt: bedtime stories :> matts sooo tired from how warm n cozy he feels with blue laying on his chest but she keeps kissing his cheek to wake him up :3

needy chris x loner reader: currently callinggg, shes walking around her house doing pointless jobs and pretending its not so she has longer on call with chris and hesss trying not to get turned on from the sound of her tired voice 😋

criminal matt x princess reader: matts watching her sleep dead ass 😐 shes in his shirt so he literally refuses to pull his eyes away from her

expired reader x bsf matt: planning to stay up late watching movies (talking and laughing at not funny jokes), eating a bunch of shitty food and ignoring the urge they both have to kiss each other :c

mute reader x grumpy matt: matt is veryyy pissed off atm, he dragged dotty to a party but now one of his friends is flirting with her painfully obviously so very soon hes gonna take her home and be relentlessly attached to her at the hip

mute reader x yapper chris: spent all day together hanging out with a group of people while thinking they were making unobvious googoo eyes at each other when everyone could clearlyyy see that they were practically eye fucking each other all day - so now theyre actually doing it

eeyore matt x piglet reader: (this is me projecting because I miss my wife and im ill) but he has a really bad headache so pink is making sure to stay veryyy still while she lays on his chest and fiddles with his hands :c matt hates being ill so he likes to hold onto her coz he feels less like hes gonna die when shes there :((

winnie-the-pooh chris x piglet reader: late night karaoke !! his brothers r our doing whatever so they have the house and can be as loud as they want so the obvious course of action is to sing and laugh their ears and vocal cords off :>

yearner matt x avoidant reader: she couldnt sleep so theyre eating "midnight ice cream" as matt calls it because apparently it helps him sleep. prim isn't sure hes telling the truth but cold ice cream and cuddling warm n close to matt isn't something shes gonna risk putting up too much of a fight for. every word out of matts mouth is a flirty line hes not sure where he got the confidence to say but shes not told him to shut up yet sooo

geek reader x casanova chris: chris snuck into her house and bug started arguing with him so now its angry makeout session time

curvy reader x loverboy matt: cherry has been away for a few weeks for a brand deal trip so matt is up anxiously waiting for her flight to almost land (hes watching from an app) so he can go pick her up at the right time - hes too excited to fall sleep even though its 3 hours till he needs to leave

curvy reader x loverboy chris: walking back home from a partyyy cherry's feet ache from her heels so they've swapped and chris is walking with just socks and cherry is laughing as she practically skips down the streettt

dealer chris x nerd reader: playing a dumb who am I thinking of game, at least thats what chris calls it despite being reallyyy good at it (he also claims sunny is making it insanely obvious) "ummm, hes super handsome for sure-" "me?" "yes!!" "(sighs) youre so dumb sometimes" "i should say youreee self absorbed for knowing it was you" "you literally bit your lip at me before saying it." "who wouldnt"

i did everybody do i get a well done 💔

#micouk #mi's aus now #mi's inbox #mute reader #yearner matt #criminal matt #princess reader #curvy reader #mid size reader #plus size reader #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #writers on tumblr #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo

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ask-sgtcrow · 15 hours ago

Text

The feeling Toby got every time Kyle smiled and looked at him so sweetly like he was now was unfamiliar.

It was definitely welcome, with how it had him feeling fuzzy and ridiculously sheepish, but the real fondness was still a shock to him regardless.

It’d been a while since he’d let someone take his heart and pull at its strings like this.

His lips melted into yet another smile before going to talk again in hopes of perhaps getting another flutter of eyelashes and another glance filled with adoration and maybe, if he felt greedy, he could see Kyle’s smile grow. “I didn’t think you’d know what a band was, honestly,” he teased in a voice filled to the brim with curiosity, as cheeky as it sounded.

“..It was fun, being in a band. I played with a load of my friends at the time. Other humans, yeah.” And theres that fuzzy feeling again, unfamiliar but Toby knows he recognises it, feels the way it burns bright in his chest every time he reminisces on his youth. “And we were pretty fucking class…”

…He met Kyle’s eyes once more, feeling like he was burning up from the inside out, and then noticed the look in his eyes, sincerity laid out for whatever he was about to say.

‘Of course I do.’

All the breath in his lungs caught in his throat then over how earth-shatteringly honest Kyle sounded.

He almost wants to disagree before Kyle can say anymore, insist that that was the wrong thing to say because he was one difficult thing to keep around.

And yet, Toby listened, like he was good at. He listened to genuine mutters and sheepish admittances, to the softness in Kyle’s voice, to the silent phrases in the way his touch graced the back of Toby’s hand.

And for words spoken so softly, they struck Toby so violently.

They dug into the spot in his chest and ripped flesh and bones apart to settle next to his heart and the realisation came so violently too.

Kyle was serious. He did want him to stay. A being that was so beautifully unusual and full of wit was being serious and was looking at Toby like… that.

It was another unfamiliar thing all together, someone wanting him for him, and there was that feeling burning even brighter. So bright it was starting to hurt, his chest warm and tight.

There’s a slight hiccup of breath and he’s breathing once again. “I think I’d like that too…” Toby managed through the realisation that he is wanted.

‘Every day’, Kyle had said. And shit, if a life by the sea didn’t interest Toby far more than a life under cruel orders and tough superiors.

His hand shifted in Kyle’s grip, their palms meeting and fingers interlacing, Toby’s desperate attempt to not let go.

“You’re not like the mermaids we know about either,” he started softly, tugged Kyle’s hand closer, bringing his knuckles to rest against his lip. “Some people expect some strange, cannibalistic, fish creature. Which…… no, no, you’re a cute fish creature.”

He chuckled, placing a kiss over one of Kyle’s knuckles. “I didn’t run because you needed my help… and i’m a bit stupid and not too worried about if i get dragged out to the sea. And I kissed you because you’re gorgeous. Personality wise, face wise, you’re gorgeous, Kyle… and I’m glad I met you.”

Toby kissed another of Kyle’s knuckles, and then another, newfound loyalty in every gentle press of lips.

“Every day… I’d really really like that.”

And maybe he couldn’t drop his career out of no where to live with a merman by the beach, but he would figure it out. As he always does.

closed rp w/ @ask-gaz

very late MERMAY SPECIAL

Crow understood that a break was what he needed. It would do him some good to have time off, time to relax, as much as he refused to admit it.

But England, of all places. Out of everywhere his captain could have sent him to, Crow was to spend leave in England. He was almost worried he’d done something wrong for his captain to be filled with such spite but he was shipped off to the North Sea’s coastline before he could ask.

…The beach was nice though.

Begrudgingly, Crow had found a loose routine in the remote cabin he’d been given near the beach. It was walks with sand between his toes and late morning swims daily.

And the occasional adventure past the sand, where rocks threatened to damage the skin of his feet while he climbed them all for the sake of finding the quiet corners of the beach to properly sit and relax in, enjoy the sounds of waves washing up and… more waves splashing against the rocks.

He’d started to spend whole days in those closed off parts of the beach, next to tide pools and small caves on his own, tutting the occasional greeting to seagulls that decided to join him, blaming the feeling of being watched on them. When he’d return back to the cabin at the end of the day he’d always be covered in sand and more sunburn than the day before, but he didn’t mind.

That’s where he found the most trinkets, too. In his hideouts, every day he’d return for another day of lounging, he’d find things like shells and pretty rocks and sea glass he’d tell himself looked the same colour as his eyes, all left behind by the high tide, he’s sure. And he always pocketed them, knowing they’d look good in his assortment of collected items back on base.

And then a storm hit the coast. Crow knew it wasn’t too bad. He comfortably waited it out with a blanket over his shoulders and his sketchbook in hand.

Walking outside the next day made him realise that it actually was too bad, if how wrecked the beach had gotten was anything to go off of.

There was seaweed and even a few jellyfish thrown across the fields of sand, making the place look a right mess. And Crow got right to work cleaning it up. It was the least he could do to pay the beach back for its many gifts. And if he’d also gotten a little attached to the place over the last week or so, that was something only he got to know.

While he was letting a moon jellyfish slip from his hands back into the sea though, he heard a sudden commotion he didn’t expect to hear, something human with what he heard of a grunt.

His head snapped toward the sound, toward one of his ‘hideouts’, concern quickly building in his mind as he shot up onto his feet and another wince sounded from past the wall of rock.

About a million different worries ran through his brain as he made his way through the familiar path over. ‘Someone must have gotten caught in the storm’, ‘they have ta be hurt badly to be stuck there’, he told himself while effortlessly clambering into the hidden portion of the beach, eyes scanning the sand and water like the trained soldier he was.

#it’s good to be back!!!#it’s really really late ts probably doesn’t make sense #cod rp blog #rp ask blog #rp blog #oc rp blog #cod oc #original character #sgt.crow #crow.rply #gaz.rply #gazcrow #mermaid!au

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barnesonly · 1 month ago

Text

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

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