#Class 1 Bluetooth

[electronicbox]

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What's in the box: Beats Studio3 Wireless headphones, Carrying case, 3.5mm RemoteTalk cable, Universal USB charging cable, Quick Start Guide, Warranty Card

[marvelstoriesepic]

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

[soulprompts]

IDEAS FOR A DATE! ( A PROMPT LIST! )

now before i give this list, i want to address two things: 1) i'm enclosing a list of reasons for people to go on dates, because i want to, and also because there's some very good reasons for dates, and 2) i plan to write another list that's not as modern and contemporary, for my historical and fantastical and science-fictionally minded angels! for now, bon appetit: remember, your muses might be undercover, on a blind date, on a first date, matched online, a platonic date, trying to make other love interests jealous, like there are so many reasons, don't be shy, and DON'T ADD TO THIS LIST.

[ LEARN ]: the sender and receiver attend a class together (e.g. for cooking, baking, dancing, pottery, etc.) for a date.

[ ARCADE ]: the sender and receiver decide to visit an arcade together for a date.

[ DRINK ]: the sender and receiver meet each other at a bar for a date.

[ SANDY ]: the sender and receiver go to the beach together for a date involving strolling, a picnic, swimming and watching the sunset!

[ STRIKE! ]: the sender and receiver meet at a bowling alley for a date to practice their bowling skills.

[ MORNING ]: the sender and receiver decide to meet for a breakfast date rather than a dinner one.

[ FOREST ]: the sender and receiver take a weekend break in the woods, staying in a lovely cabin surrounded by nature.

[ TENT ]: alternatively, instead of finding a cabin to stay in for the night, the sender and receiver pack their tents and head out for a camping trip instead.

[ POPCORN ]: the sender and receiver opt for the classic date option of going to see a movie at the cinema together.

[ CAFÉ ]: going for a more relaxed option, the sender and receiver arrange to meet up for coffee and cake at a local café for a date.

[ MUSIC ]: finding tickets to their favorite band's concert, the sender and receiver head out for the night to listen to them play.

[ BICYCLE ]: the sender and receiver mount their bikes and head off to cycle in the countryside together.

[ DUO ]: the sender and receiver set up the bluetooth speakers and dance together in the peace of their own home to the sounds of their favorite songs.

[ DIY ]: the sender and receiver are about to go out for a date, but instead end up staying at home to complete a DIY project together.

[ ESCAPE ]: the sender and receiver attempt to solve an escape room together for a particularly exciting date.

[ COMMUNITY ]: the sender and receiver visit a local fair, festival, market or parade together for a date.

[ PLUS ONE ]: the sender and receiver put on their glad rags and attend a very fancy and prestigious event together.

[ WINNER ]: the sender and receiver set up a game night (card games, board games, video games, etc.) at home for their date.

[ GELATO ]: the sender and receiver head out to the best ice-cream parlour in town for a cold and sweet date.

[ SPEED ]: the sender and receiver go to a go-karting track for a particularly competitive date.

[ HIKE ]: the sender and receiver lace up their hiking boots and head out to a scenic hiking route together.

[ SADDLE UP ]: the sender and receiver take the reins and head out for a scenic horseback riding session together.

[ UP ]: the sender and receiver take an unforgettable ride in a hot air balloon for a date.

[ SING ]: the sender and receiver find a local karaoke bar and take turns singing solos and duets together.

[ PAGES ]: the sender and receiver find a cozy library-café and spend an enjoyable date reading books and drinking coffee together.

[ CHEF ]: deciding to stay in for the evening, the sender and receiver decide to make dinner together in the comfort of their own home.

[ HOLE IN ONE ]: the sender and receiver find a nearby mini-golf course and decide to play a few holes together.

[ MOVIE ]: the sender and receiver pick a few movies to watch for the evening and curl up on the sofa with some snacks to watch them together.

[ PAST ]: the sender and receiver go to a museum or an art gallery together to see the displays and get to know one another better.

[ CLUB ]: the sender and receiver get dolled up and go to a very popular and newly opened nightclub together.

[ PORTRAIT ]: the sender and receiver get canvases and paints and begin to paint one another at home, leaving plenty of peace and quiet to get to know each other.

[ AIM ]: the sender and receiver get suited up to go for a paintballing session together.

[ OUTSIDE ]: the sender and receiver get their nicest blanket, their favorite refreshments, and head out to a park for a nice relaxing picnic.

[ ITALIANO ]: the sender and receiver attempt to make their own pizzas at home together.

[ DINNER ]: the sender and receiver go to a nice restaurant together for a dinner date.

[ ROAD ]: the sender and the receiver embark on a long but worthwhile road trip together.

[ ROWING ]: the sender and receiver get into a rowboat together and guide the boat down the river.

[ QUICK ]: the sender and receiver meet one another for the first time at a speed dating event.

[ ROLLER ]: the sender and receiver put their roller-blades on and hit the rinks together.

[ RELAX ]: the sender and receiver head out to a luxurious spa resort together for some well-earned rest and massages.

[ COMFORT ]: the sender and receiver transform their home into a makeshift spa and give each other facials and massages for the evening.

[ STARS ]: the sender and receiver stretch out on the rooftop/lawn/back of a truck etc. for a night of star-gazing together.

[ WALK ]: the sender and the receiver go out for a nice, relaxing stroll together to see the sights.

[ POOL ]: the sender and receiver go out to the pool, beach or lake for a swimming session together.

[ SHARE ]: the sender and receiver split the evening in half to teach one another a skill that they're particularly good at (e.g. the sender teaching the receiver how to paint, etc.)

[ QUIZ ]: the sender and receiver go out together and find a local pub that's hosting a table quiz event, which they decide to enter.

[ AWAY ]: the sender and the receiver decide to indulge in a long vacation somewhere that they've both wanted to go for a long time.

[ BREAK ]: in the spirit of compromising, the sender and receiver book a nice quiet weekend break together.

[ SIP ]: the sender and receiver book tickets for a wine tasting event in a local vineyard.

[ SAIL ]: the sender and receiver go out on a yacht for the evening.

[nizhspo]

hiiiii chef hope ur doing fiiine…. dropping in to ask if u got any atsumu thoughts.. been listening to sao paulo by the weeknd on repeat recently if u need songspo…. peace and lurv <3

lmfaooo sorry this took so long i 1) read ts wrong and made hinata the mc 2) had to collect a degree and diploma #biggradnotthelittle 3) i think i got too carried away ts was not supposed to be that long BUT i hope u feasted anyway!!

the rehearsal space is loud. hot.

fans whirring uselessly in the corners while dancers drip sweat onto the cracked wooden floors. the mirrors are streaked with fingerprints and dried condensation, and the beat looping through the old bluetooth speaker is just a little too fast. it’s your third time restarting the routine in thirty minutes.

your thighs burn. your clipboard’s wet at the corners from your palm, and you’re praying no one new shows up today.

you’ve got twelve dancers, three seamstresses waiting for fittings, one percussionist on the verge of quitting, and one week before the float rolls down avenida presidente vargas. you do not have time for—

the door creaks.

you glance over your shoulder.

and he’s tall. he’s so tall.

sweatpants loose around his hips, old team hoodie tied at his waist, and a bright head of curls that glint gold when the light hits. his skin is sun-warmed and sugar-slick, like honey melting too close to a flame. thick lashes. cocky, tan, gorgeous.

he walks in like the room already wants him.

you don’t even know his name yet and you already hate him a little.

he grins. big. wide. annoyingly white teeth. “hey. this the samba class?”

you stare. “this is the performance team for the acadêmicos do vidigal float. not a samba class.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “so… yeah?”

he’s not on the list. you know because you checked it five times this morning, chewing on your thumbnail like it owed you rent.

“i’m atsumu,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something. “miya. my coach’s cousin said y’all were lookin’ for subs? i already did all the paperwork. i’m cleared.”

you can practically hear the costume girls giggling from the back. one of them murmurs “caraca” under her breath and bites her thumbnail like she’s trying not to stare at his shoulders.

he catches it. of course he does. he flashes them a wink.

you clutch your clipboard tighter. “we already started warm-ups.”

“that’s cool. i stretch fast.” he tosses his duffle bag against the wall, then starts toeing off his sneakers. like he belongs here. like he’s not about to throw off your entire formation.

“and for the record,” he says, straightening up with a low whistle as he scans the studio, eyes flicking from the mirrors to the dancers to the costume girls. “y’all got the best-lookin’ rehearsal space i’ve seen all week. and i’m not just talkin’ about the walls.”

you don’t even blink. clipboard against your chest, tone dry as concrete. “flirting with the costume artists isn’t gonna help you dance better.”

that makes him pause. head tilted. brows raised. and then he laughs. it’s low, warm, bright. boyish in a way that makes you want to hit him with your clipboard and also maybe let him kiss you stupid.

his mouth quirks, slow and dangerous. “so what, should i flirt with you instead?” he says it too easily. too confident. like he hasn’t even considered the possibility of being told no.

you stare. just for a beat too long.

then you look away. at the others. still waiting. still watching. you bite the inside of your cheek then, tight-lipped: “back to the beginning, everyone!”

he picks a spot toward the back of the room, which is smart, or maybe just cocky enough to think no one will notice if he screws up.

you try not to pay attention to the way his hoodie rides up when he stretches his arms overhead, revealing the sharp line of his waist, the cut of his abs, a small freckle on his left hipbone. you try not to notice the sheen of sweat already beginning to pearl at his temples.

you try, and fail.

he’s the only one here not in proper dance shoes, socked feet sliding just a little too much on the studio floor. and when you cue the track, he stares dead ahead, brows furrowed, mouth pulled tight like he’s gearing up for battle. like this is a serve.

you count off. “five, six, seven, eight.”

he moves on the seven.

not a full beat early. just enough to throw the energy off.

he’s not bad, technically. his hips move like they know how to roll, fluid, confident, practiced. you’d bet good money on him being the kind of guy who owns every house party dance floor. who gets behind girls at clubs and lets the bass do most of the work, moving more for effect than connection.

and he’s got rhythm—deep in his bones somewhere. you can see it under the surface, this untamed, unpolished pulse. it’s just not samba. not tight. not rooted. not respectful of timing or spacing or nuance.

“your weight’s in the wrong place,” you call across the room. “samba’s grounded. not a grind.”

he glances at you in the mirror. sweat glistening down his neck. mouth twitching, like he’s trying not to grin. “maybe i just need the right hands on me.”

a chorus of laughter ripples through the room. you don’t laugh.

“or maybe you need to shut up and pay attention.”

that wipes the smile clean off his face.

he tries harder after that. you notice it, even if you don’t say anything. he watches the dancer in front of him, mimics her step, adjusts his footing. he frowns when he gets it wrong. curses under his breath. he doesn’t give up. and honestly? you respect that.

by the end of the hour, he’s dripping sweat. hoodie off. shirt clinging to his back. his hairs wet at the edges and you can see more of those soft curls starting to spring free. his hands sit low on his hips as he breathes hard through his nose, glaring at his own reflection like he’s personally offended by how stiff he still looks in the sequence.

you cross the floor toward him.

he straightens when he sees you coming. lifts a hand to wipe his forehead with the hem of his shirt, dragging it up just high enough to give you a full view of his stomach—cut, tight, carved like someone built him out of muscle memory and sweat.

you blink. clear your throat.

“the movement’s not bad,” you say. “but you’re not listening to the drums. you’re moving to the melody. that’s not how this works.”

“i thought it was just hips.”

you give him a look.

he holds his hands up in mock-defense, chest still heaving. “okay, okay. i’m learnin’. swear.”

you tilt your head. study him.

his hair’s plastered to his forehead, his lips parted, his shoulders still twitching with effort. and yet somehow, he still looks annoyingly good. warm-skinned and golden in the overhead lights, like the sun decided to kiss him and just never stopped.

you shift your weight to one foot. “if you want to get it right, i can run you through it after class. just us.”

his mouth quirks. “just us?”

you roll your eyes. “don’t start.”

“i’m just sayin’. it’s a lot easier to focus when pretty people are talkin’ to me.”

you should walk away. instead, without looking up, you say, “good thing i focus better when people keep their mouths shut.”

snap—clipboard closed.

“class dismissed.”

his grin falters for a beat. and then it’s right back, wider. more dangerous. like you just became his favorite problem.

the studio empties slowly after dismissal, bodies trickling out into the corridor still sticky with heat and laughter.

you hold the door open with your foot while balancing a plastic takeout container in one hand, your clipboard tucked beneath your arm. the smell of grilled meat curls up in steam—churrasquinho, skewered beef slick with garlic and pepper and smoke.

it’s warm in your lap by the time you plop down on the edge of the old speaker case in the back corner, cross-legged, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows.

atsumu’s slouched against the far wall, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand. thumb scrolling, eyes occasionally flicking toward you and then away again. he’s changed into a dry shirt, black, worn thin at the collar, and his curls are damp, sticking to his temples in lazy spirals.

you take a bite. let the silence settle. it’s not awkward. just quiet, and outside the windows, samba drums echo somewhere distant, muffled by distance and glass.

after thirty minutes, your alarm goes off. tinny and insistent from your pocket. you groan. stuff the last bite of beef into your mouth and dust your hands off on your sweats.

“alright,” you say, swallowing. “we’ve got two hours before costuming kicks us out. come on.”

“yes, ma’am.” he pockets his phone. “hope you stretched.”

“hope you listened to anything i told you at rehearsal today.”

the speaker sputters when you reconnect your phone, but the looped track finally kicks in—sharp beat, fast tempo, the same percussion you’ve heard so many times it lives behind your eyelids now. you set the rhythm with a soft count under your breath, moving slowly through the steps first to jog his memory.

he follows, a beat late.

“again.”

you move. he mirrors. his shoulders are too stiff. his footwork’s sloppy. but god, he’s trying. and when he messes up, he doesn’t make excuses. he just exhales hard and resets his stance.

the room is stifling by the twenty-minute mark. your hoodie clings to your back. your sports bra underneath is already soaked at the hem. when you tug the hoodie off mid-sequence and toss it to the floor, he whistles.

“already undressin’ for me?”

you glare. “keep talking and i’ll make you practice shirtless too.”

he grins. eyes you slow. “wouldn’t mind that.”

and he doesn’t look away.

he’s not shy about it either. his gaze trails over your shoulders, the sweat glistening down your sternum, the waistband of your sweats riding low on your hips. it should bother you. well—it does, but not in the way it’s supposed to. it makes your breath catch, not from embarrassment, but from something sharper. lower.

“get back in your spot,” you snap, throat dry.

“yes, ma’am,” he says again, and it sounds more like a tease this time.

by the second hour, you hate to admit it, but he’s better now. not great, not stage-ready either, but improved.

he’s got rhythm. not samba rhythm, but something that hits when the drumline hits hardest, some deep party-bred instinct that lets him move on tempo even when his feet don’t quite know where to land. his hips are smoother. his arms looser.

you walk him through the partnered section. again. and again.

you say, “left hip, my left—no, mirror me atsumu, mirror me.”

and then—

well then you get to that step.

he knows it’s coming. you see it in the way his jaw flexes, the twitch in his hands, how he wipes them quickly on his sweats like he’s about to touch something holy. the part where he has to press into you, chest to back, arm curling low around your waist while you grind forward on the beat.

he doesn’t miss this step. he nails it everytime, actually, and the problem is, he knows it.

you feel him—all of him, lined up behind you, body heat pouring off his chest and into your back, breath brushing the shell of your ear like a secret. his thighs bracket yours, thick and flexing as he shifts with you, moving on beat like it’s second nature now.

his hands stay exactly where they’re supposed to. but his hips? not so much.

because he steps in a little too close during the slow grind, and suddenly there’s weight pressed low on your spine—solid, heavy, and unmistakable. he’s not teasing, at-least not on purpose. but it’s there. resting right against the base of your back. very much real.

and your brain short circuits.

because if that’s him soft?

your breath stutters at the thought, caught in your throat, burned in your chest, and you barely keep dancing, your focus nearly gone.

all you can feel is the steady roll of his hips, the brush of fabric against your ass, and the way his sweats don’t hide shit. there’s no zipper. no button. just sweatpants. and a problem that deserves a prayer.

you step away too fast when the count ends. pretend you’re fixing the speaker. pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

“that was right, yeah?” he asks, voice casual but pitched low.

you don’t turn around, you just nod. “again.”

he chuckles behind you. but he listens.

…

by the second practice, he almost looks like a real part of the team.

he’s still off, here and there. leans too far forward during the rolling steps. sometimes forgets where his arms should be when he turns. but he feels the rhythm now. not just rides it. he lets it move through him.

yachi—a student a grade below you but with probably 3x your experience in managing, catches your eye halfway through class, her lips twitching in that see, he’s trying way that makes you want to roll your eyes. but you don’t. because she’s not wrong.

you watch him from the mirror, sweat darkening the edges of his shirt, jaw tight, curls damp. he looks focused today. not performing. just present.

you dismiss everyone around nine, and the speaker wheezes into silence. bodies start to spill out, some laughing, some dragging their feet. one of the costumers pokes their head in to start prepping the racks.

ten minutes and the room’s no longer yours.

you’re mid-stretch, pulling your hoodie back on, when you hear:

“so… what about another one of those late-night practices?”

you glance over your shoulder, and atsumu’s leaning against the mirror wall, towel slung around his neck, water bottle half-empty in his hand.

you glance at your watch. “costuming’s got the room in ten.”

“so what about dinner?” he says. “and we practice somewhere i choose?”

you raise an eyebrow. “so you can kidnap me five days before carnival?”

he shrugs. “don’t act like that doesn’t sound a little hot.”

you snort. “you’re sick.”

“i’m dedicated,” he counters. “and look, i need help. i’m literally begging you. free food. no mirrors. no pressure. just some time to get it right.” he pauses. then, a little softer: “plus, you said you’d help.”

you stare at him for a second.

his hair is still stuck to his forehead. his mouth looks too pink. his lashes are ridiculous. and his eyes, somewhere between gold and honey under the fluorescents, are a little too earnest.

you open your mouth. “no.” you say it too fast. like you rehearsed it. like you meant to believe it.

“i’ve got stuff to do,” you add, grasping for something that sounds real. “rehearsal notes, float positioning. costuming’s a mess.”

he doesn’t blink. just nods slowly, tilting his head, lips already quirking like he’s heard every excuse in the book.

“so basically,” he says, “you mean stress-eating churrasco, tweaking the choreo for the fiftieth time, and maybe sleeping in that little knot you keep between your shoulders?”

you blink.

“yeah,” he continues, voice light, too light, sidling up beside you now, leaning just slightly against the mirror, eyes dragging lazily down your back. “been watchin’ it move up and down all rehearsal. right there.”

his fingers ghost just beside your shoulder blade, not touching, but close enough to raise goosebumps. “tension city. can tell you haven’t been stretched out properly in weeks.”

you whip your head around. “excuse me?”

you’re laughing—sort of. it’s sharp, tight, the kind that comes from being stunned. your hoodie’s halfway zipped. your hands freeze mid-motion. your stomach flips.

he holds both hands up like he’s innocent. like the grin on his face isn’t criminal.

“just an observation,” he says. “my brother took a psych class once called ‘cognitive behavioral indicators in physical intimacy.’ covered posture, strain, suppressed desire. he said you can spot someone who hasn’t been dicked down in weeks just by how they stand.”

you gape at him. open-mouthed.

“you’re actually gross.”

“nah,” he says, smirking. “just perceptive.”

you mutter something under your breath that sounds suspiciously like “and delusional.”

he leans in, still beside you in the mirror, eyes watching your reflection more than your face now. “i’m just saying you stand like you’ve been denying yourself,” he murmurs. “tight in all the wrong places.”

your mouth opens to snap back, but he’s already watching you with that look. knowing. smug. half-lidded. like he’s got your number and all the time in the world to wait for you to call.

your jaw tightens and you zip your hoodie the rest of the way up, shove your clipboard into your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.

“…i get to choose where we eat,” you grumble, brushing past him.

“that a yes?” he calls after you.

you don’t answer.

but he knows. and he’s already following you down the hall whistling.

you’ve barely made it two blocks before you regret agreeing to this.

not because of him. not even because of the dance. but because it’s warm, too warm, that brazilian kind of night where the air sticks to your neck and smells like oil and oranges and cheap cologne, and everything is loud.

it buzzes—buses rushing past, kids running barefoot over cobblestones, laughter spilling out of half-cracked windows, music playing in competing rhythms from car stereos and second-story balconies.

and atsumu walks like he was made for it.

not blending in—he’s too golden for that, too tall, broad shoulders framed by the sleeves of a worn-out tee, sweat still drying along the collar. but he walks like he doesn’t care. like the noise fits him. like it lives in his bones.

he’s pointing things out as you walk, half-telling stories you’re not sure are true. something about trying caipirinha for the first time and nearly throwing up in a cab. about a beach he accidentally wandered too far down and saw a naked man wrestling a stray dog. you roll your eyes. he grins at that. likes that.

“so why are you here?” you ask eventually, adjusting the strap of your bag. “real answer.”

he shrugs. kicks a pebble. “volleyball camp brought me out for two weeks. coach said it’d be good for my stamina. but honestly?” he glances over. smirks.

“i saw one video of last year’s carnival and thought—yeah. gotta see that shit in person. maybe dance in it. maybe pull.”

you snort. “so it was for bitches.”

“everything i do is for bitches.”

you shove him lightly. he laughs.

you end up at a tiny outdoor table in front of a tile-fronted café with no name on the sign, just a chalkboard menu and a bored-looking man with a cigarette behind the counter. the chairs are plastic, mismatched. the table rocks slightly. the food’s hot and greasy and perfect.

you order your usual without needing to look. he orders the same, and when it comes out—two steaming plates of escondidinho de carne seca, mashed cassava layered over spiced beef, cheese browned around the edges, he pokes his fork into his first bite and looks at you.

“this good?”

you blink at him. “i wouldn’t have ordered it if it wasn’t.”

he laughs under his breath, taking a bite. his eyes widen like he’s surprised. “damn. alright. guess you got taste.”

“you just now figuring that out?”

he raises his brows. “nah. figured it out the second you told me to shut up in rehearsal.”

you hide your smile in your glass.

somewhere in the slow lull of the meal, he asks, “how long you been in brazil?”

“since december,” you say, pushing a bit of cassava across your plate. “moved here after graduation to work with the school. supposed to be temporary.”

“you like it?”

you glance around. the gold-streaked street, the chipped lamplight, the sound of sandals slapping pavement and someone humming off-key across the street. and atsumu, head tilted, one leg bouncing under the table, still watching you like the question matters.

“…yeah,” you say. “i like it.”

he nods. leans back. your foot brushes his under the table and neither of you moves away.

he’s got something on his lip. a smear of cassava, glinting just barely in the light. you point at your own mouth.

“you got a little something…”

he looks confused, wipes the wrong side.

“no, there.”

he leans in, eyebrows raised. “you’re not gonna get it for me?”

you stare, furrowing your eyebrows in mock-disgust. and you hate yourself for it—hate yourself for the corniness of it, but you reach across, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth to wipe it off.

he smiles. smirks, really. wide and proud, and when your hand lingers too long you drop it fast. look away.

“where are we practicing?” you ask, throat dry.

he pushes his chair back and stands. “c’mon. i’ll show you.”

he leads you through a few winding alleys, up a side street, past a boarded-up bar and a fruit cart shut for the night. and then there’s a courtyard. small, half-walled by painted brick, string lights zig-zagging across the top, one of them blinking just slightly out of sync. there’s no one else there. just a little tiled floor, the soft rumble of music from somewhere deeper in the city, and the warm pulse of humidity all around.

you plug your phone into the little speaker you brought, queue the rehearsal track.

and then it begins.

he stands in front of you, cracking his knuckles, shifting his weight like he’s getting into position for a match.

you roll your eyes. “i said dancing, not sparring.”

“this is basically mental warfare,” he mutters.

the first beat drops and you step together.

he misses the first transition but adjusts. gets the shoulder roll right this time, hips closer to the right sway. and when the partnered sequence comes, he doesn’t rush. doesn’t fumble. he lets you move, then matches it. slow. attentive.

you feel it again. the heat of him behind you. the roll of his chest to your spine, his hand tight around your waist just for the beat, just for the breath.

he lets go exactly when he’s supposed to.

and when he steps away, you’re suddenly hyper aware of the space between you. his body still warm. your skin still lit up.

you keep dancing.

he’s not your partner for this sequence, and that should be better. easier. safer. but it’s not. because to help him get better, you have to watch him. the arch of his arm during the turn, the sway of his hips when he steps back into the break.

and he’s watching you too—doesn’t even try to hide it. mouth parted. lashes low. like this is the most interesting thing he’s seen all night.

you’re sweating by the end. glowing, burning, aching a little.

he wipes his face with his shirt and lets it hang around his neck, eyes never leaving yours.

“what?” you ask.

he just shakes his head. “nothin’. just… gettin’ addicted, is all.”

you laugh, breath hitching against the warm night air. “addicted? it’s only day two.”

he tilts his head, grin dipping into something slower, darker. “well it’s funny how fast a habit forms when it feels this good.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse answers for you, and you’re pretty sure he sees that, too.

it’s later than you meant it to be. later than either of you realized. the sky’s gone dark all the way through now, a midnight blue, bleeding into black, stars barely peeking through the haze.

most of the city’s still humming, but quieter here. more distant. like everything’s holding its breath.

you’re walking side by side on the walk to your apartment. not close enough to brush arms, but close enough to feel him in your periphery. close enough to sense the weight of his gaze every time your shirt rides up a little. or your laugh slips out unguarded.

he hasn’t touched you since the courtyard. hasn’t tried. and that might be worse, because now your body’s remembering everything.

the way his hand felt low on your waist. the way his chest pressed to your back just enough to make you lean into it. the way his voice dropped when he said “gettin’ addicted.”

you glance at him once and he’s already looking. he doesn’t look away first, either.

when you reach your apartment building, the noise of the city fades behind you. the stairwell smells like lemon cleaner and cigarette smoke. he follows you up two steps at a time, slow, casual.

you pause in front of your door.

he leans on the frame beside it. arms crossed. that same half-grin playing on his mouth. “so,” he says. “you gonna invite me in? let me hydrate? check out your sink? maybe stretch out that shoulder?”

you blink. “hydrate and check out my sink?”

he shrugs, all nonchalance. “dunno. maybe i’m just really into good plumbing. solid water pressure. wet things in general.”

you laugh once—sharp, incredulous. “so you wanna come in for water?”

he shrugs. “or whatever happens after water. up to you.”

you stare at him. just for a second.

his collar’s still damp. his curls a little flattened from sweat and the heat of the walk. he’s so obnoxiously handsome, it’s almost absurd. and he’s not even pushing that hard. just standing there. leaning. looking. like he already knows you’re going to break eventually.

you open your mouth. close it. then: “absolutely not,” you say, flat.

he grins, like you just complimented him. “figured.”

“goodnight, atsumu.”

you push the door open just enough to slip inside. don’t look back.

“night, pretty,” he calls.

you lock it behind you. your hand lingers on the knob, and on the other side, you hear him chuckle. low and easy.

and then his footsteps fade.

…

the studio’s louder on day three.

laughter rolls over the floor like soundwaves off the speaker, echoing beneath the higher-pitched noise of rhinestones clinking in bowls, feathers rustling on rolling racks, measuring tape snapping back into the hands of tired seamstresses.

you’re standing off to the side, clipboard clutched against your chest, watching dancer after dancer get ushered into the costuming area. bodies stripped to sports bras and shorts, arms stretched, waists measured, fabric pinned and tugged and fluffed into brilliance. golds, reds, deep sapphire blues. it’s vibrant. chaotic. beautiful.

and then there’s him.

atsumu miya. black tank top, loose athletic shorts, hair still damp from a rushed shower, grinning at the costume assistants like he’s known them his whole life. he’s holding up his arms so they can slide the chest harness on, and one of the girls says something too quiet for you to hear—he laughs, loud, belly-deep, full of that ease he carries like a second skin.

and your stomach twists.

you only met him two days ago. he’s barely yours. not even yours at all, actually. but watching him stand there, so familiar already, so good at making people laugh, like this isn’t even new to him—there’s something tight in your throat you don’t want to name.

he was your little secret. just a joke between you and the studio walls.

but now everyone else gets to look, too.

“you okay?” yachi murmurs beside you, a pin cushion looped around her wrist.

you nod too fast. “fine.”

when rehearsal comes, you’re sharp. almost too sharp.

he stumbles on the opening beat and you’re on him fast. “feet wider. you’re crowding your own stance. again.”

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t flash that cocky smile. just nods and resets.

he misses the turn timing. you cut the music. “no, atsumu. that was half a beat early. again.”

he blinks. tilts his head just slightly. “i thought it—nevermind. got it.”

you don’t say thank you. you don’t say sorry, either.

but you see it, just for a second—the shift in his face. a little furrow between his brows. the quiet way he wipes his palms on his shorts when you move past him, and you’re not sure if you feel better or worse for it.

when it’s the end of rehearsal, the studio empties slowly, sticky and humid, the floor speckled with gold from costume fittings that lingered past noon. you start packing your things. the speaker. your clipboard. your water bottle half-full and warm.

he doesn’t leave. just stands there, hands on his hips, watching you carefully. “we practicing after?”

you pause. then shake your head. “not up for it tonight. sorry.”

“oh.” he nods. looks down at his shoes. “you alright?”

“yeah.” you don’t look at him. “just got a lot of other shit to do.”

he’s quiet for a second. then: “let me walk you home, at least.”

you hesitate. jaw clenched. the word no builds at the back of your throat like steam, hot, ready, righteous. it’s the right thing to say. the smart thing. the thing you should say, because you know how this goes. how he goes.

but then he tilts his head, and the overhead light slips into the cut of his cheekbones, turning gold into something holy. his eyes, brown, but sun-warmed, are soft in a way you haven’t seen before. less flirt. more hope. there’s a kind of gentleness there, all quiet admiration, like he doesn’t even know he’s looking at you like that.

he’s flushed from the heat. sweat drying against the dip of his collarbone. curls damp, clinging to his forehead. and still, you can feel the same stupid flutter in your gut you always do when he gets like this. a little too close. a little too pretty. a little too everything.

he could ask for anything in this moment, and part of you knows you’d say yes.

“…okay,” you say, quiet. because of course you do.

and the walk? it’s different tonight. quieter.

no jokes. no stories. just footsteps against pavement and the rustle of distant palm fronds in the breeze. the sweat on your skin has cooled. your arms ache. your thoughts are a little too loud in your head.

you’re halfway up the street when he says: “you’ve been quiet,” voice low. not accusing, just noticing. “usually you got somethin’ smart to say by now.”

you scoff, adjusting the strap of your bag. “some of us have work to do. y’know, instead of flirting with the entire costuming department all afternoon.”

he hums, clearly amused. “i wasn’t flirting.” you shoot him a look and he grins, dimples deep. “…they were flirtin’ with me.”

you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle your feet don’t trip over the pavement.

he just keeps walking, hands in his pockets, like he’s not the most irritating man alive. like he didn’t catch the little edge in your voice and tuck it away for later. like he doesn’t already know what it means.

you add, trying for casual: “well either way, i hope you got it out of your system. flirting with everyone. wouldn’t want the artists distracted.”

he hums. low, amused. “nah, you’d be the only one distractin’ anyone.”

you scoff. “don’t.”

he chuckles softly. “why? you jealous?”

“i don’t even know you, how could i be jealous?” you say too fast. too defensive. the words tumble out before you can soften them, and they hang there, brittle.

“besides,” you add, looking ahead, not at him, “i have a headache.”

he hums again. longer this time. low and slow. not mocking, just knowing. “…okay,” he says at last, gentle. too gentle. like he’s setting the moment down on purpose. “well, i hope you feel better.”

he doesn’t press. doesn’t prod. but you feel the weight of it anyway. like he already knows the headache’s not the real problem.

you don’t reply, and when you reach your door, he doesn’t ask to come in, just waits a second after you unlock it, lets the moment settle.

he smiles, voice light, almost offhand, but not really. “see you tomorrow.” then he adds, “you’re still the prettiest girl in the room, even with a headache.”

you pause, and he doesn’t wait for a response. just turns on his heel, hands in his pockets, heading back down the hall like he didn’t just say something that knocked the air clean out of your chest.

you roll your eyes, heart fluttering hard as you shut the door.

it’s quiet now, except for the beat of it in your ribs. traitorous. undeniable.

…

when you wake up the next morning, you don’t remember what day it is, not really.

all you know is the sun rises and falls and all it means is another layer of glitter crusted onto your skin, another shirt damp with sweat by 10 a.m., another blister blooming under your heel like punishment.

you wake up with music already thumping in your skull, like your dreams never ended. the drums chase you through your thoughts—dum-dum dum, always that same tempo.

your phone’s battery dies twice a day. your water bottle is never full. there are four bandaids on your feet and you’ve had nothing but pão de queijo and black coffee since yesterday.

you eventually stop counting the hours. you count formations. steps. bodies in the mirror. time since the last time someone laughed too loud during warmups and you had to snap.

…

the costuming team sets up at 6 a.m. on day five. you’re there with them, still in your hoodie, holding your iced coffee like it’s morphine, marking off pieces as they’re matched to names. he arrives late, as usual, and grins like he’s not sleep-deprived and half a breath from death like the rest of you.

you don’t even look at him, but you can feel him.

behind you. beside you. always.

the studio smells like heat. it’s not a scent so much as a saturation—sweat, body spray, worn rubber from the soles of dance shoes burning against wood. the tape lines you laid down at midnight still cling to the floor, faintly crooked. your back aches. your wrists ache. your heart aches, but only because you keep ignoring it.

you run the sets again. and again. and again.

he’s there for every step. never complains. never says he’s too tired. he just shrugs that hoodie off his shoulders, ties it around his waist, and says, “again?”

his shirt’s always soaked. sweat curling along his spine. the skin of his stomach peeking out when he raises his arms to stretch. his breath comes hard, and you can tell he’s pushing. pushing for you.

and then there are the late nights, because of course you couldn’t say no to him more than two nights in a row.

when the studio’s empty. when the lights are low and the speaker’s on its last bar of battery and your legs feel like wet cloth, but you’re still going. because he asked. because he wanted to get better.

you run the partner sections slower. he doesn’t rush the contact anymore.

he just presses. carefully. deliberately.

his hand spans the curve of your waist like it’s supposed to be there. like it belongs there. your back fits against his chest. your breaths sync. your heartbeat stutters and realigns.

and when the track cuts off, mid-routine, the speaker finally giving out, neither of you speaks.

just panting. just standing there. his forehead pressed lightly to the back of your shoulder. his fingers still holding your hip. his chest rising, hot and steady, against you.

you don’t move.

but you want to lean into him. god, you want to more than anything.

…

you mark spacing on the float early morning the next day.

the sun’s high. someone’s playing pagode from the corner of the lot. your clipboard is sticky with fingerprints. your throat’s dry, and despite not technically needing to be at practice for another thirty minutes, atsumu’s there, and he keeps leaning in over your shoulder while you explain the floor plan to the other crew members, voice low and teasing.

you tell him to shut up.

he says, “make me.”

you tape down the last line and walk away before he can see your face.

you’re unraveling. but you’re holding it. barely.

and he’s watching every frayed thread.

by the time the rest of the dancers are there, it’s so hot you can barely think. the pavement’s radiating heat like a stove-top, the kind that climbs through your sneakers and makes your calves feel like they’re pulsing.

the float’s been parked in the open lot since 7 a.m., metal railings nearly too hot to touch, feathers already wilting from the weight of the sun.

you’re wearing the only thing that won’t kill you: thin cotton shorts and a tank top, no bra underneath, because fuck it. the sweat bleeds through anyway, sticking the fabric to your chest, your ribs, your spine.

your hair’s up. your water bottle’s long gone. you’re pacing with your clipboard, shouting counts over the blaring beat like your voice is the only thing holding the number together.

“again from the top!”

“tighten your spacing!”

“we only have one more full run today!”

the float towers behind you, an explosion of color and steel, shaped like a rising phoenix. wings extended in fiery arcs of orange and gold, feathers carved into the frame, glitter-painted flames licking up the sides. it’s a tribute float to rebirth. to survival. to what rises from ash. the samba school built it to honor the favelas that rebuilt after the floods, the people who never stopped dancing. it moves like a miracle when it rolls.

and he is on it. atsumu miya.

his costume is orange, deep, dazzling, burning. beaded sunbursts at his hips, a gold-studded collar framing his chest, arms wrapped in jeweled cuffs. and god, there is nothing else. just skin. so much skin. his thighs flex with every step, brown and freckled and glistening. there’s a chain of rhinestones hanging off his hips that bounces when he moves, catching the light and dragging your attention right there every time.

his stomach is ridiculous. toned, slick, defined. his chest rising under the weight of the sun, mouth parted in focus, and the feathers from his headpiece shadowing his jaw just enough to make him look half-divine. like a demigod you accidentally summoned by saying yes too many nights in a row.

he moves like he’s built for it now.

like the choreography sunk under his skin. like this is his stage, and you were the one who gave it to him.

and the way he looks at you from up on that float, dripping sweat, chest heaving, like you’re the only thing that matters down here. like he’s watching you, not the beat, not the crowd, not even the mirror panels that’ll reflect every dancer to the sky.

you catch his eye once, between counts as you’re wiping your forehead with the hem of your tank, sweat slick across your collarbones, and he doesn’t even pretend not to look.

he just stares. slow. head tilted. that smirk pulling at his mouth like he’s trying not to bite his lip.

you scowl. flip to the next page on your clipboard. “from the top!” you yell again, louder this time.

and the sun had already started to dip when you called for the final costume runs, the last series of marks and pivots done under floodlights and the low pulse of street music starting to bleed in from nearby blocks.

at some point, between the sweat and the heat and the crackle of nerves, you’d called for a break.

and then, you’d surprised them. catered food. trays of pão de queijo, grilled picanha, coxinha, feijoada packed in little foil containers—comfort on a plate. a thank you. a gesture of love, discipline, pride. and it worked. the dancers, the staff, even the mood itself softened like butter under a flame.

atsumu, of course, sat next to you.

not just next to you, but right up on you, like he’d claimed the spot in a kindergarten lunchroom. knee bumping yours under the tent canopy, shoulder grazing yours every time he shifted, which was often. the tent poles were fixed into concrete barrels, tethered by thick twine to the corner walls of the building behind, casting square shade over a few folding tables and plastic chairs you’d arranged like a last-minute picnic.

you tried to eat in peace. he tried not to let you.

“so,” he’d said, lips shiny with oil from the farofa, “on a scale of one to ten, how good did i look in that costume?”

you didn’t answer, but he leaned closer anyway. “don’t pretend you didn’t look.”

you stabbed a piece of meat harder than necessary.

and then when you returned from changing, just for a minute, just to check the fit of your feathers and waist straps, you came back to find your portion half-missing.

atsumu didn’t even pretend to look guilty. just gave you that gritty little grin like his thievery was somehow endearing.

you almost threw your fork at him.

after lunch, since everyone changed out of costume and back into breathable clothes beforehand, the rest of the day passed in a focused blur. spacing, transitions, rhythm drills. final checks. voice hoarse from counting aloud, legs aching from doing too much, but it was good. all of it was good.

and by the time the last dancer slinked out with a sleepy wave and a water bottle tucked under one arm, it was already past ten.

so you stayed behind, because of course you did. someone had to pack the cords. someone had to zip the costume bags and inventory the shoes. someone had to realign the tape, stack the chairs, label the audio crates. someone had to make sure tomorrow’s full staging tent would be perfect. someone had to be ready.

so you worked.

and now? now, the building hums with silence. the storage room smells like dust and sunscreen and leftover glitter. your fingers ache, your scalp is tight, and you’re still in your rehearsal clothes.

your phone buzzes with the time.

it’s past midnight, and you don’t even hear him at first.

just the sound of the door creaking open. soft steps. then a voice: “y’know—most people would’ve gone home by now.”

you glance up.

atsumu’s leaning in the doorway, sweatpants low on his hips, shirt barely clinging to one shoulder, hair still wet from a too-fast shower. he’s got a towel around his neck, hand gripping the edge of the frame like he might not trust himself to step in.

“most people,” you mutter, tearing another strip of tape, “aren’t in charge of eighty moving pieces and a half-million reais float.”

“so you’re just gonna kill yourself over it?”

you don’t answer.

you press the tape down. smooth it out with your thumb. line it up with the others like it’s going to save you.

he steps inside and closes the door behind him. “you been mad at me lately or something?”

you pause.

he’s closer now. not touching. just watching. his voice lower.

“you’ve been weird,” he says quietly, somewhere between a question and a confession.

you don’t turn around. your hands are still busy in the crate, trying to wedge the corner of a costume box back into its original slot. his voice rolls in low behind you.

“like… reserved. even when you’re laughing or dancin’ or talkin’ to me, it’s like—you’re somewhere else.” he pauses. “did i… do somethin’? say too much?”

your shoulders stiffen, but only a little.

he steps closer, not too close, but enough that you can hear the way his breath moves when he talks softer, like he’s afraid of spooking something fragile.

“i don’t wanna make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs. “if i crossed a line… just tell me. i’ll back off.”

you stare down at your hands. they aren’t trembling. but the rest of you might be. you sit back on your heels.

“…you’re not doing anything wrong.”

he hums. skeptical.

“so why’s it feel like i’m losing something?”

you bite the inside of your cheek. you don’t want to say it. you really, really don’t.

because it’s stupid. because it’s messy. because it doesn’t change anything except how raw it makes you feel.

but his eyes won’t leave yours. and you’re tired. and it’s been days of pressure winding tighter and tighter in your chest with nowhere to go.

so finally, you let it out—just a little.

“i’m overwhelmed.”

his brows pinch, just slightly.

“not just with the parade,” you add quickly, eyes flicking away. “though that’s part of it. it’s just—” you pause, then laugh, a weak, frustrated sound. “it’s everything. i can’t even put it into words. it’s a lot. you’re a lot.”

that makes him flinch, almost imperceptibly.

but then you shake your head.

“not in a bad way,” you say, softer. “you’re just… new. and loud. and you get under my skin so easily. and i’ve never really had to deal with that while also running on three hours of sleep and trying to make a small classroom of people look perfect all at once.”

you finally meet his eyes again, and there’s no heat in them. just something steady. warm. like an anchor.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just looks at you like he’s taking it all in. like he hears you, actually hears you—not just the words but the weight of them, the tremble underneath.

then, quieter than before, voice rough at the edges, he asks: “what can i do?”

you blink.

“to make it easier,” he says. “to carry some of it for you. or at least make you smile while you’re carrying it.”

your breath catches in your throat.

he steps a little closer, not pushing, never pushing, but still, he’s there, steady and golden in the low light. the same boy who tangled his feet during samba steps, who made a mess of glitter and choreography and kept showing up anyway. the same boy who’s been looking at you like you built this whole world with your bare hands.

“just… tell me how to make it less heavy,” he says. “i’ll do it. swear.”

and he means it. god, you can feel how much he means it.

you don’t answer right away.

still crouched low near the taped border of the floor, you keep your eyes trained on the mess of rehearsal: the scattered cones, the folded lists, the neon markers curling up at the corners from humidity. your clipboard’s balanced across your knee. your fingers curl tight around its edge like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

how could he help?

he hasn’t done anything wrong. not really. he’s just always there. in your head when the music swells. in your chest when you try to breathe through the counts. in your space, even from across the studio, laughing too loud, watching too close, being too much.

and maybe that’s the problem.

you finally glance up. he hasn’t moved far past the doorway. maybe a step or two closer.

but it’s enough.

he’s watching you, not smug, not teasing. just… waiting. his brows are drawn just slightly, mouth parted like he’s caught between a question and a goodbye.

you swallow. look down again.

and then, slowly, without standing, without even thinking about it—you reach. lift a hand, loose at the wrist, and brush your fingers faintly against the hem of his shirt.

just a whisper of touch. like a tether cast without permission.

“wait,” you murmur.

he tilts his head. barely. “wait?” he echoes, voice low.

you nod. “you just gotta wait. till this is all over.”

he stills. his whole frame goes quiet, like the words hit deeper than you meant them to.

and then: “…and then?”

you glance up again, past your lashes. he looks golden in the overhead light. flushed. his throat glints faintly with rhinestone dust, that same wristband still clinging stubbornly like it hasn’t caught on that rehearsal’s over.

“and then… maybe.”

his brows twitch. surprised. almost boyish in his hope. “maybe?”

you nod again, this time with your chin lifted. your voice steadier now. like a promise you don’t mind being held to.

“yeah. when this is all over.”

and it’s not a no.

his breath dips. you watch it rise in his chest. watch the slow roll of his shoulders. his hands twitch by his sides. he doesn’t reach down—doesn’t dare, but you feel it. that shift. the one that says he wants to. that he’s trying not to.

you smile, barely.

and then you shift your knees back beneath you. rise smooth to your feet, not brushing him, not touching, just reclaiming your space.

“but right now,” you say, brushing your hands down your thighs like you’re dusting the moment away, “unless you’re about to help me finish marking this floor, i’m gonna need you to get the fuck out.”

his mouth parts. his weight shifts.

you shake your head before he can speak. “long-ass day tomorrow,” you add. “i need everyone ready. including you.”

for a second, he just watches you.

no jokes. no flirty retort. just a tightness in his jaw and something unreadable in his eyes—something held back by a thread.

then he exhales, and his smile comes slow. a little crooked. a little proud. “yes, ma’am.”

and then he’s gone.

you let yourself stare after him for a second. just one. then you kneel again. pick up the tape. and keep going.

…

the sun rises over rio with no shame. it pours itself over the city like a second skin, sticky, golden, unavoidable. down from the sky, up from the pavement, all at once like a slap across the face.

by the time you’re on-site, the streets are already humming. not packed, not yet, but warming. vendors setting up folding tables, flags hanging from windows, speakers testing their bass one block over. music leaks into the day before the sun fully claims it.

you’re already sweating before the float even rolls into position. already rolling tape, checking spacing, shouting numbers over yachi’s headset as she scurries behind you, clipboard in one hand, half-finished protein bar in the other.

you’re already in costume. no time to waste.

because this isn’t just about choreography anymore. not just steps and counts. it’s a full-blown technical monster—rigging, timing, feathers heavy with glue and sweat, dancers wearing five-pound headdresses like halos, and a street full of spectators building by the minute. the entire thing is a tech puzzle, and you’re at the center of it. fine-tuning it by feel.

your costume catches light as you move. a wildfire of red and gold, split at the thigh and cinched across your back like a second skin. there’s beadwork up your torso, detailing across your chest like armor, sun motifs flaring from your shoulders. the feathers arc high from your shoulders, orange, crimson, dipped in glitter and scorched in heat. they shift when you walk, fan when you stop. beads run down your hips in loops, clinking with every step. there’s not much coverage—your midriff bare, your back nearly open, your legs all shine and stretch and power, but that’s the point.

you’re meant to be seen. to shine when the beat drops. to be one with the float, a phoenix on wheels.

clipboard in one hand, earpiece in, mic clipped to your belt. you’re in motion before the crew’s fully assembled. calling out cue times, double-checking formation marks, sending dancers into places with a flick of your wrist. you’re adjusting a lighting cue on the control panel when you hear your name called from the float.

yachi is trailing you with a headset, flipping through spreadsheets and trying to keep up. “y/n, you need to be in position in five. but can we—hey—can we adjust the front-left spacing? the arm sweep’s still crowding.”

“got it,” you say, breathless but calm. “i’ll handle it.”

and you do. you always do. even when you’re stepping back into place, sweat slick on your lower back, lifting your arms just in time for the opening count.

and that’s when he sees you.

he’s already up there, perched near the front. final rehearsal uniform glistening orange-gold, barely there, every inch of muscle on display. his abs flex with every beat. his thighs gleam. glitter stuck in the corners of his grin. he moves like he owns the street. like the music answers to him.

but when you step into view—

he stops, because atsumu had texted yachi earlier that morning, “gonna be a lil late, save my spot pls” and showed up mid-rehearsal, sheepish grin and apology half-formed.

meaning he didn’t see you get dressed. didn’t see the way your feathers were hooked by hand or how the waistband had to be stitched tighter to hug your hips just right. and now he’s seeing it all at once.

there’s glitter in his hairline. paint on his chest. a rhinestone at his temple, catching sun. but his eyes are only on you.

he doesn’t blink when you meet them. just drags his gaze up, slow, shameless, from the flash of your thighs to the dip of your waist to the point where your feathers flare. then higher. to your mouth. your eyes.

“what?” you snap, folding your arms tight across your chest.

atsumu’s already grinning, boyish and dangerous, sweat catching in the crease of his neck. but it’s the way his mouth moves—silent, slow, exaggerated, that makes your stomach twist.

“i wanna fuck you so bad.” he doesn’t say it. just mouths it.

you roll your eyes hard. flip him off without hesitation. but the heat that flares low in your stomach doesn’t care how unimpressed your face looks. it coils anyway, hot and stupid, right behind your navel.

you turn your back on him before it shows. clipboard clutched tighter than it needs to be.

he laughs behind you, delighted. like you made his whole morning.

and the rest of the day, the heat never breaks. not really. it just folds into dusk, into a glowing orange that spills over the skyline. the city is buzzing now. the streets down the hill are already swelling with bodies, vendors, drummers, kids chasing balloons, tourists snapping photos, aunties in glittered jeans and halter tops dancing barefoot on the corner.

carnival isn’t starting anymore. it’s arriving.

and you—you’re lit from the inside.

your pulse is one with the rhythm now. you feel the parade before it happens. like thunder waiting behind the clouds

“we need the front group to reset,” someone yells.

“they’re resetting,” you shout back, already halfway across the float, sweat dripping from your brow. eyes gleaming.

you don’t even realize how good it looks from the outside—how alive you are. how the sweat clings to your chest, how the rhinestones scatter light when you twist just right, how the plume of feathers stitched to your hips flares like fire every time you move.

but he does.

atsumu watches you like he’s seeing the sun for the first time. like he wants to fall to his knees in the middle of the float and pray. like whatever god lives in brazil during carnival might live in your hips instead.

it’s water break when it happens. most of the team’s scattered, costume crew triple-checking seams, the brass ensemble dragging their cases into the street, yachi ducking away to deliver sbs’s half-glinting wing to the tent out back.

you’re on the float still, running one last check of the mic cues. crouched, leaning over the rigging.

and that’s when you feel it.

the presence first, warmth at your back. a brush of air. then a voice, low and thick: “that’s what you been hidin’ under them hoodies, huh?”

you don’t flinch. don’t look back. “you were late today,” you say, flat as stone.

his fingers curl around the edge of the rail beside yours. close enough to touch.

“worth it,” he says.

you side-step him, but not fast enough to dodge the look he gives you when the feathers brush his arm.

“can’t believe i missed you gettin’ dressed,” he murmurs, low. “bet that was a sight.”

you keep walking. clipboard clutched to your chest, lips pressed into a line.

“keep talkin’ like that,” you say, voice all lazy danger, “keep lookin’ at me like that—and you’re not gettin’ a goddamn thing tomorrow.”

his grin cracks wider, sharp, wolfish, like you just handed him a dare instead of a threat.

he lifts two fingers to his temple in a lazy, mock salute. “yes, ma’am,” he drawls, the words syrup-slick, his eyes trailing down your back like they’ve got nowhere better to be.

“but for the record—” he leans in, not close enough to touch, just enough that you feel the heat of him at your shoulder, “you sayin’ that like it’s somethin’ i already had.”

you stop. not long. not enough for him to win. just a hitch in your step, a breath that stalls before you snap it back in place.

and then you keep walking. because if you don’t, you’ll say something reckless.

and behind you, he laughs once, low, satisfied.

by the time the last rehearsal ends, the moon’s high. the music’s faded into half-heard street songs, and your voice is scratchy from shouting over noise all day. your costume’s half-unzipped, your water bottle long gone, your body aching in ways you forgot it could.

but you’re proud. god, you’re so proud.

the float’s perfect. the dancers are ready. the city’s alive. you’ve got five hours before call time and you don’t even want to sleep. you just want to feel this as long as you can.

and somewhere, behind you, across the float, waiting by the exit ramp with a shirt back on but his curls still wet from sweat—he’s watching you again. like tomorrow, he’ll let himself touch.

but tonight? tonight, he’ll just burn.

…

today, the sun hasn’t risen yet, but the world’s already alive.

the prep tent smells like coconut oil, sweat, and sugar. soft drums thump in the background. rhinestones rattle in trays as costume artists work on muscle memory. it’s still dark outside, but the floodlights bathe everything in gold. feathers. sequins. wigs taller than your torso. dancers in various stages of undress being painted and powdered like living altars.

someone’s curling your hair. someone else is lacing up your boots. your costume is tighter today, chest shining, hips high-cut, the gold and crimson flaring off your frame like fire. your body buzzes, not just from caffeine, not just from nerves. but from pride. from electricity. from everything you built.

yachi hands you a walkie. her voice crackles with emotion when she says, “we’re up second. it’s happening.”

you just nod, and your hands are already shaking, but not from fear. they’re shaking from everything else. adrenaline. the heat. the thunder in your chest. the ache behind your eyes from hours and hours and hours of preparation that all led to this exact second.

your float climbs forward slow like a living beast, its floor coated in feathers and crushed glitter and rhinestones so dense it looks like it was dipped in a comet. every dancer on it moves like fire, shaking, rising, glowing, wild. they look like the mouth of a volcano cracking open. overflowing.

the sound from the speakers hits like war drums and the bass thrums in your spine. every breath you take is music. every blink is light.

you’re waiting. you’ve got a few more blocks to go before you reach the main avenue. so for now, you wave. freestyle. hold the beat. give the people a show. hips loose, arms wide, heart wild. atsumu’s beside you, shirtless under rhinestone straps, sweat running down his stomach, hands loose at his hips, dancing like his body is the instrument the song was written for. he makes the crowd scream. you don’t even blame them.

because this isn’t even your choreography. but you’re the one who taught it. ran it. drilled it. counted it again and again until every dancer on this float could do it with their eyes closed and both lungs burning. this is your pulse running through their steps. your hands that shaped this into something cohesive.

and when you finally round the corner—when you pull up to the avenida marques de sapucaí, you freeze.

because you have never seen anything like it.

it’s a river of color. a canyon of heat and breath and celebration. people press against barricades like they’re trying to break through. every face painted. every mouth shouting. flags wave in bursts of green and yellow, red and blue. music from other floats punches through in distant echoes, but it all blends into one massive soundscape of samba samba samba.

the sky is cruelly blue. the kind of blue that almost hurts to look at. the sun doesn’t give a fuck about you or your costume, it burns straight through the feathers. there are dogs wearing tiaras. toddlers in sequined onesies. abuelas in halter tops and five-inch wedges grinding against the tempo like they were born to be here.

and you? you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

the first school rolls out like a goddamn thunderstorm of silver and purple, smoke machines, dancers with wings. and when the announcers call out your school’s name, acadêmicos do vidigal, the street erupts.

the flames of the phoenix are LED-lit, flickering with every bass beat. mirrors glint off the tail, catching sunlight and throwing it back into the crowd like confetti. the float rises from the street like something reborn.

you’re not the star. you’re part of the machine. and it feels right.

because every cue hits. every dancer is on it. you move together like gears, like breath, like something holy. when the music swells, your leg lifts. when the beat drops, your hips snap. you twirl, your feathers arc, your hair whips. and they’re cheering for you. all of you. for carnival and everything it means.

you glance around mid-chorus and see atsumu, center platform. chest bare, skin bronzed like he’s been dipped in honey and rolled in stardust. sweat dripping down his torso, his jaw clenched, his mouth open as he counts silently, hitting every fucking move. his eyes are locked ahead, and he dances like he’s on fire. like someone struck a match inside his ribs and told him to burn it all down.

and the crowd loves him. they chant. they scream. one woman shouts something obscene in portuguese that makes him grin mid-twirl.

you kinda want to eat him alive.

you lose all sense of time through the music, and at some point, you’re down off the float, moving through the crowd of dancers, hips loose, breath shallow, boots hot against the pavement, feathers high behind you, sweat rolling down your spine.

and then atsumu’s there, slipping behind you, palms sliding down your waist, right into the open space between the straps of your costume. his grip is sure. greedy. fingers spread wide, thumbs pressing into the base of your spine.

he leans down, mouth at your ear. “been waitin’ to get my hands on you all day,” he mutters.

you don’t answer. you just move.

the music is thunder. the heat is unbearable. you’re both soaked in sweat, glitter sticking in the crooks of your elbows, the curve of your neck. his costume is a fucking joke od glittered briefs, chains, cuffs, and not much else. his skin is everywhere. your bodies grind together like they’ve done this in ten lifetimes before. his hips roll with yours. his mouth brushes the back of your neck.

you’re dancing like you’ve chosen each other. like this is what birds do when the sky splits open.

and he’s saying things in your ear—dirty, awful things that make your knees threaten to buckle.

his arm wraps tight around your waist, holding you up as your rhythm falters. your feet ache. your thighs scream. but you don’t stop. not while he’s breathing against your cheek. not while the drums still pound. not while the lights still flash.

you dance until you collapse into him. until your legs almost stop answering. until he holds you up, arms locked around your waist, chest pressed to yours and knee between your legs.

and even then, you keep moving. because this is carnival. this is freedom. this is everything.

and the music doesn’t stop, not really — it only shifts.

what was once a blaring, heart-rattling thunder turns into a softer swell. drums still pulse in the distance, but they’re further off now, echoing from some other avenue. three blocks over, maybe four. still carnival, but not as loud. like the city’s breathing again after the blaze.

you’re walking. limping, more like.

the sun’s mostly gone, painting the edge of the sky with a thin, molten streak, pink, gold, bruising at the corners.

you’ve never been more tired. your boots bite into the arches of your feet with every step. the high-cut bodysuit itches at your hips. the rhinestone straps running up your back feel like they’re digging into your spine. your skin’s tight with dried sweat and body glue. your hair is stuck to the side of your neck, and it’s too hot to care.

you pass a street vendor still blasting pagode from a plastic speaker tied to his cart. he waves. you wave back, barely lifting your arm.

the tent is visible before you reach it, a mess of scaffolding and tarp and discarded water bottles. costuming bins. makeup kits. a pair of stilettos abandoned on the edge of the walkway. someone’s laughing faintly behind the partition. someone else is already passed out in a chair with their feathers collapsed like a dead bird.

the float is docked to the side, its once-pristine glitter dulled under the setting sun. sequins shedding. feathers bent. rhinestones dulled with sweat and motion.

you make your way to the corner where your stuff is, bag tucked beneath a folding chair, water bottle half-empty on the floor beside it.

atsumu follows. his feathers and crown are off, but he’s still wearing the bottom half of his costume, thin as sin, sticking to him in all the right places, gold thread glinting when he steps into the light.

his chest is heaving. his hair’s a mess. his cheek has a smear of highlighter that isn’t his, and glitter flecks his collarbone like stardust. “you good?” he murmurs, stepping close, voice low like it’s just for you.

you don’t answer immediately. instead, you collapse into the chair, thighs trembling, boots kicked off without ceremony. you lean forward, elbows on your knees, head hanging between your shoulders. the back strap of your costume tugs hard against your shoulder blades, and you wince.

“fuckin’ feathers,” you mutter, reaching to unhook the strap and let it fall. it droops like a dead limb behind you

“you looked good in ‘em,” atsumu says, voice still quiet. still watching you like you’re the only thing burning brighter than the sun.

you huff. close your eyes.

and it all still hums under your skin—the ache, the pride, the leftover adrenaline curling hot and honey-slow in your belly. your muscles scream, but you’re still moving. still smiling. still circling back through the tents with tired feet and nothing but compression socks to guard you from the concrete.

every step reminds you of the weight of the day: the spin of the float, the heat of the sun, the sound of your own breath getting swallowed up by applause. your body might be wrecked, but your spirit’s still on fire.

you congratulate the team. each of them, one by one. quick claps on the shoulder, hugs when they’re leaning in. your voice cracks from overuse, your hairline’s crusted in glitter, and your mascara’s long since cried its last—but you’re still glowing.

you end up in the communal bathroom with the other women. peeling yourself out of that costume feels like shedding skin. everything loosens. feathers pile up like a soft explosion at your feet. rhinestones clink across the tile. it’s chaotic and loud, and everyone’s laughing, high, breathless, raw like they just survived something divine.

your boots come off. the gloves. the armbands. the whole thing is a glitter-streaked blur, and you catch yourself in the mirror once, top half bare, sweat-slick and flushed, and you almost don’t recognize her. this version of you. spine straight. eyes shining.

they let you keep the costume.

of course they do. it was yours before it was ever theirs, stitched to your silhouette, sculpted to your steps, built for your breath and your bones. and atsumu, despite acting like he wasn’t fishing for it, absolutely let out a little “hell yeah” under his breath when they handed him his duffel bulging with feathers and sheer orange-gold mesh and chains.

he slings your bag over his shoulder with his own like it’s nothing.

“so,” he grins, too smug, too knowing. “how about that maybe?”

you lift a brow, pretend to think, lips pursed like a girl with options.

“yeah. i guess.”

he chuckles, starts walking. “that’s the most unromantic yes i’ve ever gotten.”

“you’re not a romantic guy.”

“nah,” he says, with a wink, “i’m irresistible.”

he leads you through the crowd, dense and chaotic, rio buzzing like it never wants to sleep again. the streets are still alive, even in the middle of the night. music is pouring from every window, every speaker, every corner. drunk people dance on balconies. someone’s selling grilled meat skewers off a tiny cart with a speaker blasting funk. confetti floats in the air like ash from a holy fire.

you’re in a tank and sweats and slippers. your thighs ache. your shoulders throb. your neck feels like it might snap off your spine.

but you still move. still dance. little shoulder rolls between steps. hips swaying on instinct. you giggle when he throws in a sloppy samba step beside you and almost trips on someone’s feather boa.

he watches you.

not like he wants to fuck. well—a little like that, but not just like that. he watches like he’s proud. like you’re a sun he can finally look at.

and when you turn the thirtieth corner, you glance at him sideways. “you sure this isn’t how kidnappings start?”

he grins. doesn’t even break stride. “think i could’ve kidnapped you about five rehearsals ago when you followed me down that alleyway.”

you laugh. “you’re right.”

his apartment is tucked in the side of a long, narrow building. three flights up. the stairwell is tiled and cramped and smells like cigarette smoke. you’re sweating again by the time you reach the door. he unlocks it with one hand, still holding both bags.

it’s tiny. barely enough space to turn around. there’s a small kitchenette, a sofa that’s definitely been used as a bed, a fan clipped to the counter, and flags pinned up along the wall—japan, united states, brazil.

“not you being cultured,” you murmur.

he drops the bags with a groan and stretches his arms overhead, shirt riding up. “just international, baby.”

he leads you into his room. it’s barely a room. mostly a bed and a window, and the city glows outside, lit the fuck up. streetlights. fire breathers. people screaming in joy still. the party hasn’t died. it just dipped lower into the bones.

you sit on the bed. he flops down beside you. “this is so small,” you mutter, looking around.

“hey, it’s not the size that counts.”

“you would say that.”

he smirks. “don’t need size when you got technique.”

you raise a brow, lips twitching. “so you’re saying it’s small?”

he doesn’t even blink. just leans back, drapes an arm behind you onto his bedframe, cocky as hell. “i think you felt it, actually. so… you tell me.”

a short laugh cracks from your chest, tired, incredulous, delighted despite yourself. you toss a pillow straight at his smug face. he catches it, easy, like he was waiting on it. his eyes never leave yours.

but the mood shifts. the way it always does with him. slow. hungry. quiet. he sits up. leans in.

his knees brush yours. the distance shrinks down to inches. his voice drops, no smile this time. just heat, just awe. “but for real,” he murmurs. “you were… fuckin’ radiant today. i couldn’t stop watching you.”

your breath catches. your stomach tightens and you look at him, at the burn in his eyes. the steady, reverent way he’s holding your gaze like it’s something sacred.

“…i could tell,” you whisper.

his hand finds your waist. slow. deliberate. warm enough to sink straight through your skin, and this time you don’t even think of stopping him.

your fingers curl slightly into the bed beneath you. your knee shifts closer, thigh brushing his. your other hand finds his forearm, anchoring, unsure, and he moves in like he’s not even thinking. like gravity’s doing the work for him.

your foreheads touch first. soft. careful. you breathe in the heat between you. your noses bump, then his mouth finds yours. not rushed. not demanding.

he kisses you again. not soft this time. not searching. just there—hungry, and you straddle him before you even realize you’ve moved.

his thighs are wide beneath you, solid, hot through the cotton of his sweats, and his hands go straight to your hips like muscle memory. like instinct. grip tight. fingers flex. a beat passes. then he’s kissing you warm. all tongue and pressure, lips dragging against yours like he’s starving and you’re the first thing he’s tasted in days.

you make a sound against his mouth, low, caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and he swallows it whole. one of his hands slides up, drags the thin fabric of your tank along with it, palming your side like he needs to feel the sweat sticking there to believe this is real.

you arch into it. you let him drag the tank off. and your bra’s still on. for a second.

his mouth moves fast, messy kisses over your collarbone, your throat, the top swell of your chest. and then he’s got that clasp open. single flick. big hands. muscle memory.

he pushes the straps down your shoulders, slow at first, like he’s teasing you, and then all at once like he can’t fucking wait.

he tosses the bra somewhere and doesn’t even look where it lands. because he’s already got his mouth on you.

and not like sweet, not like gentle. he groans against your skin, low in his throat, sucking a nipple into his mouth like he’s trying to own it, wet, open-mouthed, tongue dragging hot. his hands are everywhere. under your ass, over your back, pressing you closer. like it’s not enough. like he needs all of you, every fucking inch.

you roll your hips down. hard.

the friction hits sharp, direct, right where you need it. he curses under his breath. jaw clenches. his hands tighten.

his sweats are doing nothing to hide it now.

you can feel him, thick, pulsing, straining against the fabric, pressed right up against your center. every grind makes you dizzy. every kiss gets deeper. his mouth is slick on your skin, teeth scraping at your breast, his breath breaking every time you move.

your hands are in his hair. his tongue’s back on you. he sucks, bites, licks a stripe up your neck like he wants to taste how hot your skin’s running.

your thighs burn. you’re soaked. and still, you rock.

because his hands don’t stop moving.

because the lamp’s the only light in the room, and rio is still screaming outside. because he makes it feel like you’re the only thing that matters right now. like you could fuck the whole parade out of your bones and he’d still be begging for more.

his fingers dip low, curling under the hem of your sweats, thumbs brushing skin that’s already burning. he looks at you like he’s asking, even though you both know there’s no hesitation left. he drags them down slow. over your hips. down your thighs. they gather at your knees and you kick them off blindly. his eyes follow the movement, heavy, dark, greedy.

you shift up, and he helps you without words, hands on your waist, gentle, steady. you’re left in just your underwear, soft fabric clinging to you, already damp enough that the air bites a little. he notices. his eyes flick to where it sticks between your legs and his lips part just slightly, tongue wetting the corner like he’s parched.

he strips next. no flourish, no teasing. just lifts his hips and pushes his sweats down in one smooth motion. boxers too. his cock springs free, flushed and hard and already leaking at the tip. it sits heavy against his stomach when he leans back against the pillows again, legs spread just enough to invite. he leaves his shirt on, oversized and slightly wrinkled, and you don’t mind. you’ll feel him underneath it.

you climb over him again, your knees bracketing his hips, and he groans as you settle into his lap. he’s not in you yet, not quite, but close enough.

you roll your hips once, slow, dragging the soaked heat of your cunt over the length of him through the thin barrier of your underwear. he hisses, hips jerking up instinctively.

“you feel that?” he whispers, voice rough, his mouth ghosting just under your ear. “how wet you are for me?”

you don’t answer, but you don’t need to. you grind again, slower this time, letting him feel every bit of how ready you are. your clit catches just right and you moan, biting your lip. his hands tighten on your hips.

his palm slides between your bodies, knuckles brushing your belly before he’s pressing his hand flat over you—through the fabric first, a tease. a press. your hips stutter. then, slowly, he slips the fabric aside, and the air touches you. raw. wet. needy.

he groans, thick and guttural. his fingers drag through the slick. “fuck,” he mutters. “you’re dripping.”

he sinks one finger into you, then another. slow, careful. your breath catches, body jerking forward slightly. you bury your face in his neck as you grind onto his hand, his fingers curling just enough to pull more whimpers from your throat.

you stay like that a moment, you grinding, him palming you open, his cock hard beneath you, leaking against your inner thigh.

he hasn’t moved it. hasn’t even touched himself again. just lets it sit there, twitching, heavy, hot.

and when you finally murmur, “i need you,” it comes out quiet. not desperate, just real. honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. his voice is warm and close: “yeah, baby. i got you. sit up for me.”

you lift just enough for him to reach down and line himself up. he strokes himself once, twice, quick, practiced, slicking himself, and brings the head to your entrance.

you hold your breath as you lower yourself. just the tip at first. it’s thick. stretching. your brows knit. he watches you, lips parted, waiting. not pushing. just watching as inch by inch, he fills you.

it’s slow. it has to be slow. you’re so tight, the stretch so deep it aches a little, flaring behind your ribs. your hands dig into his chest, fingers curling under the fabric of his shirt, clinging. your thighs shake as your body adjusts, taking him deeper.

and when your hips finally settle flush to his, both of you still, breathing hard, and you feel full in a way that silences every thought.

he exhales like a prayer.

you don’t move. not yet. you just stay there, seated on him, wincing slightly from the fullness, your walls fluttering around the thick length of him. he brushes your hair back, mouth finding your temple.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “you’re doin’ so good.”

and you believe him. because like this, wrapped around him, inside and out, it doesn’t feel like anything else could matter.

his hands grip your hips like they were made for this. wide palms, thick fingers, callused pads sinking into your skin just enough to anchor. to own. he doesn’t just hold you; he guides you, like your body’s an instrument he’s known forever, and he’s playing it slow, deep, filthy.

your thighs ache, carnival bruises blooming under your skin, muscles sore from hours of dancing and laughing and moving. but none of that matters now. not with him beneath you. not with the way he lifts you, strong, easy, steady, using the power in his legs and the flex of his hips to carry your weight when you can’t.

“there you go,” he murmurs, voice rough, thick with awe, like he can’t believe it either. “just like that.”

his thighs are carved stone, flexing beneath you with every movement, grounding you. every time you lift yourself just a little, he meets you halfway, rolling his hips up into you with slow, devastating precision. the angle is perfect. he holds you like he wants to fuse you to him.

outside the window, the glow of rio bleeds through cheap glass, painting the room in pinks and blues. the light dances across your skin, over his face, turning the sweat on your bodies into something holy. the world beyond your little apartment is loud, alive, but in here, it’s all breath and skin and the wet sound of your bodies meeting over and over.

your hands are on his chest, fingers slipping beneath his shirt, clinging to damp skin. he moans when you drag your nails down his torso, and you feel his abs flex beneath your touch. every roll of your hips drives him deeper, and every inch of him feels intentional. like he was made for this rhythm, made for you.

he licks a stripe up your sternum, slow, deliberate, and his mouth finds your nipple, tongue circling before he sucks, hard.

your back arches, mouth falling open. a choked gasp slips out, then a high, breathy whimper as your hips grind down with more need, more want, more everything.

your movements get sloppier. wetter. louder. you’re soaked, each drag down his cock obscene, slick, needy, so much so that you’re both drenched. your thighs tremble from effort but he holds you, helps you, one hand sliding down to grip under your thigh, guiding you with small tilts of his hips that hit so deep, so right, your vision blurs.

“fuck,” he mutters into your skin, voice low and cracked, vibrating through your chest. “you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

his other hand moves, up your back, fisting your hair, then sliding to your neck, just resting there, thumb stroking the line of your jaw. his eyes burn into yours, molten, wide, stunned like he’s watching you fall apart and falling right with you.

and you’re riding him. really riding him. hips circling, lifting, grinding. taking your time. savoring the stretch, the burn, the fullness. sweat sticks to sweat. your bodies slick and shining in the light of brazil. each bounce is slower than the last, more deliberate, more devastating. he fills you like no one else ever has. and with every drop of your hips, you feel him deeper, closer, like your whole body is wrapped around his.

and all he can do is hold on. lips on your skin. hands on your hips. jaw slack as he lets you take him in every way that matters.

your head tips back, neck bared, jaw slack, and it’s too much.

every drag down his cock feels like fire, like lightning crackling under your skin. your thighs are trembling, slick with sweat, muscles taut and aching. you can’t keep the pace anymore, not really—but it doesn’t matter. he’s there. guiding you. holding you.

his hand slides from your waist up your stomach, fingers splayed across your abdomen like he’s trying to feel everything. and he does.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice like gravel soaked in reverence. “dancin’ all night just to come fall apart on me.”

you moan, broken, wrecked, your hips still trying to work over him, even if your body’s unraveling.

he kisses you again, wet and open-mouthed. your shoulder, your throat, the pulse fluttering in your neck. he sucks, groaning when your body jerks in response, your core clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper.

the hand on your stomach slides lower, finds your clit. and he knows how to touch you, two fingers rubbing slow, tight circles, in rhythm with the way he rocks you up and down.

your moans fall apart into whimpers, breathy and desperate, no rhythm, just noise. “ah—tsumu—” all stuttered, choked, helpless.

your thighs seize, burning, cramping. too much. too good. you’re clinging to his shoulders now, forehead falling to his as the coil in your stomach tightens dangerously.

“that’s it,” he pants, lips dragging across your cheek, jaw, neck. “come on, baby. let go. let me feel you.”

and you do.

and it hits.

your orgasm slams through you like a freight train, white-hot and shaking, making your whole body seize and curl against him. your walls flutter, grip him in tight, desperate pulses. you sob out a noise that’s not even a word, body trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

he feels it, every spasm, every squeeze. and it breaks him.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps, hands grabbing your ass, hips jerking up once, twice, then he’s spilling inside you with a deep, guttural moan, thick and raw.

his mouth is everywhere, open, hungry kisses pressed to your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, wet and messy and reverent. he wraps his arms around you like he needs you to stay, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

you’re both panting. the room is full of your breath, your heartbeats, the fading echo of skin meeting skin.

your hips slow, a few shaky rocks, more reflex than rhythm. the glide is wetter now, filthy, his cum leaking out around him, down your thighs. he’s still inside. you’re still trembling. both of you coated in sweat, muscles limp, bodies fused.

and he holds you there. one hand on the back of your neck, the other splayed across your spine. he presses a kiss to your temple, breath still shaky, voice barely a whisper.

“you’re unreal,” he says, like a confession.

and all you can do is melt against him. full. fucked. his.

and outside the window, rio still glows, pulsing in pinks and reds, humming like a heartbeat. it flickers soft over the sweat on your bodies, stains the sheets with color, stains him with it too, all flushed and golden, mouth kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and soft only for you.

the air hums, warm and thick, buzzing with the leftovers of pleasure, the aftershocks still rolling slow beneath your skin. in the stillness, the quiet feels like something sacred. like the world’s holding its breath for you both.

this tiny apartment, with its peeling paint and creaking floors and bed that thuds against the wall with every thrust—it held you. it witnessed you.

carnival glitter still clings faintly to your arms. there’s a smear of it on his chest, caught in the curve of his collarbone like a star that didn’t burn out.

and rio, wild, open, too loud, too bright, lives just outside. but in here, it’s only you and him, the riot of the world reduced to breath and sweat.

and in that pink light, tangled together, still trembling from the storm you built and broke upon each other, you swear you’ve never seen anything more alive.

yayy the end!! i hope u enjoyed <3 | m.list

[deliciousangelfestival]

Underworld Insomnia || 1 - B.Barnes

Character : Bucky × Psychiatrist Female!Reader

Summary: As a ruthless contract killer, Bucky is feared in the underworld of criminals. His opponents freeze when they see him, as he is feared among them. However, they don't know that he could be warm to only one person: his pshychiatrist. The only person who could make him fall asleep.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 ,-

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please let me know what your thoughts are. I'd love to hear your feedback. Thank you once again.

In the world of secret societies for underground criminals, there's a secret place for criminals to stay, a shop for criminals to buy their weapons, basically, criminals live like normal people but they can only go to places that are built for criminals.

That's the rule.

There's also a particular psychiatrist for criminals only. Since many of the criminals have demons in their minds.

For this job, Dr. Ben is the only person the criminals could go to and ask for advice and medicine so they could go to sleep. Most of them can sleep.

But the only person who has trouble is Bucky Barnes.

His name is enough to make everyone in the underworld shiver. His eyes are enough to make his opponents freeze.

Bucky is their answer if anyone wants a job done without any mistakes.

With the money from the job he finished, he could have a comfortable life for generations. But he doesn't need it because all he wants right now is to sleep.

"I tried what you told me. Work out until I'm tired, learn something new, clean all my weapons, upgrade my car, renovate my house with bulletproofing, sex," Bucky said while he lay on the couch, looking at the ceiling.

Dr. Ben kept writing while listening to his patient.

"I even went to pottery class, baking class, painting class, and sex," Bucky counted on his fingers.

"Still. Nothing works. I still can't sleep. It's been 7 years," Bucky said.

Dr. Ben, who kept writing, replied, "Yeah, you have mentioned sex multiple times."

"White noise, pink noise. In the end, I smashed the Bluetooth speaker. None of your methods work," Bucky said as he sat up and glared at Dr. Ben.

Dr. Ben adjusted his reading glasses. He remained calm, probably one of the few people not afraid even though Bucky was angry.

He clicked his pen and put the report on the table.

"Do you want to try reading fairy tale books?" Dr. Ben asked.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you joking with me?"

Dr. Ben replied, "Most of you people have a shitty childhood. Have shitty parents. Perhaps deep down, your kind wants something related to fulfilling your inner child."

Bucky exclaimed, "Woah, doctor, calm down. You're brutally honest here." He sighed, because he knew this method will failed like the rest. "Fine. I'll try." Then he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.

Dr. Ben picked a children's book and started to read, he flipped through the pages, and began to read aloud, "Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a brave little mouse named Timothy."

"Timothy was no ordinary mouse," Dr. Ben continued, "for he possessed a heart as courageous as a lion and a determination that could move mountains."

"Stop. Stop. It's so weird listening to you. Get someone else," Bucky interrupted, feeling uncomfortable.

Dr. Ben closed the book. "I'll get my apprentice."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "You've got a new one?" He knew that none of Dr. Ben's employees stayed that long, given the fear of criminals who kept coming for therapy.

Dr. Ben adjusted his glasses. "She could tame Bruce Banner; I think she could do the same to you."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Dr. Ben got up from his seat and opened his office door. "Y/N, help me for a bit," he called out.

Bucky heard a melodious voice respond, "Yes?"

The door swung open, revealing a woman with a confident stride and a calm demeanor. She had striking eyes that seemed to hold a depth of understanding, framed by a cascade of dark hair that fell gracefully around her shoulders.

Her posture exuded poise and assurance, hinting at a quiet strength within. She carried herself in professional attire with an air of authority, yet there was warmth in her expression as she met Bucky's gaze.

As you approach your boss, he suddenly puts a children's book in your hand.

You look at him, puzzled. "Huh?"

Dr. Ben pointed at Bucky and explained, "This person can't sleep for years. So I want to see if reading a children's story could make him fall asleep."

Bucky huffs in frustration. As a top assassin in the underworld, it's humiliating if he can only fall asleep with a children's book. "Just do it."

You flinch, knowing the man in front of you is dangerous.

Dr. Ben pats your shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, he's just cranky. I'll be here too. I need to see if it's working or not."

"Okay," you respond, then sit in the chair near Bucky's couch.

Before opening the book, you can't help but notice the tattoos on his neck and hands.

"Are you done staring?" Bucky asks, irritation evident in his voice.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry," you apologize quickly. "I'll start reading. Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a brave little mouse named Timothy. Timothy was no ordinary mouse, for he possessed a heart as courageous as a lion and a determination that could move mountains."

As you continue reading, Bucky listens intently, his eyes focused on the ceiling as he tries to relax.

"Despite his small size," you continue, "Timothy dreamed of embarking on great adventures and proving himself to be the bravest mouse in all the land."

Bucky's tense expression begins to soften slightly as he listens to the soothing cadence of your voice.

"One day," you narrate, "a fierce dragon threatened the kingdom, causing panic among the inhabitants. But Timothy, undeterred by the danger, volunteered to confront the dragon and save his home."

Bucky's breathing starts to slow down as he gets engrossed in the tale, his earlier restlessness fading away.

"With unwavering courage," you go on, "Timothy faced the dragon, armed only with his wits and determination. And through his bravery and quick thinking, he managed to outsmart the fearsome beast and bring peace back to the kingdom."

As you reach the end of the story, Bucky's eyes grow heavy, and he finally begins to drift off to sleep, a sense of calm settling over him.

Dr. Ben watches silently, nodding in approval as he sees the story's effect on Bucky. It seems that, perhaps, there is power in the simplest of tales to soothe even the most troubled minds.

Bucky's eyes felt heavy. The childish story and your calm voice made him feel relaxed. Your voice seemed more effective than white noise in soothing his troubled mind. As he listened, the tension in his muscles gradually melted away, replaced by a sense of peace and tranquility.

Then Bucky opened his eyes, only to realize he wasn't in the same place in Dr. Ben's office anymore. He found himself on a bed inside an unknown room. Panic surged through him.

Had he been kidnapped?

It would bring shame to his name as the feared killer if true.

As he processed his surroundings, Bucky's hand instinctively went for his knife, ready to defend himself. But soon, he recognized the familiar surroundings of Dr. Ben's building. Relief washed over him, though he remained on edge.

A door creaked open, causing Bucky to tense, his grip tightening on the knife. But to his surprise, it was just Dr. Ben.

"Did you have a good sleep?" Dr. Ben asked calmly.

Bucky clicked his tongue in annoyance and massaged his shoulder. "No. Your methods didn't work. I'm still tired."

"Well, that's natural since you've been asleep for three days," Dr. Ben replied matter-of-factly.

Three days?!

He can't believe it, since he has only been able to sleep for one hour each night for the past seven years. Bucky's eyes widened in disbelief as he checked his phone, seeing the date and numerous missed calls and unread messages.

"It worked?" he muttered, incredulous. He had been able to sleep and hadn't even realized it.

Bucky's amazement lingered as he realized that he had slept for three whole days without even being aware of it. It was a stark contrast to the years of insomnia he had endured, struggling to find even a moment of rest.

The tension that had plagued his body for so long began to ebb away, replaced by a newfound sense of calmness and clarity. He couldn't deny the relief that washed over him, knowing that perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope for him yet.

Then, there was a knock on the door. It was you.

"How is he, doctor? Is he still asleep?" you asked, but you gasped when Bucky's intense gaze met yours.

Was he angry? Did he blame you for making him sleep for three days?

"Y/N, is it?" Bucky inquired.

You responded groggily, "Yes?"

Bucky got on his knees, his right hand resting on his left chest and his left hand reaching for you. He looked at you earnestly and asked, "Will you work for me?"

You were taken aback, as was Dr. Ben. Bucky's unexpected gesture felt like it could lead to a significant misunderstanding, resembling a proposal rather than a job offer.

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@mostlymarvelgirl

@musicandbooksaremyhappyplace

@buckybarnessimpp

@charmedbysarge

@almosttoopizza

@sapphirebarnes

@daddysfavoritesexkitten

@rebeccapineapple

@cjand10

@pigeonmama

@almosttoopizza

Author Note:

Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account. Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating. Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

Thanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[mavrintarou]

[1:52 PM] Sakusa Kiyoomi

I'm a day late - but I wasn't satisfied with all my drafts. Happy belated birthday to this cutie!

Warning: funny misunderstanding & smut (18+)

.

Kiyoomi watched Y/n dance her heart out with Alice, his twelve-year-old niece on the dance floor to one of their favorite KPOP songs. Alice was born a dancer and at an early toddler age, was inspired by KPOP and has been in dance classes and competing since she was five. The moment he told Alice that his girlfriend was a professional dancer, she challenged Y/n to a dance-off, not believing her uncle or Y/n.

Of course, Y/n proved to Alice, earning her respect and honor. They became best friends after that with Y/n taking Alice as her disciple.

When Kiyoomi had first met Y/n and as they exchanged information about themselves, he couldn’t picture the sweet girl in front of him to be an ex-professional dancer. It wasn’t that he did not believe her, it was just that he did not peg her as a dancer.

On their first date, she wore a knee-length skirt with a white button-up shirt tucked tidily with an oversized cardigan over and some brown scuffed loafers. She looked like the kind of girl who would spend her entire day in a coffee shop in Paris.

Not the girl who knew the choreography to BTS’ songs or just about any KPOP song he had randomly suggested, she knew the dance moves or could learn it within an hour.

Y/n refused to show him any videos and he couldn’t find any either when he searched for her.

He began to beg her to show him some moves when they were alone one night.

“Please,” he looked up at her with soft begging eyes.

She inhaled sharply before standing up, whipping off her cardigan, and walking over to his small portable Bluetooth speaker. Her back was to him as she paired her phone to the device and Kiyoomi’s living room boomed with upbeat music that he often heard at the club.

Y/n turned around and stalked towards him.

Kiyoomi swallowed, sitting up straight, and watched with attentive eyes. His jaw slightly dropped as Y/n stepped in front of him with her back towards him and slowly lowered herself down until she seated on his lap and began rocking her ass against his crotch.

God, she was giving him a lap dance.

She reached for his hands and placed them on her waist before guiding them up to her breasts. Her hips moved with the beat of the music, making him feel every bit of her.

Y/n leaned forward and rocked along the length of his thighs before shaking her ass before him.

“Oh, fuck… Y/n…” he was at a loss for words.

She turned around and straddled his lap before reaching for her shirt and tugging it off. She reached for his hands again and slid them inside her sports bra, his palm pressed against her warm soft tits.

“Y/n,” Kiyoomi gasped, looking at her with dark eyes. “Shit… I need you… kiss me please…” He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers.

Y/n met his eager lips, moaning softly. Her fingers reached his waistband and he lift his hips so she could tug his joggers down enough to free his hardened cock. Her hands clasped around his cock, squeezing and stroking him.

Kiyoomi pulled his hands away from her tits to pull down her yoga pants.

Pushing away from him, Y/n stands up to kick off her garments before sitting back down on his lap, now grinding skin on skin.

Kiyoomi’s thighs tremble pathetically as if this is their intimate session.

After what seemed like an eternity, Y/n lifted her ass and reached for his cock, aligning it with her pussy before settling down.

Her soft moan was enough for him to cum. With her warm pussy wrapped around his cock, he became a puddle of mush at her hands.

His fingers dug into her hips, begging for her to move yet at the same time, holding her still as he wanted to savor the euphoric feeling of her. Y/n has recently gone on birth control, giving them the freedom to have condom-less sex. Giving Kiyoomi the freedom to cum inside her.

Rocking her hips slowly, Y/n turned to look over her shoulder. “Faster? Or slower?”

Kiyoomi could hardly control his breath, let alone his mind. He wanted both but couldn’t find his voice.

“Okay then, I’ll just take the lead…” Y/n’s voice is teasing. She continued to rock and roll her hips to the sound of the music, which had become deaf to Kiyoomi’s ears. His eyes are locked and concentrated on how Y/n was bouncing on his cock.

His eyes shut and a low grunt vibrates from his throat. He was close but he wanted them to cum together.

Kiyoomi’s grip on her waist tightened as he still her movement so he could take control. He pumped into her pussy, thrusting hard and fast.

Y/n lost her balance and fell backwards, landing her weight on him but Kiyoomi didn’t mind. He easily lifted her to continue to keep pounding into her pussy, his right hand hiked her right leg higher while his left hand found her clit, rubbing it fast.

“Omi!”

Growling, Kiyoomi restrained himself until Y/n came first and he second. Her walls fluttered around his cock, squeezing and milking him.

Setting her leg down, he wrapped his arms around her, locking her to him as he breathed in her scent.

.

Everyone has a past they don’t speak of. Not Kiyoomi, but he thinks he can understand why Y/n refused to allow him to see any videos of her dancing. He struggled to comprehend the idea of witnessing her dance so intimately with another man, other than himself.

If it were any other woman, he doubted he would overlook her past or former career.

Yet, he discovered himself forgiving Y/n and still desiring her, despite her past as an exotic dancer.

But he needed to talk to her about it, it was eating him up.

After two weeks of contemplating how he would broach the subject, he eventually sat down with Y/n one evening.

“I need to get this off my chest,” Kiyoomi kept his eyes on her, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable at all. At the very least, she looked at him confused yet patiently waiting for him to continue. “I want to be transparent and tell you that I can look past your exotic dancing career but I don’t ever want you to return to that kind of –“

“What? Hold on, Omi…”

“No, please let me finish,” he silenced her, reaching for her hands and holding them. “I have never felt so assured about someone until I met you and now I understand when people say that the moment you meet your person, you are willing to do everything for them. I am willing to do anything for you, but all I ask is for you to never return to that kind of job again. I will do my best financially support you and if there is anything else… aside from exotic dancing… I will fully support you.” He exhaled deeply, looking deeply into her eyes. “I love you, Y/n.”

Y/n’s eyes shimmered before she tightly shut them, then let out a brief giggle before erupting into laughter.

She lunged herself at him, hugging him. “Oh, my Omi… I love you too.” She felt him relax, his arms wrapping around her. Y/n leaned back and cupped his face, “but you are so silly, Omi. And I think I just loved you even more.”

Kiyoomi didn’t receive her message, but it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was that she loved him.

“I’m not an exotic dancer at all,” she clarified, giggling as her shoulders trembled. “I’m a professional dancer, but not an exotic dancer in the slightest. What gave you that impression?”

His expression shifted instantly as he grasped her message. “Wait, you’re not an exotic dancer?”

Y/n shook her head.

“But you gave me – you gave me a lap dance…”

The room filled with only Y/n’s laughter. “Oh Omi, you asked me to show you some moves and that’s why I gave you a lap dance, not that I’m an exotic dancer.” She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him. “You’re so funny! Is that why you have been pouty all week?” She leaned back to look at his face.

His brows knitted, “you noticed?”

Pressing a kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose and lips. “Of course, I wanted you to be comfortable to talk to me.”

His hands rest loosely around her waist. “Those moves were incredible, I’ve never had a lap dance before and afterwards all I could think about was that… you were an exotic dancer and that’s why you didn’t want me to see your videos.”

Y/n grabbed her phone and searched for something before turning her screen sideways.

For the next ten minutes, she showed him various videos of her competition and Kiyoomi was awed, shocked that the woman in the video dancing amazingly was the same on his lap.

Kiyoomi leaned back against the couch and covered his eyes, embarrassed. “I can’t – I can’t believe I thought you were an exotic dancer...” he looked at her, “so… have you given anyone else a lap dance before?”

Leaning against his chest, Y/n shook her head, “nope, you were the first.’

“And last? And only?”

“Last and only,” Y/n assured, kissing his pretty lips.

. . .

E/n: Kiyoomi in love is something else.

>>> @queenelleee @mfreedomstuff @erintaro @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @wolffmaiden @cloud-lyy

[ironwoman18]

Ubers Eat

“Alright kiddos, tonight we are going to cook” said Snuffy with a huge grin on his face “as an Italian, I'm in the obligation to teach you how to make pasta the proper way” he smirked “the Italian way, of course”

Lorenzo was in awe hearing Snuffy like it was his favorite idol, Barou rolled his eyes while Aiku and Sendou were thinking “Oh a new way to impress girls!!”

And like he could read their minds Niko said “stop thinking about women you fools...” And Aryu nodded.

“Cooking is glam. I admire Martha Stewart, she cooks with glam” Niko rolled his eyes as little stars flew over Aryu's head.

Snuffy noticed Barou wasn't interested in the lesson so he looked at Lorenzo, who noticed this too and, connected by Bluetooth, he said “there should be a competition... Whoever loses has to wake naked from the kitchen to the dorms, wearing nothing but an apron” his golden teeth shone with malice.

“But who will score it?” Asked Niko.

“I will, of course” said Ego on the speakers “I love noodles after all” Snuffy smirked.

“Sounds fair and Ego, can you ask Miss Anri Tieri to do it as well”

Ego thought about it for a second and said “yes, I will. Enjoy, don't disappoint me, diamonds in the rough”

“And whoever doesn't cook will have a penalty,” said Snuffy, looking at Barou.

He rolled his eyes “fine shitty master... I will do it” Snuffy smiled and the class began.

Snuffy put all the ingredients on the table and all the players, even the Italian members of the team were there.

“They have an advantage, mister,” said Fukaku looking at the Italian players.

“Don’t worry. Neither of these kids have a single idea about cooking” he rolled his eyes “Essere un salame... They are clumsy and terrible in the kitchen, their country should remove their passport from their hands” the Italian kids blushed softly.

Snuffy began with the pasta. He gave instructions on what to do to make it. Barou was struggling a little but he managed to make it. Lorenzo was good but only because he followed all the instructions since he was like Snuffy's puppy.

Surprisingly Aiku, Aryu, Niko and Fukaku did it well but the biggest surprise was Sendou who's dough was smooth and perfect.

“Wow!!! Sendou!! That's amazing” said Aiku, proud of his star player “those Hollywood actresses will fall in love with you” this made him drool.

Then Snuffy said “alright kiddos, we will let the dough rest for about fifteen minutes, meanwhile we will start getting the ingredients ready” they nodded “we will make the carbonara and this sauce DOES NOT have cream. That’s a lie of the French…” said Snuffy with irritation.

They looked at the ingredients on the table. There were eggs, something like bacon, olive oil, salt, pepper and pecorino Romano .

“Pour the water in the pot and turn on the stove, we will add salt in the water WHEN the water is boiling and no, we don’t add oil in the water” he said looking at the Italian players, who were holding the bottle of oil, putting them down blushing.

“Now let’s cut the guanciale” all the players looked around for it “the thing that looks like bacon” the master held the bridge of his nose “mamma mia!! Cut a portion and it will be cut in small squares” they did it and Snuffy felt please with the result of it.

Barou was the best at this task since he’s so perfectionist, then Aryu because… glam… and third was Niko because he copied Barou with his new metavision.

“Perfect, let's crack the eggs and pour salt in the boiling water” they did it, again Barou opened the eggs perfectly and without a single piece of shell.

“Now let’s put the dough in this machine and you will follow me closely, ok?” They nodded.

Snuffy the pasta machine to Knead the dough until it is 1 centimeter thick. Then cut it in thin spaghetti pasta.

“Let it rest for a few minutes then we will cook them. Now let’s cook the guanciale without any oil, put the pan on the fire and throw it in the pan” they nodded and followed the instructions.

When the guanciale was done it was turn to remove them from the pan “now the mix the eggs with a fistful of pecorino and pepper” he showed them how to do it. Some added more pepper, others, like Fukaku, forgot to add the pepper.

“Now cook the pasta” they did this added the pasta in the water “this will last a few minutes since it’s fresh” when the pasta was done he instructed them to put it in the bowl of the eggs, pepper and pecorino “mix it and add some water from the pasta this will make it creamy and will cook the eggs” they follow the instructions and pour it in a nice plate “cut some parsley and add it with the guanciale”

Then it was turn for Ego and Anri.

“This looks… edible…” said Ego, actually surprised but his diamonds in the rough.

The first was Barou, it got a good grade but the pasta wasn’t smooth, then Aiku, the sauce wasn’t creamy, then Aryu which was almost perfect, later was Niko and Sendou’s turn and they did it perfect and lastly Fukaku who’s sauce was highly criticized. 

The other blue lock players were ok “what about the Italian players?” Asked Ego.

“They will be judged by me and their Italian ancestors…” said Snuffy, clearly disappointed, looking at his players.

“Alright… there’s a tie for first place between Sendou and Niko” they smiled “in third place is Aryu, fourth for Barou, fifth for Aiku and last for Fukaku” said Ego “thank you master Snuffy” he said with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“No, thank you… Jinpachi” he winked and the creator of Blue Lock left with Anri.

“I guess Fukaku, Barou and Aiku had to go back to their rooms wearing only this apron” said Lorenzo with a smirk.

“Forget it your fucking zombie. I’m fourth place”

“But you didn’t get in the top 3” said Lorenzo as multiple veins popped on his forehead and face “those are the rules”

Barou was so competitive that he did it just to shut Lorenzo up, he removed his clothes, put on the apron with pink hearts and ran to his room followed by Fukaku wearing a flowery apron and Aiku wearing an apron with red hearts AND flowers.

Ego in a mean move opened the cameras of the Italian block showing this to the world with a wicked smirk.

“Oh my gosh… this is why I pay for my internet!!🫦🫦”

“If that 🍑 comes from exercising like those dudes, then I will run to my local gym”

“I need more of this content”

“Is this a BL site?!”

Hiori, Yoichi, Yuki, Reo, Nagi, Karasu and Raichi smirked at the same time, because they will tease them for years to come. In fact Hiori screenshotted ALL the comments.

OOooOOooOO

I had so much fun with this one!! Hahaha, I hope you enjoyed it as well.

Now who should be next? Barcha or PXG? I still don’t have any idea what to do for them.

@blueballslock

[infinitegest]

When I got to campus, I expected one... maybe two pregnant girls. I have at least three in every class. Funny enough, they all know *you*.

By midterms I see a lot more girls waddling, and more and more women (and some boys?) flock around you.

What's your secret? And... God I can't believe I'm saying this...why do I want that, too?

*you sit down in front of my desk. i lean back in my plush chair, appraising you inscrutably. vaguely italian music plays from a bluetooth speaker in the corner.*

you come into my territory, nothing but a punk freshman with a hard-on, and want me to spill my trade secrets to you?

jk jk of course there’s room for you here. wanna know my secrets? i’ve got three:

1. be KIND

2. be COMMUNICATIVE

3. have a PHEREMONAL DISORDER

listen, i didn’t ask for this life. it’s just what the cards dealt me. but, tell you what, i’ll do you a solid: the boys down at the lab (by which i mean, my biochem major boyfriend and the twins he’s carrying) have been able to isolate the stuff my fucked-up glands produce, might be able to spin it into some kind of cologne for ya. it can be yours, no need to quibble over money, you’ll just owe me a favor.

i’ll have it dropped off at your dorm room in a week. welcome to the family. breed responsibly. don’t make me regret it.

[dilflover-4ever]

Someone Older 1

Josh Kiska x f!reader 

wc: 1.2k

Summary: Having a crush on your best friend's older brother is normal. It is just something about an older, “cool” teenager that appealed to you in your preteen years. Almost everyone experiences this, but is it still normal when he is 8 years older? Yes, your best friend, Sam,  was older than you but he was like a brother and something about Josh was so intoxicating. The crush didn’t leave when he left for college, he stayed in the back of your mind throughout all of those years. Hell he plagued your mind through your last years of highschool and first of college. So what are you supposed to do when he moves in with Sam near the college you and he attended.

Minors DNI!!!

Warnings: none for now :)

Also not all like timelines and ages match up, for instance, The twins and Sam are eight years apart rather than three making Sam your "age".

a/n: First chapter! just setting the scene and plot really. nothing interesting yet sorry. trust me it will get there. Lowk shit writing and editing but don’t let that deter you!

~~~~~~~

You walked out of your last class of the day, exhaling a deep sigh and relaxing your tense shoulders. You only had two classes but the lectures seemed never ending and you caught your head dropping multiple times throughout. On your walk to the parking lot you decided coffee was the perfect thing to perk you up. You and Sam decided living off campus was the better option. After a couple weeks of scouting out the perfect one, you chose one that allowed you both to have your own apartment but be down the hall from one another. Ultimately deciding against being roomies, there were just too many cons rather than pros. Starting your car you pull out your phone to locate the nearest Starbucks and connect to bluetooth, allowing Fleetwood Mac to emit from the speakers. Once you got there you texted Sam to see if he wanted anything figuring you would stop by his pace to say hi anyways.

You

Hey Im at starbucks, want me to pick you up anything?

His response came in right as you got in line.

Sammy

Yes pls! Can you get me a grande iced chai latte?

You hearted his answer as you neared the counter. After ordering you stood by the receiving station, waiting for your name. You opened instagram on your phone and waited for it to refresh your feed. As it finally loaded the first post immediately caught your eye. It was Sam's older brother Josh, he was posing with some friends in front of a beautiful sunset descending behind a canyon. He had captioned it, “great travels with great friends”. You instantly liked it and typed out a quick comment, “that sunset😍”. This was normal, growing up so close with Sam only made you like another member of his family. Over years you became close with everyone, and besides Sam, you were closest with Josh. While Sam, Jake, and Ronnie were like your extended family, Josh was more like a real friend. Well real friend that you had a real huge crush on.

You were torn when he left for college, you never knew if you would see him again, which was a little dramatic but you were a hormonal preteen. You didn’t know how your relationship with him would be when you saw him again. Yet every year without fail when the holidays came around, Josh and Jake would return home and Josh still remained as close to you as he could. You had always been jealous when he would bring girls around growing up. You compared them to yourself and in the end always remembered you would have a connection with him and they would only be there for a time period. In your later years of highschool and last year in your first year of college, you dreamt of pursuing him and confessing your feelings but always fought against it in fear of losing everything.

Your thoughts were cut off as your name was called, the drinks being placed down catching your eye. You muttered a ‘thanks’ and grabbed two straws, heading towards your car. Pulling into the complex, you parked next to Sam in your usual spot and gathered your things. You walked up the flight of stairs and while slightly out of breath, you entered your key to his apartment into the lock. You both had one copy of the other key just in case. You walked into no sight of Sam. Setting the two drinks and your bag down on the counter you called out his name softly not knowing what he was doing and not wanting to disturb him.

After looking through the small apartment you pulled out your phone to try and see his location, even after seeing his car out front. Before you could open your phone you saw movement on the balcony. After seeing it was Sam you made your way to the door with a bright smile. But before you could open the door you saw he held his phone to his ear with a serious look on his face. It was then that you decided waiting for him to finish his call was the best option. Taking a seat on the couch with both drinks waiting on the coffee table, you began to scroll socials, relaxing into the soft cushions. You kept a mental note to ask him where he purchased the piece of furniture.

It seemed like a whole day had passed before Sam opened the door when in reality it was only another ten minutes. He saw you snuggled up on his couch, looking up at him with tired eyes. He sat next to you and perked up at the sight of his beloved drink. “Oh thank you so much this is just what I need right now.” He said, leaning to take a sip. “Yeah it's no problem, is everything alright Sammy? You looked pretty stressed out there.” You questioned with a concerned look. He sighed loudly and pressed his body weight into the back of the couch with his eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah it’s nothing, don’t worry about me.” He tried to reassure you by opening his eyes to give a small sweet look. You didn’t buy it though, the advantage of growing up together, you knew his emotions and how his brain worked like the back of your hand. “C’mon Sammy I know it’s not nothing. You can tell me, what's bothering you?”

He readjusted, now facing you. “Well you know how Josh and Jake are trying to open that record store?” He started, you nod in response. “Well there's some technical issues and Jake has to continue another 6 months of his online business thingy before they can start it.” He finished. “Oh well that’s not so bad Sammy, why does it have you so down and tense.” You asked further, not really seeing how the continuation of Jake's course affected Sam. “It is because Josh already finished it and so now he has to wait. The thing with that is, they're looking to open up here, a little ways downtown. Josh decided he would come early and learn the area.” He put up quotations on that last part as he said it. You nodded but still had confusion littered across your face. He took that as a queue to give it to you straight after realizing you hadn’t caught on. “Mom offered for Josh to come live with me for the time being.” Realization hit you and your mouth formed an O shape.

Your mind started racing along with the rapid thumping of your heart. Josh? Living this close to you? For six months? You swear you could pass out at the thought of him being in your life constantly again. Maybe now you could pursue him and see if reciprocated. That moment you decided this was a good thing but you had to play it off as ‘no big deal’ to Sam who was clearly taking it wrongly. “Oh it's okay Sam I know you love him, it will be just like old times!” You attempted to cheer him up and rubbed his shoulder lovingly. He grumbled at that and reached for his drink. “When will he move in?” You asked. “Next week.” He mumbled around the straw.

After a couple hours you headed out and towards your own apartment. Now in the space of your own you could let your thoughts wander. All of them being about Josh obviously. How would you prepare to have him so present in your life again? You couldn't answer that question and sat down at your desk to finish a paper before tomorrow.

~~~

Currently working on chapter 2

[good-yin-mate]

short fluff fic for day 1 of Zen week!!!!

i'm not really much of a writer or tumblr user but i've been horribly hyperfixated on mysmes for the last few months and i need an out somehow :-))) will likely not do everyday either but will def try my best :3

Day 1 - music

The rain drums against the window, soft and rhythmic, filling the room with a steady hush. You’re curled up beside Zen on the couch, a blanket draped over you both, your phone sitting abandoned on the coffee table. The power went out an hour ago, leaving the apartment in a dim, candlelit glow. It was lucky that Zen had had the foresight to buy candles, at least—otherwise you’d be sitting here in total darkness.

“Well, this sucks,” you sigh, stretching your legs under the blanket. “Can’t charge my phone, there’s no TV… what are we supposed to do now?”

Zen hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to look at you. “You say that like you’re not sitting next to a world-class entertainer.”

You raise an eyebrow in return. “Am I about to get a private performance?”

“Tempting.” He grins, flashing that perfect, teasing smile. “But no. I was actually going to suggest music.”

He pulls out his phone, still almost fully charged, and untangles a pair of earphones from his pocket. “Here.” He offers you a bud before plugging the other into his own ear.

You blink at him. “You don’t have Bluetooth ones?”

“Do I look like I’m rich enough to own fancy earphones?” He scoffs. “Besides, this is more fun.”

They weren’t even that expensive anymore, you want to say, but instead you just press yourself into his side, drawn in by his warmth as he hits play. A soft, slow melody fills the silence—a love song, cheesy but heartfelt. You feel Zen relax beside you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, his other hand resting on his thigh, tapping lightly to the beat.

You turn your head to make a teasing remark about his music taste, only to find him already looking at you. The candlelight makes his crimson eyes softer, more vulnerable.

“…What?” you ask, voice quieter than before.

He smiles, something almost shy about it. “Nothing. Just—this is nice.”

You don’t reply, but just let your head lean against his shoulder as the song plays on. The power could stay out for as long as it wants. You wouldn’t mind.

[hughesapalooza]

ty !! @frasermittens and @synech-doche for tagging me !!

you just got a kind of shitty old car and it doesn’t have bluetooth. you can only buy 7 CDs and you can’t repeat an artist. what are you getting?

1. ruin - the amazing devil 2. no one is lost - stars 3. stick season (forever) - noah kahan 4. masterpiece theatre director's cut - marianas trench 5. disco elysium - sea power 6. melodrama - lorde 7. unlock - day6

honourable mentions aka the million other albums i thought about: boygenius - boygenius, only lovers left - woodz, dear wormwood - the oh hellos, hôtel de ville - scott helman, class of cardinal sin - covey, inhale / exhale - rüfüs du sol (ty poise !!), oh little fire - sarah harmer, the chaos chapter: fight or escape - tomorrow x together

tagging !! @scuderiacanucks, @leafcabbage, @pewpewshooter, @midnight-surgery, @playoffsides, @neoncat669, @tydell, @antrea, @onmytape, @melonkai & anyone else that wants to !!

[electronicbox]

Apple Beats Flex Wireless Earphones W1 Headphone Chip, Magnetic Earbuds, Class 1 Bluetooth, 12 Hours 

Magnetic earbuds with Auto-Play/Pause

Up to 12 hours of listening time

All-day comfort with Flex-Form cable and four eartip options

Powered by the Apple W1 headphone chip for seamless connectivity

Audio Sharing lets you wirelessly share audio with another pair of Beats headphones or AirPods

Class 1 Bluetooth for extended range and fewer dropouts

On-device controls for music, calls, and voice assistant

Built-in microphone with wind reduction for elevated voice clarity

Compatible with Apple and Android

What's in the box: Beats Flex wireless earphones, USB-C to USB-C charging cable (does not include power adapter), Eartips with four size options, Quick Start Guide, & Warranty card

[fairybinie]

KISS, DON’T TELL — 30: swear on us

synopsis: popular and menacingly wicked choi beomgyu has the entire senior class wrapped around his finger. the high school drama club has cherished y/n as their veteran for four years. to fulfill beomgyu’s graduation requirements, he must join y/n’s drama club despite his grudges. unbeknownst to everyone else, y/n and beomgyu have their history. they’ve kissed before (or more like y/n has bitten his lip to bleed) and beomgyu hasn’t lived it down ever since. y/n cannot stand this guy. they can make it through the entire year as the leads in their play, right?

taglist (closed): @iyeonjuni @odxrilove @iuwon @ijhyo @cherr-y-eji @ameliesaysshoo @enhacolor @cherrybeomgyu @wccycc @hyukabean @strawberri-uyu @hyuntaena @feyregels @boba-beom @luvnhwa @jmin-s @ashxxgyu @bibinnieposts @laylasbunbunny @robinsluva @shiguresohmas @h00nerz @beomsbeanie @stepout-09-15 @ox1-lovesick @soobsdior @ifwtyun @peachy-yabbay @sunlightwoo @ttyunz @rikijackson04 @miyawwn @aintgeluh @baekhyunstruly @wxderingthoughts @moontyuns @soobpricity @hyeinszn @txtbrainrot @phenomenalgirl9 @fatoompie @stellz581 @bluebearybeom @extriella @1-800-ryujin @galaxyhalloes @tae-ology @dekusgirl @xavi-in-kpopland @run2seob @obeymeharemowner @bailies-me @aestheticsluut

send an ask to be apart of the taglist!

prev / masterlist / next

a/n: smau + written (1.8k). profanity, alcohol/drinking, grieving/loss, vomit/throwing up, kissing/blood. time has come to let y’all in on what happened 🫣

four years ago.

a house music playlist blares through several bluetooth devices to create one sonic sound. though, it all starts to become faint and tuned out the more y/n downs different kinds of alcohol.

the school year was officially about to finish in one week. y/n was getting their start in the school’s drama club, it was too bad that they couldn’t enjoy it. they were still grieving over the loss of their father and they were barely themselves. acting made them happy, but it reminded them too much of their father. they needed an escape, even if it was just for the night.

thankfully, y/n’s newly made friend, soobin, invited them to choi beomgyu’s party. y/n liked soobin, he seemed like a keeper and clearly he was already looking out for their best interest. apparently, beomgyu was throwing this party as a congratulations to all freshmen for completing their first year of high school. this was the distraction y/n needed.

y/n wasn’t intending on drinking, but they figured it would make the forgetful sensation they were desperate for stronger. that’s what they were tonight, desperate. they’ve never sipped alcohol in their entire life and it clearly showed. everyone here seemed so experienced, like they knew what drinks to blend, how to chug it down, even shared laughs after. y/n could feel the effect in their bloodstream now and it was getting to their head, they could barely keep a grip on the floor. it’s too bad soobin was out of sight too. they needed to get out of here.

fuck, such a lightweight.

y/n finds themselves skipping a few steps up the stairs, holding onto the rail for dear life. an invisible force pushes them into the nearest room and they fight back the urge to burp, because they definitely knew what would come after that.

they regain their composure (at least momentarily) enough to catch a glimpse of the room. an acoustic guitar is in its stand in the corner. there are some band posters scattered on the walls and it captures the beige/brown theme quite well. a few loose papers lay on the nightstand placed next to the bed, they appear to be music sheets. a niche teddy bear sits comfortably on the mattress and y/n can’t help but test to see how soft it is by sitting on the edge. it is quite soft.

this is beomgyu’s room, genius.

y/n notices his closet near the farthest right and their curiosity gets the better of them. this wouldn’t be trespassing, right? they were already in his room. plus, this is a drunk person he would be dealing with. harmless.

y/n’s fingers run through each fabric once they’re fully inside, this was one of those walk in closets. a bunch of plaid, pullovers, graphic t-shirts. beomgyu’s style was pretty simple, which defeats what their impression was prior. they assumed he’d be rocking expensive clothing due to his popularity.

a shirt hangs loose and eventually falls off the hanger before y/n’s hands instinctively reach out to catch it from falling. it feels soft and smells like fresh laundry, lavender even. seems like beomgyu knows how to do his loads right. they bring the piece of clothing closer to their face, closing their eyes in the process.

there’s no way y/n is about to sniff his clothes. they need to sober up now.

“you wanna keep it?”

y/n freezes in their place and throws the shirt back, as if that made it any less obvious. they face back with red, widened eyes. their hand covers their mouth in a fist, partially to avoid saying anything stupid, but also in fear that if they open their mouth anything but words will come oozing out.

choi beomgyu was right here, in front of their own eyes, and they were anything but sober. how can they get out of this?

“it’s okay, you wouldn’t be the first,” beomgyu says with a sly smile. he enters the closet, leaving the door open surprisingly.

not a total douche.

“what’s your name?” he asks leaning against the doorframe of the closet. damn that’s really attractive.

“y/n,” they respond, but it comes out as a mix of a burp and cough. they didn’t think that could be humanly possible.

beomgyu chuckles hearing this as he rubs his chin with his right hand. his eyes squint in amusement, but also slight lust.

maybe slightly a douche.

“mmm, i think i’ve seen you in theatre before,” beomgyu recalls but it doesn’t sound too convincing. “you enjoying the party?”

“yeah i’m just-“

“tipsy much?” beomgyu finishes with a chuckle and raised eyebrows.

y/n remains still in defeat. they stutter incomprehensible words before taking a small breath. “i’m just um- i was looking for a friend.”

“well, you’re in good hands,” beomgyu assures taking a few steps closer to y/n. their heart races a bit faster seeing this.

“you didn’t answer my question though.”

“oh!” y/n clears their throat in embarrassment as they look to both sides. “y-yeah it’s cool. i needed a distraction.”

beomgyu hums as a simple smile takes over, taking more steps in the process. they’re inches away at this point, and though they’re insanely out of it, y/n knows what comes next. they should back away, sprint for it, but they don’t. they’re stuck, but they’re also intrigued. they’ve never kissed anyone before.

and this is the choi beomgyu.

“hmm, i know the perfect distraction then,” he says as he rests his free hand on y/n’s cheek, pulling them closer to him.

y/n stares back with the biggest doe eyes, to which beomgyu finds adorable. he glances down to their lips which doesn’t help with y/n’s nerves.

“you’re so cute,” beomgyu compliments when he sees how close they are to kissing him.

“so are you!” y/n blurts out. they’re definitely feeling the drunk effects again.

y/n barely has time to register what’s going on because pretty soon their lips crash on each other’s. the sudden touch throws y/n out of orbit and it’s like they’re in a void. they can’t even process how beomgyu’s lips feel or the fact that this is literally their first kiss. they don’t know what to do with their hands, so they’re just up in the air to their sides. do they reek of alcohol? is it turning beomgyu off?

their dad would’ve known what to do, he knows how men think. now that’s all y/n could think of and it burdens them even more.

pain, just pain. everything was painful. everything hurt. it all hurts-

“ouch!”

the sudden yelp brings y/n to the present at the sight of beomgyu stepping back, holding his lips with his fingers.

hold on, was he bleeding? did they seriously just make him bleed? y/n was worse than they thought.

“jesus, you have some strong teeth,” beomgyu comments while he wipes away the blood rushing out of the newly formed cut on his lip.

“i’m- i’m sorry,” y/n rushes to say, unsure if they should reach out to console him.

this turn of events and worry begins to feel overstimulating for y/n, and black dots appear everywhere in their vision. the room starts to feel dizzy, they can’t keep balance anymore. y/n’s stomach starts to feel queasy. all that alcohol was certainly catching up to them. their fist reappears to cover their mouth to prevent them from speaking any more word vomit.

only…..it’s just vomit.

y/n gathers their senses and rushes over to the bathroom in beomgyu’s room, kneels down over the toilet and watches all hell break loose. their food, alcohol, and emotions have no trouble escaping from the back of their throat.

they don’t know how much time has passed, but the massive headache that just formed after this barf fest is seriously no joke. all y/n can think about is what just happened, and how much of a pain in the ass this is going to be the next day. they can’t afford that.

y/n remains in their position and soon feels a pair of hands comfort their shoulders. at first, they thought it was beomgyu, but they can feel how huge they are. finally, soobin is here.

“jeez, i’ve been looking for you everywhere,” soobin admits in harmless annoyance. “no more drinking for you, what were you doing in beomgyu’s room-“

and with those words, y/n’s throat gurgles once again and the cycle repeats. soobin winces due to the no warning, but just pats their back in support.

y/n couldn’t tell him, y/n couldn’t tell anyone.

they sure as hell was gonna face beomgyu the next day to preface this to him.

…

“manage to sober up?” beomgyu teasingly questions as y/n shoves him to the nearest classroom. the two are alone.

“seriously, are you good?” y/n asks with frustration. one look at twitter this morning and apparently beomgyu was in the ER.

surely that wasn’t their doing, right?

“relax, i’m fine,” beomgyu scoffs. “i was there for my brother, he’s fine too. you didn’t leave an effect on me that much.”

y/n rolls their eyes back, which certainly didn’t help the hangover they were experiencing.

“beomgyu, i’m being serious,” y/n repeats with caution and a sternness to their tone. “you can’t tell anyone about what happened last night.”

“but why….” beomgyu retaliates in a cute tone while sticking out his bottom lip in a sad face. he points to the swollen cut. “i’m sure everyone would love to hear about-“

“beomgyu, i’m being so fucking serious with you just please!”

y/n releases their frustration that they’ve been storing since talking to this guy for the past ten minutes. it’s been so unsuccessful that they had to drag him in here to be alone.

tears begin to well up in y/n’s eyes and they don’t even bother wiping them away to stop. they hate how emotional they can be when they get upset.

“i’ve- i’ve been dealing with a lot and i don’t need everyone in this school to find out i’m a lightweight who can’t even kiss right,” y/n admits with honesty, their words coming out a bit shaky. “you can tease me all you want in private, but please. i can’t have my high school experience ruined because of this.”

beomgyu lets y/n finish and his expression softens with every word. he wasn’t expecting them to cry, frankly, he’s never made anyone cry (not that he knows of at least). he was annoying, but did he seriously want to be a prick?

“just….please,” y/n begs with a sob one last time.

beomgyu watches them as y/n gazes down to the floor, embarrassed enough to avoid making eye contact. it would be a lie to say he didn’t feel bad.

“okay, fine,” he concludes in agreement, his voice is low. “it’ll be just between you and me.”

please do not translate, modify or repost on other platforms.

© fairybinie

[im-real-sorry-frank]

another fun game tysm @tinglingfuckingsensation for the tag <3

Prompt: You just got a kind of shitty old car and it doesn't have Bluetooth. You can only buy 7 CD’s and you can't repeat an artist. What are you getting?

actually perfect timing bc I just put together a bunch of my favourite records for my bestie to listen to on a road trip so here we go!

1. let it bleed - the rolling stones

2. different class - pulp

3. time for heroes - the libertines

4. imaginal disk - magdalena bay

5. blood on the tracks - bob dylan

6. exile on coldharbour lane - alabama 3

7. I try - macy gray

yes I have the music taste of a 50 year old man yes I think compilations count do NOT @ me

tagging @luckyreds @moderngirlbleachers @kazanskied no pressure ofc 🙂‍↕️

[anotherwvba]

Finding Your Place, pt. 1

The skylights let the mid-morning sun flood the WVBA Academy Gym. It was a typical Wednesday. Von Kaiser’s intermediate class was working in a couple of the rings under his stern and watchful gaze. 

Glass Joe and Disco Kid were sparring in another ring, Joe helping Disco on his form while Disco worked with Joe on reading his opponents quicker. 

And the loud thumps coming from heavy bags was King Hippo as he was getting ready for his title defense against Piston Hondo that was coming up.

But, no doubt the loudest and most attention drawing workout in the room was Luna Doll. She was in her element. Working the double-ended bag, she was dancing around, light on her feet, punching and dodging. Honing her skills, getting ready for her fight with Razor Sharp next week, wasn’t what attracted attention, though. No, that had more to do with her phone mounted on a nearby tripod.

“Now, Luna-tics, you know I ain’t sleepin’ on Baby Sands.” Luna was bobbing and weaving, the bluetooth mic clipped to her pink sports bra catching her every word. She was live streaming her workout, punching with precision, moving with grace, and talking with sass.

Her fans, her Luna-tics, were out in full force in the chat. Of course, she couldn’t see the chat while she was working the bag. But, she knew they were there, hanging on her every word, cheering her on as she trained for her biggest fight to date.

Luna snapped out a sharp jab, then slipped the bag when it sprang back at her, “Razor Sharp’s got that Sandman blood in her. Her old man’s a legend, Mister Sandman himself. That don’t mean she gets a pass, though.” A quick one-two shot the bag back and she danced to the right, popping off another jab, “Nah, fam! Just means she gets the whole #Hitmaker experience!”

They were brash words, but Luna couldn’t help herself. There was just something about talking trash during a stream and during a workout that got her amped, especially when she knew her fans were eating it up. Gliding back, Luna effortlessly slipped the bag as it rebounded, catching it with a clean right hook as she did.

“See that? See that?” Luna bobbed and weaved, then popped off a series of jabs as she danced around the bag, each one landing with a quick pop. “Lunatics, I’m stoked for this! No doubt, Baby Sands has got the size and the power and the experience, so we gonna lose some HP on this one.”

From the corner of her eye, Luna caught the gym doors opening. Niki Binary, decked out in a WVBA polo shirt and black slacks, lanyard around her neck, had walked in, scanning the gym with a purposeful gaze. Clearly, she was looking for someone.

Luna’s grin widened. “But, you know me, stay ready ain’t gotta get ready.” Popping off a few punches, slipping and dodging, Luna then caught the bag with her gloves and brought it to a stop before looking into the camera lens on her phone.

“No disrespect, Razor. I ain’t expecting to speedrun you or nothin’.” Luna pulled one of her gloves off, “But, you best not expect a ‘Flawless Victory’, either. I’m watchin’ your fights, workin’ hard, and come fight night, I’mma read like an old school strat guide. Straight GameFAQ’s, bay-bee!”

Niki was now standing behind the phone, trying not to laugh. Luna tossed her a wink as she finished up, “Alright, fam, I’ve got to go. Remember to like, share, subscribe, all that cool stuff. And, don’t forget the charity giveaway. Donate to Make-A-Wish using the link on the channel homepage and for every five dollars you donate, you get entered in a drawing to win my fight gloves from my debut against Razor Sharp a week from Saturday. Aight, Lunatics! We got Sonic 2 tonight. Until then, Luna, out!”

With a quick tap on her phone screen, Luna turned off the stream and turned her attention to Niki, her demeanor shifting from dynamic streamer to, somewhat, humble rookie boxer.

“Yo, Binary,” Luna smiled, then quickly corrected herself when Niki tapped her badge on her lanyard, “Sorry, sorry. Yo Nicole, what’s up? Forgot, Niki in the ring, Nicole on the clock. Sorry.”

“No worries,” Nicole smiled as Luna pulled off her other glove and started breaking down her streaming set-up. “Streaming your training, I see. Between the sneak preview you're giving away and the mad trash you’re dishing out, I think you might have a rough night with Razor.”

Luna looked up as she collapsed her tripod, “Oh, I’m counting on it. Look, Razor can get film on me as easy as I can on her. Plus, we both train here. Not worried about the preview.” Standing up, Luna stuffed the tripod in its bag, “Now, me puttin’ the mouth on her? Yeah, I thought about that. I figure she’s gonna try and knock my head off either way, so I might as well be entertaining.”

“Guess that’s one way to think about it,” Nicole just shook her head in disbelief. “Have you always streamed your training?”

“Oh yeah,” Luna's face lit up as she talked about her streams. “From when I was getting set for my first influencer fight. My first punch, my first spar, all of it. And every time I struggled, every time I broke down and cried, my viewers were there for me. They’ve had my six the whole time. They’re my ride or die. Keeps me motivated, and maybe I motivate them a little. I like to think I do anyways.”

Nicole smiled and nodded as a single word crossed her mind. Sessatakuma. She understood Luna’s feelings all too well.

Luna finished zipping her bag, “But, I know you didn’t come here just to watch me stream live and in person. What’s up? Here for me?”

“Yeah,” Nicole pulled out her work phone. “Just needed to follow-up on the work we did to your apartment wi-fi. How’s it looking now? No dropped frames?”

“Not. A. One!” Luna’s eyes shined with excitement. “No lags. No drops. Just pure, uninterrupted gaming. Tried it out last night on an old school Contra stream. Crushed it, b-t-dubs! You’re a lifesaver, Nicole.”

“Just doing my job,” Nicole tapped away at her phone, a look of professional pride on her face. “Let me just close this ticket out and…”

“Entschuldigung.” A deep voice spoke with gentle authority, interrupting the two boxers.

Slightly startled, both turned to see Coach Von Kaiser approaching, a light sweat built up from teaching his intermediate class. His German accent was unmistakable. “My apologies if I am interrupting, ladies.”

At that moment, it became apparent Luna was a little starstruck. “I, um, I don’t think we’ve been introduced properly.” Extending her hand, Luna bowed slightly, “Jia Park. I box under my screen name, Luna Doll. It’s an honor, sir.”

“Please, fr��ulein,” Von Kaiser returned the gesture as he shook her hand, “there is no need to be so formal. I’m simply a coach.”

Luna’s face shot up in disbelief, her voice louder than she intended. “Simply a coach?! You’re Viktor Von FREAKIN’ Kaiser! The German Steel Machine! Three-time Minor Circuit Champ! I’ve studied your title match trilogy with Piston Hurricane and, dude, epic is, like, too small a word.”

Nicole stood by, fighting back a laugh. She understood Luna’s fangirling entirely, but she also knew how uncomfortable it made her coach, especially with eyes from all over the gym, most of them agreeing with Luna, suddenly on him. Still, every once and a while, it was good for her mentor to get his flowers.

Before Von Kaiser could get any more embarrassed, Nicole finally saved him. “So, Coach, what can we help you with?”

“Ja… yes… um,” Von Kaiser quickly tried to gather his thoughts. “Wenig Stahl, I’ll be heading back to Munich for a few days, perhaps a week. I have business at the gym to address.”

“But,” Nicole looked confused for a moment, “I thought Vicky was holding things down while you were here.”

Luna, trying not to eavesdrop, finished packing her gear as Von Kaiser responded. “True, but Viktoria just turned 28 and she is eager to resume her in-ring career. She has a candidate to run the gym day-to-day and would like me to speak with him.”

“Seems fair,” Nicole nodded. “It’s exciting that Vicky’s looking to get back in the ring. She’s a beast! Can’t wait to see her pick up where she left off.”

“Actually,” Von Kaiser scratched his head for a moment, “I was hoping you would join me on the trip. I think a change of scenery and an opportunity to train with new people would be very good for you. And Viktoria would not forgive me if I didn’t ask.”

Nicole’s eyes went wide and her hands shot to her mouth to stifle a squeal. “You want me to go with you, to the Steel Heart Academy, to train. Seriously? Like, you’re serious right now?”

Coach Von Kaiser’s expression hardened slightly, “Ja. When have you known me to not be serious?”

“HA!”

Von Kaiser and Nicole both shot their gazes down at Luna.

“Sorry…” Luna’s gaze went down and she slowly zipped her bag.

“Okay, um,” Nicole’s mind was racing. “Yeah, of course! When do we leave?”

“Gut!” Von Kaiser clapped his hands together, “We leave tomorrow evening. I’ll meet you in the front lobby at 6 and we’ll head to the airport.”

Nicole nodded as she started tapping away on her phone, “Sounds good! I’ll get things straight with my boss in I.T. and see about using some of my vacation time.”

With a fatherly pat on the shoulder, Von Kaiser went back to his class. While Nicole swiped from one app to another, Luna shot back to a standing position, “Girl, you are getting to train at Steel Heart in Munich? With Viktoria Von Kaiser? As in the former Women’s European Super Lightweight Champ? I’m so jealous!”

“I know, right?” Nicole was almost trembling with excitement, “Vicky’s like a big sister to me. She helped me so much when I started taking boxing lessons from her dad. But, I’ve never been to their gym. This is… man! Look, I’ve gotta get to I.T. and make sure Eddie is good with me taking a week off.”

Nicole started out of the gym, turning and walking backwards, “Let me know if you have any more trouble with the wi-fi!”

“You got it, girl! Have fun! Be safe!” Luna shouted after her as Nicole made her way out of the gym. Luna tossed her bag over her shoulder, her own thoughts racing now. Man, it would be so rude. But, I might never…

With that, Luna took out her phone, tapping out a quick text. After all, she had to try.

Viktoria "Vicky" Von Kaiser is an OC belonging to @maks-punchout-hyperfixtion and is used with permission.

[digitaldetoxworld]

Best Smart LCD TVs in India for Home Entertainment 2025

 Television has evolved dramatically inside the beyond  a long time—from bulky containers to sleek, wall-installed displays. Among the numerous technologies to be had today, LCD (Liquid Crystal Display) televisions still hold a enormous percentage of the market due to their affordability, electricity performance, and excellent visuals. Whether you're upgrading your antique TV or buying your first clever tv, knowing what to search for inside the nice LCD tv can prevent time, cash, and frustration.

Best television lcd india

What Is an LCD Television?

LCD stands for Liquid Crystal Display. This era makes use of liquid crystals and a backlight to supply snap shots. Unlike OLED TVs, which mild up character pixels, LCD TVs use a separate mild source—normally LED backlights—behind the screen. This design makes LCDs exceptionally strength-efficient and finances-pleasant, at the same time as nonetheless turning in outstanding photo first-class.

Advantages of LCD TVs:

Affordable as compared to OLED and QLED counterparts

Longer lifespan

Lower power intake

Bright show, even in properly-lit rooms

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Not all LCDs are created identical. The exceptional ones offer a really perfect stability of image first-class, smart capabilities, and connectivity. 

1. Screen Resolution

Full HD (1080p): Adequate for small to medium-sized screens (32-43 inches).

4K Ultra HD (2160p): Standard for most TVs today, gives four times the decision of Full HD.

8K: Extremely excessive decision, however pricey and restricted content availability.

Tip: For TVs 50 inches and above, 4K is right for sharp and distinct images.

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Choose screen size based on viewing distance. Here’s a simple manual:

50–fifty five inches: Ideal for common-sized residing rooms.

Sixty five inches and above: Great for domestic theaters or big halls.

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Measured in Hz (Hertz), this is how frequently the photograph refreshes in line with 2d.

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HDR improves assessment and shade accuracy. 

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Make certain the TV has:

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Here’s a listing of some leading manufacturers known for delivering wonderful LCD televisions:

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Best select: Samsung TU8000 Series

Sizes: forty three" to seventy five"

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Sony TVs supply super photo great, even of their LCD fashions. The logo uses X-Reality PRO and TRILUMINOS shows for brilliant coloration and detail.

Best choose: Sony X80K 4K UHD

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three. LG

While recognised for OLED, LG also produces terrific LCD TVs underneath their NanoCell line. These use nanoparticles to refine colorations.

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Best select: TCL five-Series 4K QLED (makes use of LCD base panel with quantum dots)

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Best choose: Hisense U6H Series

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Comparison Table: Top LCD TVs in 2025

Brand Model Screen Size Resolution Smart OS HDR Support Approx. Price (INR)

Sony X80K fifty five" 4K UHD Android TV Dolby Vision ₹60,000–₹75,000

LG Nano75 fifty five" 4K UHD WebOS HDR10, HLG ₹50,000–₹65,000

TCL 5-Series 50" 4K UHD Google TV HDR10+ ₹35,000–₹50,000

Hisense U6H fifty five" 4K UHD Android TV Dolby Vision ₹38,000–₹55,000

Note: Prices range based on deals and availability.

Tips for Buying the Best LCD TV

Decide the Purpose – Gaming, films, sports activities, or casual use? Choose a TV with features consequently.

Avoid Overspending on Unused Features – Don’t pay greater for features you gained’t use like 8K resolution if maximum of your content is 1080p.

Check Panel Type – IPS panels offer better viewing angles, even as VA panels deliver deeper blacks.

Look for Warranty and After-Sales Service – A accurate brand ensures timely provider and support.

Use Price Comparisons & Reviews – Check sites like Flipkart, Amazon, or Croma for client evaluations and ongoing deals.