#This is just me trying out dramatic lighting...

[natsaffection]

Not like the stories. | N.R

BasketballPlayer!Natasha x Cheerleader!Reader

Everyone says Natasha Romanoff is a heartbreaker, cold, careless, and dangerous. A player who leaves a trail of broken girls behind her and never looks back. But when she catches your eye across a crowded place and starts to unravel everything you thought you knew, you realize the stories might not be the full truth. Because beneath the reputation and the swagger is someone quieter. Softer. Someone who sees you in a way no one else ever has, and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Warnings: girls being sexualized, none for now

Word count: 2,7k

A/n: First off..!- I don’t even know how many parts there will be. 🍾 But, I like the chemistry…feels oddly familiar.

It was too early in the school year for everything to already feel so loud.

The cafeteria was packed, students flooding the long tables like they hadn’t seen each other in decades instead of just three months. Back-to-school energy vibrated through the walls, locker doors slamming, trays clattering, laughter bubbling from every direction. It was all background noise, really, but to you, it might as well have been static. Your focus was drifting..Again.

“…and Coach said if we don’t hit the new formation by Friday, we’re running suicides until our thighs fall off..” Lexie was saying, twirling her smoothie straw with a dramatic sigh.

You sat at the edge of the cheer table, chin propped on your hand, trying to listen. You really were. But your mind kept pulling you elsewhere, like a stubborn tide.

“I think it’s cute when our thighs fall off.” another girl, Jessie giggled, nudging Lexie. “Mine are finally getting somewhere.”

“Ugh!” Lexie rolled her eyes. “You don’t count. Your body’s already perfect. Right, you? Back me up.”

You hummed vaguely in agreement, your eyes drifting, again, across the cafeteria. You didn’t mean to look. You told yourself you were just spacing out. Just observing. That it was muscle memory, nothing intentional. But there she was.

Natasha Romanoff.

Like gravity, she pulled focus. Your gaze settled on her automatically. She was surrounded, as usual, her basketball teammates crowding around their end of the room, the unofficial royal court of the school’s social hierarchy. Even sitting still, Natasha looked like she was mid-motion. Like she was seconds away from doing something sharp and beautiful and impossible. Her posture was casual but loose-limbed with strength, one leg slung over the other, fingers spinning a pen between them like it was part of her.

The coppery sheen of her hair glinted under the overhead lights, pulled back into one of those effortlessly messy buns that looked like it took two seconds and somehow made her look hotter than half the girls in school who tried for hours. Her face was unreadable, cool, composed, only breaking into smirks when someone cracked a joke. But even then, there was something distant about it. Something guarded.

God, she was…something. You didn’t have words for it. You never had. You’d noticed Natasha before, obviously. Everyone had. You couldn’t not. It wasn’t just the way she played ball, though that was impressive enough. It was the way she moved through the world like nothing and no one could touch her. Always five steps ahead, like she already knew what you were going to say, what you wanted from her.

And yeah…people wanted.

Girls in every hallway cornered her with nervous smiles and flirtatious eyes. Some bold. Some shy. Some daring to hope they’d be the one to get through whatever armor Natasha wore like second skin. And for a minute? Sometimes they did. They’d hold her attention long enough to think they mattered.

Until they didn’t. Because that was the thing about her, she never stayed. You had heard the stories. Everyone had. You’d seen the aftermath. There were always whispers. Always rumors. Never confirmations. Natasha didn’t explain herself. She didn’t need to.

And yet, still…girls kept falling. Like moths to flame, even knowing they’d burn. You weren’t like them. You weren’t. Except… your eyes were still on her.

Something twisted in your chest, part ache, part irritation. Because you knew. You knew the truth about Natasha. You knew she was reckless with people’s hearts. You knew she didn’t do relationships, or feelings, or slow Sunday mornings. Natasha was fast and wild and dangerous.

So why were you still looking? And why..why was Natasha suddenly looking back? Your eyes met across the room. It was fleeting. Barely a moment. But in that half-second, Natasha’s stare settled like a spark in your lungs. Like she’d been expecting you to look all along.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Hell no.” Lexie muttered beside you, voice low and sharp, snapping you back to the moment. “Don’t even think about it.”

You blinked, guilt rushing to your face like a slap. “I, what?”

“You were staring. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“I wasn’t-��

“Please.” Lexie leaned in, serious now. Her usual teasing tone gone. “Look. I love you. But you’re not getting caught in the Romanoff tornado. No way.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard. “I’m not caught in anything.”

Lexie gave you a look, one of those older-sister, you’re-fooling-yourself stares. “She’ll eat you alive.” she said flatly. “She does it to everyone. She reels you in, makes you feel seen, makes you feel like you’re the one. And then she leaves. Always.”

You stayed quiet andLexie sighed. “She’s not the girl who holds your hand at parties. Or slow dances in the gym. She’s the girl who kisses you in the locker room and forgets your name by the weekend.”

You wanted to argue. You really did. But the words wouldn’t come. Because maybe Lexie was right. Maybe she knew better. Maybe it was obvious, from the outside, that Natasha Romanoff was the last kind of person you should want..

The rest of the school day crawled by in fragments. You barely remembered what was said in your last two classes, something about essay deadlines, something about group projects. None of it stuck. Your head was full of glitter, choreography counts, and Natasha Romanoff’s eyes. That half-second in the cafeteria had rewired something in your brain, and no amount of blinking could undo it.

By the time the final bell rang, the school practically exploded into motion. Students rushed to lockers, pulling out face paint, noise sticks, jerseys. Someone blasted music from a speaker they weren’t supposed to have, and no one told them to stop. The energy was buzzing, tonight was the first home game of the season, and people were treating it like a national holiday.

You changed in the locker room with the rest of the squad, tying your laces tight and fixing your hair twice. You didn’t ask yourself why you cared so much about how you looked tonight. You already knew..

Bass thumped from the speakers high above the bleachers, the music shaking the court like thunder. Students jumped and screamed in their school colors, stomping in sync until the whole gym felt alive. Lights flashed in bursts. Smoke machines puffed clouds from the corners of the court, catching in the spotlights. The cheerleaders had already done their pre-game tunnel formation, lining the entrance with pom-poms and cheers, but now the real show was about to begin.

The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker:

“Aaaand now..yoooour Blackridge Panthers!!”

The crowd exploded. From the locker room tunnel, Natasha sprinted out first, her teammates charging behind her like a wave. She leapt into the air and landed hard, sneakers squealing against the court, pumping her fist into the air. The crowd roared louder. This was her world. Her element. The place where she didn’t have to be anyone but herself.

She high-fived Steve, bumped shoulders with Maria, spun the ball on her finger, all while grinning like fire was in her veins. This wasn’t about reputation or rumors or girls whispering in hallways. This was about winning. About playing.

From the sidelines, you watched, heart hammering at the sheer presence of her. There was no denying it: Natasha on the court was…different. Wild, electric, herself in a way you hadn’t seen anywhere else. Not in the cafeteria, not in the halls. This wasn’t the smooth-talking, rule-breaking girl people warned you about. This was someone else, someone with fire in her blood and nothing to prove to anyone but herself.

The buzzer blared. Tipoff.

From the start, Natasha was locked in. She called every switch, read every screen before it even formed, passed with precision, and drove to the basket like the ball belonged to her. The game was fast, physical. Shouts echoed. Sneakers scraped. Bodies slammed. But Natasha didn’t blink.

She was in it, and then, the whistle. Timeout. Second quarter. The Panthers were up, but barely.

Natasha jogged to the bench, grabbing a towel, slick with sweat. Her chest heaved as the coach pulled them into a tight circle. His voice barked sharp commands over the chaos, drawing on the whiteboard with furious speed. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, forcing herself to stay locked in. She needed to listen. Every point counted. Every second mattered.

And then..The music changed. The cheerleaders ran onto the court, forming their intermission line. The crowd cheered. And somewhere in all the movement, Natasha’s eyes lifted, just for a second-And there you were.

Dancing in the front, your smile wide, eyes glittering under the lights, hair catching in the spinning glow of the gym. You were flipping, turning, nailing every count, and Natasha watched like she couldn’t not. Her chest tightened. She tried to look away. She really did, but it was like trying to breathe underwater.

You looked so damn happy out there. So alive. It made something deep inside Natasha ache, made her forget the sweat on her forehead, the ache in her arms, the pressure in the room. She forgot the play-

A hard slap landed on the back of her head. She turned, and saw Steve giving her a pointed look. “Eyes here, Nat.” he said under his breath, nudging her with his elbow.

Natasha exhaled through her nose, forcing her head back down. “Thanks.” she murmured, almost embarrassed. He nodded once and looked back at the coach.

Natasha scrubbed her towel over her face and tried to clear her head. Focus. This was the game. She couldn’t afford to get caught up in…whatever this was.

But as the cheerleaders finished their routine and the crowd roared again, she knew the damage was done..You had already gotten under her skin. And the worst part? Natasha didn’t even want you out.

The second half was war. The gym was an open flame, crowd screaming, shoes squeaking, bodies crashing, whistles blaring, but inside the chaos, Natasha was still.

Focused and locked in. The visiting team had found their rhythm, and the Panthers were barely holding on. Every basket was answered, every steal returned. It wasn’t just physical now, it was personal. Natasha could feel it in her bones. The sting of every missed shot, the roar of every cheer that wasn’t for them.

Her jersey clung to her skin, soaked in sweat, ponytail damp at the back of her neck. Her thighs ached from pushing harder, her lungs burned. But she didn’t care. This was hers. This was what she lived for.

Final timeout. Tie game. Seconds left on the clock. The coach barked out the last play, sweat dotting his brow as he pointed at the diagram. Steve would pass to Maya. Maya would fake left, swing back right. Natasha would be open at the arc.

It was risky. But Natasha was already nodding. She stood up, bouncing on her toes, chest heaving.

“Let’s finish this.” she said, voice low but steady. The whistle blew. The ball was back in play.

Five seconds.

Natasha moved like instinct, sharp and cutting. She darted to the top of the key, hands out. Maya passed clean. The ball slapped into her palms.

Four seconds.

A defender lunged, Natasha pivoted, stepped back behind the line.

Three.

She breathed in.

Two.

She jumped, and the ball left her hands. You felt your heart freeze the second the ball left Natasha’s hands. The air had gone still. The sound had vanished.

When it hit, when the net snapped, your scream joined the others before you could stop it. You jumped, yelled, clapped, louder than you meant to, your voice lost in the storm. But your eyes never left Natasha. Not for a second.

The gym exploded right after you. Screams shot through the air like fireworks, the bleachers shook with pounding feet, and suddenly Natasha was swarmed. Her teammates tackled her from all sides, Maria yelling in her ear, Steve throwing an arm around her neck, someone lifting her off the floor. And then, through the chaos, through the wild, tangled joy..Natasha looked at you.

Your eyes met like a wire pulled tight. Your breath caught. Your smile faded, just a little. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. But Natasha, just as quickly..looked away. Like it burned.

The locker room was humid with sweat, cologne, and the sharp sting of victory. Everyone was still riding the high of the win, talking loud, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Jerseys were half-pulled off, towels hung low around waists, and someone had turned up a speaker in the corner playing some bass-heavy track that rattled the benches.

Natasha sat at the end of the row, one foot propped up on the bench, her head bowed as she slowly unwrapped her wrist tape. Her pulse was only just coming down. The buzz of adrenaline still hummed in her fingertips, the taste of the last shot still lingering in the back of her throat. Around her, the team was loud, looser now. The game was over. The bravado was back.

“Yo.” one of the forwards, Matt called across the locker room. “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who saw the blonde in the front row of the cheer line. The one with the white bow?”

“Dude..” another laughed, “everyone saw her. Those shorts should be illegal.”

Natasha didn’t react. Not yet, but then came the shift. “What about Romanoff’s girl, though?”

That name. That tone..She didn’t look up, but her jaw twitched.

“You mean Y/n?” Matt grinned. A few heads turned. Smirks spread. “She’d let you do anything.” He made a slow, lewd gesture with his hips, subtle but unmistakable, like it wasn’t the first time they’d joked like this. One hand against the locker, the other at his waistband. More laughter.

“Come on, Romanoff. You’ve got the in. She wants it.”

“You could fold her in half and she’d say thank you..” Matt added with a low laugh, voice husky from the game. “Hell, I would.”

That was it. Natasha’s head snapped up. The look in her eyes stopped three people mid-breath. The laughter died out in patches. Not from fear. From confusion. She hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to. Her stare was enough.

One hand landed gently on her shoulder, grounding her. His voice was low, just for her. “Don’t.”

Natasha didn’t take her eyes off the guy across the row, the one who’d said that last part. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“He doesn’t mean it.” Steve added. “He’s just talking shit.”

“He keeps talking, I’ll make him swallow his teeth.” Natasha muttered, her voice low and flat.

Steve leaned in closer. “Not worth it.”

Natasha exhaled slowly through her nose, tension coiled in every muscle like a loaded spring.

“Look.” Steve said, a little quieter, “I get it. I do. But if she means anything to you, you’ve gotta stop pretending she’s just another girl.”

Natasha blinked, like the words slapped her harder than the comments. Steve gave a small shrug. “You keep hesitating..” Steve continued, voice barely above the music. “And one of these assholes is gonna try it for real. And you’re gonna hate yourself for letting it happen.”

That hit. Hard. Natasha didn’t move. But her jaw flexed, and for the first time that night, her face cracked. Not with anger. With something else. A decision starting to form. Steve stood, patting her once. “She’s not a game. And you’re not like them.”

The gym was still echoing with celebration, but Natasha had already stepped out into the cool night air. She exhaled slowly, sweat still drying on her skin, the back of her neck damp beneath her hoodie. Her motorcycle sat where she’d left it, parked in the corner of the lot under a crooked lamppost, half in shadow. She slung one leg over the seat, fingers gripping the keys, ready to start the engine.

You keep hesitating..and one of these assholes is gonna try it for real.

She cursed under her breath. Fingers drumming once against the gas tank..And that’s when she saw you.

Stepping out from the side doors of the gym with Lexie at your side, both of you chatting under the glow of the overhead lights. You had changed out of your cheer gear into jeans and a soft hoodie, hair still pulled back, face flushed and pretty from the heat of the night. You were laughing quietly, head tilted slightly, arms wrapped around yourself.

Natasha’s heart stuttered. She was just about to look away, just about to turn the key and forget it-when she saw him.

Matt. He’d exited from the same side doors, slowing his stride as his eyes trailed lazily in the same direction. Natasha saw the shift in his posture. The way his gaze lingered too long. The way his smirk tugged at the side of his mouth like he was already running a script in his head.

And that was it. Natasha’s heart kicked like it was trying to break free from her ribs. She pulled her leg off the bike in one smooth motion, leaving everything as it was, keys in the ignition, gym bag slung across the seat. No hesitation. No plan. Just instinct.

She walked fast, her boots hitting pavement with quiet force. Lexie saw her first. “Oh, hell no.” she muttered under her breath, elbowing you lightly. “Problem incoming.”

You turned, confused. “What?”

Lexie kept her voice low. “Romanoff. Behind us. Coming this way.”

Your stomach dropped

Oh god. Was this it? Was Natasha about to ask me to go home with her? After the game, the eye contact, the ride out of the locker room..this was where it happened in the stories. The moment the girl got caught, pulled into something she wouldn’t be able to-

But it was too late. Natasha was already close, her stride slow and casual now, hands in the front pocket of her hoodie like she hadn’t just made a life-or-death decision one minutes ago.

“Hey..” Natasha said, her voice low, calm, almost too neutral.

Lexie squared her shoulders. “What do you want?”

Natasha kept her tone low and calm. “Just wanted to talk. That’s all.”

Lexie squinted. “Is that what you tell all the girls before-”

“Lex.” you cut in quietly. “It’s okay.”

Lexie looked ready to argue, but her bus appeared down the street, tires grinding against the pavement.

“Fuck..” she muttered. “Of course. Now.” She looked at you, worry creasing her brow. “You want me to stay? I can stay.”

You hesitated. Heart in your throat. “I’ll be okay.” you said, softly. “Go.”

Lexie cursed again under her breath, then pointed two fingers at Natasha. “If you so much as breathe wrong near her-”

“I know.” Natasha said softly.

Lexie gave you one last glance and jogged toward the bus.

“So…” you began, stuffing your hands into the sleeves of your hoodie, “I’m just heading home.”

“Walking?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s like a thirty-minute walk.”

Natasha blinked. “Alone?”

You shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “Not tonight.” Before you could ask, Natasha added, “Let me drive you.”

You hesitated. Your mind was screaming again, this is it, this is when she asks if I wanna come over, when she tries to be charming and seductive and get me to bed.

Still, you asked, “You mean…on your bike?”

Natasha nodded. “It’s not a problem.”

“I..don’t have a helmet..” you tried, already searching for a polite excuse to back out.

“I always carry an extra.”

Of course you do, you thought. For the rotation.. But Natasha’s eyes weren’t flirty, or smug. They were…careful.

So you nodded, and followed her to the bike. It gleamed under the light, black and lean, humming with quiet power. You stopped a few feet short.

“It’s bigger than I expected.” you said, and immediately regretted it. “The bike..! I meant the bike..”

Natasha’s mouth twitched,just a tiny smile. She didn’t tease you.

“I’ll go slow.” she said instead. She opened the side compartment and pulled out a matte black helmet. “Here. Let me.”

You held still as Natasha stepped close, lifting the helmet gently. Her fingers brushed your cheek as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before sliding the helmet down. The strap clicked softly beneath your chin.

“You okay?” Natasha asked, voice low, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, heartbeat hammering. “Yeah. Just..never done this before.”

Natasha held your gaze. “You’ll be safe.”

Then she straddled the bike and leaned it slightly to one side, holding it steady. “Climb on. Swing your right leg over.”

You did, slowly, fingers gripping Natasha’s shoulders for balance. You settled behind her, the leather seat warm from the engine, legs tucked in close.

Natasha reached back, lightly placing her hands on your thighs. “Scoot in. You’ll feel more stable.”

You moved closer, arms hesitating at Natasha’s waist. “When I turn, lean with me. I’ll tell you when.” Natasha said over her shoulder, her voice softer than before.

“o-okay.”

You tightened your grip, and the engine growled to life beneath you, and Natasha drove slower than she normally would, much slower. Careful with every shift. She gave you warnings softly through the helmet radio. “Left turn coming. Hold on.”

You pressed your forehead lightly to Natasha’s shoulder, trying to breathe through the adrenaline. Not just from the ride. From the proximity..From the her.

“You okay back there?” Natasha’s voice buzzed in your helmet.

“Yeah.” you said. “More than okay.”

“You’re not freezing?”

“No. You’re kinda warm..” you admitted, blushing instantly.

Natasha chuckled softly. “It’s the adrenaline.”

They stopped at a red light, the hum of the engine low beneath them. That’s when Natasha spotted the glowing yellow sign.

“Wanna stop for ice cream?”

You blinked, startled. “You want to stop for ice cream right now?”

“You said you’ve never been on a bike.” Natasha replied. “Thought I’d give you the full experience.”

You smiled as Natasha ordered two vanilla cones and paid. You sat at the edge of the parking lot on the bike, cones in hand, music humming from the speakers overhead. For a while, you didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You were…really good tonight.” you said. “I mean, the shot? That was insane.”

Natasha’s voice softened. “Thanks.”

“Like, game-winning, heart-attack, scream-out-loud insane.”

“Hey..” Natasha added, “you weren’t exactly subtle out there either.”

You grinned. “What do you mean?”

“You lit up the court.”

“Oh god..” you groaned. “You were watching.”

“Hard not to.”

You didn’t answer. You just held your ice tighter.

You both finished your ice cream quietly. It was easier, now. The tension had thinned a little, melted under the soft streetlights, the sugar, and the way Natasha had let herself be there, not as the girl with a reputation, but just a girl who’d wanted a reason to sit next to someone. No pressure. No expectation.

After a few quiet laughs and a mutual agreement that soft-serve somehow tasted better at night, Natasha flicked the keys in her hand and nodded to the bike.

“Ready to head home?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

The ride this time was different. No adrenaline. No performance. Just cool wind brushing over your cheeks and the subtle rumble of the bike beneath you.

Natasha didn’t say much. But when she did, it was soft, gentle, for your comfort.

“Small curve coming up. Lean with me a little.”

You obeyed instinctively, gripping Natasha’s waist tighter.

A minute later, “Bump ahead. Just hold on.”

Natasha slowed for every turn. Every crack in the road. She drove like you were something precious and breakable, something to protect. And you sat behind her, heart slowly unraveling.

You didn’t know how to feel. Part of you was still wound up tight, trying to prepare a way to say no. Just in case. You mentally rehearsed polite excuses.

“I have early practice tomorrow.”

“My parents are still up.”

“I’m not ready.”

But before you could even settle on which one sounded the most casual, you looked up and saw the corner of your street.

“Right here.” you said quickly, tapping Natasha’s side. Natasha nodded once and pulled over.

The engine cut, the sudden silence making your breath catch in your throat. Natasha stepped off the bike smoothly and reached out a hand, steadying it with one arm while offering the other to you.

“Take your time.” she murmured.

You climbed down a little awkwardly, and Natasha’s hand stayed lightly on your hip, helping until your boots hit the pavement. Then the hand dropped. Respectfully. Like it had never been there at all.

And just as you opened your mouth to finally deliver the awkward goodbye-

“Thanks.” Natasha said quietly, cutting in. “For the talk. And the company.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Natasha smiled a little, but there was something knowing behind her eyes.

“You can text your friend now.” she added softly. “Tell her you made it home. Safe and unseduced.”

Your cheeks burned. “I..wait, no..God.”

Natasha laughed once, low and warm.

“I’m sorry.” you blurted. “I just..I really thought you were going to ask to come inside. For, you know..sex.”

The word felt huge in your mouth. Natasha didn’t flinch. Just raised her eyebrows a little. “I get that a lot.” she said gently. “But I’m not..always like that.”

You looked down, embarrassed. “It’s just what people say. I guess I assumed, I’m really sorry..” you whispered. “I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“I get it.” Natasha said with a small shrug. “I know what they say. And I’ve let some of it be true..But not tonight, and for the record, I liked this version better.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

Natasha took a small step back toward her bike. “Good night, Y/n.”

“Good night, Natasha.”

She stood there in the driveway, helmet in one hand, and gave you one last look, quiet, unreadable, but kind. Then she turned the engine over and pulled away, tires humming softly as she disappeared into the night.

And you, still standing on your lawn, felt like the ground under you had changed in ways you hadn’t even begun to understand.

Because Natasha Romanoff had just made you feel more seen in twenty minutes than anyone had in twenty years.

And..without ever laying a hand on you.

[bu3ck3r]

back in your arms

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: p surprises a in storrs

a/n: thank u anon for this request i had fun writing it. also lmk if there’s any mistakes. enjoyyy

azzi stood near the free-throw line, drenched in sweat, hair tied up in a messy bun, trying to focus. afternoon light poured through the high windows, catching on the glow of her skin. she launched another shot—net. another—miss. another—net. she didn’t even care about her percentage anymore. she just needed to distract herself.

her phone had been sitting on the floor for the past three hours, still no response from paige.

one day. that’s all it had been. twenty-four hours since paige last texted her, but azzi felt like she was unraveling.

paige never went a whole day without replying. not even during her busiest days in the wnba. they always found time, even if it was at 1 a.m. “i love you” voice notes or a 30-second facetime just to say goodnight.

so where the hell was she?

azzi gasped and grabbed her water bottle, chugging half of it before checking her phone again. still nothing. her heart was punching at her ribs with that all too familiar fear. was she okay? was something wrong?

she shot another three-pointer. missed.

“damn it,” she muttered.

she didn’t hear the door open.

meanwhile, near the campus, a car pulled into the parking lot behind the gym. paige leaned forward in the passenger seat, pulling her hood lower over her forehead.

“you are so dramatic,” said caroline from the driver’s seat, trying not to laugh.

“i told you i wanted this to be a surprise. she probably thinks i ghosted her,” paige said, her mouth twisting with guilt.

“i swear if you get mobbed before you even make it into the gym, i’m leaving your ass here.”

“you’re a terrible friend.”

“i’m the best friend. now go before she actually breaks up with you.”

paige grinned and hopped out, sneaking through the entrance like she used to.

her stomach was fluttering. she hadn’t seen azzi in three weeks.

and now, paige was here.

she opened the gym door quietly, slipping in through the shadows. her heart instantly bounced.

there she was.

azzi.

mid free-throw, breathing hard, focus written across her face. she looked tired. she looked pissed. she looked beautiful.

paige stood there for a moment and watched. she could’ve watched forever.

then azzi turned—and froze.

the ball slipped from her fingers. it bounced away, rolling toward the sideline. her eyes went wide.

“paige?” she whispered.

and then she ran and launched herself at paige so fast she barely had time to open her arms. their bodies collided, hard, azzi wrapping her legs around paige’s waist, arms around her neck. her face buried in paige’s shoulder, paige stumbled back with a laugh, holding her tight.

“damn,” paige breathed. “you missed me that much?”

azzi didn’t respond at first—just kissed her, hard. it wasn’t gentle or slow. it was all lips and heat and the bite of longing. her hands curled into paige’s hair, pulling her in closer. paige’s fingers dug into azzi’s waist, grounding them both. when they finally broke apart, azzi glared at her.

“you didn’t respond to me for a whole day,” she said, accusing.

“i know,” paige said, nuzzling her nose into azzi’s cheek. “because i was flying to you.”

“you suck.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

paige grinned. “caroline picked me up. she thinks you’re gonna kill me.”

“i might.”

“you were one more missed text away from a breakdown, huh?”

azzi lightly smacked her chest. “shut up.”

paige kissed her again. “i missed you too, baby.”

they didn’t even notice that someone had walked in until ice’s voice rang through the gym.

“okay, what is going on here?”

azzi whipped her head around, still clinging to paige, as ice and kk walked in.

paige barely managed to catch azzi’s legs and set her down.

kk stared for a beat. “wait is that p boogers?”

“surprise,” paige said with a smirk, arms still around azzi’s waist.

ice nearly dropped her water bottle. “what?!”

they both ran over, crowding paige with hugs and disbelief.

“you didn’t tell anyone?!” ice said.

“caroline knew,” paige replied.

azzi grumbled, tugging paige back to her. “okay, okay. y’all got your hugs. she’s mine. back off.”

“god, you two are so gay,” ice said, sipping her drink. “can y’all not touch each other for one second, like damn.”

“nope,” paige and azzi said in unison.

kk snorted. “insufferable.”

but they were all smiling.

later, as they walked back to the dorms together, paige held azzi’s hand tightly. the sun was dipping low, casting gold across the trees. azzi hadn’t let go of her since the gym. she kept brushing their arms together like she couldn’t believe paige was real.

paige leaned in and whispered, “so… how mad were you?”

azzi narrowed her eyes. “i was this close to calling your teammates.”

paige laughed. “would’ve been worth it.”

“only because i didn’t actually.”

“mmm i like when you’re clingy.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “oh please, you’re the one who flew here.”

paige stopped her and pulled her close.

“yeah. because i couldn’t go another day without you.”

she kissed her again, soft and lingering, right there in the path. azzi melted into her, arms around her neck. they stood there for a long moment, caught in a world only they understood.

azzi whispered against her lips, “don’t disappear on me again.”

“i won’t,” paige said. “i promise.”

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the dorm was unusually quiet, but as paige and azzi stepped through the doors—still holding hands—there was an immediate shift in the air.

from around the corner, jana appeared, holding a bowl of cereal.

she blinked once. “wait, is that?”

before she could finish, ice and kk came walking down the hallway, still buzzing from the surprise.

“paige bueckers is in the buildingg,” ice announced to literally no one and everyone.

a door slammed. sarah’s voice floated down, “what?”

paige squeezed azzi’s hand tighter.

“oh my god,” jana muttered, mouth full of cereal.

azzi immediately stepped closer to paige, hand drifting from paige’s fingers to her waist, like claiming territory. “okay, okay,” she said coolly. “calm down.”

“i cant believe you’re here.” kk shouted.

“surprise,” paige said again, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“i literally cried last time you left.” jana threw her arms around paige dramatically. “welcome home, p.”

paige hugged her back, laughing. “missed you too.”

“alright,” azzi said, gently pulling paige back into her arms. “y’all got your moment. she’s with me now.”

“relax,” ice said. “no one’s gonna steal your girl.”

azzi didn’t let go.

kk raised an eyebrow. “damn, girl, we just want to say hi. you’re gripping her like she’s gonna vanish.”

paige turned to azzi, teasing: “i kinda like this new possessive you.”

“you’re never leaving again,” azzi mumbled, face tucked into her shoulder.

the girls all let out exaggerated groans.

“you two make me feel so single.” ice muttered, grabbing her cereal from jana.

“y’all are just mad we’re in love,” paige called after them.

“more like allergic to pda,” kk said. “bro can y’all not touch each other for a minute?”

paige grinned. “absolutely not.”

azzi looked at her with a smile.

they finally made it to azzi’s room—after paige was forced into one more group hug—and shut the door behind them.

the second it clicked closed, paige turned around and leaned against it.

“god, i missed this room,” she said. “smells like you.”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “you missed me.”

“well obviously,” paige said, reaching for her.

azzi practically tackled her onto the bed.

they landed in a mess of limbs and soft sheets. azzi hovered over her, arms braced on either side of paige’s shoulders. she looked down at her for a long moment, her expression softening. paige reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from azzi’s cheek.

“you really scared me today,” azzi said quietly.

“i know,” paige whispered. “i’m sorry.”

azzi leaned down, forehead to forehead. “i thought something was wrong.”

“i just… i wanted to see your face when i showed up. i needed that reaction.”

“you needed me to almost lose my mind?”

paige grinned. “i was right though, huh?”

azzi sighed and kissed her. “shut up.”

their lips met again—slower now, deeper. the tension of the day began to melt into something warmer, needier. azzi’s body pressed flush against paige’s, hands roaming beneath the hem of her hoodie.

paige slid her hands beneath azzi’s tank top, thumbs tracing the soft skin of her waist. “been dreaming about this for days.”

azzi’s lips were hot against her neck now, teeth grazing lightly. “same.”

clothes started disappearing in quiet layers—hoodie tossed, shorts slipped off, tank tops lost between kisses. the room filled with the quiet hum of breathing, the creak of the mattress, the sound of two people desperate to feel every inch of each other after weeks apart.

paige took her time, lips and fingertips memorizing the curves she already knew by heart. azzi whispered her name like it was sacred.

after they finished, they stayed tangled together under the sheets, sweat cooling, hearts still thudding.

paige brushed azzi’s hair back and kissed her forehead.

“that was…”

“amazing,” azzi mumbled, lips against her collarbone.

“you trying to make me never leave?”

“is it working?”

paige laughed softly. “god, yes.”

an hour later, paige was half asleep when she heard it:

knock. knock. knock.

then ice’s voice from outside the door: “can y’all please be quiet next time? we could hear y’all loud and clear.”

kk added from the hallway: “i am so done with y’all.”

paige muffled her face into azzi’s shoulder, laughing.

“we weren’t that loud,” azzi protested weakly.

“baby i’m pretty sure you screamed my name. twice,” paige whispered.

azzi hit her with a pillow.

paige kissed her cheek. “i love when you yell.”

“oh my god stop.” azzi rolled her eyes, but she was blushing hard.

eventually, they got dressed again—barely—and cracked the door open. sure enough, kk and ice were on the couch playing fortnite, pretending they hadn’t just roasted them through a closed door.

“we’re getting food,” paige said. “y’all hungry?”

ice didn’t even look up. “starving.”

“but you two need to chill.”

paige smirked. “can’t promise that.”

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the night air was warm, the breeze filtering through the open windows of azzi’s car. paige was driving. obviously.

they were barely two minutes into the drive when paige’s hand found azzi’s thigh.

“really?” azzi murmured, glancing over with a raised brow, though she made no move to stop her. she even shifted slightly so paige’s hand could rest higher.

“i need my hand to stay somewhere calm,” paige said, eyes still on the road. “and your thigh is the softest thing i’ve touched in three weeks.”

from the back seat, kk groaned. “you two are disgusting.”

“bruh i did not miss this at all.” ice added, head tilted dramatically against the headrest.

azzi reached over and turned the volume up a little just to drown them out. “we’re being normal,” she said, smirking.

paige nodded. “it’s just a hand on a high.”

“if you two start making out at a stoplight, i’m walking home.” kk muttered.

paige flashed a grin in the rearview mirror. “no promises.”

“i’ll throw myself out the window,” ice said flatly. “i mean it.”

ice and kk ordered enough food for a football team. azzi and paige split fries, giggling like middle schoolers over how long the mozzarella sticks took.

azzi kept brushing her foot against paige’s under the table. paige kept whispering things in her ear that made her blush.

at one point, kk leaned back with her chocolate milkshake. “so, when are you two getting married?”

azzi nearly choked. paige just smirked. “you wanna be the flower girl?”

“i’ll be the priest if it gets y’all to chill out,” ice deadpanned.

they ended the night back in the car, food wrappers rustling, laughter trailing off as paige drove them through sleepy storrs roads.

back in the dorm, ice and kk peeled off toward the common room with a final warning:

“if we hear anything again tonight,” ice called out, “we’re starting a gofundme.”

“we finna put y’all down for a noise complaint for real,” kk added. “good night.”

azzi rolled her eyes, dragging paige toward her room again. “they love us.”

“they hate us,” paige replied, laughing.

azzi closed the bathroom door behind them, locking it out of habit. the warm light made the tiles glow softly. paige sat on the edge of the sink, tugging off her socks while azzi reached into the shower and turned on the water. steam rose slowly.

“i don’t even care that we’ve only been apart for three weeks,” paige said, standing to lift her shirt over her head. “it felt like a year.”

azzi glanced at her over her shoulder, smiling. “it really did.”

soon enough they stepped into the shower together. paige immediately pulled azzi close under the stream, hands sliding down her back, lips pressing to her temple. azzi looped her arms around paige’s neck and rested her head on her shoulder.

“i’ve missed this,” azzi said quietly.

“same.”

they stayed like that for a while—just holding each other, letting the heat soak into their skin.

then, inevitably, hands started wandering. paige’s mouth drifted down azzi’s jaw and azzi arched into her with a quiet gasp, fingers tangling in her wet blonde hair.

there was nothing rushed about it. it was slow. intimate. needed.

after the shower they were wrapped in fresh towels and oversized shirts, as they got ready for bed together—brushing teeth side by side at the sink, laughing as azzi sprayed way too much detangler in paige’s hair.

they climbed into bed with legs tangled, the fan humming above them. paige was on her back, azzi sprawled half across her, head on her chest.

paige’s fingers played lazily with the hem of azzi’s l shirt. “i really wish i could stay longer.”

“you have like… three days off, right?”

“yeah. but i already wanna freeze time.”

azzi looked up at her, eyes a little misty. “i miss you every day.”

paige kissed her gently. “you have no idea how proud of you i am.”

“same,” azzi whispered. “every time i see highlights of you, i scream. like. out loud. in the gym.”

“i know,” paige smirked. “caroline told me.”

azzi blushed, hiding her face. “traitor.”

“you’re gonna be there soon,” paige said softly. “wnba. i can’t wait to watch you drop 30 on everyone.”

azzi traced little circles on paige’s stomach. “you’ll be in the front row, right?”

“always.”

they kissed again—slow and warm, no urgency this time. just love.

and when they finally curled up under the blanket, azzi whispered into paige’s neck: “don’t leave until you absolutely have to.”

“i won’t.”

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the morning sunlight spilled into azzi’s room like it owned the place. paige groaned and rolled deeper under the sheets, burying her face in azzi’s neck.

“get up, sleepyhead,” azzi murmured, brushing her fingers through paige’s messy hair.

“no,” paige mumbled. “i’m retired.”

“you literally played a game last week.”

“exactly. let me live.”

azzi kissed her cheek. “i have practice baby.”

paige pulled her closer. “cancel it.”

azzi laughed. “you want me to get benched?”

paige shrugged. “then i’ll get benched too. solidarity.”

“you don’t even play for uconn anymore.”

“minor detail.”

azzi was in the gym with a few teammates running drills. her jumper was smooth as ever, but something in her posture said her mind was somewhere else—every glance toward the door, every pause between sets.

then the door creaked open.

“nice form,” paige called out, leaning casually against the wall in a uconn tee that showed off her muscles just right.

azzi froze. so did everyone else.

ice dropped the ball she was holding. “oh no.”

kk clapped dramatically. “here we go again.”

azzi jogged over to paige like she hadn’t already seen her all night and morning, like her body just moved on instinct. the moment she was close enough, she threw her arms around her and kissed her full on the mouth—right there in front of the team.

“wow,” jana muttered.

“you miss me that much?” paige teased when they broke apart, brushing her thumb over azzi’s cheek.

azzi grinned. “shut up. you’re the one who showed up looking like that.”

kk groaned. “i can’t be here.”

sarah pointed at the door. “take it to a room. this is a training facility.”

“you’re just mad we’re cute,” azzi called over her shoulder as she tugged paige toward the bleachers.

“i’m mad y’all are making me miss my girl,” kk shouted back.

later that night, paige and azzi were back in her room, sprawled out on the bed again, hair still damp from another steamy shower they’d taken “to cool down,” which was a lie and everyone knew it.

paige reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly folded t-shirt.

azzi’s eyes widened. “is that…?”

“my dallas warmup shirt,” paige said, handing it over. “figured you should have one. smells like me. you’re welcome.”

azzi held it to her chest. “i’m never taking this off.”

“please do, eventually,” paige said. “or you’ll smell like an actual locker room.”

azzi threw a pillow at her. “you’re so annoying.”

“you love it.”

“i do,” she admitted, smiling softly.

just before lights out, they wandered into the kitchen to grab snacks.

ice was sprawled on the couch with kk, both of them locked into a chaotic fortnite match. the second they spotted paige and azzi, they both screamed in unison:

“get a room!”

paige blinked. “we have a room.”

“y’all just came out of it,” kk said, tossing her controller down. “and now you’re back like nothing happened.”

“you two need supervision,” ice added.

“we’re literally just getting snacks,” azzi said, grabbing a bag of popcorn.

“y’all get snacks like you’re in a movie scene,” kk complained. “too much eye contact and way too much touching.”

paige slid an arm around azzi’s waist. “we’re just affectionate.”

“you’re menace-level affectionate,” ice muttered.

azzi just kissed paige’s cheek. “jealousy is a disease.”

kk gagged audibly.

back in azzi’s room, they climbed under the covers, the popcorn bowl between them, a movie playing softly in the background.

azzi wore paige’s dallas shirt. it hung down her thighs, barely covering her. paige stared for way too long.

“eyes up here.”

“you got it princess.”

they fed each other popcorn until paige started licking the butter off of azzi’s fingers, making her laugh.

azzi tackled her and they rolled around laughing until paige pinned her with a playful smirk.

“you’re so whipped,” paige teased.

“me?” azzi raised an eyebrow. “you flew across the country.”

“i came here for basketball,” paige joked.

azzi leaned down and kissed her, long and slow. “liar.”

paige smiled into the kiss. “you caught me.”

the next evening came too fast.

azzi lay on her back in bed, hair still damp from the shower they’d just taken together, paige resting beside her in nothing but an old uconn shirt and soft cotton shorts.

their skin still buzzed — from the warmth of the water, from each other.

they’d barely kept their hands to themselves while in the bathroom.

paige had been behind azzi the entire time — arms around her waist while they brushed their teeth, kissing her shoulder between swipes of the toothbrush, murmuring, “you’re so damn pretty,” through a mouth full of toothpaste.

azzi had almost spit hers out from laughing.

now, back in bed, it was quiet. paige’s hand was resting on azzi’s stomach, her fingers idly tracing small circles on her skin. her legs tangled with azzi’s under the blankets.

“you smell like my shampoo,” azzi whispered.

paige smiled. “you smell like heaven.”

“you’re such a cornball.”

“and yet, here you are,” paige murmured, nuzzling closer. “loving every second of it.”

azzi reached up and ran her fingers through paige’s slightly damp hair. “i really do.”

they kissed again — soft, slow, and lingering. like neither of them wanted it to end.

paige rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow so she could look down at azzi. her eyes were serious, warm.

“you know i think about you all the time when i’m in dallas, right?”

azzi nodded. “same. every single day.”

“i hate being away from you.”

“me too. but i think it’s also… making us stronger.”

paige smiled. “yeah. it’s like… no matter where we are, we’re still us.”

azzi leaned up and kissed her chin. “we’ll be together full-time soon.”

“i know.” paige gently tucked a strand of hair behind azzi’s ear. “when you get to the league… i hope we’re on the same team.”

“if not, i’m guarding you every time,” azzi smirked. “and i’m locking you up.”

paige laughed. “you wish. you’d foul out in the first half.”

“you’d fall in love again mid-game and lose focus.”

“unfair tactic,” paige grinned. “using my heart against me.”

azzi leaned up and kissed her deeply, then whispered, “you’re mine. always.”

paige kissed her again, slower this time, hands on azzi’s hips, holding her like she was everything.

because she was.

─────────── ౨ৎ ──────────

the next morning, the sun wasn’t even up yet. paige had to head back to dallas.

azzi stood in the hallway, wearing one of paige’s hoodies, watching as paige zipped up her bag.

“i should sabotage your flight,” azzi said, arms crossed, pretending to pout.

“don’t tempt me to miss it.”

they stood at the door for too long. hugging. kissing. whispering promises they’d already made a dozen times over.

“i love you,” azzi said into paige’s neck.

“i love you more,” paige said, pulling back and brushing their noses together. “don’t argue. i win.”

azzi narrowed her eyes. “fine. but only this time.”

caroline arrived to drive paige to the airport, honking once from outside the dorm.

paige opened the door, bag slung over her shoulder, azzi clinging to her hand like it might be the last time.

ice and kk were on the couch — again.

as soon as they saw the two lovebirds in the doorway, they both said:

“thank god, we can finally have peace again.”

azzi flipped them off, still clinging to paige.

ice pointed to the hallway. “now kiss and go.”

paige turned to azzi and, right in front of everyone, kissed her like she meant it — like she always did.

azzi was breathless when they broke apart.

“be safe,” she whispered.

“you too. text me the second you get out of practice.”

azzi smiled, tears welling up. “i love you.”

paige cupped her face. “i’ll see you soon, okay?”

azzi nodded. “okay.”

azzi was still in bed, paige’s hoodie swallowed around her like a second skin. the sheets smelled like her. the silence was heavier now, like the room knew it was missing someone.

her phone buzzed.

she didn’t expect anything—paige hadn’t texted since she left—but when she opened it and saw the name, her heart caught in her throat.

leaving sucks. i hate every part of it. packing, airports, this stupid seat that isn’t next to you. but i just wanted you to know that i’m still carrying the way you looked at me this morning. i’m still hearing your laugh in my head. i still feel your hands on me, like they left a print only i can see. i left my heart in your bed. wrapped in your sheets. wrapped in you. so yeah, i’ll be back soon. because i don’t feel like me when i’m not with you. i love you, az.

azzi read it once, then again, slower. the ache in her chest swelled until it pushed tears from her eyes—quiet, stubborn ones she wiped away with the cuff of paige’s sleeve.

she buried her face in the hoodie and whispered into the cotton:

“i’m not me without you either.”

she didn’t cry.

much.

after a minute she decided to reply.

you’re the worst for making me cry this early. i miss you so much it physically hurts. the bed’s too cold. the room’s too quiet. i keep rolling over expecting to find you there. you really did leave your heart here. and i’m holding onto it like it’s mine, because it is. so don’t take too long, okay? i need your laugh in this room again. i need your hands, your voice, your everything. i love you more than i’ve ever loved anything. come back to me soon. i love you, p.

paige stared at azzi’s message, she hadn’t expected a reply so fast—definitely not one that hit her this hard.

her chest tightened.

she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to fight the sting in her eyes. it didn’t work.

she read it again. and again.

then, quietly, she smiled to herself.

she pulled her hoodie tighter, still faintly smelling like azzi, and typed with thumbs that shook a little more than she’d ever admit:

i’m coming back the second i can. im yours, az. always. i don’t know how i got this lucky, but i’m not letting you go. i love you. so damn much.

she locked her phone, leaned her head against the window, and whispered, barely loud enough to hear herself:

“im gonna marry her one day.”

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | The Best Wedding Ever Group-Chat (Interlude)

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, groupchat chaos, everyone being a mess.

Notes — This was so fun. Full length usual chapter coming tomorrow! MCLAREN DOMINANCE IN MIAMI YEE HAW

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

The reception was in full swing, a soft golden haze settling across the garden as the sun dipped low behind the trees. Music played gently under the hum of voices and clinking glasses. Amelia stood at the edge of the marquee, her dress slightly lifted off the grass, one hand clutching the stem of a flute she hadn’t finished. Her other hand played absently with the beading on her bodice, calm but overstimulated—buoyed by love, yes, but also exhausted by the sheer amount of day in the day.

Max found her there, where the noise thinned. He didn’t announce himself. “You survived,” he said, offering her a chilled glass of water instead of more champagne.

She took it gratefully. “Thank you.”

He nodded toward the dance floor, where Lando was trying to twirl his mum to the beat of a song that wasn’t quite slow enough. “He cried.”

Amelia sighed, but she was smiling. “Yes. He’s very dramatic.”

Max gave her an amused look. “I saw your eyes watering while you were walking the aisle.”

Amelia shrugged. “That was only because you all stood up at once. It startled me.”

Max let out a quiet laugh and bumped his shoulder lightly against hers. “You look very beautiful, zusje.”

“Thank you. Pietra said that I suit white.”

“Yeah, well, she was right.” There was a pause. Then he added, “You know, I’m still surprised we all managed to keep the bouncy castle a secret from him. I’m pretty sure everyone else knew. Everyone in the group-chat anyway.”

Amelia blinked. “The group-chat?” She made a face. “Oh! Oh, I remember him making one, I think. A few weeks ago…”

Max nodded. “It was just the drivers.” He smirked. “It was supposed to be strictly for moral support and wedding plans… It ended up being an absolute mess. You’d hate it.”

“Would I?” She asked, curiously. 

He nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, definitely. Want to see?”

She held out her hand. “Obviously.”

— 

WhatsApp Group Chat — Wedding of the Year Lando Norris created this group.

Lando Norris added: Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Fernando Alonso, Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Pierre Gasly, Esteban Ocon, Daniel Ricciardo, Mick Schumacher, Checo Perez, Yuki Tsunoda, Sebastian Vettel, Lewis Hamilton, Valtteri Bottas, Zhou Guanyu

PINNED MESSAGE

Lando N. Alright legends — if you’re in this group, congrats! 🎉 You’ve officially RSVP’d to the event of the year: mine and Amelia’s wedding.

This chat is now your one-stop shop for all things wedding-related like updates, travel plans, dress codes (no, Max, you can’t wear team kit) schedules, karaoke sign-up (Yuki, we’re counting on you)

Basically, treat this group like a more chaotic version of Reddit — but just for the wedding. 

Questions, hype, memes, logistics — drop them all here.

Let the countdown begin. 💍🔥

— 

Lando N. 

First wedding day rule list had been put together lads 🚫 Strong smells 🚫 Flashing lights 🚫 Unexpected loud noises (Daniel.) ✅ Soft lighting ✅ Calm vibes ✅ Understanding from you lot

If you’re unsure, ask. Don’t guess.

Charles L. Wait wait wait I can’t wear my Tom Ford Oud Wood??????

Max V. You’ll survive Charles

Pierre G. Be honest Charles you just wanted us all to know what cologne you use

Charles L. It’s my signature scent. I guess I will just smell bad. 

Oscar P. Just shower???

Daniel R. Do essential oils count Asking for a friend (the friend is me)

Lando N. NO essential oils. Nothing with any kind of lasting scent pls omfg We will smell like… humans. Deal with it. That said, please wear deodorant — don’t make me wedding a BO nightmare 

Seb V. Delighted to finally attend an event that won’t give me a Dior Sauvage headache Well done to Amelia, what a great boundary!

Yuki T. WAIT SO I CAN’T WEAR MY AXE BODY SPRAY??

George R. You still wear Axe? Actually no that makes so much sense 

Yuki T. I HAVE A SYSTEM GEORGE

Esteban O. Genuinely thank you for explaining this Had no idea scent could be overwhelming for some people Let me know if there's anything else we should avoid 🙏

Lando N. Thanks Esteban mate 🙌 We’ll probs send out some sort of a sensory guide Just follow it. It won’t be complicated

Fernando A. I will read the PDF I will understand the PDF If somebody does not understand the PDF you can ask me to explain it to you. 

Valtteri B. I’ve already made a scentless shower routine spreadsheet Dropping it here [File: Bottas_NoScent_Routine.xlsx]

Lewis H. Proud of how mature you’re being about all of this @Lando 

— 

Daniel R. So when’s the bachelor party? 👀 Or is that not something ur doing 

Lando N. wtf no Of course I’m having a bachelor party tf?????

Max V. ?????

Charles L. Wait what do you mean As in you already had one Or you’re going to have one Without us?

Oscar P. Oh my god @Lando did you, like…. Remember to invite people?

Lando N. … Wait wtf You guys didn’t get the invite?

Pierre G. LANDO.

George R. ARE YOU KIDDING. YOU HAD A WHOLE PARTY AND DIDN’T NOTICE WE WEREN’T THERE???

Lando N. NO I HAVEN’T HAD IT YET IT’S NEXT WEEK i thought it auto-sent from the app thing

Esteban O. What app thing 😐

Yuki T. WHAT KIND OF STAG PARTY APP FORGOT TO STAG THE PARTY

Valtteri B. Was it Eventbrite Because that app once invited me to a conference for funeral directors

Max V. I’m going to kill you I already bought a new outfit for it. Celeste insisted 

Daniel R. Lando you absolute FUCKING IDIOT We planned a group choreographed dance for you and you were gonna cry AND NOW YOU DON’T GET IT

Lando N. WAIT STOP EVERYONE SHUT UP I swear I thought you were all in I literally have a villa rented There’s a boat There’s custom hats You have roles assigned in a murder mystery dinner

Lewis H. Is the murder mystery dinner like 50’s themed or I need to plan my outfits accordingly

Lando N. No it’s 70’s themed obviously 

Mick S. I’m crying this is the dumbest group of men alive But i’m free next week Send the real invite pls

Fernando A. I was born ready for a murder mystery Drop the details I will prepare emotionally and theatrically

Checo P. What are the custom hats I need to know what I’m committing to 

Lando N. [Photo attachment: 17 pastel-coloured bucket hats with everyone’s name embroidered and one that says “Groom of Chaos”]

George R. Ok. Fine

Max V. They are cute. Amelia’s idea I bet 

Daniel R. Dibs on solving the murder

Lando N. Cool See you all in Spain Bring your A-game

—

Yuki T. [Photo attachment: Yuki in a shockingly bright papaya orange suit, no tie, white sneakers, grinning] LOOK I’M WEDDING PREPARED SO EARLY 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Charles L. Oh!

Max V. Wow. You look like a traffic cone.

Pierre G. Yuki… you can’t wear that

Lando N. Thats very bright

Seb V. I'm going to be honest here, Yuki... that’s a hard no for me.

Esteban O. I… don’t know how to say this… but it’s a lot Maybe we keep it a bit more neutral?

Daniel R. Is there a version of that suit in, like, a more subtle colour palette 

Yuki T. I THOUGHT YOU GUYS WOULD LOVE IT IT’S FUN AND BRIGHT AND GOOD VIBES ONLY

Oscar P. Yuki, buddy… I can see the vibes, but it’s just… not for a wedding Maybe one piece of orange? The tie maybe?

Mick S. Man… It’s just a lot of colour. 

Valtteri B. I think it's… a very bold statement.

Fernando A. I am speechless.

George R. Lando cancel the fireworks display, Yuki’s going to be the main entertainment 

Yuki T. SO YOU ALL HATE IT NO ONE SUPPORTS ME EVER

Charles L. Look, buddy, we love you. But this is Amelia’s big day, and she’s already probs going to be like… so overstimulated. Maybe we… tone it down a bit?

Seb V. Maybe a pastel? Something calm and approachable? 

Yuki T. You guys all suck i wanted to be the unique one at the wedding

Lando N. I’m going to send you guys Amelia’s colour palette. Didn’t think you’d need it but I WAS CLEARLY VERY WRONG

— 

Lando N. Actually guys on the subject on suits Where should i get mine lol

Pierre G. Wait

Max V. I’m sorry What

George R. Lando please tell me you’re joking. PLEASE.

Lando N. No like I’ve been busy okay I just realised I don’t have one yet

Oscar P. Lando Your wedding is in seven days 

Daniel R. Bro. BRO. YOU DON’T HAVE A SUIT???

Yuki T. You’re the GROOM???? You are the MAIN CHARACTER???

Fernando A. Have you even been to a tailor? Do you even know your measurements??

Lando N. Well ig figured I’d go like Tomorrow?? Maybe the day after??

Lewis H. This is insanity I think I forgot how young you actually are until right now

Max V. Do you think suits just GROW on TREES They need fittings. And time. And WORK.

Mick S. I’m having a small heart attack on your behalf Does Amelia know this Because I think she might kill you

Lando N. no lol That’s why i’m asking you guys

Pierre G. Oh you are going to get us ALL killed This is not a drill WE ARE IN THE RED ZONE

Oscar P.: Lando mate this is bad 

George R. Imagine Amelia walking down the aisle looking perfect And then you show up in an H&M blazer from 2019

Yuki T. “Lando Norris marries in last-minute sale suit” IMAGINE THAT HEADLINE. IDIOT.

Lando N. Ok well no need to yell I just thought maybe like Asos? or smth?

Daniel R. DID YOU JUST SAY ASOS FOR YOUR WEDDING??? YOUR. WEDDING.

Seb V. I want to lie down in a field and disappear.

Max V. You better be joking You better tell us this is a prank Because I will drive to wherever you are and drag you to a tailor myself

Lando N. God okay okay I’ll fix it You guys are so dramatic

Pierre G. DRAMATIC? DRAMATIC IS FINDING OUT THE GROOM HAS NO SUIT A WEEK BEFORE THE CEREMONY

Yuki T. I’m texting Amelia I’m sorry She deserves to know the truth

Lando N. NO NO NO NO i’ll go today i swear i’ll go NOW pls do not involve her i BEG

George R. We are setting up a Suit Intervention We’re booking you a tailor. This cannot be left to you

Seb V. I’m too old for this

Daniel R. Lando.

Lando N. Okay fine I’ll go Right now After lunch

Max V. I’m watching you One wrong move and I’m telling Amelia everything

Lando N. Omg do you think Amazon sell suits

ALL. NO.

—

Lando N.: Right what do you guys wanna eat from the bbq?? Drop requests and I’ll tell the caterer lol

George R. Okay well i NEED halloumi Like NEED it Non-negotiable

Yuki T. Hot dogs but only the tiny ones they have to be small I don’t trust hot dogs longer than 4 inches

Oscar P. Can we get those garlic butter prawns? The ones that make your fingers smell for 3 days Absolute fire

Max V. I want ribs

Lando N. ok so ribs halloumi weird tiny hot dogs we’re not having fucking shrimp

Lewis H. Is there going to be a plant-based grill or am I going to be expected to gnaw on a tree branch 

Daniel R. Corn But like with cheese and chili and lime Make it dangerous

Pierre G. No corn for me I don’t trust it It’s in your teeth for 6 years

Seb V. Make sure everything’s eco-friendly Bamboo forks. Compost bins. No plastic.

Fernando A. Can we get a whole grilled fish Mediterranean-style

Mick S. Burgers? Like. Just burgers. No one’s said burgers. What is wrong with all of you

Yuki T. What if the buns are slightly toasted like not burnt but lightly crispy i want a crunch

Oscar P. I’d appreciate the the option of pineapple on things meat veg dessert anything put pineapple on it

George R. ...do we have cocktails? Because that influences my BBQ choices. If i’m sipping a mojito, I want grilled peaches.

Max V. You know what I’m going to bring my own steak I don’t trust your caterer 

Lando N. What the HELL is this list None of this matches This is a nightmare

Daniel R. I still can’t believe no one else wants corn You people are wrong

Pierre G. I hope a corn on the cob haunts you in your sleep

Lando N. This was a mistake

Yuki T. Lando make sure the ketchup is Heinz please

—

Lewis H. Hey just a quick one Is roscoe allowed to come to the wedding?

Lando N. Yes Amelia would love that

Lewis H. Cool I’ll dress him up Bowtie. Paws cleaned. Very respectful.

Yuki T. YESSSSS THIS IS SO IMPORTANT roscoe is a GUEST OF HONOUR

Oscar P. absolutely bring him 

Pierre G. Wait wait wait i’m allergic to dogs Like face explodes allergic

Lando N. Where will he sit Is he getting a meal??? I’m confused now 

Yuki T. give him a tiny chair a tiny plate a tiny wine glass with water

Max V.: Okay so I can bring the cats yes?

Lando N.: No cats. 

Pierre G. Guys????????

—

George R. Okay WHERE IS LANDO

Oscar P. What do you mean

George R. I mean where. is. the. GROOM. No one’s seen him since breakfast His phone is off His location isn’t working

Max V. Are you being fucking serious 

Yuki T. I thought he was with you Max??

Daniel R. Oh my god We lost the groom We LOST. THE. GROOM. SOMEONE CALL AMELIA NO WAIT DON’T CALL AMELIA OMG

Pierre G. He’s not at the cottage He’s not at the hotel His suit is gone WE HAVE A GHOST GROOM

Mick S. Has anyone checked the carpark Or the woods idk he might’ve gone feral out of fear

Seb V. He better not have cold feet I’ll kill him

Oscar P. Do we call the police???

Lewis H. Has anyone checked the venue

George R. What venue It doesn’t open for 2 hours??

Lewis H. Right But if you were panicking about the biggest day of your life and wanted to be alone and you were also Lando Norris, wouldn’t you go and sit at the alter way too early?

Max V. He totally would

Daniel R. Wait. Wait wait. I have a photo. From the florist. She just texted me a behind-the-scenes pic of the setup and IS THAT A MAN IN A SUIT SITTING ON THE ALTAR STEPS???

Pierre G. SEND THE PICTURE

Daniel R. *image attached* Zoom in That’s our idiot. Just. Sitting there. Staring into space

George R. LANO WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD

Lando N. Oh hey lol I just… got ready early So I came here Is that bad

Yuki T. LANDO

Oscar P.: Are you not bored?

Lando N. I just wanted to make sure i didn’t mess anything up And i didn’t know what to do with myself So i just. Sat.

Pierre G. He’s going to SOB the moment Amelia walks down the aisle Just warning you all now

Lando N. Shut up Gasly I am cool and composed I'm not crying aready I swear

—

Amelia stared at Max’s phone screen, horrified. “Oh.”

Max snorted. “I know. They are all terrible.”

Amelia spun around and launched in Lando’s direction. “Hey! Husband!” She yelled, and Max stared at her in astonishment. “Did you seriously wait until last week to buy your suit?”

[duvetchico]

u shld write about yn ignoring karina (bc of some dumb arugment) and then ir becomes fluffy plspslslspsksks🥹✌️

fine, don't talk to me then

summary you and jimin get into a real argument over something small, but the hurt feelings spiral until you both end up saying shit you don’t mean.

genre angst (real but dumb) / fluff / slow softening

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you were fighting about something SO fucking stupid.

like actually so dumb you can’t even remember what started it. maybe it was the thing with the laundry—how jimin said she’d fold it and then left it on the bed so when you walked in, half your clothes were wrinkled and your hoodie was suffocating your cat.

and you were already cranky from work. and hungry. and her attitude was pissing you off.

and then she said it.

“you’re so dramatic all the time.”

with that tone.

so you said “fine. don’t talk to me then.”

and you meant it.

the only sound was your fork clinking against the plate. you’re eating dinner by yourself at the table while jimin sits on the couch—arms crossed, eyes on the tv, volume on low like she’s being passive aggressive even with netflix.

she hasn’t said a word in two hours.

she’s texting in the groupchat though. you know because your phone lights up.

ae🐍pa + a dyke

jimin someone tell y/n she’s a brat

minjeong oop

aeri what did u do this time

jimin i breathed incorrectly i guess

y/n don’t bring the groupchat into this you attention-seeking loser

ningning FIGHT FIGHT KISS FIGHT FIGHT

“oh,” she mutters. “now you wanna talk?”

you stand up. LOUDLY. take your plate to the sink like you’re starring in a drama. slam the faucet on. she laughs bitterly.

“you’re so extra.”

you whip around. “you’re acting like you did nothing wrong.”

“i did the laundry!”

“no, you folded it by turning it into a fucking mountain of wrinkles and then gave me attitude when i asked about it.”

“because you made it a big deal!”

“because you make me feel like a fucking burden when i ask you to do anything!”

…

jimin goes quiet. you freeze too.

you didn’t mean to say it like that. not with that much heat. but it came out anyway.

“…that’s not fair,” she says after a second. voice low now.

“i try. i do shit for you. i mess up sometimes but i’m trying.”

you swallow. you wanna say sorry. but your chest is tight.

she gets up and walks to the bedroom without another word. closes the door softly.

not a slam. not a yell.

just quiet.

later.

you stand outside the bedroom door holding her hoodie in your hands. she left it on the couch and you’ve been clutching it like a damn idiot for the last ten minutes.

you knock. once.

“…what.”

“can i come in?”

you open the door anyway. she’s lying on her side facing away from you.

you crawl onto the bed. sit there for a second.

“…i didn’t mean it. that way.”

she doesn’t look at you. but her hand finds yours.

“…i know.”

you lay down behind her. wrap your arm around her waist.

“…i love you. even when you suck at laundry.”

she exhales a tiny laugh. “and i love you. even when you yell like a mom on edge.”

you bury your face into her neck. “don’t shut me out next time.”

“don’t say i make you feel like a burden again.”

“…deal.”

she turns over and finally looks at you. her eyes are soft now. she brushes your cheek with her knuckles and kisses your nose.

“can we never fight again?”

“too bad. next time you piss me off i’m egging your skincare.”

you don’t even realize you’re falling asleep on her until your head sinks further into her stomach and she goes,

“…baby?”

and you’re like “hngh.”

because your mouth’s already smooshed into her hoodie and you’ve been laying on her like she’s a very expensive, limited edition, no longer in stock type of pillow.

her hand’s in your hair. gently scratching your scalp. her other one’s playing with your fingers, squeezing them like she’s making sure you’re still there. like she’s still scared you’re mad.

and she whispers, “still mad at me?”

and you just grunt and shake your head a little, not even looking up.

“only mad that your abs are too flat for this to be comfortable.”

“oh wow. my bad for being fit and sexy.”

you hum sleepily, “yeah. you should apologize to the less hot population.”

jimin scoffs. she grabs the hoodie that you’re drooling into and yanks it over your head to trap you inside.

“you’re so annoying.”

“and you love me.”

your voice is muffled now inside her clothes.

and for a moment it’s quiet again. the bad kind. and you almost pull away until you feel her hand press flat against your back. keeping you there.

“…i don’t like when we fight,” she says.

you turn your head. still half-buried in her hoodie.

“i know. me neither.”

and then, softly, “i felt like shit. the second you shut that door.”

her thumb brushes over your spine.

“i thought you were gonna stay mad forever.”

“bitch please,” you mutter. “you think i’d let you go to sleep without telling me goodnight? what am i, an animal?”

she laughs. soft and real. and then leans down to kiss your forehead.

“goodnight, dramatic animal.”

[intromortal]

✷ LIQUID SWEETENER ⸻ sim jaeyun

jake takes care of his sick girlfriend, but with an unexpected twist.

this work contains smut. mdni. established relationship, reader has a fever, she's very annoying tbh but it's bc she's ME! it's okay tho bc jake is equally as bad. spitting medicine in someone's mouth... is this sanitary? absolutely not but i also can't bring myself to care, fingering, praise, degradation (use of slut like once? and pet), he's mostly very sweet tho i promise, oral f!rec, squirting, mentions of free use, multiple orgasms, quick aftercare, jake comes untouched he's down bad sorry !

length oneshot ⸻ 5.2k words

✷ NIA — i finally got around to rewriting this omfg. this rewrite is for my sweet @heechwe and all the nonnies who asked for this to be posted again <3

It's not everyday Jake gets to take care of you, so when you're all sickly and weak, it's hard to evade his attentions no matter how hard you try.

Jake pouts when you shoot down yet another attempt to get you to take your medicine. "Why don't you just chug it? I promise it's not as bad as you think."

He’s been trying to get you to swallow at least a tiny dose of the sweet fever syrup for the best part of an hour, after every attempt to get you to down any kind of pill resulted in you hiding them somewhere underneath your cozy pajamas, against your burning skin.

"If it's not as bad as I think, why are you suggesting I just chug it?" Your voice is slightly muffled as you eye him suspiciously from under the heavy cover pulled up all the way to your nose.

"You're the one insisting it's disgusting without even trying it, I asked for the best flavor possible when I got it." He made sure to pick out a syrup that doesn't taste straight up radioactive, knowing you well enough to predict you’d make a big fuss about the nasty taste. Yeah, he can picture it right in his head, how you’d gag dramatically at the smell and just beg him to go get the tablets again—which you wouldn't agree to take anyway.

For how much you hate being sick, you seem to dislike the idea of getting better quickly even more.

“You would feel so much better if you just took your medicine,” he sighs, resting the cap filled to the brim with honey flavored syrup on the crowded comforter, careful not to leave it too close to the edge. He licks whatever residue is left on his sticky fingers. "Really not that bad. It's sweet."

"So it's not good either," you huff back, trying to wiggle yourself out of the cocoon of blankets Jake wrapped you in as soon as you fell asleep. "I'm not even that sick anyway.”

“Yeah?” Jake looks at you with an arched brow, then points his head to the little mountain of discarded, snot filled tissues overtaking your comforter, the ones he was in the middle of throwing away. “This right here is breeding grounds for bio terrorism allegations.”

He stops you from getting out of bed, securing the warm fuzzy covers around you again. “No need to leave, just tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you,” he whispers against your lashes, placing a soft kiss to your closed eyelid.

“Just wan’ you.”

His plump lips thin into that gorgeous wide smile of his as he speaks,“but you have me baby, I’m right here, yeah?”

He knows very well what you mean, and a frustrated grumble spills out of you at the thought. Cheeky bastard, of course he wants you to say the quiet part out loud. Neither of you is used to going without pleasuring each other for long periods of time, and anything longer than three days is eons according to Jake. You're surprised he's behaved as well as he has this past week, you thought he would be the one to cave in first.

“Want…more,” you crank one of your eyes open, struggling when a droplet from the wet towel on your forehead Jake promptly changed every fifteen minutes slips in it. You blink a few times, adjusting to the light in the room before looking over to Jake, his grin still wide and brightening up his whole face, his head turned to the side as he observes you lovingly, a strand of hair longer than the rest tickling the side of his nose.

If Jake has to be completely honest with himself, he's not particularly sad at you being a little sick. 

Sure, it sounds mean when he says it out loud, but you're not doing so badly or in any kind of pain that would worry him, and he enjoys doting on you like this, with you having no choice but to take his love. Can’t blame a man for wanting to take care of his girl, especially when said girl has a streak of refusing to just lay back and let him do the work. 

You're always hiding your pain and vulnerability from everyone around you, so he enjoys knowing he's helping make it at least a little better for once.

You—however—wouldn’t exactly agree that he's making you feel better, definitely not by walking around with damp hair from the shower and intoxicating the air around you with the lingering salty marine and musky notes of the cologne he always sprays on his fresh change of clothes. A smell you usually related to comfort and home, making your head spin in the best way possible, a whirlwind of anything but pure thoughts crowding your mind.

Jake takes notice of the subtle shift in the air around you right away. You had been–subtly at first—laying down little hints for him to pick up, you craved him. Had been craving him for what felt like forever, ever since you got sick. A nagging hunger that just grew further with every hour he silently ignored it.

Usually you would busy yourself with random tasks, keeping your thoughts clear of images of his hands, or his plush lips and how he always absentmindedly licks away at them or how—you get the idea. But being sick doesn't help, being physically weak and needing rest doesn't stop your mind from running wild. Made it worse, actually, since you have nothing to do but lay in your bed all day. If only he’d slide right next to you under your covers and—

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jake interrupts your thoughts, a hint of amusement shining through his smooth tone. You look up to him hopefully, breath caught in your chest fearing the next few words he's about to say. “And you’re still too sick.”

Really not being dramatic, but you're pretty sure a boulder just crushed you right on your chest. You groan, turning to the other side so you can properly sulk without having to look at Jake’s stupidly handsome face. A face you'd love to ride as soon as possible.

“No like, you actually hate me,” your voice is muffled by the pillow currently squished against your face.

“What are you even doing.”

“Trying to suffocate myself since my man hates me.” You grab the sides of the pillow and push them to cover your ears, making Jake erupt in a fit of boyish giggles. 

“No I don’t, just want you to feel better first,” he whispers, and the loving tone makes your body feel light.

You suddenly push yourself up with your arms to look at him, nest of hair a mess from the speed of your movement. “I would feel sooo much better with your fingers deep inside me right now.”

He looks at you for a moment, really looks at you, assessing what to do in this situation. He too misses your touch, far more than what he lets on. Even just sleeping next to you—a pillow fortress separating you two by your request—turned out to be too much for him on multiple occasions. He often found himself silently sneaking out of bed to go and take care of his sudden little problems in the bathroom, trying not to wake you up because he knew if you caught him he wouldn't be able to get out of your claws.

And you really need the rest.

As if sensing his resolve wavering, you add, “don’t I deserve a little reward?”

“A reward… for what?” Jake is thoroughly amused by your desperation. You rarely ever get like this, and he enjoys every second of it. You can tell because he's pushing it a little farther than what he usually would, ending up punishing himself a little along the way too. On any other occasion he would've been all over you before you could even finish your sentence. But Jake doesn't care, not when he doesn't know when the next time he gets to hear you beg a little for him is gonna be.

“Well of course! For having fought this fever tooth and nail and having come out of it alive.”

“You still have a fever though,” he says. “Could kick your ass right down at any given moment.”

“That.” You glare at him with all the fake anger you can muster up. “Is such a mean thing to even suggest.”

“Don’t you care about me getting sick? Made a scene all week and now you’re okay with me touching you?”

“First of all—I only made you keep the pillows between us the first two days. And like I told you, I feel better, so if—” the words die in your throat as you feet the bed dip underneath the weight of Jake’s knee.

"No, no. Keep talking." He slowly gets under the covers, and it's not because he's testing your reaction. His presence felt different, the soft look in his eyes overtaken by something more primal, and you couldn't help but feel like prey under his watchful gaze. It felt intimidating in a way you weren’t used to. It made you squeeze your legs together in search of any friction, your already feverish skin somehow feeling even hotter.

You try to hide the way you gulp, eyes still fixed on his body as he gets comfortable on his side, facing you.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jake whispers against your cheek, his nose rubbing for a moment on your skin as he sneaks an arm underneath your body, pulling you flush to his chest. Even just that single touch sends an electrifying shiver down your spine. “Since you’re fully capable of talking my ear off…”

You reach for his hand wrapped comfortably around your waist and guide it down to cup your heat through your thin shorts, your own hand resting on top of his as you grind against it.

"I suppose you've had enough rest."

You take notice of how his breath hitches in his throat, his carefully crafted mask of calmness slipping as you use his hand. The illusion wears off even more when he tries to hide it with a gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. You know he wants it just as bad as you do, you're just willing to beg for it as long as it gets you what you want.

“I’ll—” you gasp when he flexes his fingers that tiny little bit you need to be able to feel them press against your fluttering hole. “I’ll do anything, just please make me cum.”

“Anything?” his voice is light and airy as he moves the fabric of the shorts out of his way. A deep chuckle tickles your neck, Jake’s mouth dipping down do leave open mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin.

“Anything, just… please,” you whine, flexing your neck to allow him more space, his tongue dipping to lick a stripe down to the juncture of your neck.

Had you not been so deprived of Jake’s touch, you would have found the way you're grinding up against his hand and moaning in his ear almost embarrassing. But you're desperate, so you can't bring yourself to care too much about how pathetic you probably look to anyone else.

The only people in the room are you and Jake anyway, and he seems to be thoroughly enjoying it. His cock is stiff in his sweats, almost painfully so, from feeling how wet you are through your shorts. Dripping already and he barely touched you.

"You're so fucking hot. You know that?" Jake nibbles the shell of your ear, making you arch further in his hold. “You'll do anything you said? How about you take your medicine then?” He moves his hand from your mound to grip your thigh, ignoring your weak attempts at clawing his arm to get the little taste of pleasure he took away from you back.

He kisses his teeth, eyebrows furrowing in faux disapproval. “Use your words. What will you do?”

“Take my medicine,” you whimper, looking into your boyfriend's eyes despite the tears aligning your waterline, and finding amusement swimming through his gaze. Little piece of shit. Not that you were about to complain or anything.

“Theeeere we go,” Jake sings in your ear, placing a soft kiss behind it before dipping down once again and resuming his sweet torture. “You can be good once in a while.”

You nod, lips thinning to keep quiet as if any wrong sound could make him change his mind and leave you hanging. The hand that was drawing circles on your thigh comes up to hold your chin, carefully tilting it away from Jake’s mouth as he sucks on a particularly sensitive spot on your skin. He smooths over your lips with his thumb, coaxing them to part once again.

“Let me hear how good you feel, baby,” he mumbles, mouth still latched on your neck, before taking a strong whiff off your scent. Had you not been so distracted by the wetness seeping out of your clenching hole and soaking your panties, you would've noticed how his eyes rolled all the way back in his skull at your smell.

His free hand finally slides under your shorts,and a gasp leaves you because of how cold he feels. Jake is always warmer than you, but your fever makes it so his touch feels icy against your skin. Your back arches slightly when one of his digits parts your sopping folds, your sensitivity heightened by the unusual difference of temperature.

“Poor little thing, she’s got a fever too,” he giggles into your neck, another digit joining in as he slowly drags them from your clit to your hole to coat them in your juices. “But it’s okay, I’ll help her feel better.”

Usually, his stupid little jokes would’ve made you groan and push his face away. But this time—blame his voice for being deeper and hoarser than normal, or blame your fever—it makes you clench around nothing, cunt feeling emptier than ever while he takes his sweet time playing with you, savoring the moment.

Your head digs deeper into the pillow, hips lifting from the bed to follow Jake’s torturous movements, desperate to feel something more.

“So needy…” he breathes into your neck and goes back to placing sloppy open mouthed kisses wherever he can reach.

A yelp leaves your mouth, eyes you didn't even notice you closed shooting open when Jake bites down on the junction between your neck and shoulder, just enough to rip you out of the trance you were quickly falling into. He smooths over the little bite mark with this tongue, a tingly sensation overtaking the pain in a matter of seconds, the pleasure overriding anything else. 

Jake finally prods two of his digits into your hole, testing the waters, still careful not to push you too hard so soon. But your reaction is instantaneous, cunt fluttering against his fingertips right away. He has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep most of his noises in. “God… I fucking love it when you act like a little slut.”

Jake is so fucking turned on, he can barely think about anything but your pussy. The only thought in his mind is get her off, make her feel good, get a taste of her sweet cunt, sweet pretty and oh so delicious cunt… like a broken record. He feels like he was born for this and this only, as if his mission in life is just that of pleasing you. And to think he had deprived himself of such bliss for even a few days… Something in you seems different to him, almost animalistic, from the way you rut your hips against his hand as soon as he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, to the way you aren't even trying to hold in your moans like you usually would, mouth hanging open with a string of drool attached to your lips. And this is just from his fingers, he can do so much worse.

You yourself aren't doing any better, your brain basically turned to mush as you help Jake get you off by essentially riding his fingers, despite how weak you feel from the fever. His fingers are so long, hitting all the right spots you know you could never be able to reach by yourself, and his thick knuckles drag against your walls so deliciously.

“S-so good,” you gasp when he turns his fingers just the right way, hitting the spot he knows has you coming undone in just a few strokes.

The room is filled with the slapping sounds of his palm against your drenched cunt, more and more slick dripping down your thighs and onto the bed with every flick of his wrist, making it all that much more obscene and filthy. You can feel the familiar pressure building up in your tummy, and suddenly the overwhelming need to just grab onto something crashes on you, heavy and almost painful. You claw at his shirt, eyebrows furrowed in deep pleasure, unaware of the fact that Jake is not facing you anymore.

He looks at the comforter, over his shoulder. The cap filled with syrup is still there amidst the mess. He twists his body to grab it, careful not to slow down the relentless pace he's fingerfucking your cunt at. A few drops of the liquid spill onto his shirt as he takes a sip of it, a grimace overtaking his features as he tries his best to hold it in his mouth. You're still a moaning mess by his side, tiny brain turned to putty to the point you don't even register anything else happening around you, so hyper focused on the pleasure your boyfriend is providing you with.

“J-Jake, I’m so close.”

Perfect timing.

Jake grabs your jaw to turn your head towards his, applying the pressure you've learned means it is time to part your pretty lips and take his spit, like the good well behaved girl he know you to be. And you do just that; immediately following his movements like he trained you to, tongue sticking out too for good measure.

He bends down slightly to aim better, but this time, instead of the slightly bitter taste of his saliva you expect, he lets small amounts of medicine fall on your tongue.

You uselessly try to back away from him, but he holds you in place, fingers still working inside your cunt. Nor does he allow you to close your mouth despite your surprised gasp. His hand holds your jaw open, grasp getting firmer every time you try to break free from it. After all, you made a promise, and Jake's going to make sure you fulfill it.

“You weren't going to take it, huh?” Jake mouths against your lips once he makes sure you swallowed every last drop of the thick honeyed syrup, holding eye contact with you through it all, fingers never once slowing down their pace. “Little dumb pet thinks she can outsmart me.”

He smashes his mouth on yours, not so much a kiss but a silencing of any complaint you're about to spit at him. Those turn to even more whines when he finally brings his thumb to your clit, drawing harsh circles on it as he fucks you to your orgasm. It's almost instantaneous, you were so close already, his stiff cock rubbing against your thigh and his pants hot in your mouth, but his thumb so cold against your neglected clit.

“That’s it baby, so good for me, yeah.” Jake’s fingers gradually slow down inside you, making sure you got every last bit of pleasure you could possibly experience from this high. He too relishes in how your cunt pulses around his digits, making it harder to move them inside you. Oh, he wishes it was his cock being constricted like that instead, but that can wait.

You finally feel like you can breathe again, chest heaving to catch in as much air as you possibly can, forehead all sweaty from the exertion.

The sheets are drenched around you, and you can't even pinpoint when it happened, but you can immediately tell you aren't the only one who made a mess. Your gaze wanders to Jake’s pants, and a very evident stain on his crotch catches your attention. And fuck, if you aren't ready to do it all over again.

Jake looks absolutely divine; hair disheveled and soaked from the sweat, boxers and sweatpants full of cum. A waste, truly.

You sneak your hand in his pants, ignoring the loud hiss from overstimulation Jake lets out when you wrap your hand around his cock and pump a few times, your thumb swiping on his exposed head to collect some of the cum covering it.

Jake watches you, mouth ajar and cock stiffening again right away, as you lick your fingers clean. He slides his own fingers out of your cunt, lapping at them like a man starved, hoping to work you up just as much as you did him. His heart races in his chest as you keep looking at him, a little smile playing on your lips.

“That was so…” you speak up, giggling when Jake interrupts you by throwing himself over your figure, capturing your lips in an actual kiss this time. A very messy, very wet kiss. Allowing you to savor your own taste mixed with his and sweetened by the medicine.

“I think the word you’re looking for is hot.”

“Dramatic,” you interjected. “So, so dramatic.”

Jake curls an eyebrow at you. “You were the one acting like it’d kill you to swallow some syrup. And actually, let’s not forget–” He places a quick kiss on your nose before pushing you against the mattress further, his entire weight on you. “Ohhh no Jake! Please my Jakey! If I don’t get your cock right now I will DIE!”

“Well I still hav–” 

“And won’t.” he deadpans, sensing where you're trying to stir the conversation. “But I’ve got a few ideas.”

You smile to yourself, feeling feather light kisses making their way down your body, with his messy hair tickling your skin every so often. He places a soft kiss on your mound, whining dramatically when you grab a few strands of his hair to stop him. He rests his head on your thigh, puppy-like eyes looking up at you, almost pleading for permission to continue what he started.

“I really don’t want you to get sick,” you say, voice coming out in a whisper full of care, your fingertips playing with his hair and enjoying the way he nuzzles his head further against your skin.

“Well if I were to get sick by touching you… I’d say the deal is sealed by now, no?” He places another kiss on your thigh, teeth slightly grazing the plush skin when you take too long to contemplate whether to give in or not. “Actually, I think some of this syrup would heal me right now.”

“Jake. I’m being serious.”

“What could I possibly even catch from eating you out that I haven't already by exchanging spit with you? Best pussy in the world disease?” He laughs at his own joke, gaining a roll of the eyes from you. “Let me tell you, the chances of that happening are close to zero anyway. I don’t have a pussy but I am the proud owner of a very fat co–”

“You are downright insufferable.”

“Okay so shut me up with a mouthful of this pu–”

The rest of the sentence is muffled against your mound as you push his head down, deciding you heard enough for the day. And the week.

“Okay, okay. Go on,” you giggle as you lay back once again, a deep sigh following as soon as his expert tongue makes contact with your cunt.

Jake's movements are slow and deliberate at first, as he takes his sweet time collecting all of the slick coating your lips and smearing it all over your skin. It's methodical in a way Jake very rarely is, nothing like the primal and messy mixing of his own spit with your arousal and grunting noises you're so used to. When he gets like this, it's purely to tease you.

You grab a fistful of his hair, the strands soft in your hand, and raise his head to force him to look at you.

You almost regret it when you're met with the sight of him licking his lips, his plump lips spreading in a grin that looks almost evil. His irises are entirely drowning in the dark of his pupils, and you'd be lying if you said it doesn't send a chill down your spine. The good kind, the type that also makes you clench your thighs against his frame.

"If you're gonna beg me to eat me out," you say, finding your strength again and being careful not to let Jake see any weakness on your features. "You better do it properly."

You try to keep a straight face when he erupts in a fit of giggles.

"Oooh, look at you—" he starts, clearly amused by your attempt to assert dominance. "I know what I'm doing. You know I know what I'm doing. It just seems to me that I've spoiled the princess a little too much lately." He lowers his head to your thighs, and litters soft kisses as he makes himself comfortable again. Somewhere along the lines, the harsh hold you had on his hair turned into your hand dragging him closer, but you can't pinpoint the exact moment.

Or you just really don't care to know, not when Jake starts lapping up at your cunt like he's starving.

"You taste so delicious, baby," he moans between licks, his nose pressing further into your heat with every movement of his. "So much better than any medicine. Fuck—you're gonna be my little cure from now on. Every time I'm sick, I'll just let you open your legs for me. You'd let me, baby. Wouldn't you?"

You nod vehemently, before realizing he can't see you. "Yes, please use me," you moan, spreading your thighs as far as you can while pushing his head closer to you, even when it's almost physically impossible for Jake to even breathe. Not that he would have it any other way.

The grip on his hair, the way you push and pull at it as if you have any command over the stimulation he's giving you, the way you sing for him with every flick of his tongue. It all makes Jake's head spin in the best way possible, his cock stiff again in his pants and throbbing against the very fabric he ruined with his cum only minutes before.

He grunts and moans into you, like he's the one being pleasured, and it all adds to the magic Jake is working on you. The vibrations only aiding in inching you closer to the second orgasm of the day.

"Jake, I'm close, please."

You don't need to say anything else, because he parts from your cunt for a single second. Just enough to let a gobble of his spit drip down right on your engorged clit, coating it in more shiny essence.

You're about the complain about the lack of stimulation, but he dives right back in, licking a singular stripe from your poor mess a of hole upwards. He can taste the remains of the syrup in his own spit still, and paired with the straight up divine taste of your own slick, Jake thinks he might be in heaven.

"So sweet, baby. So fucking sweet. It's like you want me to never stop fucking you with my tongue." He catches your little bundle of nerves between his raw lips, already wet with spit, suckling on it like he's trying to coax even more wetness out of you. He swirls his tongue around it, his eyebrows furrowing in both pleasure and concentration as he keeps toying and prodding at every single part of your pussy.

You're so unbelievably close to coming undone, every passing second just bringing you closer to the brink. All it takes to send you over the edge is Jake moaning with your numb right in his mouth, the small vibrations from it all you needed for the searing white feeling to envelop you completely, the familiar silent yet still deafening tingly sensation spreading from your core to all the limbs in your body.

Jake keeps lapping up all your generous body gives him, thankful for it all and careful not to let a single drop go to waste.

Your arm is thrown over your eyes as you catch your breath, this second orgasm completely emptying you of whatever energy you had left. Usually you would offer Jake to help him out as a little thank you, even though he told you time and time again that it wasn't needed and pleasing you what was got him off in the first place.

But as much as you denied it initially, the fever did take a toll on you, more than you would like to admit. So any further activity would have to wait.

"Yummy." Jake comes up from below you, drying the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand. Even if you're tired and spent, the comment is enough to make you remove your arm from your eyes just so you can give him a well deserved death stare.

He gets up from the bed, disappearing for a few seconds into the bathroom. "What's with that look? No 'thank you Jake, you're the best?'"

When you don't reply, far too weakened to even try to banter with your boyfriend, he walks back into the room with a towel and a worried look etched on his gorgeous features.

He gets on the bed again, careful not to move your body more than necessary, and starts cleaning you up with the gentlest touch you've ever felt him use. "Did i tire you out too much? You're still sick—"

"You were great. Don't worry," you stop his train of thoughts you knew you wouldn't hear the end of if you let him go on for any longer. "I just need a nap, then I'll be as good as new."

The tension in Jake's shoulders only disappears once you smile at him, his own face morphing to match your own. It's one of your favorite things about him, how he's so careful and attentive to every hint and feeling on your face, he ends up mirroring them without even noticing.

He runs his hands soothingly all over your skin as he resumes cleaning you up, the room falling into a peaceful silence.

You almost fall asleep, but you should've known Sim Jake shutting up for once was far too good to be true.

"Look at the mess you made though. This is enough to start an entire pharmacy."

[sh4nksslvt]

Romance By Impact

A series of unfortunate training accidents, unexpected collisions, and very confused pirates—featuring awkward kisses, deadpan reactions, and maybe a few new feelings.

shanks x reader | zoro x reader | mihawk x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, accidental kiss, light romance a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 3k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

The tavern was rowdy in the way only a Red-Haired Pirates pit stop could be—laughter bursting at the seams, ale spilling like waterfalls, and someone’s boot hanging from the ceiling for no discernible reason.

You were seated at your usual corner table, safely tucked away from the wildest parts of the madness but still within arm’s reach of chaos if it happened to wander over. Which it always did. Because, of course, you were with them.

Tonight, chaos arrived in the form of Lucky Roux barrel-rolling across the floor, chasing after a chicken that had apparently stolen his sandwich.

You sipped your drink without blinking.

“Should we stop him?” you asked no one in particular.

“Nah,” came Shanks’s cheerful voice as he flopped down next to you, drink in one hand, and a smirk stretched wide across his sun-warmed face. “Roux’s gotta work through that betrayal himself.”

You tilted your head, watching the chase. “That chicken has excellent footwork.”

Shanks snorted. “It’s always the poultry you least expect.”

He nudged your shoulder with his, and the casual warmth of his presence settled around you like a blanket that smelled faintly of salt, rum, and trouble. You’d been with the crew long enough that this kind of night was practically a lullaby—boisterous, ridiculous, and, in a strange way, comforting.

“Bet you five hundred berries Benn falls asleep with his eyes open again,” you said.

“Double if he does it standing up,” Shanks countered immediately, raising his mug.

You clinked glasses in solemn agreement, like any two upstanding degenerates would.

The crew roared around you—music blaring, a couple of drunk pirates arguing over whether a narwhal could beat a sea king in an underwater arm-wrestling match—and for once, nothing too insane was happening.

Until it did.

It started innocently enough, as these things tend to.

Yasopp challenged Shanks to a drinking game. You were pulled in as the impartial referee, a decision that now, in hindsight, seemed… foolish.

Very foolish.

“I swear on my entire alcohol stash that I won’t cheat,” Shanks said solemnly, hand on his heart.

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know the rules yet.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “So I can’t cheat if I don’t know how.”

“…You are so full of crap.”

“Don’t judge me with those eyes,” he said dramatically. “Your judgment is louder than Benn’s gun.”

The drinking game was a disaster within two minutes. Shanks was supposed to drink only when you called “go,” but he insisted he had “emotional premonitions” of when the right time was, which led to half the table being soaked in rum, and you nearly getting knocked off your seat laughing when Yasopp fake-passed out from "betrayal."

The grand finale happened during a particularly rowdy round, when Shanks, in the middle of turning to dodge a flying peanut (launched by a vengeful Lucky Roux, still chicken-less), whipped his head around—and smacked right into you.

Forehead, nose, lips.

An accidental kiss.

A very smack-worthy, full-on, blink-and-you-miss-it kiss.

There was a beat of silence as your heads bumped slightly, your faces still awkwardly close. He blinked at you. You blinked back.

“…Well,” you said, completely calm, “that’s one way to dodge a peanut.”

Shanks blinked again, then burst out laughing, tipping backward so hard he almost fell off the bench.

“You—” he wheezed between laughs. “You just got accidentally smooched, and your only comment is about a peanut?! DAHAHAHA”

You took another sip of your drink. “You missed the peanut. Poor reflexes.”

“I’m an emperor of the sea!”

“With poor reflexes.”

The table erupted in laughter. Yasopp fell off his chair. Benn, true to the bet, was already dozing with his eyes half-open in the corner.

Later that night, the party simmered down into lazy chuckles and off-key sea shanties. You and Shanks were still at the table, now sharing a plate of spicy skewers someone had abandoned (their mistake).

“So,” he said eventually, nudging you again. “About the kiss.”

You looked up from your skewer squinting at him. “You’re not gonna propose or anything, right?”

He almost choked. “What?!”

“Some people get very dramatic about first kisses,” you said matter-of-factly. “If you were about to declare undying love and offer me a life of sword-swinging romance, I was gonna need at least three more drinks.”

He stared at you for a moment. Then grinned, slow and wide.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Shanks stretched, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “I was gonna make a cheesy joke about how that kiss stole my breath away, but now I feel like you’d hit me.”

“I might. Gently.”

“Deserved,” he admitted.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, settled deep into the bones of the night, the kind of silence that says we’re fine, we’re good, we’re idiots, and it’s okay.

Then Shanks leaned his elbow on the table and gave you a smirk that was half mischief, half curiosity.

“But seriously,” he said, “not even a little flustered?”

You thought for a second, then shook your head.

“You’re not my first accidental kiss, Shanks.”

He gawked. “What?”

“There was this thing with some guy once,” you said, picking up another skewer. “He fell asleep mid-training, woke up, swung his sword, tripped, face-planted into mine. Lips. Boom. Instant nap buddy.”

Shanks looked personally betrayed.

“I thought we had something special.”

You shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “Sorry, I’m a walking magnet for chaos. If anything, this makes us even.”

He was quiet for a beat, then started chuckling again.

“You know,” he said, grinning, “I think I might like that about you.”

“Not the chaos part, right?”

“No, especially that part.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping shoulders with him again. “You’re lucky I’m immune to charm.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to try harder.”

You turned to him, deadpan. “Try aiming better next time. If you're going to kiss me, at least make it count.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

And then Shanks’s grin turned absolutely feral.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

You got up, stretched lazily, and patted his head like one might a particularly smug golden retriever.

“It’s a ‘you spilled sauce on your shirt’ distraction, actually.”

He looked down.

There was no sauce.

You were already halfway to the door.

“Hey!” he called after you, laughing. “That’s cheating!”

You raised your mug in a mock-toast without turning around. “So are emotional premonitions, Captain!”

ZORO

The sun was brutal. The kind of heat that could fry an egg on the deck of the Thousand Sunny if you weren’t careful—or cook your brain if you were dumb enough to train during it.

Which is why you, naturally, were dumb enough to train during it.

“Your stance is all over the place,” Zoro grunted from where he stood, shirtless and already glistening with sweat. His swords were tucked under one arm like an afterthought.

You adjusted your footing. “You said that five minutes ago.”

“And it’s still true five minutes later. Amazing, right?”

“You’re a terrible teacher,” you muttered, shifting again.

Zoro snorted. “And you’re a terrible student. So we’re even.”

It was a typical afternoon—Zoro had been training solo on the upper deck until you wandered in with a practice sword and what you claimed was a completely reasonable curiosity about swordsmanship. He, of course, took this as a challenge to prove why he was the best swordsman on the ship.

You took it as a challenge to mildly annoy him while improving your footwork.

“You're using too much shoulder,” he said, stepping around you. “All power, no control.”

“You sound like Sanji when he critiques my chopping skills.”

Zoro scoffed. “Don’t lump me in with the eyebrow.”

You grinned. “Hit a nerve, mosshead?”

“Try again, and I’ll knock you on your ass.”

“Oh no, sensei, I’m quaking.”

Zoro rolled his eyes, stepping in to correct your posture, hands rough but surprisingly careful as he nudged your wrist and shoulder into position. He stood too close for it to be entirely comfortable—not for you, at least—and his breath was warm against your ear when he muttered, “Now, swing.”

You did.

Too fast. Too hard. Too ambitious.

Zoro moved to block—too late.

There was a flurry of movement. Your feet caught on each other. His elbow knocked into yours. Balance gone. Two bodies tumbling—

And then—

Wham.

His weight half on top of you. The practice sword somewhere nearby, long forgotten. His lips smashed awkwardly against yours—messy, breathless, more collision than kiss.

Silence.

Hot, stifling, vaguely sandy silence.

Zoro lifted his head, eyes wide like someone had just hit him with a frying pan. His nose bumped yours again.

You blinked at him.

“Well,” you said, voice dry, “that’s one way to teach me about impact.”

Zoro scrambled back like he’d been electrocuted, nearly tripping over his own sword in the process.

“I—I didn’t—That wasn’t—” he pointed at you, flushed, eyes wild. “You fell!”

“Correct,” you said, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I was there.”

“We collided!”

“Yep.”

“Your face was just—right there!”

“I imagine it still is.”

Zoro stared at you like you’d grown a second head. You sat up fully, dusting off your shirt, and glanced around.

“Honestly,” you said casually, “I’ve had worse landings.”

“That was your mouth!”

“Well, it wasn’t your foot, so I’m counting my blessings.”

He stood there, mouth slightly agape, looking like his brain had entered maintenance mode. You picked up your fallen practice sword and twirled it idly.

“Anyway,” you added, giving him a once-over. “You okay? You didn’t, like, sprain your pride or anything?”

Zoro blinked. “I—I kissed you!”

You looked at your wrist like you were checking an invisible watch.

“And I’m still breathing,” you said. “So no emergency.”

“You’re weirdly calm about this.”

“Zo, you once mistook a cactus for a training dummy and challenged it to a duel. Our standards for ‘weird’ are skewed.”

Zoro turned scarlet.

“That was one time.”

“I still have the sketch Usopp made of it.”

“I will burn it.”

You shrugged, walking past him toward the rail to stretch your sore legs. “Go for it. I have backups.”

He followed after a second, still visibly flustered, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“So,” he said slowly, suspiciously, “you’re not… mad?”

You looked at him. “Mad? You tripped and accidentally kissed me. I’m not gonna sue you for emotional damages.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t, like, a move or anything—”

“I know.” You smiled, folding your arms. “Though if it was, I gotta say—clumsy technique. Room for improvement.”

That shut him up.

For about three seconds.

“You’re infuriating.”

“You kissed me.”

“That doesn’t mean I like you!”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you did.”

More silence.

Then Zoro turned abruptly toward the rail and muttered, “Well, maybe I do.”

You stared.

He stared harder at the horizon.

“…Did you just confess to the ocean?”

“It’s neutral ground.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“And you’re annoying.”

You stepped closer, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Do you always fall on top of people when you’re into them?”

“Only the ones who can take it.”

You smiled, surprised and not surprised at the same time.

“I’m flattered.”

He side-eyed you, still red in the ears. “So… you don’t mind?”

“The accidental kiss? Or the part where you basically admitted you like me?”

“Both.”

You gave it a moment. Then shrugged. “I don’t mind either.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You looked him up and down. “You’re hot, skilled with three swords, and somehow managed to trip and kiss me without impaling either of us. That's impressive.”

“You have low standards.”

“I have realistic standards. And I’ve seen you snore in a tree upside-down. I’m not exactly expecting poetry and roses.”

“…Good. I don’t do that stuff.”

“Obviously.”

You leaned on the railing beside him.

“You know,” you said casually, “if you want to properly kiss me sometime, you could just ask.”

Zoro stiffened.

Then, very slowly, he said: “…You mean, like... on purpose?”

You nodded. “Yeah. With mouth coordination and everything.”

He looked like he was solving a physics equation in his head.

“That’s… bold of you.”

“I am bold.”

He glanced at you, then at your mouth, then away again, scowling like it personally offended him.

“Maybe later.”

You grinned. “You say that like I’m on a schedule.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “annoying brat,” but didn’t walk away.

Later that night, you found a small bundle of snacks on your bunk—your favorite, carefully tied with a red string.

There was no note.

But Zoro was mysteriously missing from post-dinner drinks.

And when you found him again, fast asleep on the training deck with a slight smile and a very obvious blush…

You didn’t say a word.

But you did steal his bandana and left a note in its place:

“Next time, I’m aiming for your mouth. On purpose.”

MIHAWK

The first thing you learned after arriving on Kuraigana Island was that everything was too quiet.

The second thing you learned was that Mihawk didn't do "chit-chat."

He spoke in silences and glances, moved like a blade through shadow, and regarded most human emotion with the polite detachment of someone observing a minor weather event.

You weren’t sure why he agreed to let you stay, but you weren’t complaining. Something about “discipline” and “training potential.” Or maybe he just liked the sound of your sword clashing against his—it was hard to tell.

Currently, the clash in question was taking place in the overgrown courtyard behind his castle. Vines curled along shattered pillars, moss blanketed stone steps, and two crows cawed disapprovingly as Mihawk parried your strike with less effort than someone brushing lint from a coat.

“Tighter grip,” he said, flicking your blade aside.

“I have a tight grip,” you huffed, adjusting your footing. “My bones are humming.”

“Your technique is humming,” he replied, stepping around you. “Your bones are just trying to keep up.”

You gave him a look. He returned it with a subtle, unimpressed tilt of his head.

“I’m going to hit you eventually,” you muttered.

“Unlikely.”

“Says the man with a bird for a butler.”

“Perona talks more than you. And she’s a ghost.”

You lunged again—he sidestepped effortlessly. Your momentum carried you forward, and before you could recover, Mihawk moved. A blur. His hand on your arm, redirecting. Your balance tipped.

One misstep.

You fell.

So did he.

Right on top of you.

His hat flew off.

Your mouths met in a brief, surprised, and completely accidental kiss.

It was soft. Barely a second. Warm. Smelled faintly of red wine and leather.

Then—

He blinked.

You blinked.

The crows blinked, probably.

“…Well,” you said, still flat on your back. “That’s one way to parry.”

Mihawk didn’t move immediately. His face was inches from yours. He was clearly calculating something—trajectory, blame, moral ramifications, possible prison time.

Then he leaned back, brushed nonexistent dust from his coat, and offered a gloved hand.

“I believe that qualifies as a technical error,” he said flatly.

You took his hand and stood. “Are you talking about my stance or the kiss?”

“The latter,” he said. Then, after a pause, “The former was already unsalvageable.”

You snorted. “Charming as always.”

“Mm.”

He turned to retrieve his sword, as if he hadn’t just accidentally kissed someone in the middle of sword training on an abandoned island.

You rubbed your jaw. “You kissed me.”

“I landed on you.”

“Lips-first.”

“That was not intentional.”

“Shame. You’re weirdly good at it.”

Mihawk paused mid-step. His eye flicked to you like a dagger. You could’ve sworn one of the crows wheezed.

“I am proficient in many skills,” he said at last.

You nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll add ‘spontaneous kissing’ to the list.”

“Remove ‘self-preservation,’ while you’re at it.”

You grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

He turned back toward the castle with his usual smooth grace, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder:

“You’re due for footwork drills. Ten laps.”

“For kissing you?”

“For falling.”

“Again, you fell too.”

“And yet here I am. Standing. Composed.”

“Smug.”

He didn’t deny it.

You did your laps. Begrudgingly. Grumbling.

By sunset, Mihawk was seated on the stone steps, wine in hand, his sword resting beside him like an extension of his arm. You joined him, flopping down with a huff and sweat-damp hair.

“You planning to avoid talking about it forever?” you asked.

He sipped his wine. “Define ‘it.’”

“The part where you kissed me.”

He glanced sideways. “Do you truly require verbal confirmation of what your mouth already knows?”

You blinked. “Is that your version of flirting?”

“It’s my version of clarity.”

You stared at him. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I am denying the accident. Not the effect.”

You tried not to visibly short-circuit. “That was almost romantic.”

“I could try again,” he said calmly, still watching the horizon.

“Oh yeah?”

“Properly this time.”

You hesitated.

Then turned to face him. “Alright.”

He looked at you fully now, gold eye sharp, steady. There was no dramatic lean-in. No swelling music or cinematic pause.

He just placed his wine down, leaned in slowly, and kissed you.

Softly.

Deliberately.

His lips were cool from the wine, but his hand warm as it rested lightly on your jaw. No rush. No fumble.

Just precision. Control.

Steel and silk.

When he pulled back, you were pretty sure the crows had tactfully flown off.

“Well,” you said faintly. “I see why people fear you.”

“Because I kiss well?”

“Because you do everything like it’s a duel.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not in the slightest.”

You leaned back, satisfied. “So... are we dating now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Will it interfere with training?”

“Only if you kiss me mid-swing.”

He gave the faintest smile. “Then we’ll manage.”

Later, you found a red wine left near your sword. Wrapped with black ribbon. No note.

Very Mihawk.

You kissed his cheek in the morning.

He didn’t protest.

But your next sparring session? Brutal.

You limped for three days.

© dollywons for the dividers <3

[haeivie]

𓍼 LINE CROSSING. L. DONGHYUCK

𐙚. you weren’t supposed to want your best friend’s little brother, but haechan made it impossible to keep pretending.

bsf brother!haechan x fem!reader

wc : 4.3k

( smut mdni 18+ )

tags : legal three year age-gap, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex (wrap before u tap), teasing, dirty talk, use of baby & angel, slight overstim, praising, reader focused, cursing, i think that’s it !

𑁤 vie’s note : first full smut fic, please tell me what u guys think !

˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

your first mistake was asking for a towel.

“hyuck!” you yell from the shower, steam curling around your body as you stood behind the curtain. “can you bring me a towel? i forgot to grab one.”

you expect footsteps, a half-hearted groan, maybe a passive-aggressive toss through the door. but instead, the door creaks open a little, and haechan’s voice glides through the steam like honey laced with mischief.

“you sure you want me to bring it?”

you blink. “obviously? unless your brother magically came home early.”

“he didn’t,” haechan says, and then the door opens a little wider. you can’t see much, just his silhouette, and the towel hanging from one finger. “but i’m happy to help.”

you peek around the shower curtain, dripping hand outstretched. “just give it.” he steps closer. doesn’t hand it over. just lets it dangle. “what’s the magic word?”

you groan. “please, hyuck. please give me the towel so i can get out.”

“well, since you asked so nicely…” he tosses it at your face and laughs when you yelp.

“you’re annoying,” you mutter, wrapping it around yourself. “and you’re lucky i didn’t take a picture. half-wet and grumpy. real cute.”

𐙚 . . .

haechan’s always been like this. annoying, dramatic, loud. your best friend’s little brother who once cried because you beat him at mario kart and now, he walks around like he owns the whole world. only difference is he grew up. somewhere between you leaving for college and moving back home for work, he got taller. sharper. hotter.

and he knows it.

he leans back too casually. bites his lip when he’s thinking. flirts like it’s breathing.

your second mistake is wandering into the kitchen in search of coffee, wearing an old hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours and fuzzy socks that hushed your footsteps on the floor. you expect the house to be quiet and empty. instead, you stop short in the doorway.

not only are you met with the delicious smell of food and coffee but haechan too. standing by the stove, barefoot, shirtless, and wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. his back is to you, and from this angle, you can see the way his arm and back flex as he stirs something in a pan. his hair is messy, still damp from a shower, the ends curling slightly at his neck.

he looks like something out of a daydream. and you don’t mean to stare. you really don’t. but it’s early. your defenses are down. and he’s right there, all warm and tan in the morning light, humming under his breath. he must hear you eventually, as he glances back, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

“morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “i didn’t wake you, did i?”

you shake your head, hovering awkwardly by the doorway still. “no, just…in need of coffee.” he nods toward the counter without looking. “already made. help yourself.”

you shuffle past him, pretending not to notice how close he is. how warm. how your bare thigh brushes his clothed hip as you reach for a mug. “you’re up early,” you murmur.

“your fault. couldn’t sleep.”

you glance over. “how is it my fault?”

his mouth quirks into a grin. “you talk in your sleep.”

“no i don’t.”

“you do.” he bumps his hip into yours playfully. “pretty sure you said my name.” your stomach does something dangerous.

“and i’m sure it was to tell you to shut up.”

he smirks. “sounded a lot more like begging.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re ridiculous.”

“maybe.” he shrugs.

you try to sip your coffee, pretend he’s not affecting you, but then he turns the stove off and finally faces you fully. and you forget how to breathe. his chest rising and falling slow, lips a little pink like he’s been biting them. eyes glimmering with trouble as always. he leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

“you know i’m legal now, right?” he says, casual as anything.

your brow lifts. “so?”

he shrugs. “just figured i’d remind you. since you keep looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re thinking about doing something.”

you roll your eyes, fighting the heat that creeps up your neck. “i know a lot of legal idiots.”

he grins, eyes gleaming. “but none of them look like me.”

you scoff, setting your mug down. “you are so full of yourself.”

he takes a lazy step toward you. “you have seen me, right?”

𐙚 . . .

your third mistake is staying too long. you were supposed to crash at their house for one weekend while your apartment’s getting fumigated. it turns into a week. then two.

his brother’s barely home. haechan is always home.

“this is dangerous,” you whisper to yourself when you catch him looking at you like he knows what you’d sound like moaning.

“what is?” he asks from the couch, licking chocolate off his thumb from a cupcake.

you shake your head and tell yourself he’s just being annoying again. but then there’s the night he walks into the kitchen in shorts and nothing else, scratching his hair and yawning like he didn’t just ruin your ability to form thoughts.

or the time he corners you in the hallway and leans in close, voice low.

“you keep looking at me like that, yn. maybe i’ll start thinking you want something.”

𐙚 . . .

one night, you’re curled up on the couch, blanket halfway off your legs and your laptop on your thighs. haechan drops next to you without asking, stretching his arm along the backrest.

you glance at him. “what?”

“nothing,” he says, smiling lazily. “just wondering how long you’re gonna pretend this tension isn’t real.”

you scoff. “what tension?”

he leans in, voice brushing your ear. “don’t play dumb. you know what i’m talking about.” you turn to glare at him, but he’s so close. and his eyes are darker than usual. serious.

“tell me to stop,” he says, reaching up to brush his knuckles on your cheekbone.

you don’t. you can’t. and when he leans in careful, and daring, you’re the one who closes the gap.

you kiss him.

his lips part against yours with the tiniest breath, a low sound catching in his throat like he’s surprised. like he wasn’t actually expecting you to give in. your hand brushes his jaw, and he stills. it’s not rushed. it’s not clumsy. but dangerous, like something that’s been waiting to happen for a long time. when you pull back, it’s barely an inch.

“don’t,” you whisper, breath brushing his lips, “don’t make it a joke.”

his eyes flicker. “i wasn’t going to.”

you nod once, your pulse is still racing and your fingers are still curled into his hair

“how long?” you ask.

haechan’s hand slides over your knee under the blanket, slow and easy like he’s testing the weight of the moment. “since you moved back,” he says. “probably even before that.”

your throat goes dry.

his hand moves higher.

“i used to hear you talking to hyung in your room,” he murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh. “laughing. whispering late at night. i used to imagine what your voice would sound like saying my name instead.”

you breathe out, shaky. “you’re bad.”

he grins. “you have no idea.”

and then he kisses you again. this time with more intent. not hesitant.

his lips slide slow and warm against yours, like he’s savoring it. like he’s memorizing the way you taste. one hand cradles your jaw, tilting your head just right, the other still under the blanket, still climbing, heat trailing under his fingertips. you’re the one who moves, swinging one leg over his lap without thinking. and he groans.

“fuck,” he breathes, head falling back against the couch. “you’re really doing this to me, huh?”

you’re flushed, hands gripping his shoulders. “you said i kept looking at you like i wanted something.” his dark now hungry eyes meet yours. “what do you want?” you bite your lip. press yourself closer. your hips meet his and he exhales hard through his nose, jaw tightening.

“for us to stop avoiding this.”

“baby,” he says, almost a whimper, “i’ve been dying for this.”

his hands slide under your shirt, thumbs brushing your waist. his mouth drags down your jaw, your neck, nipping once at the skin below your ear.

“you’re so warm,” he mumbles. “always walking around in your little lacey tops and sleep shorts like i wouldn’t notice. like i wouldn’t get hard every time.” you gasp, hips twitching against his, and he curses again, low and rough. his hands grip you tighter. “don’t do that unless you’re ready for where it’s going.”

“i am,” you whisper.

you kiss him again. this time harder, needier. you’ve got time. his brother wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.

𐙚 . . .

your back hits the door of his room before you even realize you’ve made it down the hall. it clicks shut behind you, and then he’s pressing into you, hands firm on your waist, mouth needy against yours.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs into your skin, his lips trailing hot over your neck, your collarbone. “swear i will.”

“don’t want you to,” you breathe, fingers already under his shirt, dragging it up over his stomach, his chest.

haechan shudders. “fuck.”

you pull it off him, toss it aside. he looks good like this. all flushed, eyes dark, muscles tight with restraint. and when you kiss him again, he groans into your mouth, like he’s been holding it in for too long. you don’t stop this time.

he backs you toward the bed, fingers tugging at your shirt until it’s gone too. his eyes rake down your body, lingering. “fuck,” he says. “you’re unreal.”

you start to say something smart, something to break the tension, but then his mouth is on your chest, tongue dragging slow over your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. your hands slide through his hair, pulling him closer, and he hums like he’s exactly where he wanted to be. then he’s sinking lower. kissing down your stomach, and untying your shorts with careful fingers. you lift your hips to help him, watching him the whole time. he meets your eyes as he slides your pantie down, slow enough to make your breath catch.

“so pretty…so wet…” he murmurs, kneeling between your legs like he’s done it before. “you’ve been like this for me all week, haven’t you?”

you nod. shakily. “don’t tease.”

but he smirks. “you like it when i tease.”

then he dips his head. and fuck.

his mouth is perfect.

soft and warm and wet, his tongue began moving in slow circles, teasing you open while his fingers dig into your thighs to hold you in place. you moan, head falling back, one hand tangled in his hair while the other grips the sheets.

“hyuck—”

he groans when you say his name, deep and wrecked, like he could come just from hearing that alone. he pulls back just enough to breathe against you, lips slick, voice hoarse.

“say it again,” he whispers. “say my name like that.”

you do, breathy and desperate, and he rewards you by licking a long stripe up your cunt slowly, dragging the flat of his tongue all the way to your clit, where he flicks it, light and fast, until you gasp and buck under him.

“that’s it,” he grins, looking up at you with blown-out eyes and a soaked mouth. “you taste so fucking good.”

his hips shift against the bed, grinding down like he can’t help it. his sweatpants hang low, barely clinging to his hips. the outline of him, hard and needy, was pressing against the fabric. he groans softly, hips rocking again. “been thinking about this for so long,” he pants. “how sweet you’d taste…how pretty you’d sound when i had you like this.”

he licks again, slower this time, circling with purpose, eyes fixed on your face while his mouth works you open. your thighs tremble in his grip.

“you’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost reverent. “all this for me, huh?”

you nod, breath catching, one hand in his hair, the other fisting the sheets. he moans into you, rutting a little harder now against the mattress, like your sounds are getting him off just as much as the way you tasted.

“fuck,” he groans, “i could eat this pussy all night.”

his tongue flicks faster, more purposefully now. your thighs shake and your stomach pulls tight. and then he sucks at you and your whole body arches, your cry breaking in the back of your throat. he doesn’t stop. not even when your hips twitch up to him or your when fingers tug at his hair. he just keeps going, humming into you like he’s drunk on it, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

he keeps going, building you up, slow but relentless, and you’re already so close. your hips rocking, thighs trembling. his fingers soon join his mouth, slipping inside you with ease while his tongue flicks just right.

“fuck—i’m—”

you fall apart with a wrecked cry, back arching, legs shaking around his shoulders. your fingers twist in his hair, holding on for dear life as your climax crashes over you,

and he doesn’t stop.

he moans into you like he’s starving, licking through it messily, his mouth moving with no rhythm now. just pure need and hunger. he kisses you like he’s making out with your cunt, tongue wet and sloppy, lips dragging over every sensitive inch like he can’t stand the idea of pulling away.

you tremble, feeling oversensitive. your hips twitching as he keeps going. your hands tug at his roots, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. he groans when you do, hips grinding into the mattress like he’s losing it, like your taste is driving him insane.

“shit,” he pants, dragging his mouth open-mouthed along your thigh, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal.”

then he bites down hard on the softest part of your inner thigh, leaving a flushed, reddening mark that makes you gasp.

“mine,” he mutters against your skin, voice low, half-growled. “you hear me? mine.”

his tongue soothes over it like an apology. his hands stroking your legs like he’s trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing calm in the way he looks at you. his pupils blown, lips swollen, chin shiny with you. when you finally tug him up, your chest still heaving, he kisses you with that same messy need, tongue slipping past your lips like he has to let you taste yourself on him. like he wants you to know what he just did to you. and when he pulls back, breathless and smug, he grins like a boy who just claimed something he’s been wanting for a long, long time.

“you gonna let me do that again?” he asks, voice rough.

“shut up.” you pant before pulling him back to you.

you taste yourself on his lips even when you kiss him again. it was filthy. perfect.

“you’re okay?” he asks, panting, forehead pressed to yours.

you nod, dazed. “yeah. fuck. yeah.”

he grins, presses a kiss to your cheek, then your neck, then the top of your breast. “can i—?” he doesn’t finish the question, but you know what he means.

you nod again. “yeah. please.”

he strips quick after that. his sweats and boxers pushed down, cock flushed angry and ready. and you don’t even get to tease him about how hard he is, how needy, because he’s already settling between your thighs, kissing you slow again. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. his teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

he bottoms out with a groan, forehead dropping to your shoulder. your fingers dig into his back, clutching him like you’ll fall apart if you let go. then he starts to move. slow at first. deep, rolling thrusts that make you feel everything. you cling to him, mouth open against his neck, gasping with each stroke.

“been thinking about this for so long,” he pants. “so fucking long.”

you moan his name, and that’s all it takes. haechan picks up the pace, hips snapping into you harder, deeper. the bed beginning to creak a little. every sound between you turns louder, messier, until you’re right there again.

his forehead presses to yours, sweat forming above his brows, strands of hair sticking to his skin. he looks down between your bodies, watches the way you take him over and over again like he’s memorizing the sight. like he never wants to forget how perfect you look when you’re wrapped around him.

you moan his name and clancy around him, and it’s like something snaps inside him. he groans, hips jolting harder, faster, the rhythm going from steady to frantic in a second.

“fuck, that’s it,” he growls, “do that again—one more time for me?” he moans feeling you clench around him once more.

“haechan,” you cry, voice catching on a gasp.

“just like that, baby. just like that.” he smirks.

his hand finds your waist, holding you steady, guiding your hips up to meet each deep thrust. every movement is slick and hot. the wet sounds between you only making it worse. your back arches off the mattress as his body covers yours completely now. his mouth was everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, the space just beneath your ear.

“you feel so good,” he groans, fucking into you harder, like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget what he feels like. “so tight, so warm—shit, yn, you’re mine.”

you gasp, body curling as heat coils tight in your belly again, building fast.

“haechan—baby—i’m gonna—”

“yeah?” his voice is wrecked and wild. he fucks into you faster, chasing it with you, every snap of his hips bringing you closer to the edge. “cum for me again, baby. want it all. wanna feel you—fuck—wanna feel you cum all over me.”

he lowers his head, mouth against your throat now, breathing hard.

“make a mess for me, angel,” he groans, “wanna feel you let go.”

you’re already shaking, nails digging into his back, the edge rushing up fast.

“haechan—i can’t—”

“yes you can, baby,” he pants against your skin, voice trembling as he drives into you deeper, harder. “don’t fight it—fuck—just let go. give it to me.”

his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your already swollen bud with ease, rubbing fast, pushing you right over.

you cry out, thighs locking around his hips, body arching up into his chest as the orgasm crashes over you. hot and heavy and violent. you clench around him so hard it rips a moan straight from his throat.

“oh my god—fuck, you’re so tight when you come,” he chokes out, hips stuttering.

you’re still trembling, breath knocked from your lungs, but he keeps moving, chasing his own release with frantic, broken movements. one of his hands grasps the sheets near your head, the other still holding your hip like he needs the anchor or he’ll lose it completely.

“gonna cum baby, you feel so good—i’m gonna—shit—”

you reach up, cup his flushed face, whisper just one thing through your wrecked moan. “cum inside me, hyuck.”

his eyes roll back. a sharp, desperate noise tears out of his throat. and then he’s slamming into you one last time, burying himself deep as he groans your name and spills into you, hips jerking through it. his body shaking above yours.

he stays there, forehead pressed to your neck, both of you catching your breath, sweat-slick skin stuck together in the quiet aftermath. for a second, neither of you speak. it’s just the sound of your hearts pounding. your uneven breathing. his hands still trembling where they grip you.

then he lifts his head, kisses your mouth softly. slow and lazy.

“you wreck me,” he whispers, smiling against your lips. “completely.”

you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “you deserve it.”

he laughs, still breathless. “round two after water?”

you grin. “after a lot of water.”

you knew you were in trouble now.

𐙚 . . .

it’s quiet in his room when you wake up.

sunlight filters through the blinds, soft and golden across the sheets. you’re warm, but not uncomfortably so. not with the way haechan was wrapped around you, one arm slung heavy over your waist, one leg tangled with yours. his chest pressed to your back, his breath warm against your shoulder. you shift a little and his arm tightens around you, pulling you back into him with a low sound.

“where you going?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“wasn’t,” you whisper. “just adjusting.”

he hums, nose nudging against your neck. “stay a little longer.”

you smile. you can’t not. his fingers slide over your stomach, lazily and soft, tracing little shapes. and you would’ve stayed like that, all wrapped up in the comforting, in the aftermath of everything line you crossed last night. if it weren’t for the knock. three quick taps. the door creaks open a second later.

“haechan, have you seen my—”

you both freeze.

his brother stands there, blinking, mouth halfway open.. he was completely unprepared for what’s in front of him. you. in his little brother’s bed. very clearly not wearing much, or anything at all. partially hidden under the blanket, but not enough.

haechan lets out the softest “shit” you’ve ever heard.

his brother’s eyes flick from you to haechan to the discarded clothes on the floor and then back to your face. you sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest, heart slamming into your ribs. “i—uh—hi.”

he stares for one more second before he slaps a hand over his eyes like it’s going to erase what he saw. “oh my god. oh my god.”

“hyung, can you—” haechan groans and covers his face with one arm. “can you not barge into my room at seven a.m?”

“are you serious right now?” his brother’s voice goes high, almost panicked. “is this a joke? you and her?”

“look, can we—can we just talk about this later?” you say quickly, still holding the blanket up, heat crawling down your neck and cheeks.

“later?” his brother says, exasperated. “what do you mean later? my best friend—my older best friend—just slept with my baby brother!”

“okay, ‘baby’ is really pushing it,” haechan mutters under his breath.

“you’re lucky i don’t punch you right now.”

“please leave,” you whisper, face hot enough to fry an egg.

his brother sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “i���m gonna pretend i didn’t see anything. i’m walking out. i’m walking away. this…this never happened. breakfast is in the kitchen.”

the door slams shut behind him. you collapse back into the bed, burying your face in your hands. haechan just laughs. “well,” he says, rolling onto his side to look at you. “that could’ve gone worse.”

you groan. “he’s going to kill me.”

“nah. he’s just jealous he caught me right before i could spoil you in bed and show off my skills, cooking and in bed.”

you smack his arm.

“what? i’m not wrong.”

and despite your mortification, the awkwardness, the inevitable conversation waiting for you downstairs, you’re smiling again.

because last night wasn’t a mistake. and you both knew that.

𐙚 . . .

later in the afternoon, you’re on the couch in one of haechan’s t shirts and your own shorts, sipping a cold drink while he scrolls through his phone next to you. it’s comfortable, easy, like nothing’s really changed. except now his hand rests on your bare thigh, and every time he looks at you, it’s like he’s remembering exactly how you sound falling apart under him.

his brother left a note saying he was “going out for a long walk and possibly therapy,” which was either a joke or a warning. either way, the house is yours for now.

he nudges your knee with his. “hey.”

“hm?”

“i wanna take you out.”

you blink. “like, out out?”

“like,” he sets his phone down and turns fully to you, voice a little more serious, “a real date. the kind with food and conversation and probably me getting worked up because you’ll look stupid hot in whatever you wear.”

you choke on your drink. “haechan—”

“what? i’m being honest,” he says with that wicked grin. “i’d wine and dine you, pull your chair out, call you pretty all night…then spend the whole ride home thinking about how you’d look in the backseat with your legs over my shoulders, begging me not to stop.”

you stare at him.

he grins. “again. because, you know. i already know how you sound. but i’ll never get tired of it.”

you set your cup down. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet,” he leans in, brushing his nose against yours, “you still let me rearrange your guts last night.”

“haechan.”

“twice.”

you groan into your hands, but you’re smiling. you can’t not. not when he’s looking at you like that. soft eyes, lips twitching like he’s trying not to fall too hard too fast but already has.

he hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up to meet his.

“seriously,” he says, voice low now. “i wanna take you out. hold your hand. let people think you’re too good for me—which you are—but i still get to have you anyway.”

your heart stutters.

“okay,” you whisper. “yeah. let’s go on a date.”

he kisses you like you just agreed to everything he’s ever wanted.

then he pulls back, eyes gleaming. “cool. but heads up—if you keep wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, i might have to take you back to my room before we even leave.”

“so you’re saying i should keep it on?”

“oh, absolutely.”

and when you lean in, smiling into his kiss, you already know this is the start of something real. chaotic, a little reckless, but real.

you’re in trouble. you’re also in love.

and frankly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[hainge]

While mama is away...

bllk!dads summary:You’re off on a well-deserved vacation, and it’s Dad’s turn to take care of the morning school/daycare chaos (but not for everyone). But don’t worry, they are trying.

characters: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Shidou Ryusei, Chigiri Hyoma and Isagi Yoichi

Michael Kaiser and Felix (5)

"Your hair looks like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser wakes to the rhythmic sound of tiny fists slapping wood, not his face, thankfully, but his bedroom door. Each knock is punctuated with a little voice that sounds way too calm for this level of passive aggression.

"You forgot to prep my uniform like you promised."

Kaiser groans, dragging a pillow over his face. "That can’t be right. I swear I laid it out." His voice is hoarse. His brain is not yet connected to his limbs.

"You didn’t. Mama always does it the night before. Organized people do that. You are not one of them."

He peeks out from the pillow. Felix is standing there in blue footie pajamas, arms crossed like a tiny HR rep preparing to file a complaint. His hair is somehow perfectly brushed, probably brushed it himself. Probably judged Kaiser in the mirror while doing it.

Kaiser stumbles up and scans the room. There’s no sign of a uniform. Just a mountain of track pants, training jerseys, and a rogue shin guard sitting on a chair like a depressed accessory.

"Okay, okay. We’ll find it. Let me just—"

Felix sighs with the kind of disappointment that ages a man ten years. "This is why I schedule things. Mama says time is a tool, and you're just swinging it around like a sword in the dark."

"You're a kid" Kaiser squints at him.

"And yet, I'm thriving."

Breakfast is chaos, wrapped in good intentions and sealed with failure.

Kaiser, in boxers and one sock, confidently pours chocolate chip cookie cereal into a bowl like it’s a gift to mankind.

"No," Felix says immediately, deadpan.

Kaiser blinks. "What do you mean no?"

"I want the star cereal. With the astronaut bear on the box."

"We don’t have astronaut cereal. I checked."

Felix picks up his dinosaur cup, takes a long, judgmental sip of water, and sets it down like he's a seasoned divorce attorney about to deliver a verdict.

"Then you failed twice."

"Okay, I’m improvising!" Kaiser declares, dramatically. "That’s called flexibility. Champions adapt."

"You made me a bowl of disappointment"

The kid turns on his heel and stomps toward the living room.

"Play Paw Patrol."

Kaiser sighs and flips it on. The theme song blasts while he toasts bread and slices a banana, trying to channel his inner domestic god. Felix sulks under a blanket on the couch, his face barely visible, eyes fixed on Sky like she’s the only creature who gets him.

"Are you mad at Papa?" Kaiser asks, creeping over with the toast like a peace offering.

"disappointed."

Kaiser recoils. "That’s worse!"

In the car, the silence is palpable until Felix decides to reopen the case file.

"Your hair looks weird."

Kaiser glances in the rearview. "It’s bedhead. I didn’t get to do anything to it."

"You look like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser nearly swerves into a dramatic spiral. "You’re still young and vulnerable. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally."

Felix shrugs. "Love doesn’t mean enabling."

Kaiser stares at him for a moment too long at a red light. "Are you sure you’re five?"

"I’m advanced."

He squints. "You don’t have, like, dwarfism or something? Because your tongue is ancient."

Felix tilts his head, unbothered. "Maybe you just need to grow up."

Kaiser exhales. "This is why your mama needs to come home."

Itoshi Rin and Masako (7)

“You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that.”

Rin Itoshi was not ready.

And he’s been in World Cup finals. He’s played in front of millions of people. He’s stared down some of the best strikers in the world. But none of that prepared him for the soft pink battlefield that is Masako’s bedroom at 7 a.m.

He’s standing there, clutching a hairbrush like it personally offended him, staring down his tiny opponent: a seven-year-old in a unicorn nightgown, legs swinging calmly over the edge of her bed, smiling like she’s about to give him performance feedback.

"Morning, Papa," Masako says sweetly, eyes shining with innocence and a hint of dread.

"Hey, baby. Let’s get you dressed, yeah?"

"Okay. Mama usually does it while I tell her about my dreams, and then we do affirmations. But you can do it your way."

Rin pauses. "Affirmations?"

"You know. ‘I am brave, I am strong, I am smart, I am kind.’" She tilts her head. "Mama says it rewires my neurons."

Rin has no idea what that means. He awkwardly clears his throat. "You are… all of those. Very… neuron-y."

Masako beams. "Good try."

He opens the dresser drawer and grabs a blue dress with little daisies on it.

"That’s the Tuesday dress," she says without even looking.

Rin blinks. "It’s… Friday?"

She points. "Mama folds them in day-order. See the little tags?"

There are labels. Actual tiny labeled dividers — "MONDAY," "TUESDAY," "WEDNESDAY" — staring up at him like proof he’s unfit for this mission.

He stares into the drawer like it betrayed him. "I feel lied to by fabric."

Masako pats his arm gently. "It’s okay. I’ll help you. You’re learning."

He finally gets her into the Friday dress after a mild struggle involving backward tights and a missing sock (it was on her hand, pretending to be a puppet named Alice).

Now: the hair.

He lifts the brush, cautiously. Masako gives him a look.

"That’s not the detangle brush."

"It’s a brush," Rin replies flatly.

"The detangle one is the purple one with the soft bristles. And Mama uses the pink spray first. It’s in the cabinet behind the scary face cream."

"My shaving cream?"

"Yes. It’s foamy. I don’t trust it."

He sighs, finds the spray, and squirts half of it into his own eye. Masako blinks politely and hands him a towel like this is routine.

He starts brushing, gently.

"Papa," she says after a few strokes. "You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that."

"I’ve played against international strikers," Rin mutters.

"And now you're brushing the wrong bones."

By some miracle, he gets one (1) braid done. It is crooked. It is struggling. It looks like it just came back from a very windy jog. Masako looks at herself in the mirror, then turns to him with a soft smile.

"You tried. I’ll tell Mama you tried."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. It’s a fashionable tornado. Very abstract. Very… movement."

"You’re so much like your mom, it’s terrifying."

"She said that too."

"Do you do this every morning?" he asks, exhausted, watching her munch on heart-shaped cereal pieces.

"Yup." She chews thoughtfully. "But Mama makes it feel less like a crisis."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

When he ties her shoelaces and gets them both into the car, both dressed, fed, semi-composed, he lets out a breath like he just finished a 90-minute match in overtime.

From the backseat: "You did good, Papa."

He smiles, warmed.

"Except for my braid. I feel like I can hear it."

"Thanks for your support."

"You’re welcome. You tried really hard. But maybe… don’t quit your day job."

Rin glances in the mirror, mock-offended. "Why are you like this?"

Masako shrugs.

Itoshi Sae, Kimiko(6) and Haruki (4)

“Papa: useless.”

Sae wakes up to the sound of war.

Not actual war, just the six-year-old kind.

"GET UP! WE’RE GONNA BE LATE AND I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING IF I HAVE TO PACK MY OWN LUNCH—"

The voice echoes through the apartment with the fury of a kindergarten general. Sae blinks at the ceiling, sighs, and reaches blindly for the mug already on his nightstand. Cold coffee. He knew this would happen.

A door slams. Feet stomp. A high-pitched rant about someone putting the purple lid on the pink cup.

Welcome to morning with Kimiko.

He shuffles into the kitchen where his daughter, dressed in blue pajamas and righteous purpose, is furiously spreading jam onto toast. She’s standing on a stool, her hair already brushed and braided, a sparkly headband angled with extreme precision.

Her little brother Haruki is laid out face-first on the couch like he passed out mid-protest, blanket over his head, legs kicking idly in the air.

Sae sips his coffee. "Is he breathing?"

Kimiko glances over her shoulder. "Barely. He won’t eat the eggs, and I did the smiley face ketchup thing. Just like Mama. I even gave the eggs eyebrows."

Sae leans on the counter. "You’re terrifying."

Haruki lifts his head an inch. His hair is flattened on one side like a soggy croissant. "I want bread."

Kimiko slaps a hand to her forehead like this is the fourth trial she’s endured today. Sae tosses a slice of bread in Haruki’s direction. It lands on his back. He grunts in approval and flops back down like a tranquilized cat.

Kimiko chugs her milk like it’s a stress reliever. "Hair: brushed. Water bottle: filled. Math homework: complete. Papa: useless."

Sae raises an eyebrow. "At least one of us is thriving."

"I did your and Mama’s job today."

"Should I pay you?"

"Yes. A LOL surprise."

Sae thinks about it, nods slowly. "Only if you stop yelling at Haruki."

"Deal."

Ten minutes later, Kimiko is doing a last-minute inspection of her backpack like a TSA agent. Haruki is under the table, still eating his bread one crumb at a time.

Sae walks over and crouches down. "You gonna make it, champ?"

Haruki gives him a slow, sleepy thumbs up. "Papa’s cool."

"Wow. That’s the highest rating I’ve ever gotten from you."

Kimiko calls from the hallway. "He only compliments people once a week."

On the way out the door, Sae looks down at his son, bed-headed, shoeless, still munching.

"You and me are the same, huh?"

Kimiko turns back around, arms crossed. "you’re both boring."

Sae shrugs.

Kimiko lets out a long, exhausted sigh like she’s raising both of them. "I hope Mama never finds out how bad this was."

"Too late," Sae says, unlocking his phone and pointing at the camera. "I recorded everything. Gonna show her you braided your own hair."

Kimiko gasps. "That’s illegal!"

Haruki looks up. "Tell mama I brushed my teeth."

"You didn’t." she yelled.

Sae sighed. "I thought about it." he smiles faintly as they head out, Kimiko already bossing her brother down the hallway.

Sometimes being a dad felt like being on a team where the coach was six, the star player was asleep under the coffee table, and he was just there to drive the van.

But hey. They were dressed, fed (kind of), and on time. That’s a win.

Nagi Seishiro and Shizuku (4)

“You said that three times already.”

Nagi wakes up to a presence.

Not noise. Not shaking. Just…vibes.

He opens one eye and sees Shizuku standing silently at his bedside, holding her bunny and staring like a tiny, polite ghost. Her hair is a waterfall down her back, too smooth to be legal at this hour.

“…You okay?” he mumbles.

She nods once. Then whispers, “It’s wake-up time now.”

Nagi grunts. “Five more minutes.”

“You already said that three times,” she says, barely audible, like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to correct him.

He flops back down dramatically. “Tragic.”

But she climbs into bed beside him and waits like a quiet judge. Two minutes later, she gently pokes his face.

“...mommy said we can’t be late.”

He groans into the pillow.

In the kitchen, he burns the toast again. Shizuku just blinks at it. She picks up a slice, takes one polite bite, and slowly sets it down like it offended her ancestors.

“I like it less when it’s… smoky,” she says, after a pause.

“Same,” Nagi mutters, already Googling “how to not burn toast.”

The apple slices go untouched. He side-eyes her. “You asked for apples.”

She nods shyly. Then whispers, “I meant the crunchy green ones. Not the sad red ones.”

“Noted. I’ll fire the fruit guy.”

But the real boss fight? Her hair.

Nagi stares into the mirror. Shizuku sits on the bathroom counter in her unicorn pajamas, legs swinging. Her long hair spills behind her like it’s mocking him. The brush is already stuck and it’s been ten seconds.

“Okay,” he says. “This is fine. We’ve trained for this.”

They have not trained for this.

He tries to gather it all into one neat ponytail. It slips through his fingers like magic. Her bangs fall into her face again. He brushes them aside. They fall again. He lets out a single defeated sigh.

“You okay, Papa?” she asks quietly.

“Not really.”

She watches as he tries again. The elastic flies off his fingers and hits the mirror. They both freeze.

Shizuku slowly offers him a second hair tie from her lap like she’s handing over a weapon in a movie.

He attempts a braid. It ends up looking like a sad pretzel.

After thirty exhausting minutes, he gives up.

“…Let’s go wild today.”

She nods. Then whispers, “Like a lion?”

He blinks. “Uhh...yes. A little lion"

They head to the front door. Shizuku, bundled up in her puffy coat, stands quietly while Nagi struggles to zip it all the way. The zipper catches twice. He mutters something about the universe being against him.

“Almost got it,” he says.

Shizuku stares at him. Then carefully holds out one mittened hand and says, “You have to push it up first.”

Nagi blinks. Tries it. It works immediately.

“…When did you learn that?”

She shrugs. “Mama does it.”

Of course.

He grabs her tiny backpack. She reaches up for it like a sleepy executive going to an important meeting. Just as he’s opening the door, she suddenly stops.

“Wait,” she says, frowning. “You forgot your kiss.”

Nagi freezes mid-step. “My what?”

She reaches up, stands on tiptoe, and plants a tiny kiss on his cheek.

“For luck,” she whispers.

He melts.

But as he buckles her into the car seat, she turns serious again.

“Papa?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still wearing your bunny slippers.”

He looks down. Loafers: missing. Bunny slippers: present.

He groans.

She just nods, calm and composed.

“I won’t tell Mama,” she says quietly.

Nagi stares at her, utterly amused.

Shidou Ryusei and Shoko (6)

“That’s called fashion, babe.”

Shidou kicks open his daughter’s bedroom door like he’s breaking into a villain’s lair.

“RISE AND SHINE, BABY GREMLIN!”

There’s a silence. Then the blanket rustles. A pillow sails through the air like a missile.

“YOU RISE, LOSER!” comes the response, shrill and feral.

She hurls herself off the bed in a flying tackle. Shidou catches her midair and spins her.

“AHHH—MY BONES! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”

“YOU’RE 28, ACT YOUR AGE!”

“NEVER!”

Their mornings are less "routine" and more "WWE meets glitter daycare." And today is no exception.

The kitchen smells like chaos.

Shidou is flipping neon pink pancakes with a spatula in one hand and mixing syrup with food coloring in the other.

“We feast like royalty today!” he declares, sliding a plate onto the table with the flourish of a man who’s proud of his crimes.

“Royalty who eats sugar for breakfast and cries at the dentist,” Shoko mutters, unimpressed but already loading up on whipped cream.

“This is called culinary art, thank you very much.”

“You put candy eyes on everything.”

“Because everything should have a soul.”

She snorts, kicking her feet under the table. Her purple unicorn onesie is still half-zipped, and her hair looks like she fought a wind god. Which means—

“Hair time,” Shidou announces ominously.

In the bathroom, she climbs onto the counter while he gets to work. And this is where Shidou actually shines.

You wouldn’t know it by the rest of his lifestyle, but when it comes to his daughter’s hair? He’s a machine.

He sections, detangles, and smooths with laser focus. He could probably braid blindfolded. The final style includes two delicate braids, glitter strands, two color-matching bows, and, at her request, a tiny butterfly clip "for intimidation purposes."

She stares at herself in the mirror with satisfaction.

“I look like a fairy who could commit war crimes,” she says, hands on hips.

Shidou nods. “Exactly the vibe.”

She leans in closer, turning her head from side to side. “It’s giving… magical girl"

“Ten outta ten.”

Speaking of lunch, that’s a whole other thing.

Shidou’s idea of a balanced meal is… questionable. Today, her bento includes: three mini meatball sliders, heart-shaped cucumber slices, rainbow gummy worms, and a juice pouch labeled “Liquid Victory” in marker.

She peeks into the box.

“You forgot the sparkle jelly.”

He gasps. “Oh my god. I’m a disgrace.”

He literally runs to the fridge, grabs a cup of blue sparkle jelly, and slides it in with a bow like he's handing over a rare gem.

They high-five.

Shoko zips up her jacket while Shidou is still trying to put on sneakers with mismatched socks. The morning sun hits her like a spotlight, her glittery hair practically glowing, lunchbox swinging, war-ready energy at max level.

“Alright, tiny menace,” Shidou says, tossing her backpack over her shoulder. “Go wreak some controlled havoc, yeah?”

She grins.

They do a complicated secret handshake that ends in jazz hands.

Then she squints up at him.

“…uhh"

“Yeah?”

She steps forward and gently tugs the hem of his hoodie. “Your pants are inside out again.”

He looks down. Pauses.

“Intentional,” he says confidently. “That’s called fashion, babe.”

She exhales the way a mother does when her child disappoints her.

“You’re welcome.”

They march to the car like a superhero duo. As they approach the school gate, the teacher sees them and visibly braces herself.

Shoko waves sweetly. Shidou throws finger guns.

Chigiri Hyoma, Mayu and Himari (twins, 6)

“Let’s go, bitch!” The morning had started with harmony.

Chigiri was plating up breakfast like he was filming for a cooking channel, tiny waffles with chocolate syrup swirled into art, strawberries fanned out on the side, and little heart-shaped forks placed neatly on matching plates.

“Breakfast is ready” he called out as the twins marched into the kitchen in matching fuzzy slippers.

Mayu slid into her seat with a soft “thank you, Papa,” immediately picking up a strawberry with delicate fingers. Himari, however, stared at her plate like it had personally insulted her.

“Papa,” she said, squinting. “This syrup is… attacking.”

Chigiri turned from the sink. “Attacking?”

“It’s too much. My waffle is drowning. It looks like chocolate soup.”

“It’s the same amount as always,” Chigiri said, tilting his head. “Maybe the syrup bottle was just feeling generous today.”

Himari poked her waffle with the fork like it might explode. “It’s gross.”

Mayu, ever the diplomat, offered sweetly, “I can trade with you if you want. Mine doesn’t have as much—”

“I DON’T WANT YOURS” Himari snapped, eyes wide and brows scrunched. “Why do you always talk when I’m mad? It makes it worse!”

Mayu blinked. Her lip quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Just put down her fork, slipped off her chair, and walked quietly out of the kitchen.

Chigiri froze, one hand holding the juice jug. “Himari…”

She was still glaring at her plate, mumbling, “I didn’t mean it"

Chigiri sighed. “That was pretty harsh. You okay if I go check on her?”

Himari shrugged, then grabbed her waffle with both hands and took an angry bite. “Fine.”

He found Mayu sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging her stuffed dolphin, blinking very fast.

Chigiri sat beside her, gently brushing her bangs back.

“She didn’t mean it,” he said softly.

Mayu nodded. “I know.”

“But it still hurt,” he added.

Mayu’s chin wobbled. “A little.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That’s okay. You don’t always have to be the nice one, you know. You're allowed to feel things too.”

“I didn’t want her to be more mad,” Mayu whispered. “So I didn’t cry.”

Chigiri smiled and pulled her into a hug. “You’re strong, Mayu. But you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Back in the kitchen, Himari had eaten her entire waffle and was now staring down the empty plate like it was to blame. She looked up guiltily when they returned.

Mayu gave her a tiny smile.

“I saved you a strawberry,” Himari muttered, sliding it across the table without looking up.

“…Thanks,” Mayu replied, quietly taking her seat again.

Chigiri clapped his hands. “Okay, drama queens. Time to get gorgeous.”

Ten minutes later, Chigiri had perfectly braided Mayu's hair and gave Himari her usual high pigtails. “There, perfect,” he said, fluffing them both up.

Mayu beamed at her reflection. “Thanks, Papa!”

Himari gave a little nod. “can you make them bouncier next time?”

“Of course,” Chigiri said with a sigh.

With their outfits on, Chigiri gave a final once-over. “Clothes: 10/10. Hair: flawless. Now, let’s avoid a glitter explosion before school, yeah?”

Himari huffed. “Fine. No glitter.”

They walked out, looking like a Pinterest-perfect family. Chigiri handed them their lunchboxes and led them to the car.

Ready for the day?” Chigiri asked with a smile.

“Ready!” Mayu said calmly.

“Let’s go, bitch!” Himari cheered.

Chigiri froze, eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. “Excuse me?”

Himari looked at him with a judgemental look. “What? I’m just hyped for the day!”

Chigiri blinked, still processing the words. “Where... where did you hear that?”

Himari shrugged, unfazed. “From that film we watched this weekend. You fell asleep halfway through, but I watched the rest.”

Chigiri’s face went a shade paler, his mind racing. “What exactly were they saying?”

“Uh, I don’t know... some stuff,” Himari said nonchalantly. “It was funny.”

Chigiri closed his eyes for a brief second, imagining the chaos. He could already picture your reaction if you find out Himari picked up that word. A small shiver ran down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, mentally preparing for the inevitable fallout. “Just...fantastic.”

Isagi Yoichi and Isamu (7)

“I don’t get school,” Isagi had made a to-do list the night before. He was determined to make this morning perfect.

To-Do:

Wake up by 6:30

Eggs & toast

Soccer uniform ready

Water bottle filled

Motivation speech (brief)

He wakes up at 6:42. Panic hits like a red card.

His son, Isamu, is sprawled out in bed like he’s auditioning for a starfish role in an ocean documentary.

"Isamu, buddy, time to get up," Isagi says, shaking him gently. "Big day ahead!"

"Ugh," Isamu groans, barely opening an eye. "I want to drop out."

"You’re seven."

"Exactly," Isamu says, rolling over and curling into a blanket burrito.

Isagi’s internal monologue screams as he rushes to the kitchen. Breakfast needs to be perfect. The eggs are half-scrambled, and the toast? Slightly burned. He slides it onto a plate like it's the Mona Lisa of breakfast, though it looks more like abstract art.

"Breakfast, Isamu. You’ll need energy for school!" Isagi says, trying to sound motivational.

Isamu eyes the toast like it’s a science experiment. "What is this...? It’s... not pizza."

"Eat it, or no soccer later," Isagi threatens.

Isamu rolls his eyes dramatically and takes a bite. "You’re so dramatic. I still don’t care about school."

"School is important!" Isagi insists, getting flustered. "You need education to—"

"I’m gonna play soccer," Isamu interrupts, chewing with all the intensity of a man who’s just been told he has a free pizza pass. "Who needs school when you’ve got soccer?"

Isagi ignores the comment and rushes to get his son’s clothes. He’s sure he left them right there on the chair. He checks the chair. Nothing. He checks the floor. Nothing. He checks under the bed, under the table, in the laundry basket.

"Where the heck are they?" Isagi mutters, sweating now. "I swear I put them here."

"Maybe the ghosts took them," Isamu offers nonchalantly from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his toast.

Isagi freezes. "Ghosts? Why would—"

Before he can finish, Isamu shrugs, "I don’t know. Could be."

After a few more frantic minutes of searching (and Isamu offering absolutely no help), Isagi finally finds the soccer uniform under the couch.

"Found it!" Isagi declares, holding it up triumphantly like a knight retrieving a sword.

"About time," Isamu says, unbothered, chewing slowly as if he were watching paint dry.

They race to get out the door. Isagi grabs the water bottle, zips the bag, and notices Isamu’s shoes are mismatched. He doesn’t have time to fix it.

"Teeth brushed?" Isagi asks as he grabs his keys.

"Close enough," Isamu replies with a yawn.

“I love you” Isagi says, feeling a mix of exhaustion and love.

"I love soccer," Isamu replies, not even looking up from his phone game.

Once dressed and vaguely clean, Isamu plops into the car seat like it personally offended him. Isagi starts the engine, already five minutes behind schedule.

The car is quiet until Isamu sighs like he’s been carrying emotional weight since birth.

“I don’t get school,” he mutters.

Isagi glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“I sit in a chair for hours while the teacher tells me triangles are important. For what? Triangles have never scored a goal in their lives.”

Isagi stifles a laugh. “Triangles are used in passing formations.”

“Not emotional triangles. That’s different.”

He stares out the window dramatically. “And you know what else? People lie. Yesterday, this kid told me we were best friends. Then he passed the ball to someone else.”

Isagi hums sympathetically. “Harsh.”

“I’m starting to think school is just a government distraction from my true potential.”

“Which is…?”

“Becoming the best striker”

There’s a pause. Then Isamu adds, “Also, I don’t trust teachers who wear shoes indoors. That's villain behavior.”

Isagi parks in front of the school with a slow breath. “Okay. Big day. Deep breaths.”

Isamu opens the door and mutters, “Time to enter the battlefield.”

bllk!dads

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PAIRING: sam monroe x f!reader

FLUFF ❦

Your back hit the mattress with a light thud

SAM MONROE grinned like a starved man, leaning down over the bed in seconds—warm, kissing you like he meant it, slipping his tongue to your mouth, devouring you before you even moved to higher stage. Like it had been forever since the two of you had gotten a second alone. (Which, honestly? Was kinda true.)

His hands were already pushing up your shirt, sliding under, all warm fingers squeezing your breasts, letting his thumbs work over that sensitive nipples. You barely had any second to let out a whimper between his kisses before he was rolling his hips against yours, making a low sound in his throat. "Fuck, babe—"

PAT.

You froze.

Sam didn’t, of course. Driven by his desire, he thought only with what he had in his pants, not with his brain. His mouth was already back on your neck, like he hadn’t just heard the unmistakable, clumsy little knock against your door.

PAT PAT PAT.

And then came the babbling you all knew too well. Soft. Sleepy. Completely oblivious.

Both of you shot up.

"Fuck," Sam muttered under his breath, scrambling to fix his pants, face twisting in pure agony as you practically shoved him off you.

In rush Sam threw you your shirt, fumbling with looking as normal as he could be. You barely got your shirt down before Sam moved forward and was yanking open the door—

And there stood Vinnie. All soft, sandy-blond curls messy from sleep, dressed in tiny, too-soft pajamas filled with Winnie the Pooh characters. His chubby fists rubbed at his eyes as he smiled up at Sam in the most sweetest way imaginable, before inviting himself in and wobbling on unsteady feet

"Hi, hi!" he lisped as soon as his gaze moved to yours. Your heart melted.

"Dude," he exhaled "Are you serious right now?"

Vinnie didn’t even register much of Sam’s pain. He just padded closer to the bed, trying to climb on it as if it was a fact that you're gonna have a sleepover with him. All three of you

You sighed, sitting up as Vinnie immediately pressed himself against you, tucking himself into your warmth with a happy little hum.

Sam just stood there. Staring. Judging like his entire night had just been ruined.

Well, and it had.

After a moment of watching you press all the lovely kisses to Vinnie's face, pull over his lil body a duvet that was just seconds ago used as something else, he sighed. A deep, long-suffering sound, before he ran a hand through his hair.

"Cool," he muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Sick. No sex for me. Guess I’ll just fucking die."

"hey, no cursing near the baby. I thought we were past that" you scolded him, a big, scary frown painting your face. But as soon as you looked down to your baby, it disappeared.

Sam just groaned and flopped face-first onto the bed beside you both, dramatically burying his face into the pillow. Maybe being cockblocked was the part of being a parent..

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @skyguytoast @fredswrite

[aryaryxoxo]

a boy who was too late #bakugou katsuki x reader, angst

“Ladies and gentlemen, your new Number One Hero!” the announcer's voice thundered through the arena. The spotlight swiveled to the entrance tunnel, illuminating the stage with brilliance.

The audience rose to their feet with anticipation and excitement. Cheers erupted like a tidal wave. Flashing lights from reporters’ cameras dotted the air.

All eyes were on the entrance. They waited.

And waited.

But instead of the explosive presence they expected, a lone figure stepped out—an assistant in a sleek black suit, clutching a microphone. The applause dimmed into murmurs of confusion. The top ten heroes seated on the grand podium exchanged glances. 

“Where is he?” “He wouldn’t miss this.” “Typical Bakugou…”

The assistant reached the center of the stage, eyes scanning the crowd. Clearing their throat, they raised the mic.

“I know this isn’t what any of you expected,” the assistant began, voice steady but respectful. “But I am here on behalf of Katsuki Bakugou, who has officially been recognized as your new Number One Hero. ” 

…

Katsuki Bakugou stood alone, far from the roaring crowd, far from the flashing lights and empty praises.

The only sound was the rustle of leaves in the cold breeze and the muffled voice of the announcer echoing faintly from the phone in his pocket.

He didn’t care to listen anymore.

This—this—wasn’t how he imagined it.

Not when he was a kid yelling that he’d be the best. Not when he trained until his muscles tore and bones cracked. Not even when he rose in the ranks, surpassing those he once admired.

He had dreamed of standing at the top, instead, he stood in front of a gravestone, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders weighed down not by exhaustion, but by grief.

Carved into the cool marble was a name that meant more to him than any rank ever could.

Your name.

"You idiot," he muttered, barely audible. "I did what you said, I waited for you."

“Bakugou, you better wait for me when you receive the title of Number One Hero, okay?” you said with your usual grin, already reaching across the table to steal his fries without shame.

He glared at you. “Tch—Oi, stop stealing my damn food!”

“You can explode villains but not me, Bakugou. Besides,” you said with a dramatic flick of your hand, “you know how late I get when I need to look good.”

You grinned, playful as always, and popped a fry into your mouth.

He scoffed and turned his head, trying to hide the way the corner of his mouth twitched. “Why can’t you be on time for once?”

“Whaaat, is it wrong to look good when my best friend finally gets what he’s always wanted?”

“Huh… best friend...” Bakugou muttered under his breath, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

He crouched in front of your grave

“If I hadn’t stopped to take that damn detour... If I’d just been a second faster… maybe—maybe I could’ve stopped it. Maybe I could’ve pulled you out before it happened.”

The image flashed in his mind—your blood, your broken form, the panic that surged through his veins when he saw the aftermath. He had arrived just in time to see the end... but not in time to change it.

He swallowed hard.

“If I wasn’t such a damn coward…” he continued, voice trembling beneath his rage, “maybe I could’ve told you how much you meant to me.”

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles white.

“Not just as a friend. More. Way more.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and useless. The kind that came too late—too late for you to hear, too late to change anything.

“I waited too long. Thought there’d be time. Thought... you’d always be there.”

A sharp wind cut through the stillness, carrying with it the smell of rain. The clouds overhead began to gather, gray and swollen like his chest.

“I made it to Number One, just like we always said I would,” he whispered. “But it don’t feel like a win. Not without you.”

His fingers brushed over the name on the stone again.

“I’d trade it all just for you to steal my damn fries one more time.”

A raindrop landed on the stone. Then another. The sky mourned with him.

And still, Bakugou stayed there—unmoving, shoulders hunched—not as the Number One Hero, but as a boy who was too late.

...

a/n — i told myself i would not write angst ahahhah but here we are...I'm a sucker for a character who haunts the narrative JASDFNJFAD don't worry the next chapter of I'm fucked, arent I is coming up ehehhehe

Warnings — grammatical errors lol

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xiv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, seasickness,

A/N: hey how are we feeling about bucky barnes being back with a fuckass bob. old man's got JOKES. im gonna kiss him.

Previous part || Series masterlist

There’s a book open on his lap but he’s not touched a single page. You’ve got a few books strewn across in different distances from you– physics, psychology, cooking. 

He’s stretched out across the floor with his legs thrown over your lap, back against one of the bookshelves. One leg has already fallen asleep since he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.

You’ve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.

You’re scribbling.

He watches you, warily, feeling the indents of the shelf in his back.

His phone plays the Velvet Underground at a volume just above whispering. 

But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldn’t tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a clipboard.”

“It’s for science.”

“You’re making that face.”

“I have one face.”

“You have at least three,” he mutters, eyes drooping. “And the one you’re making is never good news.”

“I’m not,” you say, offended. “I’m just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.”

Bucky stares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And thorough.” You tap the page. “Okay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the books. “Too much effort.”

“C’mon. Based on vibes, then.”

“Vibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.”

“So that’s a ten?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Silent agreement. Got it.”

He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.

“You’re avoiding,” you sing.

“I’m surviving,” he replies, eyes closed.

You poke his leg with your pen. “I’m just trying to map it out, Buck. There’s a pattern, I know it.”

He cracks an eye open. “And what happens once you figure it out?”

You shrug. “Then I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.”

His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.

You take that as a go-ahead.

“Okay,” you say, chewing the end of your pen. “Would you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied to–”

Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.

You blink. “...Was that dramatic or are you helping?”

“Helping,” he says flatly. “You can’t do a field study with a soundtrack.”

You grin down at him. “God, you’re such a good test subject.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” You blow him a kiss. A stupid, immature, teenager-y part of him takes it to be as close to the real thing for now.

“Shouldn’t have let you bring me here.”

“I literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.” 

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft scratching of your pen, the hum of the muted light overhead, the quiet rhythm of him breathing, slower now.

You glance over.

He’s still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake.

You’re about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s nothing. “By the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.

“That shit makes me seasick.”

You smile, soft. “Okay. Then I’ll find something else.”

He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. We’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts again, lazily, until he’s rolled halfway onto his side, legs still slung over your lap, arm tucked under his head.

Settled.

You stare at him for a second longer, pen hovering uselessly above your clipboard.

Then you look down and write:

Subject may be growing fond. Possibly attached. Observe further.

And beneath that, smaller:

Also: seasick. Do not let steer boat.

“I just want to set the tone,” you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. “For the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.” 

Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. “You mean doomed?”

“I mean devastatingly hot.”

He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.

“This thing’s gonna collapse and then I’m going to be the one floating on driftwood,” he says. 

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. “You’d let me drown?”

“I’d let you have your monologue first.”

“Wow.”

You spin again, wind tugging at your jacket, and gesture to the looming structure ahead.

The Odette rises out of the fog.

White paint peeled back to rust. Windows dark. Decks slanted just enough to make the walk a bit of a trek. 

The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.

“This is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,” you tell him. “It’s giving summer romance on the waves.”

“It’s giving tetanus,” Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. “Did you get a tetanus shot this year?”

“What’s a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?”

“Do you ever process the things you’re saying or do you just freestyle it?”

You step through the hull door, flashlight flicking on with a warm click.

Inside, the ship is exactly what you'd hoped: creaking wood, disorienting reflections from old mirrors, the lingering scent of salt and mold and varnish.

It’s not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows. 

Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.

“This place is barely thirty miles from the city,” he says, scanning the space. “You’d think someone would’ve turned it into an Airbnb by now.”

“They tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.”

He makes a noise in consideration. 

“Anyway,” you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. “Here’s what we’re working with. 

"Then one night, she vanished mid-voyage. Off the coast near Long Island. Clear weather. No distress calls. She was just... gone. They found the ship the next morning, still running. No crew onboard. Like the whole ship had just stopped."

"Anyway," you continue.

“Look,” you say, “if I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Don’t ruin the mystery.”

“Noted,” he says dryly. 

You grin. 

The hallway smells like wet velvet.

You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.

“Oh, by the way, we’re staying overnight.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Sorry?”

“On the ship,” you say lightly, scrolling again. “Spending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.”

Bucky stops walking. “That was not in the briefing.”

“What do you think is in the duffel bag you’re carrying?”

“Change of clothes because we’re on water.”

“You’re planning on swimming?”

“Considering I’m with you, I wouldn’t rule out anything.” 

You grin. “The ship’s tethered, you’re not getting thrown overboard.”

 “Right, ‘cause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.”

“We’ve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that you’re in love with me, not paranormal activity.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

“Denial looks so hot on you babe.”

He rolls his eyes, moving ahead past you.]

"The ship's not moving. It's hardcore anchored, so you don't have to worry about the waves. I made sure."

"Joy."

"Unless, of course, the ship decides to set course with us in it. But then we'd have bigger problems than you throwing up."

"Thanks. Good to know."

The next room is a dining salon, or what’s left of one.

Long tables still bolted to the ground. Place settings eerily intact. The dust is thick.

You shine your flashlight along a stack of plates. They’re china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.

“I got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?”

“You’d be eating more dustmites than bread.” 

"Oh, word. Protein."

Bucky’s flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.

“Well, I feel deeply unwelcome,” he mutters.

You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. It’s heavy. Cold.

“They say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her ‘farewell to the sea.’”

He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesn’t move.

“Talk to the spirits,” you tell him. “They’re supposed to be real hospitable ‘cause it’s all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.” 

“I’m not talking to the air.”

“Just say ‘hi’, It’s common courtesy.”

He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.

He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.

“Hello, demons,” he tests slowly, awkwardly. “It’s… James.”

“Who the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject. 

“That is my name.”

“No one has ever called you James,” you scoff. “Hello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters. 

Golden, flickering, warm.

The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. It’s bright. There’s a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.

You don’t know where it’s coming from.

There’s a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someone’s chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.

He looks at you, covered in the same rays you’ve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how… radiant–

“I think we’re at brunch,” you whisper, snapping him out of it. 

There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someone’s reading glasses resting on a closed book.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.

It feels like somewhere nearby, someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long you’re staying and whether you’re from the city.

You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots.  

You rest your hand on the edge of the table. The porcelain is still warm.

Glass. Clinking, faintly. A fork brushing against a plate. A woman’s voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.

You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.

There’s no one there.

But it feels like there is.

Bucky’s still watching the room like it’s going to move on its own.

You don’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not loud. Just a scrape, like someone pulling their chair back, ready to leave.

You both turn.

Nothing moves.

But the folded napkin is now unfolded, crumpled gently on the seat.

The grapefruit is gone.

The juice pitcher is empty.

The book on the side table is closed, a bookmark placed neatly between its pages.

You blink.

There is only rusted metal, cold dead silence and the thick smell of salt. 

Back to dust. Rot.

“Did you see–”

“Yep.” 

You glance around. 

The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling. 

There’s a painting of a garden party over the fireplace, and beside it is a mirror.

Full-length. Silver-framed. Spotless.

You tilt your head at it.

Bucky walks closer, and the moment you both step in front of it, you freeze.

Because it’s you.

But not exactly.

Standing too near. Soft expressions that don’t match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isn’t carrying everything in his shoulders. 

Like you’re mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.

You glance at him.

He’s staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“…That’s not real,” he says after a long pause.

“No shit.”

“I don’t stand like that.”

“I don’t smile like that.”

The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.

The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise it– it’s the one he only ever uses when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid. 

Your stomach does something unhelpful.

“Okay,” you say too loudly, stepping back. “Well, that’s cursed.”

“Some fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,” he adds, voice rough. “We’re leaving before we pass out.”

He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck. 

“Got another hundred rooms and a whole night– well fuck,” you stop midway. 

“What?” he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. 

“I don’t know how long we’ve been in this fucking room but it’s close to midnight,” you murmur. “Crazy.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Well, that was fun. I’m gonna go check if we got any of that on camera or if we just went through a cool new bonding exercise in our heads,” you say, unfazed.

Bucky thinks that the world may not be all he’s been believing all these years. 

You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow. 

He turns to the mirror again.

It’s cracked.

Just once, straight down the middle.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go check out the captain’s quarters,” you call.

“Coming,” he grunts out, exhaling slightly. 

He turns again, just out of instinct, one last time– 

She’s there.

Small. Smiling. Bright-eyed in that way only memory can exaggerate..

Standing beside him in the reflection, just for a moment. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing a sundress he got her with money from overtime at the docks

She mouths something.

“Leave.”

He takes half a step back. Blinks.

She’s gone.

Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesn’t register what.

He turns. Doesn’t speak. Just walks out.

You walk in silence for a while.

Your boots creak against the warped floor. Bucky’s steps are quieter. Measured.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s got that look again. The one where he’s processing, but pretending he’s not.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. He stops too, reluctantly.

Your voice drops, suddenly serious. “You saw it. The mirror. Us.”

“Did I?

He starts walking again.

“You’re being weird about this,” you say, catching up.

“I’m being normal about this,” he mutters.  

You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting. That’s fine. That’s your thing. But I know when something rattles you.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t rattled.”

You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like he’s grinding through something.

You stop again.

And then you sit down. Right there in the middle of the hallway. Clipboard across your lap like a shield.

He blinks down at you.

“What are you doing.”

“Something’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

You pull a pen from behind your ear like it’s a sword. “You’re being weird. This isn’t just normal you-weird, this is that weird.”

He sighs.

“Alright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.”

He groans. “Put that away.”

“You’re pale.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You look seasick.”

“I am seasick.”

“From a ship that hasn’t moved since 1900s?”

He closes his eyes. “I should’ve left you in the mirror.”

“You wouldn’t. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.”

He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.

You make a show of writing something down. “So. You’re not talking. You’re not denying it either. Conclusion?”

“I’m tired.”

You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesn’t change.

You glance down at the clipboard. Then, gently, you place it back in the bag.

You offer him a bottle of water instead. He takes it.

“Where’s the quarters,” he asks. 

“Straight ahead,” you oblige. 

The lantern’s been off for fifteen minutes.

Technically, it’s lights-out.

Realistically, you’re still awake.

Lying on your back, blanket pulled over your chest, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the gentle scratch of pen on paper.

Bucky shifts in his sleeping bag beside you. “Are you writing again?”

“No,” you say, scribbling something else. “I’m documenting.”

He exhales through his nose. “Same thing.”

“I’m keeping a record in case we’re murdered in the night. I think that’s responsible.”

“You wrote ‘smells like seaweed’ earlier.”

“It did smell like seaweed.”

He turns his head. “What does it smell like now?”

You pause. “Unresolved tension.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I will. I’m just waiting.”

He groans. “For what?”

You tap your pen. “To see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.”

“There’s no ghost captain.”

“There might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.”

“My bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.”

You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.

You glance at him. He’s lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, he’ll vanish.

You turn back to your clipboard. “I think if I die, they’ll probably promote me. Make me first mate.”

“You’d be thrown overboard in five minutes.”

“I’d haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“You still haven’t told me where you got that fucking candle from.”

“Stole it from brunch.” You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. “It’s ambiance.”

“You’re going to burn the ship down.”

“It’s in a dish.”

“You put it in a cup.”

“It fits perfectly.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re insane.”

You smile to yourself. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. “Wake me up if anyone on the staff’s hot.”

You grin, still scribbling. “I’ll put that in the notes.”

The first thing he notices is the movement.

A deep, rolling sway. Not a casual creak or a groan, but a full-bodied shift.

He blinks awake.

Immediately regrets it.

His stomach lurches sideways.

The ceiling above him is doing slow, sick figure-eights.

“God–” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship rocks again, harder this time.

He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.

And that’s when he realizes.

The sleeping bag next to his is empty.

No candle. No clipboard.

No you.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.”

He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.

Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose. 

He pulls it off and stares at it.

A sticky note.

You’ve written in your neatest cursive:

“Gone to investigate.

If I die, avenge me.

If I live, take me bowling.”

He stares at it.

Underneath, in all caps:

“DO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THAT’S MY SIDE.”

Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.

Another lurch. The ship groans like it’s stretching awake.

He exhales through his nose. Folds the note once. Puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls to his feet, grabbing onto walls and railings to steady himself, and sets off to find you.

_____

Bucky staggers down the corridor like a man cursed, one hand braced against the wall, the other curled around his stomach. 

The ship sways harder this time like it’s trying to shrug him off.

He swears under his breath.

He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captain’s room.

You’re there.

Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesn’t technically exist, spinning the massive ship’s wheel with both hands.

He shouts over the noise. “What the hell are you doing?”

You look over, delighted. “Steering!”

He blinks. “We’re not moving.”

You point dramatically. “We are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.”

The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.

“You’re making it worse,” he groans, dragging himself fully into the room. 

You glance at him. “You look awful.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re green.”

“The room is fucking spinning.”

“I know, I’m trying to counterbalance it.”

He collapses against the nearest console like it might forgive him. The whole floor shifts again, a slow, sick tilt that makes the walls groan in protest.

You finally let go of the wheel. "Honestly, the ship started making all these weird noises and when I got up to check, it started rocking like we're in the middle of a storm. I was hoping I'd get it under control before it woke you up. Didn't want you to get sick."

The ship groans again. Still. Slower, maybe. But still wrong.

You look at him a little closer now.

“Okay, you really don’t look good.”

“I woke up alone. On a moving ship.”

“Did you throw up on my side?

“There was a note taped to my face.”

“I told you not to throw up on my side.”

“Stop talking about throwing up,” he groans. 

“Alright, Buck,” you say brightly, “your turn!”

He doesn’t even lift his head. “Absolutely not.”

You let go anyway.

The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.

“Why is it still moving?” he asks sharply.

You’re already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.

“I’m the king of the world,” you announce.

“Get down.”

The ship lists again. He lurches forward, catches himself on the wheel, and immediately regrets touching it.

You hop down lightly and clap your hands together. “Okay, okay, fine. Keep steering. I’ll figure this out..”

“I’m not steering.”

“You are steering. You’re at the wheel. That’s what it means.”

“I’m touching the wheel. That’s not consent.”

“Ghost captain would be disappointed in you.”

“Ghost captain should drive his own damn ship.”

He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.

The wind’s gotten worse.

The deck tilts again, hard. You catch yourself, slide a few inches toward the helm, wind slamming through the cracks in the wall.

“Okay, okay,” you pant. “I think it’s pulling to the left. Hold on, I’ll try to level it out–”

“Christ alive, hurry up.”

“I am doing my best.”

The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.

“I hate this place,” he mutters. ”I hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.”

“I thought the brunch wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.” He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea. 

The ship groans under you like it’s stretching its spine.

“What?”

Fuck.

“What do you mean dead people have been after you for months?”

He’s not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.

You stare.

He swallows. Doesn’t repeat it. But the damage is done.

You step toward him, slow. “Bucky.”

“Can you make this stop?” he says, voice as even as he can make it.

The ship groans again, loud now. Almost angry.

You plant your legs firmly on the ground. 

Your fingers dig into the palm.

Steady. Focused.

And the wind begins to slow.

Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan. 

The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.

It doesn’t feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but it’s still. 

You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.

Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like it’s safer than meeting your eyes.

“Forget what I said, I’m sick,” he says, voice rough. 

You don't say anything when you look at him. 

The ship groans beneath you but this time it’s heavier.

You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.

He doesn’t look up. He’s leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.

You clear your throat. “I think we’re not in the water anymore.”

“What?”

You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.

He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.

Outside, there’s nothing. No lapping water. No dock.

Just air. Fog. The faint shape of the coastline beneath you.

The Odette is levitating.

Bucky stares for a long moment.

“Did you lift the ship?”

“Not on purpose.”

“You anchored us into the air.”

“I was trying to keep it from swaying.”

“You took it off the ocean.”

You hold up both hands. “To be fair, it worked. I can put it–”

“Do not put it back down.”

You blink.

He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. “If it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood, Captain.”

He drops his head to his knees.

You sit beside him.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything.

The air is cool, and it ruffles through his hair. You wipe stray strands away from his forehead. 

“If you bring that clipboard out, I’ll drown myself.”

“I’ll circle back later.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pat his knee. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back down.”

He just closes his eyes. “Give me five– twenty minutes.”

You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.

Really, Maya appears like she’s been summoned.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, stepping into the hallway. “You’re alive.”

You pause mid-step. “Statistically, we’re usually alive.”

Maya exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. She’s in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating. 

She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot.  

“I have emailed. I have pinged. I have sent a courier, and the only response I got was an AI generated TikTok of both of you turning into swans.”

You blink. “I figured I was in trouble again.”

“And so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?”

“I try that with everything, it never works,” Bucky mutters. 

Maya closes her eyes. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes. And every time I mean it more.” She opens her tablet. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.”

“Sorry.”

She waves you off. “Your numbers are up. A lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”

She turns the screen. “This is your traffic graph.”

You stare. “Why does it look like a heart attack?”

“Because while you test terribly with people over the age of 65, ages 13 to 55 love you. Congratulations. You are now accidentally our most valuable brand.”

Bucky falters. 

Maya continues, flipping to another screen. “Also, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?”

You nod slowly. “People had opinions.”

“They always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.” She gestures broadly. “But good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signed– you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then you’re out.”

You stare at her.  

“We’re out?” you repeat. 

Maya nods. “Done. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.”

You glance at Bucky.

He’s still facing away, completely still. Like he’s buffering.

Maya softens a little. “Hey. This is good. Right? You guys– him especially– wanted this. You’re free.”

Still nothing from him.

You say, carefully, “Yeah. Great.”

She studies you both. Her voice gentles. “Seriously. You did good. I’m proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.”

Bucky finally turns. Looks like he’s trying to remember how language works.

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

Maya tilts her head. “Okay. That’s about the emotional range I expected.”

You smile faintly. “You should lie down.”

“Oh, I’m going to die standing up like a horse.” She steps back. “Eat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. We’re launching a footwear collection.”

“No promises,” you reply.

“I know,” she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics. 

The silence returns.

You and Bucky stand there a while longer.

Finally, he says, without looking at you, “C’mon.”

Neither of you say what you’re thinking.

Bucky doesn’t know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not.  

The elevator dings softly.

The doors slide open to your floor.

You’re half-asleep, half-hovering against the wall of the elevator, hoodie pulled over your head.

Bucky stands beside you, hands in his pockets.

You yawn, dragging your feet as you step out. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You don’t have to walk–”

Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker. 

Follows you down the hall.

“I’ve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.”

“I will.”

But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully. 

Until you turn and say, a little softer, “Thanks.”

He nods just barely.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t even bother with the light when he gets back to his room.

The door slides shut behind him and he lets his coat hit the floor somewhere between the entrance and the bed.

He lands face down, boots still on, half a groan catching in his throat on the way down.

He lies there for a long time.

Somewhere near the pillow, Alpine lets out a soft chirp.

She steps delicately onto his back. Sits.

He doesn’t complain.

The buzz of his phone vibrates against the nightstand.

He reaches out blindly, flips it toward his face. Squints.

He closes his eyes again. Let the phone drop.  

From: mayday

You ever gonna talk about what you said on the boat?

Exhales long and heavy.

There’s a pause.

Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:

“You should talk about your sister.”

His eyes snap open.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there.

Face still in the pillow.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Looks over his shoulder.

Alpine is still sitting there. Tail flicking gently.

Silence.

“I haven’t told anyone about her yet, if that’s what you care about.”

Bucky stares, mouth open.

Alpine licks her paw. Casually. 

“You can fucking talk?!”

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC

shoutout chapter 5. y'all thought I wouldn't do it. but i have been scheming throughout

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

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[graywaynewriter]

In The Quiet Hours

A/N; I woke up with baby fever

Warnings: post birth/postpartum anxiety(?), stressed and tired reader

☆

The rain had started again.

You couldn’t tell when, it must have been during the last diaper change or sometime in the middle of the fourth lullaby. The nursery light cast a gentle amber hue over the room, soft enough to keep the baby half-drowsy, bright enough to remind you that morning was still far away.

She was still crying….

Not loud. Not panicked. Just the whimpering, fussy sound of a newborn who refused to sleep unless the universe tilted just right. You rocked slowly in the old chair, arms aching, eyelids heavy. You’d tried the white noise, the swaying walk, the pacifier. She spat it out with dramatic flair, like a tiny critic rejecting your entire performance. Your shirt was damp from milk and tears—hers and yours. You weren’t even sure when you started crying.

“I can’t—I don’t know what else to do,” you whispered into her soft hair, voice cracking. “Please, Mary. Please just sleep.”

She squirmed again. Your throat tightened. The sharp, guilt-soaked voice in your mind started up again.

She’s still crying because I’m not enough. I’m too tired. I’m not doing it right. I’m already failing her.

The door opened with a soft creak. You didn’t look up. You already knew the pattern of his footsteps, the way he walked barefoot across the nursery floor.

“Babe?” Dick’s voice was low, thick with sleep and worry.

“I’ve got it,” you mumbled, too fast. Too defensive. “Get back to bed…..please…”

“I know,” he said gently. “But I’m her father ya know….that means we’re supposed to do this together,”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were puffy, hair flopping over his forehead, and his shirt was rumpled like he’d bolted upright as soon as he realized you were gone from bed. The concern on his face made the tears rush up again.

“I don’t want to keep waking you up.” You sniff feeling your eyes sting and leg start to bounce from the anxiety

“You’re not,” he said, crouching beside you. “I wake up anyway. I just wait to see if you need me. And I think you do.”

You clutched your daughter a little tighter, trying to blink away the sting. “I just—I’m supposed to know what to do, right? Isn’t that how it works? Instinct or something? But I feel like I don’t even know my own body anymore, and I’m tired all the time, and I keep thinking—what if I mess this up? What if she doesn’t feel safe with me?”

Dick didn’t say anything at first. He just brushed your hair back from your damp forehead, gently, as if touching porcelain.You hiccuped out a breath.

“Because you’re not supposed to carry that fear alone. I see you—every single night, every feeding, every change, every moment you think you’re failing? I see how hard you’re fighting for her. That is instinct, babe. That’s love.”

He reached out. “Can I hold her for a bit?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you passed her off. She fit perfectly in his arms, and somehow—of course—her little body went limp with contentment within seconds. It made something twist in your gut. You rubbed your eyes with the sleeve of your shirt.

“She always sleeps better with you,” you said quietly.

“No,” he whispered back, rocking gently. “She just needed a shift in energy. That’s all. She still feels you here. She knows you love her, but she also knows you’re exhausted,”

You leaned into his side when you stood up beside him to look at the sleeping babe, your head resting against his shoulder, feeling your muscles finally start to relax.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. Your voice was soft and fragile, like a dam about to burst.

“I know,” he murmured. “So am I sometimes. But if we’re scared together, then we’re in this together. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to be here. And you are. You always are.”

The rain kept falling, soft and steady. The baby sighed in her sleep. And for the first time that night, your heart stopped racing long enough to breathe.

The baby’s quiet breaths matched the soft rhythm of the rain outside. You stayed nestled against Dick’s side for a while, the weight of your body finally surrendering to the safety of his presence. his arm around your shoulders, his other hand cupping the back of your daughter’s tiny head, felt like anchoring yourself after days of drifting.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

You started to protest out of habit. “I should—what if she wakes up again?”

“She might,” he said calmly. “And I’ll handle it. You’ve been running on fumes. Let me take this shift, okay?”

Your jaw tightened. That old guilt crept in again, whispering you’re supposed to be the one up with her, you’re the mom, you can’t just tap out—but he caught it before you said a word. Almost as if he could read your inner dialogue,

“You’re not failing her by sleeping,” he said gently, as if reading your thoughts. “You’re human. And you’re healing. Let me take care of you, too.”

He moved slowly, careful not to wake the baby in his arms. Gently laying a kiss to her head and laying her small body into her crib. He makes sure the monitor is set before taking your hand and leading you out of the nursery. Your legs were sore, your eyes stung, but the feel of his hand wrapped around yours, warm, solid. It was enough to keep you moving.

Back in the bedroom, he helped you slip under the covers, tucking the blanket up around your shoulders like he had the night you first came home from the hospital.

You blinked at him through the low light. “What if she cries and you can’t—”

“I’ll come get you if I really need to,” he promised. “But you’re allowed to rest without waiting for something to go wrong.”

You opened your mouth again, only for him to lean down and kiss your forehead, soft and slow.

“You’ve done more than enough tonight,” he murmured. “Let me do the rest.”

The door clicked gently behind him as he padded back toward the nursery. You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the quiet suddenly feeling overwhelming. But then—you heard him through the baby monitor.

A low, gentle voice.

“She’s asleep now. Mama needs rest, but we’re still right here. You’re safe.”

You bit your lip, overwhelmed with love and something close to relief. You didn’t fall asleep right away—but when you finally did, it was to the sound of Dick’s voice quietly singing a lullaby from down the hall.

-

The next morning you woke with a start.

The sun was already pouring in through the curtains, golden and warm, and for a disorienting moment, everything was too quiet. You sat up fast, heart already pounding.

The baby. Why didn’t I hear her? Did I sleep through her crying? Did something happen?

You fumbled for your phone on the nightstand—7:46 a.m. Your mouth went dry. That was at least five hours of uninterrupted sleep. You couldn’t remember the last time that happened. You tossed the blanket off in a panic and swung your legs over the edge of the bed only to freeze.

There was a faint sound drifting from the kitchen. A soft hum. And the unmistakable crackle of a skillet. You padded down the hallway, feet silent against the floor. As you turned the corner, you stopped.

Dick stood at the stove, barefoot and shirtless, wearing soft plaid pajama pants and Mary wrap snug across his chest. Your daughter was tucked inside it, her head resting against his sternum, fast asleep, her tiny fist curled against the fabric like she owned the world.

He was humming something—one of the lullabies you’d been whispering all week, but slower, lazier, like a love song. He flipped a pancake one-handed, the other resting gently on the baby’s back. You leaned against the doorway, warmth blooming in your chest. You already had an attractive husband. Now strap your baby to his chest, and it’s doubled.

“Is it weird that this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen?” you said sleepily.

Dick turned, grinning. “Good morning, beautiful. Sleep okay?”

You nodded, a little dazed. “I slept too okay. I feel like I time-traveled.”

He crossed the kitchen and kissed you softly. “You needed it. She stirred around four, so I fed her, changed her, and we had a little father-daughter chat about letting mama rest.”

You looked down at your daughter, still peacefully asleep in her baby sling. “She actually listened to you?” You raised a brow at him

Dick gave a dramatic shrug. “I’m very persuasive.”

You reached out, brushing a finger along your daughter’s chubby cheek. “I feel…human again, in a strange way…..I feel like I can function for a couple of hours.”

“I was hoping a stack of pancakes and coffee might help ease the transition.”

You laughed, hand resting on his arm. “Thank you. For last night. For this. I know I haven’t been the easiest person to—”

“Stop,” he said, kissing your lips. “You’re doing amazing. It’s okay to need help. You don’t have to carry every second on your shoulders.”

You blinked against the sting in your eyes, this time from something closer to gratitude than exhaustion. He squeezed your hand.

“Now go sit. Coffee’s already poured, a spoon of sugar, and creamer. And your pancakes are almost ready.”

You took a seat at the table, watching as Dick moved around the kitchen with practiced ease—your daughter sleeping soundly against him, the house finally calm, and for the first time in weeks…you let yourself enjoy it. Not as a break before the next breakdown.

But as something real. Something you deserved.

-🧚🏼

[itsnesss]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 | lando norris × fem!reader

summary | in lando’s sports car, you thought it was just heat and adrenaline, but the way he held you made it clear: this wasn’t just a ride, it was the start of something deeper

warnings | explicit content, sexual tension, strong language, semi-public setting (car), emotional vulnerability, suggestive themes

word count | 2.0 k

🖇 sctw album 🖇 more ln4

The club music was still pounding inside your ribs even after you had slipped out into the back alley. The night air was thick, warm, mixed with cigarette smoke, distant laughter, and the echo of a way-too-familiar pop song. You closed your eyes for a moment, searching for some relief, a breath. But what you found was something —someone— very different.

"Hey, cute jeans."

That voice. It only took one sentence, one confident and teasing tone, for your lips to curl into an automatic, almost resigned smile.

"Again, you?" you replied without turning around, though you already knew who it was.

You turned slowly, and yep, there he was. Leaning against a black sports car —his car, obviously— with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket and a smile that made you want to make mistakes. Lando Norris, with his laid-back vibe, that mischievous glint in his eyes, and the attitude of someone who knew exactly the effect he had.

"Are you following me?" you asked, crossing your arms.

"If I were following you, you’d know. I’m not exactly subtle," he shot back, that smile of his widening.

He pushed off the car and walked toward you with slow, almost feline steps. The sound of his sneakers against the damp asphalt seemed scandalously loud in the quiet of the alley.

"Or maybe," he added, circling you slowly, "you’re the one following me."

"Sure," you muttered, rolling your eyes, though you made no effort to step away. "Because there’s nothing more exciting than chasing a guy with a race car driver’s ego and a little boy’s smile."

"Ouch," he teased, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. "That was unnecessary. Although I’ll admit, the ego… I’ve earned it."

"You know it."

You stopped when you felt him a step behind you. His voice dropped, soft, almost a whisper.

"But you like it."

You turned around, facing him, and for a second, you both just stood there. Silence. Tension. His gaze dropped, shamelessly taking in the lines of your clothes. Not in a vulgar way, but like he was already imagining what would happen next.

"Are you going to invite me for a ride in your car or just keep staring at me like you’re about to devour me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What if I say I’d rather devour you before we even start the engine?"

The laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. Lando laughed with you, but his eyes... his eyes weren't joking. He took another step closer. And another. Until the distance was nonexistent. His hand slid confidently to your waist, his thumb brushing right at the edge of your jeans.

"You’re tempting me," you said, your tone not even trying to hide your own desire.

"Tempting you?" he echoed, mockingly surprised. "I thought I had already convinced you."

"Where are the keys?"

"You want to drive?"

"I want... to do things. Not sure driving is necessary."

He smiled, pulling the keys out from the pocket of his jacket. He dangled them between you, and the metallic jingle felt like the start of something. Something you knew you shouldn't do, but couldn’t resist.

"We could share a seat," he whispered. "I don’t need much more."

You looked at him. Then at the car. Then at his mouth.

And then you decided.

"Open the door, Norris."

Lando didn’t say anything else. He just smiled with that dangerous confidence and opened the driver’s side door. He nodded toward it, like he already knew you would follow. And of course, you did.

The inside of the car smelled like leather, speed, and something that could only be described as him. His fingers flew over the dashboard, turning off lights, rolling down windows, releasing the handbrake, like he was preparing the car for a race... or something much more private.

There was no need for words when he closed the door behind you. Everything about the atmosphere was a silent invitation, a wordless promise. You slid over the seat with a feline smile and, without thinking twice, straddled him, legs on either side of his body, as if that had been your place from the beginning.

"Are you sure you don’t want to sit in the passenger seat?" he murmured, his voice raspier now, lower.

"And miss this? Not a chance."

His hands went straight to your hips, as if they belonged there. There was no rush. Just a slow, firm, exploratory touch. Your fingers tangled into his hair as his lips hovered closer to yours, and for a second, everything stopped.

"We can share a seat, right?" you asked, brushing your mouth against his, not quite kissing him yet.

"We can share a lot of things. But this seat... this one's mine."

"Then claim it."

And that was it.

He kissed you with hunger. There was no space for doubts, for shy beginnings or nervous sighs. He was direct. Warm. So real it almost felt dangerous. His lips found yours with precision, and the way his hands gripped you made it impossible to think about anything else but him, this moment, this car, and the madness of doing this in a random back alley parking lot at 2 a.m.

You let yourself go. You guided him with your hips, teasing him just the way you knew he liked. The seat creaked beneath you, every movement a spark, a new way to break the unwritten rules of what was "right."

He leaned into you, his lips brushing the curve of your neck as he murmured:

"We could do it in the alley… or right on the track… but this... this feels more like us."

Your hands slipped under his shirt, his warm skin under your palms only making you crave more. He slid his hands down your back and slipped them inside your jeans without shame, like he already knew every inch of you, like he'd been waiting all night for this. Maybe he had.

"With the windows down," he whispered against your collarbone. "Let them hear. Let them see."

"You’re a problem, Norris."

"You provoke me."

One of his hands went back to the steering wheel, slowly turning it like he was still playing at driving. The other stayed on you, setting a slow, delicious rhythm of restrained desire.

"Do you want me to start the engine?" he asked.

"No," you answered, brushing your lips against his ear. "I want you to make me forget why we shouldn't be doing this right here."

He obeyed.

The radio was still on, but the song didn’t matter anymore. The only sound that filled the air was two bodies searching, clashing, exploring. The night outside continued, but inside that car, time had stopped.

The night kept flowing, and your movements flowed with it.

The way Lando held you —like something might break if he let go— made you lose your mind. The driver's seat creaked with every movement, and the hot leather under your thighs offered no rest. Every touch, every calculated thrust, every look exchanged between gasps… was fuel.

His lips trailed down your throat like it was his favorite route. They stopped at your collarbone, nibbled gently, tasted shamelessly. Every inch of your skin felt claimed by him. And you, far from resisting, invited more.

“God…” he gasped, his warm breath on your chest while his hand clutched your back tightly. “You didn’t have to do this to me in my car.”

“You started it,” you whispered, your voice trembling from the friction, from the forbidden, from how insanely perfect his body felt against yours.

“We could be anywhere,” he said between kisses. “In an alley, on the beach, on the damn podium… but here… with you on top of me, so fucking beautiful…”

You silenced him with a hungry kiss.

And he responded like he’d been trained for this exact moment.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixed with your perfume, with the heat of your bodies. Outside, the early hours kept advancing, but the inside of that car felt like another dimension. The moon lit up his face in fragments, and you didn’t know what turned you on more: the pleasure, his voice, or the way he looked at you like there was nothing else.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to stay in this moment forever.”

He chuckled low, hoarse. His hands roamed your thighs slowly, like he was memorizing them.

“Because I do.”

Silence.

There it was.

Amid all the heat, all the madness, something else slipped in. A different kind of spark. The kind of look that doesn’t fade. The kind of touch you feel not just on your skin, but somewhere deeper, somewhere too soft, too vulnerable.

“Don’t say things you can’t hold up,” you said, almost a defensive whisper.

“I hold up a lot of things just fine,” he teased, thrusting his hips as proof.

You laughed, but the sting in your chest lingered. There was something about him that made it hard to breathe fully. An intensity that didn’t quite match the lightness of the situation. Because yes, he had a fast car, and yes, you got in without brakes… but now you weren’t sure if you were driving the desire or falling headfirst into something much more dangerous.

“Tell me this isn’t just about the car,” you asked without thinking.

Lando stilled for a moment.

“This isn’t just about the car.”

And he said it just like that. No hesitation. No looking away.

That’s when you stopped moving. When your fingers pressed against his chest, not to provoke, but to feel his heart. And you felt it. Strong. Alive. Racing. Just like yours.

You leaned in and kissed his neck, softer this time. A pause between the fire. A reminder that something real might be hiding beneath the adrenaline and the leather seat.

“Step on it,” you whispered in his ear, with a faint smile.

“To where?”

“Where there are no stoplights.”

“And if there are no brakes?”

“Then don’t stop.”

He parked the car at the top of a hill, with a view of the horizon. You’d sped out of the city with no map, no destination. Just you, him, the engine still humming under you and the fresh memory of what had happened in that seat.

Your legs still rested on his lap. His hands were on the wheel, but he wasn’t driving. He was just there, looking at you, as if figuring you out was a race he didn’t know how to win.

The sky was starting to turn pink, and for a moment, the silence was enough.

“This has never happened to me before,” you said softly, staring at the fogged-up windshield.

“What hasn’t?”

“Feeling this way about someone I barely know.”

Lando turned his face toward you, his hair slightly messy, cheeks still flushed. He had that serious expression he rarely showed. Vulnerable. Honest.

“Me neither.”

You let out a quiet laugh, not mocking.

“Do you say that to all of them?”

“To none of them.”

His words fell slowly, but with weight. They weren’t part of the game, or the flirting. They were a confession.

And even though you didn’t want to, you felt it.

Your already fast heart veered off course and started racing toward somewhere you hadn’t planned.

He reached out and brushed your knee with his thumb. A subtle touch, almost tender, so unlike how he’d touched you before. Like he’d just realized he didn’t want just your body, but also your calm, your laugh, your chaos.

“What happens if this turns into more than a one-night thing?” you asked.

“Then it’ll be the best decision I’ve ever made with this car.”

You both laughed, but it wasn’t all that funny. There was something about that moment, about that sunrise shared in the middle of nowhere, that felt like a first chapter.

Lando reached for the stereo and turned the music down. All that remained was the sound of the wind slipping through the slightly open window and the quiet blend of your breath with his.

“Would you stay a little longer?” he asked, lowering his voice. “No rush. Just you, me… and this seat.”

You looked at him. No makeup, no neon lights, no racetrack or crowd. Just him. With tired, honest eyes.

And you nodded.

You leaned in, rested your head on his shoulder, and for the first time all night, it felt like you didn’t have to run anymore.

You’d arrived.

And so had he.

tags | @ebkitty

[xanneeeyyyy]

Let me be there when you fall apart

You went to the rooftop in the middle of the night staring blankly at the sea of stars. Katsuki finds you there, quietly holding you through the storm you’ve been hiding for far too long.

A/N: Unedited; not proof read; photo not mine Pairings: Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!reader

The rooftop air was colder than usual.

Your bare arms trembled as a breeze kissed your skin, but it wasn’t the wind that made you shiver. You were sitting on the edge, knees drawn to your chest, fingers tangled in your sleeves, and eyes fixated on the sleeping city lights. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been there.

You didn’t even remember how you got here.

All you knew was that your throat ached, your eyes burned from trying not to cry, and your chest felt impossibly tight. You hugged yourself tighter as if that would stop the crushing thoughts in your mind.

Tears were falling, silently. Why am I like this?

Then the rooftop door creaked.

You stiffened, hurriedly wiping your face with your sleeves, pretending you weren’t falling apart when you were barely holding it together.

"The hell are you doing up here?" That familiar, gravelly voice wasn’t angry. It was soft—worried.

Your eyes widened as you turned to see him in a black hoodie, hair messy, eyes sharp but concerned. He looked like he had just woken up—and he did.

You blinked, a little stunned. “Katsuki? I thought you were sleeping...”

He scoffed softly but didn’t sound mad. Just worried. “Yeah, I was. Woke up and you weren’t next to me. I was fucking cuddling with your huge ass unicorn stuffed toy instead. Checked your room you weren’t there either. Figured you came up here, since the light was on,”

You looked away, ashamed to be caught like this. “Oh…”

He walked closer and sat down beside you, the warmth of his presence grounding you. There was a pause before he asked, “Why are you up here, princess? And don’t say you’re fine. You’ve been off for quite a while now.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth caught in your throat.

Your voice came out cracked. “…I don’t know,”He turned slightly to look at you. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I didn’t even realize I got out of bed,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “I just… woke up and couldn’t breathe. My chest was tight. Next thing I knew, I was opening the rooftop door,”

And then, quietly, you whispered, “…I don’t even know what’s happening with me these days,”

He didn’t interrupt.

You stared ahead, voice cracking as you continued, “This… whatever this is—it’s been going on for so long. I know there’s something wrong with me, Katsuki. I know it. But I just… I don’t know what it is,”

Your hand gripped your arm tightly, fingernails pressing into your skin. “And no matter how hard I try, I can’t explain it. I don’t even know how to tell anyone. I don’t know how to tell you,”

Silence stretched between you both.

His gaze softened, just a little. You looked down at your hands and whispered, “Can I… Can I hug you?” He didn’t answer with words. He just opened his arms.

You slid into them quietly, burying your face into his chest, and the tears came again. Not loud or dramatic. Just soft, steady, as if your body had been waiting for this release all day. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you like he wasn’t going to let go. Not now. Not ever.

You stayed like that in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt safe.

Then your hand instinctively moved, reaching for his—his warm, calloused hand. You gripped it gently, then slowly placed your palm over his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You closed your eyes.

His heart. Steady. Strong. Alive.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you,” You stayed quiet, but your tears answered for you.

Your voice cracked again. “I hate feeling like this, I hate not knowing what’s wrong. I hate how tired I am. I hate that it’s always like this.”

He pulled back gently so he could look into your eyes, his voice low and firm.

“You’re not broken,” You opened your mouth to protest, but he cupped your cheek.

“Ya’ hear me?” he said. “You’re not broken, princess. You’re not weak. You’re not too much. You’re just hurting. And maybe you’ve been carrying it for too long, trying to pretend you’re okay because you think you have to be. But you don’t. Not with me,”

You bit your lip, tears spilling again. “Katsuki…”

“I mean it,” he said, adjusting his hold on you to make sure you were warm, one arm around your shoulder, the other covering your hand still on his chest. “You don’t always need to explain it. You don’t have to put it into words if it hurts. I don’t need a perfect reason to stay.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know when I started feeling this way,”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always been… tired. But lately it’s like no matter how much I sleep, I wake up exhausted. I push through everything like I’m fine, but sometimes it feels like I’m just… watching myself from outside,” You bit down on your lip. “I smile. I hang out with you gus. I go to class, do training and do my patrols. But it all feels like I’m not really ther,”

His brows furrowed. You knew this side of him—listening, even when he didn’t fully know what to say. He wasn’t the type to comfort with soft words. But the silence around him never felt empty. It always held space for you.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he finally asked, voice low. You hesitated. “I… I didn’t want to burden you.” His jaw tensed, and he leaned back just enough to look directly at you. “Burden me? Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You blinked, surprised by the edge in his tone.

“You’re not a burden, Y/N. You’re my girlfriend. You think I just want to be with you when things are easy?”

You looked away.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak,” you admitted, voice small. His hand shot up to cup your cheek again, forcing you to look at him.

“You’re not weak. You're the strongest damn person I know. But strong people need help too.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and glassy.

“Let me help you. Let me be there when you fall apart.” He softened his voice. “Stop trying to protect me from your pain, okay? I’d rather carry the weight with you than watch you crumble under it alone.”

Your heart squeezed at his words.

“Even when I don’t make sense?”

“Yeah, even if you don’t make any sense,”

You nodded slowly, feeling the tears prick again, but this time, it wasn’t fear or panic. It was release. Relief.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, pulling you into him tighter. “we’ll figure it out together. I don’t care how many nights I have to sit with you like this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried your face into his chest again, breathing in his scent—burnt sugar and warmth, your favorite kind of comfort.

“Katsuki?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Good thing you won’t ever have to find out.”

You stayed like that for a while longer—no more words, just the quiet, steady thump of his heart beneath your hand. And for the first time in a long time, even with the weight still on your chest, you felt like maybe… just maybe, you could breathe again.

A/N: I hope you enjoy this new piece! Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Also, thank you for all the love and support—it truly warms my heart to see you reading my work.

Note: hi everyone~ been away for a while cause school is stressing me out these days. As much as I want to keep writing new one-shots and continue my other stories, I just haven’t been able to. Every time I try to write or edit, it just doesn’t feel right. But for now, I wanted to drop this angsty piece — it’s unedited, but I really felt like sharing it anyway.

© 2025 CODE:BKXY — All rights reserved. Please don't post my work as your own on any other sites.

[duvetchico]

Write me karina mall date n I'll kiss u 👅👅👅

(Pretend I'm a male bird trying to seduce u into writing this)

mall rat

summary jimin’s boredom drags you out of your depression nest and into a mall date full of cuddly crimes, weird juice, and the slow realization that she’s your favorite person to suffer with.

genre fluff / crack / girlfriend brainrot

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

i hate birds especially when they're male so im only doing this for the ppl

masterlist.

it begins at war. well, not really. it begins with you horizontal on the couch for the fifth hour straight, remote lost somewhere under your ass, half-dead from whatever seasonal depression was cooking up this time.

jimin’s draped over your legs like a stylish barnacle, wearing her 'i’m up to no good’ hoodie (you knew because it was yours, stolen, and she only wore it when plotting). she’s scrolling through her phone aggressively, thumb tapping at light-speed.

“i’m bored,” she said.

“congrats.” you didn’t even look at her. you were emotionally and spiritually one with the couch.

“no like,” she huffed, dramatic as ever, “i-need-to-go-out-and-buy-things bored.”

“what the fuck,” you muttered. “you literally ordered six shirts last night.”

“yes. and now i wanna touch them in real life.”

“jimin i am in a state of complete and total sloth. i cannot mall. my body will evaporate under the fluorescent lights.”

she sat up fast, excited now, like a toddler who just saw a dog. “mall.”

“no.”

“mall.”

“absolutely not.”

“mall date.”

“no.”

“i’ll buy you that overpriced cinnamon pretzel you like.”

pause.

“...fuck.”

- jimin had her sunglasses on even though the sun was nonexistent. she was strutting in like she owned the food court. you were ten steps behind her, still waking up.

you looked like her tired little assistant. she looked like she was about to host a ted talk on how to seduce women in the cologne aisle.

“babe,” she called over her shoulder, “should we get matching tote bags?”

“should you stop financially ruining us?”

“that’s a no.”

- you weren’t even in the squishmallow store for ten seconds before she screamed, “LOOK, IT’S THE WEIRD TOAST ONE YOU LOVE.”

you tried to deny it. tried to act normal. but the squishmallow had eyes. and a smile. and you folded.

“you’re weak,” she said proudly, already buying it for you.

“you enable me.”

“and i’d do it again.”

you walked around the rest of the mall with a giant smiling piece of bread in your arms. at some point she took a photo of you and posted it on her story captioned “baby’s first loaf”

- you sat on the fitting room bench watching jimin do stupid little runway spins in outfits she had no intention of buying. she was narrating herself like it was a documentary:

“here we have the rare lesbian, hunting in her natural habitat… hunting for discounts.”

“jimin.”

“she spots her prey—an overpriced corduroy jacket. will she attack?”

“please shut up.”

“she attacks.”

you laughed against your will and she grinned so fucking smug.

- “try this,” jimin said, handing you a mystery cup of juice from some random vendor.

“what the hell is this?”

“i don’t know. it was free.”

you drank it. instantly wanted to curl up and die. “it tastes like grass and feet.”

“why is it spicy,” she whispered after sipping. “who puts ginger and feet in a drink??”

“capitalism.”

you both made matching disgusted faces and tossed it in the trash like war survivors.

- you were sitting side by side outside the mall now, sun setting, squishmallow between you, her head on your shoulder.

she was humming something dumb and playing with your fingers absentmindedly.

“today was nice,” she said, voice soft.

you hummed. “you dragged me out of the house like a hostage.”

“but did you die?”

“emotionally, yes.”

she giggled and kissed your cheek. “you love me.”

“shut up.”

“you do love me.”

“say it.”

“fine. i love you. now buy me ice cream or i’m taking the squishmallow hostage.”

“deal.”

[hyunjincanraptoo]

congrats on 500!!!!! i would be happy with literally ANY chan prompt 🥹

Hi, baby! I chose number 11 to you 🤭 This is somehow very self indulgent and so Chan coded imo. And idk about you guys but I miss blonde channie so I had to bring him back. I also reunited all the songs in one playlist :)

11. You made me a mixtape? (I forgot to add this sentence to the story 😅)

Word count: 0.7k

No warnings, this is pure fluff & shy Channie 

Alexa, play Love Language by TOMORROW X TOGETHER 

It starts with a knock you almost miss. Just one— soft, fain, kinda shy 

By the time you open the door, the hallway's already empty, except for a small brown paper bag on your welcome mat. There’s no name, just a little doodled heart on the label, and a playlist titled:

“What’s your love language? This is mine…”, scrawled across a CD sleeve 

Inside you found a carefully labeled CD, five small sticky notes, each folded and numbered. And a slightly crumpled pack of banana flavored candy.

For a moment, you know who made this.

You laugh— because it’s very him.

You slide the CD into your laptop, press play, and sit cross legged on the bed as the first track starts.

Track 1: “Friday I’m In Love” – The Cure

 You unfold the first sticky note.

“It was a Friday. You borrowed a pen from me and tapped it against your lip while thinking. I couldn’t focus for the rest of the lecture. That’s when I realized: I was screwed. I liked you. Like, really liked you”

You press your hand to your mouth to stifle a grin.

Track 2: “Out of My Head” – Khalid & John Mayer

“I tried not to fall. I really did. But then you leaned over to help me find a page in my textbook and your fingers brushed mine. I didn’t sleep that night thinking about you. Still don’t, sometimes”

You clutch the note to your chest.

Track 3: “Banana Pancakes” – Jack Johnson

“Okay… this one’s kind of a dream, but I think about it a lot. Just… you, me, a rainy day, coffee and bad banana pancakes. You laughing at my kitchen while wearing one of my hoodies... I’d be the luckiest man in the whole world”

That explains the banana candy. Of course, Chan doesn't miss details.

Track 4: “Sweet” – Cigarettes After Sex

  “If I ever get to kiss you, I want it to feel like this song. Slow, careful, like we’ve got all the time in the world. I don’t want it to spark and disappear, I want it to stay. I think you’d taste like something sweet. I’d never get tired of it"

Your cheeks burn so hot you have to pause the music for a second.

Track 5: “I Wanna Be Yours” – Arctic Monkeys

“I know this song is kind of dramatic, but I mean every word of it... but in my own way. I don’t need grand gestures, I’d rather be the one who walks you home, who remembers your coffee order, who stays even when things aren’t easy. I wanna be yours, in the quiet, lingering way”

The music fade gently, and you swear you can hear Chan’s heartbeat in every note.

Whipping some tears, you’re already grabbing your hoodie, barefoot, heart racing, mixtape in one hand.

You swing open the door— and there he is, waiting by the stairs.

 His blonde hair is falling in his eyes, one hand behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. The other hand holds a small, but beautiful, bouquet of your favorite flower .

He stands there under the porch light, with his hoodie sleeves covering his fingers like they’re trying to protect him from how exposed he feels.

You’re holding the mixtape to your chest. Your heart's pounding messy in your chest.

Chan tries to smile, but it’s shaky.

“So…” he starts, voice breathless, “do you… wanna live this story with me?”

You don’t answer, not with words.

You just lean in and kiss him— warmly and gently.

At first, he doesn’t move. Just freezes, widening his eyes. A faint gasp gets caught in his throat like he’s not sure this is really happening.

But then, his shoulders relax. His fingers uncurl around the flowers. And he kisses you back like it’s the first time he’s let himself feel the full weight of hope.

When you pull away, his cheeks are bright pink, lips parted, eyes searching yours like if he blinked he would wake up.

“W–was that… real?”

You grin and tuck your hand into his.

“Yeah”, you whisper, “And I think we just wrote track 6”

He blinks, stunned, “track 6?”

You hold up the mixtape with a playful tilt of your head, “The beginning. Every playlist needs a good opener for what comes next”

You pull out your phone, and hit play.

The smooth beat of 'Day 1' by Honne spills out of the speaker

“'Cause from day one, I was already yours. And if this is where we start… I can’t wait to see the rest"

He makes a shy noise, something in between a laugh and a whimper, and buries his smile behind the flowers.

“I think that’s the best one", he mumbles.

You nudge his shoulder, “Now we just have to write track 7 together"

"I want to write the whole album with you"

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