#and really set the stage on what's to come

[whateveriwant]

The 141 being freaky in bed

18+ only. GN!Reader.

I’ll be honest, most of the time I headcanon the guys as pretty vanilla in the bedroom, but I do think they have a few instances where they’ll embrace their nasty freak tendencies.

Ghost

This man is such a freak in his day to day life that, comparatively, I don’t think he’s very freaky in the bedroom

That being said, one thing he does really enjoy is degradation. Things like making you hump his boot while he yawns boredly or leaning against the headboard as you ride him, crossing his arms behind his head, tutting as he mocks, “Y’ call that puttin’ your back into it?” (But he never lets you embarrass yourself for too long before he’s flipping you onto your back to show you how to really fuck)

In a similar vein, he loves to talk to your genitals like they’re their own person, e.g. “Is this needy cunt/cock desperate for me? She’s/He’s drippin’ like she/he is. Tsk, poor thing.” Sometimes he pretends like you’re not even in the room with him – that it’s just him and your holes he can’t wait to stuff

He’s also a big fan of spit play. Whether it’s spitting on your groin as he stares you deep in the eyes or spitting in your mouth while he pries your jaw open, letting out a string of cigarette-flavored drool. He uses it almost like a stake of ownership, not unlike when someone licks their food to stop others from stealing a bite

Above all else though, he likes having control. There’s the usual things like deciding the pace, the position, and so on when you fuck, but then there’s other things he also takes upon himself. Things like carrying you to/from the bed, stripping/dressing you like a doll, bathing you, shaving you. Daddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry.

Freak-o-meter rating: 3.8/10

Gaz

Don’t let his boy-next-door looks fool you. This man is more than capable of getting down and freaky when he wants to

For example, he’s a deviant for public sex. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the backseat of the car in a packed parking lot, in the bathroom at your family get-together, or even in the stuffy janitor’s closet at base when there’s a meeting happening right next door. For him, the riskier the sex, the better

He also loves to mark you up. Whether it’s a small love bite on your chest or a hand shaped bruise on your ass, he lives for seeing his marks on your skin. But one thing to note – those marks are for his eyes only. Don’t be going around showing them off to everyone. And also, don’t worry about them ever fading. He’ll make sure to apply new ones before the old ones can disappear

Now, some might consider this cheesy, but he really enjoys roleplaying in the bedroom. It can be as subtle as a single word huffed in your ear or it can be as extensive as a stage production – complete with costumes, props, and plot. By far, one of his favorite scenarios to play is the injured soldier being “tended to” by his slutty nurse

Building off that last point, not only is my man a bit of an actor, but he’s also a director because he loves to film you two having sex (Martin Scorsese, eat your heart out). His POV is his preferred angle to film from because it puts him right back in the moment when he watches it again, but really, any angle where he can watch you come apart on his cock is grade-A wank material for him

Freak-o-meter rating: 5.1/10

Price

I think of him almost like a sleeper cell freak. Most of the time he goes about his business very mild and vanilla, but then something will set him off and then all of a sudden he’s going full blown freak

While he is first and foremost a man of obtaining consent, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy a little free use when you permit. Especially if he’s had a long day at work or if he’s just finished a tough mission, having you ready and willing to take him whenever he wants is precisely what he needs to wind down

Say it with me, folks: creampies, creampies, creampies. To him, there’s nothing better in this world than stuffing a nice tight hole full of cum. He loves to dump multiple loads in you and then have you hold it, before pushing it all out in one thick glob. Bonus points if he shoves it back in with his fingers so you can do it over and over again

One nasty habit he has is taking your cum-stained underwear with him whenever he’s away for work. So when he misses you or needs a reminder of home, he holds it up to his nose (or cock) and remembers what he’s got waiting for him. (By the time he gives them back to you, those drawers are so stiff they can stand on their own)

As you’ve probably already guessed, this man has a big scent kink. When you come home after the gym or after doing a double at work, he loves to bury his face in your chest, pits, crotch, etc. and just inhale. That natural tang of your sweat is an aphrodisiac like no other to him. It very much gives Napoleon telling Josephine not to bathe before he returns from war

Freak-o-meter rating: 6.8/10

Soap

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. This man is a capital-F Freeeeeak!

Foot fetish, ‘nuff said. He likes to admire your feet, pamper them, massage them, kiss them, put his cock between them and fuck them, etc etc. Once, when he was really down bad, he had you don a pair of strappy heels and stomp on him (best night of his life if you ask him)

As long as he can remember, he’s liked to play with his food, and the bedroom is no exception to that practice. Whether it’s feeding you sensual staples like strawberries and champagne or drizzling his cock in chocolate syrup and having you suck it off, he’s not one to shy away from mixing food with sex

However, one kink he does get a little nervous about sharing is his interest in pet play – him being the pet, that is. It’s not that he has any real shame in it, but more so he never knows how the other person will react when he brings it up. If that is something that interests you though, he’ll be absolutely thrilled. There’s nothing he’d like more than to be led around on a leash by you. (And might I say, he looks great on his knees)

But by far, without a doubt the number one thing that gets his rocks off is group sex. There’s just something about getting to share in multiple people’s pleasure simultaneously that excites him beyond comparison. So whether it’s cucking, partner swapping, an orgy, etc. he’s down for it. He’s truly the inspiration for the phrase “guys literally only want one thing and it’s fucking disgusting”

Freak-o-meter rating: 9.99999/10

[mamiobesssionfics]

Drunk Dial Darling

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Summary: After a night out, you drunkenly call Rhea Ripley to pick you up.

The bar’s neon lights blur into a fuzzy rainbow as you stumble your way out the door, phone clutched in your unsteady hand like a lifeline.

Your vision is hazy, your thoughts fuzzier still, but one thing cuts through the drunken fog like a spotlight on a dark stage, her.

Her number is already dialed, thumb pressing the call button with the kind of determination only tequila can inspire.

It rings twice.

Then, her voice answers, low, amused, and unmistakably Rhea.

“You better be dying or this better be cute.”

“Rheaaaaaaa,” you drawl, swaying on your feet. “I miss your face. And your arms. And your face again.”

There’s a pause, then a snort of laughter.

“Where the hell are you?”

You look around dramatically, even though she can’t see you.

“Uhhhhhh... a bar? A bar with very slippery floors. I almost kissed the ground. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Send me your location, ya menace.”

You do. Very slowly.

You mess up probably three times before you finally manage it. You think you might’ve sent her an accidental selfie with your nose squished against the camera.

Fifteen minutes later, headlights slice through the darkness outside the bar, and the passenger door of her car swings open with a theatrical creak.

You don’t so much walk as you do dramatically collapse into the seat with a loud groan.

“There she is,” you sigh, dramatically clutching your heart as you look at her. “My beautiful, beautiful girlfriend. Are you an angel? Be honest. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Rhea glances at you, her eyes shining with laughter. “You’re absolutely off your face.”

“And you’re so pretty it should be illegal,” you say with a serious nod, your words slurring just enough to make her laugh again.

“Thanks, baby. You gonna serenade me next or what?”

You lean in closer, lips puckered in a way that’s definitely not seductive. “Only if you let me kiss you right now. Come on, just one. For good luck. For the road.”

She raises an eyebrow. “We’re not even moving yet.”

“Exactly,” you whisper, placing a dramatic finger on her shoulder. “We’re at a standstill in life. Emotionally. Romantically. Spiritually. Kiss me and set us free.”

Rhea bursts out laughing, hands still on the wheel, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You love me,” you mumble into her sleeve, already halfway slumped against her shoulder. “You can’t resist me. I’m irresistible. Irresist... ib... whatever.”

She smiles, fond and amused, letting you lean into her as she starts the car. “You’re a handful.”

“And you’re holding me. So technically, you like it.”

“Unfortunately for me,” she says, chuckling, “I really do.”

The car hums quietly as she drives you home, your fingers laced lazily with hers across the centre console. You drift in and out of sleep, occasionally murmuring compliments that make her shake her head with that little half-smirk of hers.

And when she finally tucks you into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin, you peek up at her through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

“You’re gonna marry me one day, you know that?”

She presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and slow.

“Let’s see if you remember that in the morning.”

The sunlight creeps through the blinds like it’s out to personally ruin your life.

Your head is pounding, your mouth feels like it was filled with cotton, and your memory is... fuzzy at best.

You groan and burrow deeper under the covers, only to realize, this is not your bed.

And that smell?

That’s her. The crisp scent of sandalwood and something unmistakably Rhea.

You blink your eyes open slowly, head still pounding, and turn over to find her sitting at the edge of the bed, scrolling on her phone.

Her black tank top clings to her shoulders and arms in ways that should be illegal before noon, and her hair is tied back in a loose bun.

She looks annoyingly good for someone who picked up a drunken disaster a few hours ago.

She looks over her shoulder the moment you groan again.

“Good morning, my emotionally liberated little flirt.”

You squint. “Oh no. What did I say?”

Rhea grins like the devil himself. “Nothing too wild. Just asked if I was an angel, tried to kiss me in the parking lot, and proposed.”

You let out a strangled whine and flop face-first into the pillow. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did. You told me to ‘set us free romantically.’”

You groan louder.

She leans down, brushing her hand over your hair gently.

“Relax, babe. It was cute. Hilarious. You’re lucky I didn’t record the whole thing.”

You peek up at her through your pillow fortress. “Are you mad?”

“Mad?” she scoffs, settling beside you again, the mattress dipping under her weight. “Nah. I’d drive to the ends of the earth if it meant hearing you call me your beautiful, beautiful girlfriend in a drunken slur again.”

You blush furiously. “Stop.”

She grins. “Not a chance. You also said I couldn’t resist you.”

You stare at her.

“And?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

Rhea shrugs, leaning over so her face hovers above yours. “And maybe you were right.”

Your breath catches.

Her voice drops, low and teasing.

“You’re lucky I didn’t take you up on that kiss.”

You freeze. “I offered you a kiss?!”

“Oh yeah,” she murmurs. “For good luck. For the road. You were very convincing.”

You groan again, this time hiding under the blanket.

Rhea laughs, tugging it down just enough to see your eyes. She brushes your cheek with her thumb.

“Hey.” Her voice is quieter now. “You’re okay. You’re safe. And yes… you’re still irresistible. Even with morning breath.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, and when she leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, your heart does that stupid thing where it flutters and flips and falls a little deeper.

“Next time,” she says, lips brushing your ear, “call me sober. I want to hear all those compliments again when you know what you're saying.”

You grin, your fingers brushing hers beneath the covers.

“But only if I still get that kiss.”

She leans in, her smile wicked and warm all at once.

“Then come here, drunk dial darling.”

[sapphicscholar]

Hacks Episode 4.10 Thoughts

Alright, so I’m mostly keeping this to the episode-specific post, rather than taking up the entire season bc I want to be able to watch the season start to finish to really think about it as a cohesive whole.

I’ll start out by just saying point blank: I liked episode 10, and I liked it as the finale for this specific season. I went in knowing that reviewers and the show runners had described it as an epilogue to the climactic moment of episode 9, so perhaps I came into it with more apt expectations, but I appreciated JPL’s capacity to break their own season-arc formula, as the typical big twist/betrayal/hurt at the close would have felt like a contrivance and a repetition (without meaningful difference, pace Derrida!).

I’ve seen a lot of folks who wanted this to be the premier of season 5, but I personally would have hated this as a premier for a few reasons. For me, the hugeness of Deborah’s choice in 4.09 and the growth it represents requires an emotional aftermath, especially given the consequences that exceed what she had anticipated (which were themselves already huge even before learning about the 18 months left in the non-compete, which she and Jimmy should have known about but anyway). As an epilogue-style finale, the elision of 8 months of time that culminates in a gasping awakening from the stupor Deborah had descended into in Singapore works well. As a premier, it wouldn’t have, and I especially think it would not have landed well among the fandom (even worse than this ep did). For one, there would have been enough distance from the on-air quitting to have Deborah’s depression and her bouts of harshness toward Ava feel like emotional whiplash when many viewers would likely have used the between-season break to come to terms with this “new” Deborah and lose sight of who she has long been (more on that, too, later). It may thereby have landed as a kind of betrayal in a much more intense way. But at least for myself (and I’m someone who saw this kind of partial regression as the necessary fallout of Deborah’s growth), to have this fallout neatly contained into a single episode arc when you have an entire season sprawling out in front of you would feel like a betrayal of the weight it carries. With just one episode left and following exactly on the heels of ep. 9, though, the montages work as narratively efficacious devices to unsettle the grandeur of sacrifice (sacrifice doesn’t just hurt in the moment; it fucking aches in the aftermath). And now, with the ending as it is, we’re set up to start off season 5 in a really different tonal register without having to do a massive jump between episodes 1 and the rest of the season, which makes for a more cohesive arc.

Now onto Deborah… I’ve said it in several of my reviews, but I appreciate that JPL largely do justice (with Ava as well) to the idea that growth isn’t linear. Deborah upended everything at the end of episode 9 for Ava and creative autonomy in a moment of intense moral clarity after a lifetime spent more-than-willingly languishing in the morally gray, in the world of artistry measured by success over authenticity, in the notion of feminism defined by the success of individual women, etc. I think this episode did a beautiful job of encapsulating the idea of growth that comes in painful fits and starts, and the montages worked well to illustrate it. We open with the frustration of a series of increasingly desperate attempts at finding a loophole—attempts that lead Deborah all the way to sleazy billboard lawyers—and of course that frustration gives way to the self-isolation of a wounded animal retreating to lick her gashes in peace. She’s self-destructive because what self is there worth living for? She eats like shit because she’s no longer hyper-visible on stage and camera every night. She languishes in bed because there’s nothing to wake up for. She drinks Coke from a bottle because she doesn’t find herself worthy of the pleasures of having things perfectly to her liking anymore. And we see it age her rapidly, down to the weak little cough as she walks around a cheap tourist store. Then suddenly, a loophole materializes. It’s not growth, no, but it’s familiar, and god, there’s something to the comforts of the well-known after the whirlwind of upending absolutely everything again and again and again (from losing her residency to doing the new hour to life on the road to late night to throwing it all out again). But those old comforts provide merely the simulacra of pleasure now. They feel good enough, but ultimately ring hollow. They satiate without satisfying. And so Deborah spirals outward, seizing on everything that could possibly fill that void. Drinking. Gambling. Touristy shit. And for a little bit, the euphoria of finally being back on stage, supplemented with the rosy-hued tint of the honeymoon/vacation, is enough. But eventually…it’s not. Especially as Ava grows less and less enamored with this life, finally culminating in the boat confrontation scene.

And now here’s the thing. Deborah does lash out, trying to send Ava away with excuses that are only half factual. (Again, wounded animal, etc. etc. of course she does.) But it’s fucking huge that she doesn’t throw it back into Ava’s face that Ava is the reason for all of this. Think about the fight at the end of season 1. Where we are now is growth, even if it doesn’t feel like it compared to episodes 6 and 9. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Because Deborah has almost never hesitated to go for the jugular, but here, it doesn’t even seem to be on the tip of her tongue. She could destroy Ava, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even hover on the precipice. Instead, she throws things out that sound vaguely like insults, but are just another way of giving Ava an out—a pathway toward becoming something, anything, other than Deborah when “being Deborah” feels miserable as hell.

I’m really curious and cautiously optimistic about season 5 now that they’ve set up a shift toward external tension as the narrative and emotional driver, rather than the internal tension between Ava and Deborah (not that I think things will be smooth sailing, but that there’s no massive betrayal haunting the background of their reunion in the way it has in past seasons). Deborah on the offensive has always been Deborah at her fiercest, and I’m excited to see the ways it may bring her back into the orbit of characters like Marcus (who seems poised to make a massive career pivot of his own, and I really, really hope JPL bring him back into the main fold and narrative focus) as Ava faces a future that’s far less scripted than the path she’s followed with Deborah until now.

I have a lot of smaller notes, but I kind of want to keep this as is for now. I might reblog this post later with a few of those small notes later when I have a chance to give the episode a second watch with a bit of distance.

[phantomxarmy]

the business card

The disdain filling those killer brown eyes could level him to the ground. In fact, he kind of wishes they would just so she wouldn’t look at him like that anymore.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t catcalling you…I was catcalling my buddy,” Luke grimaces and points to Reggie across the street, even as he feels the heat of a thousand suns shaming him for his bad timing. 

“Can confirm,” Reggie spins around the girl with a flourish and slings an arm around Luke’s shoulder as soon as he reaches them from across the street. “I’m Reggie, this is my best friend, Luke. Our other best friend Alex is around here somewhere.” He glances around as though simply talking about Alex would make suddenly materialize.

This girl looks she would rather be anywhere else right now. Luke winces right back; he loves Reggie but sometimes the man does not know when to stop talking. Case in point:

“We’re in a band, Sunset Curve,” Reggie hands her a business card of all things. Honestly, it probably beats him running around offering girls t-shirts in “size beautiful”. They needed people to buy merch, not give it away for free OR offend women with terrible pick up lines and possibly incorrect shirt sizes. Luke mouths “Tell your friends” along with Reggie, completely force of habit at this point, and the girl smiles a little at him. 

Damn, she’s cute. 

The girl glances down at the card in her hands. “Wait, Sunset Curve? Like just played ‘The Echo’ the other night Sunset Curve? I thought that cut off looked familiar,” she sends a smirk in Luke’s direction.

“That would be us! You were there?!” Reggie’s interest is piqued and Luke would be lying if he said his isn’t as well. 

“Yeah, my mom and I went together. She really liked you guys,” she gives them once-over, as if parts of a math problem were coming together in her head.

Luke can’t help himself. “And what about you?” “What about me?” 

“I wanna know what the gorgeous woman in front of me thinks.” He can feel Alex groaning wherever he is. Oh, nope. That was a real Alex groan.

“I’m sorry…about them,” Alex leans around the other side of Luke. “Are they already flirting with you?” 

“Does this happen regularly?” 

“For Reggie, always. For Luke, never.” Julie flicks an amused smile over at him and those thousands suns are back and setting his cheeks aflame once more.

“Yeah, Luke hasn’t tried to hit on anyone in at least three years. Mr. Music is too focused,” Reggie adds and his blush only darkens. 

He’s not sure which is worse. Being That Guy That In A Band That Flirts All The Time (Reggie makes it work in a non-douchey way somehow) or being That Guy That Never Hits On Women Ever (his overeager puppy demeanor and all-about-the-music tendencies always seem to clash in an irreparable way). 

“Luke was just asking about my thoughts on your show the other night.” 

“Do you have about twelve hours, give or take a decade? Because if you start this conversation, he’s going to hold you hostage until he shakes every ounce of musical information out of you. I’m Alex, by the way.” He reaches out his hand to shake Julie’s. 

“Julie,” she takes Alex’s hand with a wide grin. “Luckily for Luke, I can also talk music for hours, or years. I don’t have either today, but what I will say is you guys really have that something special. From the minute you stepped on stage, you captivated the audience in a way my mom and I haven’t seen, well, in a very long time. The crowd wasn’t just into you, they were right there with you like you all shared a heart the entire time. That’s pretty rare in my experience,” she smiles softly at them.  

Luke can feel his grin growing too wide, the one Alex says makes him look like the Cheshire Cat but “somehow even creepier”, but he can't seem to bring himself to care. This girl gets it.

“That’s what we do this for. To connect with people.” He launches into his usual spiel, with extra flourishes and speed because cute girls make him nervous and apparently that makes him talk even faster. Julie’s smiling along with him like suddenly that math problem in her head earlier has finally been figured out but then Alex is subtly tapping him on the back of the neck. “Iiiii’m being really rude. You said you didn’t have a lot of time today. Could I buy you a cup of coffee and pick your brain about a few more things? And/or as an apology for immediately hitting on you?” 

Julie laughs, soft and low, and the sound tickles his brain. “You're right, I do have to get going. But here, take this and set up a meeting with my assistant Willie. I’ll tell them to expect a call from a potential client.” 

She hands them a business card. Luke can’t get past the first two lines.

Black Dahlia Records Julie Molina, A&R Rep

“It was very nice to meet you in person, Sunset Curve,” Julie smiles coyly like she knows their minds are exploding. “I hope to hear from you soon.” 

She takes off and Luke can barely manage to muster up a “We’ll call you!” shouted towards her back that he can only hope that she heard. She sends a little acknowledging wave without looking back as she ducks into the back seat of a car waiting nearby. Undoubtedly one of the coolest moves a person can pull. 

“See? The business card idea…not so stupid now, eh?” Reggie gloats as soon as Julie’s car is out of sight.

“Guys. Do you know what this means?” Luke chokes out. 

“We…made it?” Alex asks tentatively. 

Luke clasps them each on the shoulder and looks back and forth between them, tears shimmering right at the surface. 

“We fucking made it,” he crows. He doesn’t even care that they’re on a random sidewalk in L.A. when Reggie starts pulling them into a jumping hug. Fucking business cards. Who knew?

_____ @innytoes chaotic prompts as per usual. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t catcalling you…I was catcalling my buddy." | find this on ao3

_____

[mythos-night]

Forest Green Eyes

Part 1

I ended up write a lot more than I expected and so I'm gonna split part 2 of Icy Blue eyes cause I wrote like 1000+ words. So sorry! But here is part 2, which is basically Hero and Supervillain's backstory. Part 3 will be set in the present time, about 2 months after Part 1. Pls lmk if anyone has any confusion!

Note: Supervillain's powers are the ability to manipulate and detect human emotion. I tried to portray that a lot cause well...it's his superpower. But he sees emotions as colors.

Losing his wife was one of the hardest things Supervillain ever went through.

Not when his powers first came. Not when his parents beat him on a daily basis. Not when he lost his best friend in a freak accident. 

His wife was someone who kept him grounded. Who was always there for him, even in his darkest moments. She was his staple, his rock. The one who brought happiness until it almost clouded everything he saw. He looked crazy, waving his hand around, trying to clear away the happiness that fogged around his wedding day. 

In a sense, she was also his second-in-command. Somehow, seeing every little detail he had missed in reports, taking overtime to help train new recruits in his uprising against the Hero Agency, something that’s always been corrupt from the start. Figuring out who had been siphoning money off of the company they created as a storefront. 

She was his everything. 

They had two kids together. The elder looked like him, with dark brown hair and icy blue eyes. The younger looked like his mother, with lighter hair and forest-green eyes. Two boys they promised to give a better world. To provide them with a world without corruption or hurting or anything that would make them suffer the way they did. 

Supervillain had been a fool then. 

He had gotten too careless, letting his guard down when he really should’ve noticed the Hero Agency being far too quiet, noticed the heroes following him around like vultures. 

Coming back from a father-son outing with his eldest to see him home ransacked was surprisingly not the hardest thing Supervillain ever went through. 

It was bursting through the door wrecked with bullet holes to find his youngest crying over his wife’s dead body.

Her neck had been snapped, and from what he could find through the surveillance, his son had survived by hiding under one of the secret floorboards.  It was terrifying, usually seeing the bright happiness cloud everything and only being left with black death and pain in the air. 

They were wearing masks, the killers, but Supervillain knew. It was the hero Agency.

But he never told his boys who the actual murderers was. As far as his youngest knew, it was a bad case with robbers. But his eldest was smarter. He knew immediately. And he harbored that hate for the so-called heroes just as much as Supervillain did, even though it broke his heart to see his son grow up so quickly. 

His oldest son matured with his age, was tactical, and was a keen leader. Powerless but strong. He quickly climbed the ranks of his father’s mafia, landing a spot as Henchman. 

His younger grew up bright, intelligent, kind, blissfully unaware of how dirty his father’s hands were. It still made Supervillain’s heart ache when a new Hero arose with the same generational fire powers his late wife had. Of course, it was his son, a walking memory of her, who inherited her powers. But it hurt to see Hero fight for a corrupt agency. 

But somehow, Hero managed to steer clear of all of the corruption. Hero would take the stage, and Supervillain would watch the TV, knowing that behind the mask, Hero’s eyes would remain bright. 

They weren’t as bright anymore.

Constructive Criticism is also welcome! Hope y'all have a good day/night! :D

[c0wboylikeharry]

THE PACT (h.s fanfic)

(masterlist)

(taglist)

chpt 4

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: Y/N and Harry have always had a complicated relationship. They're friends, then they're not. They like each other, then they despise each other. But something deep inside can't let them stray too far apart, even as everything changes around them. Through the trials and tests of life, the heartbreaks and joys, can Harry and Y/N find their own way? Or will they stick to the drunken marriage pact they made in a time of desperation?

word count: 6k

warnings: n/a

a/n: awe they’re so happy yayayay! how can i ruin that…

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

4 | GRADUATION

Is it completely wrong to say that you’re going to miss high school? You’ve been the biggest advocate against school in general since you were enrolled in Pre-K, but still. These past four years have been different. Like all of your fondest memories will be from this time in your life. While you hope you’re never yearning to come back, and that your life will only go up from here, at least you won’t be looking back with regret. You’ve made the best of friends and so many great memories.

Even if today has been stressful as hell, you think it’s worth it. For all the good that has happened, this one hectic day isn’t too bad. Plus, it’s signifying the end of it all. An era of your life, gone in a flash. You really should’ve listened to your parents when they said high school goes by fast. Guess it was just hard to believe when you were in the thick of it. Everything changes after today, but it was fun while it lasted.

“Y/N, if you don’t get down here in the next five minutes, you’re going to be late to your own graduation!” your mom calls from downstairs, rushing you. Even though you’re already ready.

The nerves are keeping you from moving. Nerves about the future, but also the crushing anxiety of walking across that stage today. That’s scary too.

“Coming!” you yell back, staring back at yourself in the mirror and straightening out your white dress.

The students have to get to the school an hour before the ceremony to run through it all, leaving you to fester in the anxiety. Teetering on the edge of summer.

As you make your way downstairs, you try your hardest not to trip in your heels. Unlike Prom, you’re wearing wedges today, because you and your feet learned their lesson. So many blisters. Your parents are waiting in the living room as you descend from the stairs. They seem to be more excited than you are. They’ve been busying themselves by setting up the after party they’re throwing here. It’s just your friends and their families, but you’re looking forward to it.

You’re more looking forward to the after after party, though.

Your parents don’t get the chance to gush about “how grown up you look” or “where their little girl went” because a knock lands on the front door. Either someone misread the party invitation or it’s the person you’re expecting. Your father opens the door, knowing you have an irrational fear of doing it. What if it’s a kidnapper just waiting to strike? You’re pleasantly surprised when the door opens and it’s not a kidnapper. But it is the person who’ll be taking you away.

“Y/N,” your father starts, not even looking back at you, “Harry’s here.”

You can only imagine the death glare your father is giving Harry right now. From the frightened look on his face, it’s a bad one. You find it very humorous, unlike Harry. Your dad actually likes him, but he’ll do anything to seem intimidating. Harry doesn’t buy that.

“Yes, I can see that,” you reply, a smile growing on your face when Harry’s eyes lock with yours. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Oh! Harry! Come in, come in! Let me get a picture of the graduates together!” Your mom is already racing around the room in search of her phone. She’s always losing it.

Your father barely gives Harry enough room to squeeze inside, and you have to bite back your laughter.

“Mom, you can get pictures after the ceremony. We really need to get going,” you groan, finally meeting Harry down by the door. Luckily, your father has left to assist in the phone hunt.

“Just one picture and then you can go!” She gasps in glee when she finds her cellphone, stashed between the couch cushions. “Okay, stand together you two!”

Harry’s always been very nervous around your family, but you think it’s endearing. But that also means he keeps a good distance between you for the picture. One arm loosely tossed around your waist, and space for God in between. You try to side-step closer, but he shuffles away.

“Son, why are you standing so far away? You’re acting like you’re disgusted by Y/N. Is that it? Does my daughter disgust you?” your father grumbles, and you can tell he finds humor in it, but he’s going too far.

“N-no— No, sir, I-“

“Dad, cool it. You’re being mean,” you stand up for Harry, and that shuts your father up. He knows that once you’re not down for one of his jokes that it’s not funny.

“Your mother wants a picture of the happy couple, so… look happy,” he mutters, a bit peeved that his plans to be scary today aren’t working. It’s just not the day for it. Polish a rifle during dinner? Sure. Stress you out any more than you already are today? Absolutely not.

Harry’s still quite stiff despite your fathers green light, so you take matters into your own hands. Curling into his side, allowing one of your hands to land in the center of his chest while the other squeezes his waist. He happily holds you back tighter, but keeps his hands a respectable distance from any no-no zones. When the flash of your mothers camera goes off, he immediately drops his hand. You don’t have the same amount of self control, keeping your arm draped around him.

“Okay! Go! Well see you both after the ceremony!”

Now that’s a cue that Harry can follow, grabbing onto your hand and practically dragging you out the door. You yell out a quick goodbye to your parents right before the door slams. As soon as you hear it click, Harry’s shoulders slump in relief. Since you’re finally out of sight of your parents, you wrap your arms around his shoulders in a loose hug. He wastes no time in interlocking his hands behind your waist, holding you tight.

It’s been like this since Prom. Very comfortable and easy. Like starting off as friends made the transition better. It’s still the same you. You still bicker, tease one another and rant on the drive home from school. The only thing different is now you, like, kiss and stuff. But even that came naturally. As if you had been, or should’ve been, doing it the whole time. If a teasing joke goes too far, instead of slapping him upside the head, he’ll kiss you to make up for it.

Breaking the news to your friends wasn’t even that big of a deal. Mainly because it seemed everyone knew about Harry’s undying crush on you already. You even went as far as to plan a whole thing to surprise them with, but it fell through. When he accidentally kissed you goodbye when lunch period ended, the cat got out of the bag by itself. No one really had anything to say, just that they were happy you both woke up. It’s all just been so…easy. Maybe too easy…? No! No! You will not self-sabotage this!

“Your dad actually hates me,” Harry sighs, bringing you back to the present, an over exaggerated pout on his lips. You can’t help yourself from rising to your toes to kiss them. That makes the frown disappear quickly.

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just trying to scare you.” Your thumbs draw random shapes into the patch of skin under his ears as you speak.

“Well, it’s working. Consider me frightened,” he jokes, pulling you flush against his chest so he can rest his chin on the crown of your head.

“I’ll make sure he lays off of you,” you mutter against his dress shirt. Before pulling away, he kisses your hair, sending butterflies to your stomach. “C’mon, we’ve gotta go. Don’t want to be late for our own graduation.”

He groans, reluctantly releasing his grip on you. But the absence of his touch doesn’t last for long since he’s reaching out to grab your hand, even though the car is just a few feet away.

“Can’t believe we’re graduating already,” he speaks his mind as you stroll toward the curb. When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door for you, assisting you inside. “Your birthday is coming up… I’m excited.” He smiles at you as you buckle in. “First one with you being my girl.”

And the unrelenting butterflies are back. In fact, they never seem to ever fully leave when you’re around him. But when he calls you that, they go crazy.

“First one knowing me at all,” you comment.

“That makes it all the more important.”

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. “Get in the car, idiot.”

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

Graduation is burning with a capital B. If you’d known you’d have to sit through at least one billion one hour long speeches from faculty and classmates you’d never met, you probably wouldn’t have come. All the speeches are the same, as if they all sat in a room and compared notes. You’re not sure how much longer you can listen to a geriatric person or overachieving student tell you that they’re “so proud.”

The only silver lining of this whole day is knowing what comes after. And who you’re sitting next to. If you had to be stuck out in the sun for three hours, in a dark blue grad gown and a stupid matching cap that keeps falling off with anyone else, you fear you would’ve rushed the stage in protest already.

Harry’s making this situation a bit more bearable.

His idea of trying to make this whole thing go by faster is to play eye-spy. Yes, that game you played as a child with your family on a road trip. You and Harry have gone through the entire list of colors, and somehow he’s still going.

“I spy with my little eye something…black.”

“Both of your eyes in about five seconds if you keep making us play this stupid game,” you grumble, allowing your head to fall onto his shoulder.

“Wow, threatening violence now?” he teases, shimmying his shoulder so your head bounces around. “In front of all of these witnesses?”

“They’d agree with my actions.” You’re half-asleep at this point.

“We’d now like to invite our graduates to walk this stage and into their futures,” our principal’s voice echoes across the field as the front rows of students line up.

You and Harry still have a ways away being all the way in the back, but you can tell he’s nervous. At least he’ll be too preoccupied to play eye-spy anymore.

All week he’s been conjuring up any horrible thing that could possibly happen as he walks across the stage. From face-planting or forgetting to shake the principal’s hand, to his head literally exploding—Final Destination style. You never would’ve guessed he’d be so nervous about something as quick and painless as this. You guess strip-teasing the whole school is less nerve wracking than walking at graduation. Consider his rockstar dreams dead.

Soon enough, a member of the faculty is ushering you both out of your seats and toward the stage. You can’t even lie and say that your own nerves aren’t starting to get the best of you. It’s intimidating and scary, but you aren’t sure if it’s the act in itself, or what it signifies. A final moment. Your final moment here as students.

Shit, now you want to cry.

You only drop Harry’s hand once he’s at the front of the line, even if you don’t really want to. Why can’t you just be called together? Just as his name is called, he flips back toward you with a tight-lipped smile. You try to reciprocate, but yours is a bit more misty-eyed.

You scream. You scream loudly. The microphone probably picked it up. Eyes only growing waterier as you watch him shake the principal's hand and get a quick picture taken with his diploma. You nearly forget to hand your own name card in.

And you black out as soon as the syllables ring out over the field.

Walk. Shake the principal’s hand. Grab your diploma. Forget to smile for the picture. Stumble off the stage.

The only thing to pull you from your trance is an eardrum-shattering wolf whistle. There’s only one person you know that can make that sound. Strolling—a little too slowly—back to your seats, Harry walks backward with a gleaming smile on his face. It forces your feet to rush forward, racing for him. Magnetizing yourself to his side, you make your way back to your seats.

The rest of the ceremony, while going by quickly, is just as boring. One last speech and a whole lot of “thank you’s”. The nerves of the day are gone. Materializing instead into a buzzing excitement. Lord knows what’s next for you, for you and Harry, and all of your friends. But it’s exhilarating. High school is over and your lives are just beginning.

Guess the principal was right. You walked across that stage straight into your future.

That thought races through your head as you’re all instructed to move the tassel from one side to the other, signifying the end and the beginning. You can feel the excitement in the air when you’re given the green light to toss your caps up into the air. Everyone screams in delight, even the crowd.

The fear of getting your eye poked out with the corner of a cap keeps your head hung, but you wouldn’t have had the chance to watch even if you wanted to. Not when Harry engulfs you into his arms and lifts you off the ground, twirling you around like you’re the only two people on this grass. Your arms and legs wrap around him like he’s a tree you’re desperate to climb, holding on for dear life. He holds you securely to his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his easy laughter as caps fall from the sky like confetti.

When he lowers you back down onto the ground, you don’t dare to fully unlatch. You’re not even sure if you could. Keeping your arms wrapped tight around his torso as you walk through the field in search of your friends and family.

Your friends meet you both by the exit of the field, hugging and nearly in tears. Wayde was definitely crying. It’s not the end—hardly—but it just feels like it is. There’s still summer and years and years after that, but this chapter is closing.

You all venture out into the mess of the parking lot to find your parents, going your separate ways. That is until they all show up at your house in an hour. You still don’t let go of Harry. Not even when you get stuck in the thick of the crowd, searching for Harry’s mom. You’re lucky she finds your clingy nature endearing, pulling both of you into a big hug when you find her.

Harry’s mom is quite possibly one of your favorite people you’ve ever met. She doesn’t try to be intimidating like your dad, which is a major relief. When he brought you to his house, the first time since becoming official, she welcomed you with open arms and five baby-Harry scrapbooks. You’re not even sure if you saw Harry that night.

“There’s our little graduate!” you can hear your fathers booming voice from across the lot.

For Harry’s sake, you unravel yourself from him but latch onto his hand instead. Your mothers immediately begin gabbing together about nothing and everything while your dad saunters toward you. There’s an eerily cheesy smile on his face. You know it’s genuine, but Harry’s hand tenses in yours.

“Go on, say goodbye to your little boyfriend, you’ll see him soon,” your father teases, a childish glint in his eyes.

“If I throw a tantrum can he just come back with us?” you fake-beg, pouting and everything.

“N-no, that’s not—“ Harry immediately goes to stop you from an outburst. “I can just go—“

“I’m joking.” You laugh, knocking your hip into his. “Father Dearest, would you mind waiting in the car so I can say goodbye to my “little boyfriend” without you staring daggers at us?”

Your father visibly shudders—another joke. And another time Harry doesn’t take it as one. He starts, “It’s fine, I’ll just—“

“As much as it pains me to say this… Son, just kiss my daughter goodbye.” Your dad rolls his eyes, regretting his decision to make Harry scared of him.

“Father!” you gasp dramatically. “Do you think we actually partake in such activities?! What do you take me as?! Some kind of—“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be in the car.” He waves you off as he saunters toward the car, stealing your mother away with him.

Anne gets the hint and minds her own a few feet away, acting as if she’s not eager to have her accomplished son to herself for a moment. Well, as much as you love Anne, it’s your turn right now.

You throw your arms around Harry’s shoulders the second your peeping-Tom’s are out of the picture. His hands snake behind your back, underneath the navy gown. You rise on your toes as he leans down, but neither of you make the final move. Final kiss in the school parking lot, you think. As if it’s monumental. Wait… Is it monumental?

“Would you rather have your name tattooed on your forehead or have no front teeth?” And the moments ruined.

“Really, Harry?” You lower down onto the soles of your feet as he laughs to himself, dimples out and everything.

“I’d rather have no front teeth,” he answers his own question, not bothered at all about ruining what was maybe supposed to be a monumental moment. “Would you still like me if I didn’t have front teeth?”

“No,” you tease, but there’s a hint of honesty in there. That makes Harry pull back a tad, picking up on it. “What? Your two front teeth are arguably my favorite teeth of yours.”

“You have favorite teeth?” he asks, confused but also slightly amused.

“Do you not?” you mock offense, going along with this conversation for some reason. Maybe this is what was supposed to be monumental, this conversation. And that’s why you’re both savoring it for as long as you can.

“Sorry, babe, but I can’t say that I do.” Your stomach does a weird twisty thing at the new nickname. You’ve never been big on pet names. Well, not until now.

You force yourself not to bring attention to it, not wanting to scare him into never doing it again. “Wow,” you sigh, feigning disappointment, “just wait til my father hears of this. All the money he paid for braces and you don’t even—“

“Please, he doesn’t need another reason to despise me.” He pinches your back and tugs you closer, a horrible act of being mad.

“He doesn’t despise you.” You lift back onto your toes, coming face to face with him. And when he smiles, you come face to face with your favorite teeth. You can’t help but mutter a soft, “There they are…” when you see them. It only makes him smile harder, and you can’t resist. You don’t even care if you’ll be kissing teeth.

But, once again, the moment is stolen from you. The sound of a loud car horn blaring is what breaks you from what you seriously believe is a monumental moment. The universe must have it out for you. Or, you know, your father.

“We should probably—“ Harry starts, attempting to end this consequential, monumental moment before it ever even began. But he doesn’t get to finish.

Not before your lips are attached to his. Just a casual, light peck since you know you have an audience. Still, Harry instinctively pulls you closer, not wanting the delicate touch to end. Neither do you, but you know it has to. Harry would love to regret it if it didn’t end soon. But that doesn’t mean you don’t take the chance to peck his lips two more times before lowering back down.

Harry’s arms slowly unravel from you as you back away to your awaiting chariot. Your eyes never waver.

“I’ll see you at your house!” he calls out when you’re far enough away.

“See you soon!” you yell back, an emotional feeling creeping up on you. “I lov—“ Fate seems to step in and stops you from letting your emotions blurt something you aren’t sure you’re ready for. Fate, also known as your dad on the car horn again.

You’re literally five feet from the car.

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

Even though it’s only been, literally, an hour since you all parted ways at graduation, you’re still rushing to the door every time one of your friends arrives. As if you hadn’t seen them in years. As if each of them are your husband returning from war.

You’re just excited.

Not for this…poor excuse of a party your parents have set up. But instead, for what’s to come when you all make your sneaky exit halfway through the night. You’re hoping that in an hour all the moms will be too engrossed in baby albums and wine to notice, and the dad’s will be inspecting the grill. While the embarrassment of everyone seeing pictures of you as a chunky baby makes you want to stand guard of the photo album shelf, you’ll let it slide so you can have some actual fun on your graduation night.

Frankie and her parents were the first to arrive, and she looked a bit shell shocked if you’re honest. Something about the amount of ‘Congratulations’ calls she had to endure before she came over. Quinn was next to show up, still dressed in her cap and gown—per her parents request. Wayde and Ronan were next, and their parents were already engrossed in a conversation about how they “both pulled up at the same exact time”. Of course that conversation had to be carried onto your parents as well. Ryan showed up only a few minutes later. He didn’t even bother trying to integrate his parents into the mix, just left them to fend for themselves. All this running up and down your stairs has started to take a toll on you.

When Leah showed up, all of you went down to greet her. Well, her and her brother who insisted on driving his family over—per your group's request. Her parents made their way inside while you all “checked out his new wheels.”

“Did you get it?” Wayde’s the only one confident enough to ask.

Leah’s brother, James, lifts the twelve pack and a bottle of dark liquor. Taunting. “I swear, if any of you little shits gets drunk off your ass and runs home to cry to your Mommies, I’ll ground you myself.”

“James,” Leah whines, annoyed by her brother. The rest of you are a little scared.

“Just don’t be fucking stupid, okay?” He stares down your little group. Your response and agreement are hesitant nods and murmurs of ‘okay’.

Just as he’s passing the goods over to Wayde and Ronan, you spot Harry’s family car pulling up to your house. All hell breaks loose when you warn them. James hurries to hand it over while Wayde and Ronan try to come up with a way to conceal it.

“Just take it to my room!” you whisper-shout at them, the same time James speeds off down the street. So much help.

Ronan follows in Wayde’s lead of shoving the alcohol under their shirts—totally discreet—and waddling like pregnant women back into your house. The rest of them scatter, leaving you alone to greet Harry and his mom. Having to act like you didn’t just partake in an illegal trade off just seconds before.

When the car rolls to a stop, it takes all of about five seconds for Harry to jump out. He scoops you into his arms and you let out a squeal of surprise. Sure, he’s more comfortable being affectionate in front of his mom, but this is still a bit out of character. No matter how much you were missing him in the hour you were apart, this is a little excessive.

He mumbles quietly next to your ear, “My mom saw everything. I told her it was sodas and a gift for your dad. Act cool.”

“What? Ha— Hi, Anne!” you pull away from Harry as quickly as you can. The pitch of your voice and your posture is already incriminating.

“Hi…” Her eyes flick between you and her son, sensing the tension.

“You know, I think my mom was just about to crack open the scrapbook of my birth. Maybe we should—“

“Oh! I’d love to see that!”

Perfect way to get a mom off your back is to entice with baby pictures. Works every time. The older the pictures the better. Specifically the age range where your parents can point at the picture and ask “What happened?”

You lead the way back into your house and Anne is immediately sucked into the circle of Moms. It gives you ample time to disappear upstairs with Harry, up to your room. It’s silent in between the four walls, everyone holding their breath just in case the cops have been called to ransack your pathetic stash.

“They’re all distracted,” you breathe the words and watch everyone’s shoulders sag in relief. “We have about an hour until the Mom’s are tipsy and the Dad’s are trying random food on the grill, so…”

“Should we…make our rounds?” Frankie asks, but you can tell she’s already over talking about graduation.

“Yeah, we should…” Leah agrees, but no one makes the first move to go downstairs.

“Or we could just…hide up here until they forget they’re even parents?” Harry suggests, taking a seat on the edge of your bed.

“Yeah, yeah. I like that idea better.” You all agree in unison.

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

You don’t know how you ended up here. It feels like it’s been hours since all your friends showed up to your house. Hours since you all snuck downstairs, shushing each other’s heavy footsteps and the rattling of the alcohol hidden in a duffle bag.

Somehow you all made it out unscathed. Completely under the radar. Or at least you’re hoping you did. You haven’t heard any sirens or search parties commencing from all of your absences.

As soon as you’d all stumbled your way out of the house, you started your trek. Living by the lake has its perks, perfect for nights like this. Camped out on the “beachy” area with the still waters a few feet away. And as if fate knew you all needed something special to commence the celebration, you stumbled across a pile of firewood. Likely left here by past visitors, but it’s yours to use now. You were all thanking the heavens when Harry pulled a lighter out of his pocket. And you set a reminder in your head to ask him about it later.

Everyone’s lounging around. It’s peaceful. Serene. The perfect way to end such a stressful day. Stressful week. Hell, who are you kidding? Stressful four years!

Quinn and Ronan sit beside one another against the bank, dipping their toes into the icy water and sharing a secret conversation. Ryan is showing Frankie the perfect way to roast a marshmallow, which for him is just burnt. And Wayde is getting chased around by Leah who threatens to push him into the campfire. They’ve had a bit too many shots of that brown liquid from the glass bottle. Everyone else has just been nursing their canned beers, not overdoing it. Especially Harry, who’s still on his first.

You’ve gotten a bit more carried away. While you weren’t taking shots on shots with Leah and Wayde, you did dabble with one. But that was a mistake. Nearly coughing up a lung and debating drinking lake water to soothe the burn. After that, you decided to stick to the beers. Even if they taste like piss. You’re on your third.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, and it’s not just from the fire a few feet away. Your eyes move slower and your body feels heavier. It’s good you have something to lean on.

Sitting sideways, you’ve taken residence on Harry’s lap. He uses one hand planted on the dirt behind him to hold himself up, but his other is planted firmly around your hips. His touch makes you feel warmer than the fire and the alcohol combined. Sometimes his thumb will brush up underneath the hem of your shirt and you shiver every time, despite the heat.

Hardly any words are exchanged, but there doesn’t need to be. It’s comfortable. Watching your friends at peace—or at war. This right here is the monumental moment you’ve been searching for all day.

You find your head falling onto Harry’s shoulder, curling further into his side. His adjustment is to hold you tighter, impossibly closer. You’ve never felt more at peace than you do at this moment. It’s almost overwhelming. That feeling alone has you craning your neck back to stare up at the boy who you’re certain is the reason for the calm. He senses your eyes on him and peers down at you, a lopsided smirk growing on his face.

The flames cast dancing, orange shadows across his face. Doing the impossible task of somehow making him even more beautiful. You nearly blurt that thought, but you don’t want to disrupt the silence. But he stares down at you as if he’s read your mind. Like he can tell you’re admiring him. It makes his smirk deepen.

And then he’s leaning in. He’s leaning in and his lips are pressing gently against yours. No matter how many times it happens, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of the butterflies. You can feel his smile against your lips, warming your heart to the same temperature as the fire in front of you. The rest of your body catches up with the temperature change when his head tilts and the kiss deepens.

No longer is it an innocent press of two lips, but instead, a more intense entanglement. Pulling your bottom lip between his own, you gasp at the sensation. It might just be the alcohol in your system, but this kiss feels different. Deeper. More meaningful.

Monumental.

It has you sitting up straighter, lifting your head from his shoulder to further deepen the kiss. His hand moves from your hip to the back of your head, cradling it gently as his lips grow feverish. The feeling of his tongue tracing the seam of your lips has you gasping again, allowing him entrance.

You and Harry have kissed before, obviously. You’ve even made out a handful of times. But that’s where it’s ended. Some passionate and desperate kisses, a little under the shirt action, and then you stop. You know he wants more, but…you’re scared. Not of him, not of being vulnerable with him, but of the action in itself. The description Leah gave you when she lost hers a few weeks ago was enough to make you consider becoming a nun. You want that closeness with Harry—of course you do. You just aren’t sure if you’re ready for that…

He doesn’t pressure you, though. Not in the slightest. The perfect gentleman. When you pull away, always with a nervous smile bred in fear of disappointing him, he smiles back. Genuinely. And then you just go back to whatever you were doing before.

But tonight? Tonight the alcohol is affecting your judgment. His lips feel too good. His hand tangling in your hair feels too right. And the small, almost unnoticeable sounds he pours into your mouth taste too delicious. Instinctively, your hands land on his shoulders, lifting yourself to adjust your position.

“Babe…” he mumbles into your mouth. A plea? You can’t be sure. You take it as him telling you to keep going. It spurs you on. A knee on either side of his hips, you work on settling yourself back down onto his lap. Both of his hands fly to your hips, an unrelenting grip. “Babe.” There’s that name again, more insistent this time. Your brain is too fogged to focus on what he’s trying to say.

“Hey! Freaks! Get a room!” It’s Wayde’s voice to break you out of that trance. That and the pebble he throws at the back of your head.

Only then do you realize the compromising position you’ve put yourself in. You’re straddling Harry in front of all of your friends. Now the blush in your cheeks has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Harry notices your mortification quickly, drawing shapes on your hips with his thumbs. He stretches up to place a soft peck against your lips, smiling lightly at the clear embarrassment on your face. “Not tonight, babe.”

His words force you to replay what just happened. His incessant murmurs of the pet name stand out. You realize, instead of it being him pleading for more and for you to keep going, he was trying to get you to calm down. You can hear it now, as you replay it in your mind. Not angry or upset, but concerned if anything. He knows you aren’t ready. He knows this is literally the last place, the last situation you’d want that to happen. He was looking out for you in your inebriated state. And those three words you nearly spilled earlier today seem more prevalent than ever.

After your morbid embarrassment has calmed down, you resume your old position of having your legs strewn over his and being cuddled into his side. No one brings it up again, and you’re grateful.

“My mom’s making me get a summer job,” Harry says suddenly, effectively changing the subject. Again, grateful.

“Really? Why?” you mumble, resting your head on his shoulder again.

“Gotta pay for stuff while I’m away at college somehow. Plus, I’m saving for a car.” His thumb resumes its mindless masterpieces on your hip.

“You’re saving for a car?” Your heart stutters a bit at the thought. “Does that mean you won’t need my free rides anymore?”

“No,” he replies quickly, “just means I’ll get to drive my girl around in my new wheels.”

“I better be the girl in the scenario.” Your comment is stupid, but your eyelids are heavy now and the crackle of the fire is like a lullaby.

“You’re so drunk.” You feel his chest rumble beneath you as he laughs.

“Am not,” you whine.

“Are too.” He pinches your hip, you muffle your squeak. “Anyway, I’m thinking of working at that bakery in Old Town.”

“Why there?”

“Good pay, easy work. I’d probably just be scrubbing burnt cake off of pans all day.”

“Does this mean we won’t get to hang out as much?” Your voice is whiny, pathetic. You’re not sure when you became this dependent on his presence.

“It’ll only be a few hours every week,” he reassures you, but something about it still doesn’t feel right in your gut. Outwardly, you accept it.

“Hey, anyone got the time?” Ryan turns around from his seat by the water. It forces you to pay attention to the way the moonlight bounces off the surface. How long have you all been out here?

You haphazardly reach for your phone somewhere behind you, being anchored down by Harry’s grip on you. The screen illuminates your face, making you squint and forcing your eyes to take a second to adjust.

12:23 AM

Oh, shit. When did it get so late? You were only supposed to be out here for an hour or two. Not five! God, your parents must be worried sick wondering where you are. And all of their parents too! You can’t believe your phones haven’t been blowing up with pleading messages or amber alerts.

But as your eyes scan the screen further, you realize why.

Mom

The key is under the mat for when you make your way home. Be safe and don’t overdo it, you don’t want to be sick tomorrow! Your friends can crash in the living room. See you in the morning.

11:38 PM

.·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·.

taglist: @tpwkmr @alex-voiddome @hsviorry

[whinlatter]

It's very smart what you are doing with Hermione and her parents in Beasts. It was jarring to me that by the end of DH, Hermione is the singular person that goes through the war that is never touched by grief and probably still can't see the thestrals. She's not close to Sirius or Fred or Tonks or Remus lbr. We were just supposed to believe she gets her parents back and goes back to her hunky dory life. It didn't make sense to me, everyone else is deeply grieving who they have lost and we were supposed to believe that Hermione just hides her parents and gets them back later. So she lost nothing? And then JKR said she graduates with Ginny and gets her 7th year too. So she didn't even sacrifice that. It was extremely dumb writing and thinking on JKR's part. But since you are dealing with actual realistic repercussions of powerful memory magic because utilized by an inexperienced teenage girl, it makes so much sense now. Hermione would grieve too, because of the unfair choices she had to make and the consequences she'd have to live with forever.

thank you very much anon, i really appreciate that! sometimes i think that if i read more romione-centric fics i'd probably find 1000 other authors doing similar things with hermione and her parents storylines, but for now - ignorance is bliss.

i think you raise a set of really good points here, points that speak to an important problem with hermione at series end, which is that she's gone through traumatic experiences, but that a) none of them really receive much attention or come to any consequence for the plot and that b) hermione doesn't really get to have that much of an arc in the canon series beyond the resolution of her romantic relationship with ron.

sometimes i think about which characters would be a good protagonist of a post-war fic narratives, or sequels in some form, on the basis of them exiting the canon series with a set of unresolved tensions that would be fun or interesting to play with. (to be clear these are not necessarily fics i would write, just ideas that could hold water). beyond harry, on my running list there are several men - kingsley, for instance, percy, george, my beloved boy dean - but mostly a lot of women. this is because the vast majority of female characters get little by way of satisfying character arc in the main series.

(no doubt there was some misguided feminist intent in there: some notion that women are innately better than men, so don't need to change or grow or improve that much; men just need to clock that they're great etc etc - but still, it is frustrating. luna is a trigger for everyone else's growth (they stop thinking she's a freak and come to view her as a person...); tonks, too, is a trigger for male growth and self-acceptance. ginny's tension is resolved in that she wins the hero's heart (hardly feminist, and i say this as a hinny fan), but never meaningfully gets to revisit or get any closure on the defining experience of her character's life, despite the fact the series crests with the destruction of another horcrux with gryffindor's sword with ginny present (the circular arc is right there!) molly weasley's worst nightmare comes true and it means not a single thing; fleur remains hot (though proving she is not as vain as everyone thought... terrific). of the baddies, narcissa's arc has some satisfaction (even if it ends with her obligations as a mother trumping all); petunia's moment of wavering hints at something interesting but goes unfulfilled. but for the most part, most (surviving) female characters at the close of the series exit stage left with no canonical resolution to a central tension, positive or negative, in ways that at least give fic authors reasonably good fodder to play around with in trying to explore post-canon narratives.)

of these, then, i think hermione is a very strong candidate as a protagonist of a post-war fic. i don't want to diminish what was significant about hermione as a female character - it genuinely did mean something to have a protagonist that was an unrepetantly bossy girl who outshone the boys at every turn and made no apology for it, much as we take that for granted as a trope in YA fiction now - but she does not get a satisfying personal growth arc by the end of deathly hallows. the idea that hermione is supposed to go back to hogwarts for her eighth year is in fact rowling's way of saying oh yes, hermione went back to her old life, and slayed. but wouldn't going back to hogwarts after a year away, when the school had altered beyond all recognition, after a genocidal war against hermione and her peers and after the torture and abuse of children by authority figures hermione traditionally reveres, be kind of shit and hard and worth exploring?

of course the other core tension of hermione with which the series ends with the issue with her parents. earlier in DH hermione says if she survives the war, she'll go find them and set their memories back, and we are supposed to accept that as an unproblematic action that wouldn't cause any tension or come with any pricetags.

one of the things i find most interesting about hermione is that she is consistently absolutely ruthless (marietta etc). in the case of her parents, she literally seizes the agency of two human beings and plays god with their lives in the name of a greater good. i mean - slay! but that's fucked up! and mental, even if was necessary! and wouldn't it be so interesting to imagine it wasn't actually all happily ever after when hermione clearly thinks undoing her actions would be so neat? so i'm having a lot of fun imagining how the cookie might crumble in that particular scenario - what happens when the dust settles, only not where it's supposed to, and hermione has to reckon with the choices she made (for good reasons!) and the consequences of those actions for the people she loves.

that said, because in beasts i'm most interested in exploring ginny's unresolved tensions at series end (and the hinny tensions within them), i often find myself thinking: i can get hermione to a place of progress in this narrative, but for her, the dam would most likely properly break much later in life. i think, in a fic, hermione's arc would be its most interesting as a proper adult later on in her career , perhaps when she is minister. here you could play with an identity crisis of her as a muggleborn minister in a post-war wizarding world, grappling with motherhood and marriage, taking on a series of tests that no-one, really, can ever ace. i suppose this is a bit spoilery for hermione in beasts, but i do think in the space of a post-war year, the idea that hermione's situation with her parents could ever be more than something shaky and tentative and tricky at the end of AY 97/98 is unimaginable to me. i'm hoping to get her to a place where she has made progress in some directions - in her friendships, in reconciling herself to her relationship to school and authority - but it is more interesting to me to have her still with lots of learning and growing to do in later life (even if i won't trying to write that fic!)

[impala-dreamer]

All I Ever Knew

A Short Story

~For a while now, you've been his secret, tucked away in the shadows for fear of fandom judgement and hate. Now, he's ready to set them straight, show you off, be out in public... but are you?~

Misha Collins x F!Reader

1,593 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Love and Fluff and Smut

Originally posted to Patreon August 2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

“Get over here.”

Misha sat on the foot of the bed and tapped his knee, calling to you as if you had any choice in the matter. He didn’t really need to say it; the look in his sapphire eyes told you what he wanted.

You stopped when your knees hit his, and he reached for you, taking each of your hands in his and threading your fingers together.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

It had only been a few days, but conventions always took their toll on him. Hundreds of people calling his name, all wanting something from him, begging for his attention. It was stressful despite the fun he had clowning around on stage and hanging with his former castmates, and by the end of each weekend, he was drained. The road home was always a tired one, his body and mind aching for the comfort of home and your arms.

Bringing your hands to close, he kissed your knuckles; black lashes falling as his eyes closed. He took a breath, flooding his senses with your presence, and a gentle smile tugged on his lips.

“I missed you too, baby,” you whispered, squeezing his hands. “It’s lonely without you here.”

In the early days together, you’d travel with him around the country, sitting quietly backstage or hiding in the audience as he enchanted the room. A few times, you’d even sat with him at the autograph table, acting as his handler while enthusiastic fans took their time with him. No one ever took notice of you, no one saw his hand sneak beneath the table to lay on your knee when he was overwhelmed. No one paid any mind to the secret glances or knowing smiles that passed between you. It had been exciting and arousing; always sneaking around, being his little secret.

Now, the crowds were too much; the rumors too close to the truth. The fandom was supportive when it came to his charity work and acting roles, but they could turn on a pin, harshly judging anyone that came close to him, anyone he showed interest in. They were mean, unyielding in their offensive comments. It was easier just to hide, to pretend you weren’t in love.

Staying home without him while he worked wasn’t easy, but it made the reunions all the more special, so much more intense.

Misha sighed. “You should come with me to Rome.”

You shied away, turning your head, trying to hide your blush against your right shoulder. “Mish, we can’t…”

“Why not?” He tugged on your hands, drawing your face back to his. “Everyone will be there- Jensen was asking about you last weekend. It’ll be nice. Besides, it’s Italy. You love Italy.”

Your heart ached. He looked like a little boy lost in a crowd, blue eyes sad but hopeful.

“Yeah, and what do we do when the rumor mill starts up again? We can’t even hold hands out in public. What if they catch us and then there’s pictures all over the internet. You know how insane those Tumblr fans are.”

He spread his knees and pulled you closer, dropped your hands and set his own on your hips. His touch calmed you but there was too much at stake.

“We can’t.”

His fingers tightened just enough to make your body tingle. “Why not? Who cares who knows. It’s been almost a year, Y/N/N.” His thumbs rubbed at the soft flesh below your hip bones. “I love you. I want everyone to know.”

His voice poured over you like warm honey and you took a deep breath, feeling desperately loved, insanely happy. And yet-

“Misha-”

He sat up a little straighter, craning his neck to capture your attention, keep you focused on him. “What’s stopping us? I want to be with you. I want to be open about it. It makes no sense to hide anymore. Never really did.” He laughed under his breath. “Be with me. I need you.”

There was really no way to resist, to deny him anything when he looked at you like that, when he held you so close, hard but careful. You could feel his soul in his touch, his need pulsing into you with every heartbeat.

You relented. “Maybe.”

He grinned; shadowed cheeks lifting, blue eyes gleaming. “I’ll take it.”

A swift tug of his hands made you fall, sinking into his kiss, your arms sliding quickly behind his neck. He licked at your lips, dragged his hands up and down your spine, lighting up every nerve.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you moaned, turning your head for him as he kissed his way across your jaw and down to your throat. He suckled against your pulse and your body twitched, shoulders turning inwards and nipples growing hard. “Want you so bad…”

His fingertips dug into your ass and you shifted, moving to sit in his lap; knees up at his sides, hips rolling against his stomach. He hummed into your mouth, pushed his tongue deep inside.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, blinking up at you with lust-blown eyes.

Another kiss, a push of your hand through his messy black hair. “You do too. So fucking good…”

With a turn of his wrist, he caught your nightie between his fingers and lifted the silky fabric over your head. He moaned out a deep breath at the sight of your nipples hard and dusky, your tits full and ready for his mouth. His warmth washed over your nakedness, his gaze made your pussy throb.

“Beautiful…”

Heat rose to your cheeks; arousal flushed across your skin. You scratched your nails against the nape of his neck, whimpering and dripping for him. “Fuck me… please…”

In seconds, you were on your back, head bouncing gently off the mattress. Misha dove down, covering you with his heaviness, attacking your lips with his. Desire clouded your mind and you pawed at him, desperate to pull his jeans down, to lift his shirt, to feel him, skin on skin.

“Please…” Your voice sounded distant, so needy, pathetic.

He smiled down at you as he sat back, kneeling between your legs. “Love to hear you beg for me,” he teased, pulling his shirt from his back with one hand. He emerged from the burgundy cotton with a grin. “Drives me crazy.”

A shiver wrecked your body and you bit your lip, holding in more, fighting the urge to beg aloud for his cock, for his mouth. Reaching up, you pressed your palm to his chest and let it slide down over his stomach, over the firm thickness of him, the heat. “Need you so fucking bad,” you whispered, unable to hold it in. “Need you inside of me.”

Misha licked his lips and fell down over you again. He tugged at his jeans, kicking them away while you caressed his shoulders, pushed your hands through his hair, scrapped at his scalp.

His cock was hard, already leaking for you. He pushed the tip through your folds, edging inside slowly. You jerked your hips, urging him to move, but he hesitated, staring down into your eyes.

“This,” he sighed, smiling. “This is all I need, all I ever knew… you.”

Love crept over your face and you smiled shyly. “Yeah?”

Blue eyes were glistening, flooding with love-struck tears. “Only you. Anyway you’ll have me. Public, secret, I don’t care. I just want you.”

Lifting your hand, you stroked his cheek, beamed up at him. “OK.”

He laughed softly. “OK? That’s all I get?”

“Mhm.”

Without another word, you squirmed away and rolled to the side of the bed. Misha watched with a furrowed brow, confused as you reached for your phone from the nightstand.

“Come here,” you said, unlocking your phone and pulling up instagram.

“You don’t have to,” he replied, shaking his head, but still grinning.

“I want to.”

Propped up against the headboard, you lay your head on his chest and steadied the camera, framing both of you perfectly. The bedroom light was soft and kind, and his smile was beautiful.

Two clicks and a tag later, the picture was posted and excitement coursed through your veins.

“Holy shit.”

Misha laughed. “You’re stuck with me now, ya know. You made it official.”

Turning, you snuggled into him and pecked his lips. “Yeah, but you better make sure you like it or they’ll think something fucky is going on…”

He traced his fingers down your cheek and smiled. “I will. Soon as we’re done here…” His hand drifted down and cupped your breast, thumb and middle finger teasing your nipple.

Your eyes rolled back and your lips parted as the need returned, stronger than before. “Don’t hurry,” you whispered. “The internet is forever.”

Misha dropped down and sealed his big lips around your nipple, sucking hard and lapping with his tongue. Electricity shot through your body straight down to your clit and you moaned loudly, calling his name as if he were a true life angel come to answer your prayers.

The phone buzzed and he let you go with a pop, reaching to turn it off. He swiped instead and smiled at the notification.

You sat up on your elbows and tried to see the screen. “What is it?”

Misha shook his head and tossed the phone away, ready to dive back in and make your thighs quake around him. “Jensen says congrats.”

You laughed and yelped in the same moment as his hand found your clit. “Whelp, I guess it really is official now…”

“Absolutely…”

 2025 Tag List:

@1313diana @alwaystiredandconfused @bettystonewell @caplanbuckybarnes @cevenasdove-baby 

@chevy-impala-1967 @cosicas-cuquis 

@Deans-spinster-witch @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 

 @impala67rollingthroughtown @Jackles010378 @jtink27 @justwhisperingfantasies 

@k-slla @luvr4miya @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @mistressofallthingsgeeky 

@Mxtansy @nightxcreature @peytongoose @riteofpassage77 @shadyloveobject 

@somebrokeartstudent @that-stanford-girlie @the-wounded-healer05 @zepskies 

Add Yourself To The List

[review-anon]

I wasn't expecting you to review your own work like this to be honest.

And I gotta agree with what you said regarding the void juice plotline, while it was my favorite out of the whole arc, it did feel very out of place during a Christmas speciall out of all things. But for yor first rodeo in storybloging I'd say you did very well while trying to adapt and get used to everything.

- Critic anon

//I am at my core, an analyst, and if you think I wasn't gonna analysis and review my own work, then you have another thing coming.

//Was Kana's Christmas Adventure perfect? Of course not, but as you mentioned, its my first shot at this, so I'm never gonna get it right the first try. And that's good because I can see where I went well, where I went wrong, and keep doing the stuff that goes well, and try to improve from my mistakes.

//The reason why in DTFA the Voids are so immature is they never made mistakes or consequences and you need those to develop and grow. Fortunately most people aren't like this so we can grow and develop as people.

//And thank you! It seems the general consense is why not the best work people have seen, and there is quite a few issues here and there, overall a lot of people enjoyed the final product and that's what mattered. This was gonna be a one off but well...I don't think that ain't gonna be so now.

//Like yeah that is big massive gripe of the Void Juice Plotline, story and writing wise, I felt it went very well with lots of great moments and really selling that this stuff is evil, but the timing was god awful. And don't worry, while things will go wrong in the next arc because of course they do, peace is boring, it will be more themetically fitting and I know when this stuff will return and trust me, it will be when its actually good.

//Most of the drawbacks is teething issues that will get worked out as I go along as I adapt and try to work with managing the Voidship sketches.

[vaguely-concerned]

I don't know what I love more, the fact that as rook you can make a statement in NO uncertain terms that you are NOT responsible one way or the other for the theological implications of the shit you're discovering in the 'regrets of the dread wolf' memories. not my jurisdiction. quite simply none of my business. not my chantry circus not my chantry monkeys. irrelevant to the matter at hand here we'll kill that god if we get to him he can get in line. or if the best thing about it is seeing the lone little 'lucanis approves' that pops up right after choosing it. corvid with a knife about to commit deicide keeping it real and sensibly, pragmatically, wilfully agnostic with me here in this magical lighthouse today

[badgalsasuke]

Cinema Café Countdown Stage Meeting for Boruto the Movie (July 2015)

SOURCE

People in the fandom quote & misquote the report Cinema Café made of the preview screening so I'm sharing a translation of the article so you know where the claims you might see doing rounds on social media come from. I'm adding this as a reblog instead of just editing the og post because people had already reblogged that one.

Original author Masashi Kishimoto warns Chie Nakamura, who plays Sakura, who is happily married to Sasuke, "It's still uncertain!"

To commemorate the release of "BORUTO -NARUTO THE MOVIE-," which features Naruto's son Boruto as the main character, a countdown stage greeting was held from late night on Thursday, August 6th until the 7th. Voice actors Sanpei Yuuko, Takeuchi Junko, Kikuchi Kokoro, Nakamura Chie, Ono Kensho, Morikubo Shoutarou, and original author and executive producer Kishimoto Masashi appeared on stage.

In this work, the original creator, Kishimoto, served as the executive producer and handled the script and character design himself. With the film finally being released, he said "I've got quite a bit of free time on my hands," drawing laughter, but the production process was apparently quite grueling, revealing, "The director was taken away in an ambulance three times." He then confidently sent the film off, saying, "I was determined to make something that surpassed the manga, so I worked really hard. Although I made it myself, the thoughts of the various staff members were behind it, I think this movie deserves a perfect score."

While the parent-child relationships and couples in this work can be considered major highlights, the one who received the loudest cheers during the stage greeting that day was Nakamura, who plays Sakura and has finally married Sasuke and even has a daughter named Sarada. When she greeted the audience saying, "Uchiha... Uchiha Sakura's Nakamura," cheers of congratulations erupted. She continued, "Sarada is so cute... Even though I've been doing voice work for this series for a long time, it felt fresh and made me feel like a parent," radiating happiness! In response, Kishimoto smirked and said, "You've been quite cheerful, but what will happen to Sasuke and Sakura... we still don't know, do we?" It seems he is fully intent on involving Sakura in further turmoil as the original creator... He added, "Seeing you all happy made me think of that," and the venue was filled with laughter.

Not only Sakura, but Takeuchi, who plays Naruto, and Morikubo, who plays Shikamaru, also seemed to be deeply moved by the fact that they have now become parents. Morikubo said, "It was awkward to watch, wondering what it would be like for all of us who have been classmates in the village to become parents. It was almost embarrassing…" and said that he would like to have a parent-child fight with his son Shikadai as a future development. Takeuchi, who plays Naruto, struggled with his son Boruto in this film, said, "Parent-child fights are tough…" She also said, "It makes me sad to think that there will be a feud with Himawari (Boruto's sister) in a few years (wry smile)."

Additionally, the panelists asked Kishimoto questions about hidden settings, such as "Will Rock Lee's wife appear?" and "Is she also a ninja?" Initially, Kishimoto-san responded, "She won't appear due to various circumstances," but then revealed, "Honestly, I hadn't thought about it (laughs). I said something suggestive, but I won't be drawing it for the time being," causing the venue to burst into laughter once again.

Kishimoto at the Boruto: Naruto The Movie Premiere Preview (July 2015)

SOURCE

Image says "Executive producer: Masashi Kishimoto"

Livedoor news "BORUTO" is complete! Masashi Kishimoto: "This time, Sasuke is really at his best," he confidently stated.

The premiere of the latest film "BORUTO: NARUTO THE MOVIE" (released August 7th), based on the anime "NARUTO" by Masashi Kishimoto, was held in Tokyo on the 28th, with Kishimoto and the main cast members taking to the stage. During the stage greeting, a glimpse into Kishimoto's private life, which has not been talked about much until now, was given, and the "shadow protagonist" of the film was revealed.

This new animated film is based on the smash hit comic "NARUTO", which has sold over 200 million copies worldwide. Kishimoto himself oversaw the production, including the original story, screenplay, and character visuals. It is positioned as the culmination of the "NARUTO New Era Opening Project" that began with the previous film "THE LAST -NARUTO THE MOVIE-" released last December.

The seven guests who appeared on stage that day were the original author Kishimoto, Sanpei Yuuko who plays the main character Uzumaki Boruto, Kikuchi Kokoro who plays Uchiha Sarada who said it was her first time to greet people on stage, Takeuchi Junko who plays Uzumaki Naruto, the main character of the series who becomes the Seventh Hokage, Sugiyama Noriaki who plays Uchiha Sasuke, Naruto's rival and friend, Ono Kensho who plays Nara Shikadai, and Namikawa Daisuke who plays Momoshiki, the mysterious man who attacks the Hidden Leaf Village and is a key character in this work. The host was TV Tokyo announcer Aiuchi Yuka, who is also a big fan of "NARUTO", and rushed in bringing her own forehead protector.

"This time it was tough", Kishimoto said, looking back on the film's production. "I thought I'd finally be able to take a break after the serialization ended, but I couldn't take a break at all… I worked harder and put more effort into this movie than I did into the serialization," he said, revealing his excitement about the film. He continued, "When I saw the preview, I thought it was perfect. I'm sure everyone will enjoy it," exuding confidence, and shared highlights, "I wrote it with the intention of packing in 15 years of Naruto, so I tried to include as many of Naruto's standard lines as possible. I think there will be some parts where fans can make quips about."

Next, when Aiuchi revealed that the stage greeting was to be held on the birthday of Kishimoto's son, some of the cast members expressed concern, asking, "Is it okay for you to be here?" A shaken Kishimoto responded saying, "Well, um…", but confessed, "If you watch the movie, you'll understand, but there is a scene that exactly matches this situation, and I am exposing my own private life in the movie".

Sanpei, who played the lead role of Boruto in this film, said, "As a fan of the series, when I heard the news that there was going to be a movie with Boruto as the main character, I was excited. But when I found out that I would be appearing in it, that expectation was directed towards me. When I thought about that, I was so nervous I couldn't sleep for several days." It seems she was under a lot of pressure from appearing in the film. Even before the stage greeting, she exchanged emails with Kikuchi, who played Sarada, saying, "I'm nervous," and Kikuchi replying, "Me too."

Additionally, Sugiyama, who plays Sasuke, commented, "The relationship and distance between Sasuke and Naruto have changed, and the expressions and nuances during their conversations have also evolved. I hope you enjoy that aspect as well." Kishimoto then spoke enthusiastically, "Sasuke really is at his best this time," and added, "I thought this was more of a Sasuke movie than a Boruto movie. So when I was making the movie, I told Sugiyama, 'I entrust Sasuke to you, I'm counting on you!*'" - a comment that raises expectations for Sasuke's leading role.

Towards the end of the show, members of the four-piece rock band KANA-BOON, who wrote the theme song for the movie, appeared. Regarding the band, Kishimoto said, "When I heard KANA-BOON's song 'Silhouette' in the TV anime version, I got goosebumps like I hadn't felt since ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION. When I listened to the full song again, tears came to my eyes… I thought, 'This song is about me. How can they know me so well?' I decided it had to be KANA-BOON who made the theme song so we made them a fervent request to do it."

KANA-BOON performed the film's theme song, "Diver," on stage. In the background, the "BORUTO Special Video: The Inherited Path," which looked back on famous scenes from "NARUTO," was played along with comments of "love for NARUTO and BORUTO" from all over the world, and the venue was filled with emotion. When asked for his impressions after the performance, Kishimoto expressed his deepest feelings, saying, "It was cool. I almost cried again."

The cast members voiced their opinions, saying, "It makes you want to see the next movie. It's that kind of movie," and announcer Aiuchi asked about his next movie, "Sensei, what do you think?", but Kishimoto pleaded, "That’s not gonna be possible. Please let me take a break…" It was clear that he was giving his all to this movie.

*Kishimoto told Sugiyama サスケ頼みます! (Sasuke tanomimasu!). 頼みます is an expression where you're requesting someone, almost begging, to take care of something or someone like "please, take good care of your grandmother" and you're relying on them to do so.

[styxvii]

Everytime I go to a concert I think about doing performances too but aaa I think I’m too disabled for that 😭

[victory-cookies]

bro why am I still in the closet. I am in my twenties and my parents are chill. why have I chosen this path

[starstruckodysseys]

finished our production of the addams family musical </3

[tyrantisterror]

When I was 3 years old I went to a preschool that had this little green crocheted crocodile finger puppet that was my absolute favorite toy to play with of all time. I named her Chelsea, because Chelsea starts with C and crocodile starts with C and more often than not wild animals in fiction aimed at kids have names that start with the same first letter as their species. I played with Chelsea every day, because she was my favorite toy, and because the other kids weren't really interested in her, and also because I eventually started to hide her in a special secret spot in the room so no one else would find her before I did. She was so beloved by me that when I graduated from preschool, my teachers gave Chelsea to me permanently, because it was clear no one else would ever love that little crochet crocodile as much as me anyway (in part because I hid her). They waited a few weeks after I graduated before doing it, too, and sent Chelsea with some post cards as if the crocodile had been on a whirlwind "travel the world" vacation before deciding to come live with me.

And Chelsea remained my favorite toy all through my childhood. There were others I loved nearly as much, like my Imperial Godzilla and the big red T.rex from the first Jurassic Park toy line and my tiny knockoff plush Charmander, but Chelsea always held the place of honor in my heart. She was my absolute favorite toy.

I kept a lot of my favorite toys through adolescence, even if social pressure eventually got me to give away a lot of them (and some, y'know, broke). That's obviously not surprising to you if you've followed my blog, since I still collect toys into my adulthood. But it's important to note because while I know I made a conscious effort to never throw out Chelsea every time I pared down my collection... at some point, she went missing.

I became aware of it when I graduated from high school. I was feeling really emotional about leaving that stage of my life and, y'know, becoming an adult and shit, and in that state I decided to find Chelsea to reassure myself that I hadn't entirely left childhood behind. But Chelsea wasn't there. No matter how hard I looked, I could not find Chelsea anywhere.

And that was, like, devastating, because the only explanation was that somehow, at some point, I had accidentally tossed her out with some other "childhood junk" while trying to grow up and be responsible in my teen years. I had literally thrown away my childhood in a careless attempt to be more grown up.

Of course I knew she was just a toy - nothing more than some yarn twisted together in the loose shape of a crocodile, lifeless and soul-less and more or less worthless in the objective light of day. But she was also Chelsea, my best friend since i was three, my stalwart little pal, a source of comfort for most of my life at that point, and I had just... tossed her out! Like garbage! What kind of person was I becoming if I could do that to my best friend?

I was very visibly distraught, and my mom noticed. Being very crafty, she tried to find the pattern for Chelsea so she could crochet me a new one. The problem is, she had no idea where to find said pattern. She checked all her books of crochet patterns, and when that failed she tried the internet, but no matter how hard she looked, she found nothing.

So my mom found the next best thing.

The original Chelsea was a tiny finger puppet, and I had "met" her when I was three. Well, I was eighteen now - shouldn't Chelsea have grown too? And as has been established, this crocodile was fond of whirlwind vacations. My mom found a pattern that looked as much like Chelsea as possible while also being a much bigger crocodile, and gifted her to me before I left for college - to show that while we can't stop the flow of time or how it changes us, that doesn't mean we have to leave it behind.

And yeah, I decided to believe it. That's Chelsea now. Yeah, I know that in reality it's a completely different set of yarn made by my mom rather than... whoever it was that crocheted the original Chelsea, but then, Chelsea was never really the yarn. She was the feelings I put into the yarn, you know? So that's Chelsea, all grown up, and still my most prized toy.

...

Flash forward... Jesus, eighteen years, holy shit. A few weeks ago I saw a post trying to identify a different crochet crocodile pattern, and thinking it was cute, I decided to try and look for it on ebay and etsy, just to see if maybe I could find it. I didn't, but do you know what I found instead?

A very familiar crochet crocodile finger puppet. An intensely familiar one, you might say. Of course I bought it. And of course I asked the seller if, perhaps, they might have the pattern for it or know where it came from (they did not, alas). And after a few days, she showed up at my house.

She's not Chelsea, obviously. For one thing, she's far too clean and fresh looking - Chelsea was very well loved, and looked the part, while this crocodile finger puppet has definitely not endured years upon years of a child's affection. And, more importantly, she's not Chelsea because we've already established that Chelsea grew up into a bigger crochet crocodile. This has to be Chelsea's younger sister, Cici.

And if I could find another of Chelsea's kind after all these years, then maybe, with a bit of luck, I might find the pattern for her, and be able to make more of them. Fill the world with Chelseas.

[shokocide]

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

-

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

-

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like. 

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

-

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

-

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

-

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

-

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY 

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire 

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

-

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

-

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

-

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

-

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

-

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly. 

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. 

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.