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daryltwdixon · 17 days ago

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Do It For Dale

I do it for my daddy and I do it for Dale I'm doing what I want and, damn, I'm doing it well

Summary: As Sarah’s best friend, you’re determined to give her the perfect 21st birthday—even if it means going behind her grumpy old dad’s back. But when the night spirals and you end up stranded, you’re forced to call the last person you want to face. And once Sarah is asleep, he shows you exactly what happens to girls who misbehave. || smut MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, sarah's best friend!reader, sbf!reader, bfd!joel, wtf are these acronyms my god, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak, pinv, reader is on birth control, blowjob, f!receiving oral, no use of y/n, riding, dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation but also praise kink, spanking, big girthy age gap reader is 21+|| Inspired by Ethel Cain's American Teenager. "Do it for Dale" is a saying in memory of the nascar driver dale earnhardt who was known for his risky driving. basically 'take risks, make dale proud" the southern version of ‘you only live once’ >> thank you to my angels @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for looking this over / beta reading when it was just mere scraps on a page and giving me the confidence to keep going!!

“I don’t care what your dad says,” you snap, wedging your phone between your shoulder and ear as you bend to tie your pristine white sneakers. The laces cinch in your fingers with the kind of practiced precision that only comes from years of repetition—pure muscle memory.

The locker room is chaos. There are voices shouting across aisles, lockers slamming, pom poms rustling like restless birds. The low thump of stadium bass rattles up through the concrete floor, humming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s electric.

On the other end of the line, the voice is borderline panicked. “I’m serious—he said no going out. Just the two of us, nice dinner, low-key—”

“Sarah.” You switch the phone to your other ear, and tug a stray piece of hair back into place as you catch your reflection in the mirror screwed to your locker. “You’re turning twenty-one. Twenty. One. That’s the last birthday that matters until you hit, like, fifty and buy a boat.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You don’t have Joel Miller for a father.”

You grin. “No, but I know him. Man’s all bark and no fun. Somebody needs to shake the dust off him.”

“Oh god,” she groans, “he’s coming to the game, by the way. So whatever you’re planning? Don’t make it weird.”

“Please.” You dig through your duffel for your lipstick. “Give me two minutes, and he’ll be begging to let you out of the house.”

“That sounded disgusting. Never say my dad and ‘begging’ in the same sentence again.”

You laugh as you swipe the red across your lips, smooth and practiced. In the background, Coach Peña barrels through the locker room doors like a storm system, barking out the countdown to kickoff. The girls start filing out around you, all pep and nerves.

“I gotta go,” you say, “Coach is foaming at the mouth.”

“Fine. Just don’t get me grounded before the third quarter.”

“No promises. Love you, mean it, bye.”

You toss your phone into your bag, zip it shut like sealing a vault, and pause for one last look in the mirror. Bright smile, flushed cheeks, and candy-glossed red lips. The kind of lashes that get you out of tickets. The kind of uniform that falls somewhere between school pride and a pin-up calendar hanging in a mechanic’s break room.

You lean closer to fix a clump of mascara and rub a smudge of red off your tooth. That smile curls back again—not the sweet one from halftime routines, but the other one. The one that gets you into trouble.

Then you grab your pom poms, swing your locker shut, and strut out of the locker room with the confidence that gets you into bars for free and banned from Student Council meetings.

Game on.

The air is electric—crisp with that first snap of fall, leaves crunching under boots in the parking lot, the smell of cheap beer and burnt hot dogs drifting in from the tailgaters who’ve been posted up since noon. The stadium’s packed, a blur of school colors and screaming faces, everyone high on spirit and spite and way too much booze and energy drinks. There’s nothing quite like the high of a homecoming game.

If this wasn’t American football, you’d swear the crowd was here for blood.

You kick your leg up high, pom poms shaking like fireworks in your hands, your grin sharp enough to slice through the October air. Your thighs burn with the repetition, but you don’t stop. You feed off of this: the roar, the stomping feet, the chanting, the band playing at volume in the field behind you. It’s chaos, it’s magic, it’s everything.

You spin into another high kick as the running back punches into the end zone, and the crowd erupts. Your ponytail bounces, your lipstick still flawless despite the sweat, the screaming, the adrenaline thundering through your veins like rocket fuel.

This is what you live for.

You cartwheel, hands and pom poms catching the ground before your squad forms into a pyramid with practiced ease, launching into a cheer that gets the whole section yelling along.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Sarah posted up in the stands—her dark hair pulled up with school-colored ribbons woven in, ends tied off in bows like she just walked out of a Pinterest board. And next to her, arms crossed and jaw set in his signature I hate fun expression, is the man you plan to convince to let his perfect Honor Society daughter get blackout drunk tonight: Mr. Miller.

Flannel. Scowl. Zero sense of humor.

As if he can feel your stare from the top of the pyramid formation, his eyes flick from the players taking a timeout on the field—to you.

Even from this far away, you can see the way his brow furrows just a little deeper, the lines on his face etching like fault lines, like he can read every debaucherous plan in your head about tonight.

And it only makes your grin widen.

After your halftime performance—which included you seeing your entire life flash before your eyes when Ryan, one of your catchers, stumbled as you came flying down from a basket toss—you found Sarah at the bottom of the bleachers, about to head back up with a charred hot dog in one hand and a Gatorade in the other.

One second, you were airborne under the stadium lights, all grace and clean lines, the crowd roaring like they’d never seen a cheer squad stick a toss before. The next, you were dropping way too fast, Ryan’s hands scrambling to catch your left leg as the whole formation wobbled.

You landed hard, your shoulder slamming into someone’s chest, your breath punching out in a sound that definitely wasn’t choreographed. Half the squad gasped. The other half kept smiling. Coach screamed something incoherent from the sideline.

But you popped right back up, beamed like you hadn’t just bruised half your spine, and finished the routine.

Showbiz, baby.

“Hey!” Sarah calls when she spots you weaving through the crowd. “I seriously thought you died when Ryan almost dropped you.”

Her face is twisted in a full-body cringe as she looks you over, like she’s checking for bruises.

You swipe some sweat off your brow with the back of your hand, catching your breath as you lean against the metal railing. “Tell me about it. If he thinks he’s copying my chem homework next week, he’s got another thing comin’.”

She snorts. “He hasn’t passed a test since freshman year.”

“Exactly. He’s one C-minus away from being kicked off the team,” you grimace, then lean in a little on the railing with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Though I heard he and a bunch of the guys are hitting up The Tipsy Bison later. I know it’s a dump, but the drinks are cheap and the bartenders don’t card if you tip them, like, a couple bucks and wink. We’d only need to wait it out til midnight anyway since–”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says, but her eyes are already shifting—because someone else is approaching.

“Evenin’.” A low voice cuts in from your left, and the air instantly shifts.

You look in the direction of the voice, and there he is. Joel Miller, in all his glory. Holding a hot dog and Miller Lite (ironic that the man likes his own namesake beer, no?), wearing that same dark green plaid he probably wore to every barbecue and grocery run. His expression is set in granite. The man looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Bush administration and he was damn proud of it.

“Enjoyin’ the game, Mr. Miller?” you smile sweet as can be up at him. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of his cologne—all woodsy and dark. There’s something you can’t place but hate how much you like.

He grunts, then looks at his daughter, “You ready?”

“So–” you cut in quickly as she nods, ready to turn around and head back to their seats, “word on the street is Sarah’s got a very important birthday tonight. Twenty-one’s a big deal. Life-changing, even. Seems like something worth, I don’t know… celebrating?”

“She’s not going out to your Tipsy Bison bullshit,” he said flatly.

So he had heard everything.

“Not even for one little drink?” you asked, eyebrows raised in mock innocence, “C’mon. She’s practically a senior citizen in college years. You gonna keep her locked in the tower forever, or what?”

“She’s got class Monday.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to sound like a co-conspirator. “Good thing it’s Saturday.”

Still nothing. His silence is like a damn wall. An unreadable, infuriating, weirdly attractive wall.

You blinked up at him, mock-offended. “Wow. You really need to get laid, don’t you?”

That earned you a shift—a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, sharp and unreadable, his jaw tightening, but still not a word.

Joel Miller, the human embodiment of a steel door.

You smirked. “Ooh, that bad, huh?”

From a few steps above, moving out of the way like a storm was brewing between the two of you, Sarah groaned. “Dad, please don’t murder my friends!”

You took a step back, throwing both hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d ask. Y’know, on behalf of your adult daughter.”

Joel turned away, back up the bleachers, “Get back to your little song and dance, kid.”

And that was that. You watched his back for a second longer, half amused, half intrigued. Then you looked up at Sarah and surprised her with a grin as her dad began ascending the stairs.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You didn’t bother texting first. Sarah would’ve found some way to talk you out of it, knowing her.

Still in your uniform, though the pom poms had long ditched, lipstick a little faded but your confidence entirely intact, you march right up the Miller porch and rap your knuckles against the tall wooden door.

It only takes a few seconds before it swings open.

Joel stands there, beer in one hand, jaw already clenched like you’d personally ruined his evening by breathing on his welcome mat. His eyes take their time sweeping over you—legs bare, cheeks flushed from the walk over, school jacket slung over your arm. By the time they land back on your face with that signature glare, there’s a smile on your lips.

“The hell you doin’ here, kid?”

Your grin widens, sweet as sugar, “Evenin’ to you too, Mr. Miller.”

He barely even blinks.

You shift your weight onto one hip, the skirt of your uniform shifting across your thighs. “Thought I’d come talk to you again. Woman to man.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “’Bout what, exactly?”

“You know what,” you say, rolling your eyes, “It’s your daughter’s birthday. I just want to take her out for one drink!”

“She ain’t goin’.”

“Ya know, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes dancing as you lean in a little closer, voice syrupy, “if you’re gonna make me beg, the least you could do is pull my hair while you’re at it.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, dark and dangerous as his lip curls up, his figure stepping close enough to cast a shadow over you. You hold your ground, grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, daring him to snap, to rise to it.

Just as he opens his mouth to retort, you hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh my god,” Sarah says, voice full of disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Joel‘s eyes are still on you, but as if remembering himself, he scoffs, stepping aside just enough for her to poke her head out from over his shoulder. As you pull yourself on your tip toes to look over him, you see Sarah— hair still tied up in those bows, though they’ve fallen since you last saw her. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes in both of you standing together.

You lift your hand in a casual wave. “Told you I’d try. But your dad’s playing medieval warden again.”

Sarah groans, coming down a few steps. “Daaad…”

You raise a hand, cutting her off before she can jump in too. “Don’t worry, I had a feelin’ he’d be like this.” You reach into the bag slung over your shoulder and pull out a DVD, holding it up like a peace offering. She’s The Man. “If we can’t go out, we’re celebrating in. I at least want my best friend to enjoy her goddamn birthday.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You’re stayin’?”

You shrug. “Unless you’re plannin’ to physically remove me—yeah.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you, either. He just stands there, glaring, as Sarah appears beside him and grabs your hand to pull you inside. The two of you are already halfway up the stairs by the time he can manage to take a breath.

You glance back at him just before turning the corner. He’s still standing in the doorway, muttering something under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like you’ve given him a migraine in the span of two minutes.

“Don’t wait up, Mr. Miller,” you call with a grin.

He shuts the door with more force than necessary, and you swear you can hear him muttering as he takes a sip of his beer, something like, “Goddamn pain in my ass.”

You follow Sarah into her room, shutting the door behind you with a soft click as she drops onto her bed in a dramatic sprawl.

Your eyes scan the familiar space. The twin bed, with its purple-and-gray comforter, is pushed into the corner, the lineup of band posters curling at the corners on the walls. The old photo of her and her dad at a soccer match she won a trophy for with her team is still taped above the lamp.

“So,” you start, turning the lock.

Sarah immediately sits up, eyes narrowing. “No. Nope. What are you up to?”

“What?” you say, all wide-eyed innocence.

She points at you like she’s caught you red-handed. “That face. I know that face. You’re scheming.”

“Of course I’m scheming,” you say, manicured nails finding your hips once you drop your bag down. “Sarah, you’re twenty-one. You only turn twenty-one once, and you wanna spend it… what? Watching She’s the Man and ordering pizza?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say that.”

She groans. “I don’t know…”

“Look—we’ll watch the movie I brought, play it chill for now, and then once the old man crashes on the couch like he always does—boom. We’re out. You’re putting on your hottest jeans, I brought you Jason’s football jersey—”

“Why do I need a jersey?”

“Half-off beer for anyone wearing school colors,” you say, like it's obvious, “God, do you ever go out?”

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead, “you really planned this all out.”

“Correct,” you grin, “and that’s why you love me. Now—either those jeans that make your ass look phenomenal or that little skirt I gave you last year. We’ll do your makeup, fix those ribbons, and then you’re hauling your ass out that window whether you like it or not.”

As you ramble on, you catch the smile forming on her lips, her fingers rising to hide it, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re insane,” she says, laughing.

“I’m a genius,” you correct.

“He’s gonna kill you.”

Your red lips stretch into another grin. “I’d love to see him try.”

God, you were good. You’re a humble girl—really. Scout’s honor. But the things you can do with a makeup brush…Honestly? It deserves scientific documentation. Because by the time Mr. Miller’s snoring echoes through the walls and drifts up the stairs, you were already at work.

And now, only half an hour later, the birthday girl is glowing.

Her eyeliner is sharp enough to cut glass, her lips gleaming with that pink gloss you found buried at the bottom of her vanity drawer, and her cheeks are flushed that perfect rosy tone that makes her caramel skin look like it belongs in a beauty campaign.

“Oh. My. God,” you breathe, stepping back to admire your masterpiece. “You are so getting us free drinks tonight.”

“Drink,” she corrects, holding up a finger. “Singular. I promised one.”

You roll your eyes, already heading for the window. “Uh-huh. One drink. One shot. One phone number. I’m flexible.”

“I mean it!”

You just grin over your shoulder. “I know. But I also know you. You’ll cave the second someone with a thick Texan accent says you have pretty eyes.”

She lets out a groan—half exasperated, half excited—as you push the window open. The Austin night air drifts in, dry and cool against your skin, the quiet hum of cicadas in the distance. The sky is dark and clear, moonlight pooling across the shingles like it’s inviting you out.

You duck through first, your legs swinging over the sill as you balance on the edge. “Come on, birthday girl.”

“You're gonna get us killed before my dad even has the chance.”

You glance back with a grin. “Relax, it’s just a little jump.”

“Uh-huh.” She squeaks, but still climbs out behind you, barefoot and holding her heels, a whispered shit shit shit under her breath as the two of you crouch low and begin the careful climb down the old lattice nailed into the side of the porch. It isn’t exactly stable, but it holds—like it always does when you’re the one sneaking in.

You land with a soft thud in the grass, then looking up, you reach a hand toward her. “Easy. I got you.”

She drops down next to you, a little breathless, a little wild-eyed, already grinning.

Your phone buzzes with the alert of your driver arriving.

You slip your phone into your purse and nudg her with your elbow as the two of you start toward the street.

“One drink,” she reminds you.

You just smirk. “Sure, babe. One drink. And if we end up dancing on tables by midnight?”

“That’ll be on you.”

“Yeah. I can live with that.”

And off you go, pulling on your sneakers, the stars bright overhead as you climb into your Uber.

The night had gone from rowdy to regretful real fast.

And now, sitting on the curb outside the bar, shoes dangling from your fingers, the soles of your feet throbbing, you’re realizing just how deep in shit you are. The air has cooled just enough for goosebumps to rise along your arms, the sweat and heat from the crowded dance floor long gone. Your other hand clutches your phone, the blue glow of the screen casting shadows across your face.

The Uber app spins. And spins. And spins.

“No. No, no, no,” you whimper, voice tight as the screen flashes: No drivers available in your area.

No Uber. No Lyft. And no way in hell are you spending fifty bucks on a yellow cab. Yeah, you waitress at the diner, but that’s damn near an entire shift’s pay. Just to get home in one piece? No thank you.

You glance sideways.

Sarah is slumped beside you, her head cradled in her hands, the ribbons that once sat perfectly in her hair now unraveling in limp curls. One of her earrings is missing. Glitter streaks across her cheek like a tear. She lets out a soft, pitiful sound—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and you swallow hard.

“Hey,” you murmur, crouching down in front of her, trying to keep your voice calm, “drink some of this.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she mutters. She sips from your water bottle like it’s acid.

“Well,” you say, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder, “if not now, you definitely will be in a second.”

Your stomach churns. Not from the alcohol—from what you’re about to do.

You take a breath, swipe to your contacts, and tap the name you’ve been avoiding all night.

Joel Miller’s truck pulls up ten minutes later.

It rumbles into view like a warning—headlights sweeping across the sidewalk, engine growling low and loud in the silence of the early morning. You stand, heart in your throat, wiping your sweaty palms on your skirt.

He barely put it in park before he’s out the door and moving.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, soft as ever, sliding his arms under Sarah’s shoulders to lift her, “I got you. It’s alright.”

She whimpers something, an apology maybe, but he just hushes her gently and helps her into the back seat, tucking her in like a child and buckling her seatbelt.

And then he turns.

Gone is the soft-spoken dad. Gone is the cooing.

His face shifts in the dim streetlight—jaw locked, eyes hard, voice like gravel.

“Get in the truck.”

Your mouth opens. It closes again, then you say, “I can find my own—”

“I said.” He takes a step toward you, slow and sharp. “Get. In. The truck.”

He yanks the passenger door open.

You stare at him for a second too long, heart pounding, but you step up into the cab and slide into the seat without another word. Joel slams the door behind you, and the truck rattles as he gets back in, hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.

The house is quiet when you get back, the kind of silence that feels like it might shatter if you breathe too loud.

Joel doesn’t say a word as he parks the truck and gets out. He silently opens the back door and unbuckles Sarah, arms curling under her like second nature. She stirs with a small groan, burying her face in his chest, and he murmurs something you don’t catch—low and warm and so damn gentle it makes your throat tighten.

The whole drive, his jaw had been clenched, eyes fixed on the road, one fist pressed to his mouth like he was holding back something dangerous. But now all you see is the gentleness in him as he carries her inside.

He nudges open her bedroom door with his boot at the top of the stairs, and you linger in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, watching him move.

He settles her onto the mattress like he’s done it a hundred times, pulls back the blankets, and slips her shoes off. You watch as he tucks her in with practiced hands, slow and steady, smoothing the covers up over her chest.

Then he kneels beside the bed and brushes the hair from her face. Just once. A soft tuck behind her ear. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. There’s so much love in that one motion, it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to exist in it with them.

He stands, turning toward you only long enough to brush past you without a word. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge you. Just moves down the hall, shoulders stiff and set, and disappears into the bathroom.

You hear the cabinet open. The faucet runs, something rattles on the counter.

When he passes you again, it’s with a glass of water in one hand and two white pills in the other. Still no words. No glance. Like you aren’t even there.

Your jaw tightens as he ducks back into Sarah’s room.

A minute later, he’s back in the doorway, pulling it shut behind him until the soft click of it closing can be heard in the dim hallway. Then, he turns.

And finally looks at you.

His face is unreadable. Jaw set and eyes cold. His mouth is a hard line, and those eyes that were once holding warmth as he took care of Sarah are deep and dark as they look down at you.

“I shouldn’t have—” you start, your voice small.

“Don’t,” he says.

You blink.

“I mean it,” he adds, walking past you toward the stairs, “don’t start with some half-ass apology just ‘cause you feel guilty now.”

You follow him. “I do feel guilty.”

He stops short, turning back to face you before stepping down. His eyes catch yours, sharp and cutting.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You snuck out,” he snaps, the words cracking like a whip. “You took my kid into some shitty bar in your stupid little uniform and cheap perfume and thought that made you clever. Thought it made you cute.”

You feel the heat rise in your face—not from shame, but from something else entirely.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some little girl.”

“Then stop actin’ like one.”

You take a step toward him. Then another.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His arms stay locked at his sides, fists curled, shoulders tense. His jaw flexes once, twice, like he’s biting back something worse.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” Your voice softens, but only just. “You think I don’t catch the way you hover near the kitchen when I’m there, like you just happen to need something the second I bend over to grab something from the fridge?”

His eyes flash, but he still doesn’t speak.

So you keep going.

“The way you are at the games, pretending not to look. Pretending that you don’t think about me in this ‘stupid little uniform’?”

His breath comes a little heavier now, and his fists still haven’t unclenched, “You’re treadin’ on some mighty thin ice here, girl.” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You’re gonna wanna back up.”

You step in anyway, closing the last of the space. You lift your hand and press a finger to his chest, right over the line of buttons. You feel the heat of him through the cotton, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Just admit it,” you whisper. You tilt your chin up, just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t see me as some kid anymore, Joel.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering like he wants to watch his name fall from your lips. Then you watch as his eyes climb their way back to yours, slower this time. Measured. He looks at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t happening, but all you can see is the heat in his eyes.

And then his hands are on you.

Large, rough palms grabbing you with more force than you were ready for—dragging you forward, only to spin you and shove you. Your body hits the wall with a muted thud, breath catching as your palms splay flat against the cool surface. His chest is pressed to your back in the next second, pinning you there, the heat of him burning through your shirt.

You gasp, your cheek catching against the wall, breath fogging the paint. “What’re you—”

“You are such a goddamn brat,” he cuts you off, growling in your ear.

Your legs nearly buckle. You’re breathing hard already, the adrenaline and arousal twisting into something dizzying, but still—still—you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth.

His hands drop to your ass, gripping a handful through your skirt, his fingers digging in possessively. You arch slightly, instinctively, and he groans low in his throat, pressing harder into you like he’s trying to pin every inch of you still.

His forearm slides across your chest, then wraps around your throat—not quite choking, but holding. His bicep rests against your jawline, elbow snug beneath your chin, tilting your head just enough to keep you in place as his free hand drags your skirt up.

“Damn shorts,” he mutters when he finds the line of spandex in his way, annoyed. And then he’s yanking them down in one rough pull, not gentle or remotely slow. You let out a curse under your breath as the fabric drags down your thighs, baring you to him.

“Mr. Mill—”

“Need to show you.”

Your voice shakes when you answer. “Sh-show me?”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice like gravel and heat.

“What happens when brats disobey me.”

You try not to picture what it would look like if Sarah suddenly walked in—if she rounded the corner and saw you like this. Bare from the waist down, palms pressed to the wall, thighs trembling. Her dad standing behind you, his hands still on your hips, the hard press of him straining against his jeans.

But then your thoughts are shaken loose when you feel it. His palm, warm and broad, resting on your ass.

“Count,” he says, low and firm.

You barely have time to ask what he means before the first smack lands.

The sound cracks through the hallway, and you jolt, a gasp ripping from your throat. Not just from the sting, but from the way it shoots straight down your spine, heat blooming through your core.

“One,” you whisper.

His hand is back on you, soothing for a second, then gone.

Smack.

You bite your lip, hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Two.”

He hums behind you, like he’s pleased with himself. Or with you. Maybe both.

Another smack. Harder this time.

Your knees wobble.

“Three.”

“Mm,” Joel mutters, his voice deep, lazy, “thought you’d get louder than that.”

You grit your teeth, fingers flexing against the wall, breath starting to come faster.

The fourth one stings, sharp and hot.

“Four,” you moan. You can’t help it. Joel chuckles darkly behind you at the sound.

And then his hand slides down lower, to the slick waiting for him between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through your folds, slow and unhurried, and when he finds you soaked, he hisses through his teeth.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You squirm, a breathy whine escaping before you can catch it. His fingers stroke through your arousal a little firmer, a little more deliberate. You whimper at the contact of his calloused fingers, so thick and warm against you.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear again, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.

“Bad girls don’t get to play,” he murmurs, “even if their pussy’s practically cryin’ for me.”

Joel tsks quietly. His hand cups your ass again, possessive. His fingers are still slippery with the feeling of you. “Spoiled little thing. Thinkin’ she gets a reward for sneakin’ outta my house.”

His hand falls from your ass, and you hear the low scrape of his boots on the hardwood as he steps back.

“Turn around.”

You obey instantly, cheeks hot, body still throbbing from the sting of his palm. You pivot slowly, heart hammering, eyes catching on the way he towers over you—jaw tight, eyes dark with something closer to hunger than anger.

“Down.” He says, nodding to the floor in front of him. “On your knees.”

You drop without hesitation, the wood floor hard beneath your skin, but you don’t care. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when the air between you is so thick it’s hard to breathe.

His eyes stay on yours as he lifts one hand, fingers twitching as they tilt your chin up.

“Show me your tongue.”

You blink up at him, heat rushing straight between your legs at the command.

“Now.”

You part your lips and slowly stick your tongue out, holding it there—wet, obedient, waiting. Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his jaw ticks again.

“So…” he mutters, voice low, approving, “she does know how to listen.”

His hand under your chin turns your face from side to side, your spit beginning to gather at the sides of your mouth as you realize he’s…admiring the view.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl when you wanna be.”

You grin, just a little, tongue still out, but there’s mischief behind your eyes. You tilt your head the tiniest bit, eyes flicking down to the bulge in his jeans, then back up again—deliberate.

“I’m always good,” you say around your tongue, your voice smug, a little breathy. “You just can’t handle it.”

Joel’s jaw flexes. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying very, very hard not to lose it.

“Always gotta run that mouth,” he mutters.

Then his hands find his belt. You stay right where you are, tongue still out, eyes narrowed, but now there’s a smirk tugging at your lips, even as your breath hitches when the buckle comes undone. You watch him with that cocky little tilt to your chin, like you’re waiting to see what he’s working with. Like you know exactly what’s coming, and you’re not sure he deserves your awe just yet.

He unzips his jeans, pushing them down just far enough to pull himself free.

His cock springs out thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking for you. The head is a deep, angry red, and it twitches slightly in his hand as he wraps his fingers around the base.

Your smirk falters. He’s huge. Bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, and your stomach flips at the idea of it going…anywhere.

“Think what you mean is can you handle it?” Joel asks, voice low, rough.

You blink slowly, playing it cool even as your thighs press together.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel chuckles as he strokes himself once, slow and firm, eyes on your mouth.

“Open wider,” he says.

You do—but not all the way. Just enough to be a little annoying. A little slow. You even raise your eyebrows like this what you wanted?

Joel’s smile fades as he guides himself to your mouth.

“God,” he mutters, sliding his cock along your outstretched tongue. He teases himself there, the thick, swollen head dragging slowly across the surface—coating your lips in precum, smearing it slow and slick.

You hate how intoxicating he smells. Hate how good he tastes. Hate how much you love this angle—kneeling between his thighs, watching him look down at you like this is where you belong.

“Gonna paint my cock with that pretty red lipstick, baby?” he asks, voice rough with amusement, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You smile up at him—defiant, even now—before closing your lips around the tip. The moment you suckle, your tongue flicking at the salty bead of arousal, he lets out a sharp, broken breath like you knocked it out of him.

He growls and suddenly backs you into the wall. Your head bumps against the hard surface, and your hands shoot out, grabbing at his thighs—nails digging into the worn denim for something to hold onto.

You glare up at him even as he presses deeper into your throat, taking control. His fingers slide into your hair, tightening, holding you there against the wall. He watches with dark, hungry eyes as your lips stretch wide around him, spit glossing the corners of your mouth.

“I like you so much better when your mouth is full of me.”

And then he starts to move.

He fucks your mouth with steady, brutal thrusts—your throat flexing around him, gagging as he pushes deeper, harder. You choke, sputtering when he thrusts all the way in, tears springing to your eyes as mascara streaks down your cheeks.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Gooood girl.” He drawls it out low and thick before pulling himself from your mouth, bending to hover in front of your face, eyes drinking you in—wrecked, ruined, perfect.

Your lipstick’s smudged across your chin. Mascara tears drag down your cheeks. Your mouth is red and wet and trembling.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s brutal and hungry. His tongue pushes past your lips with zero hesitation, and you open for him instantly, swallowing the kiss like you’re starving. He tastes like that stupid Miller Lite and something synthetic, waxy—and you realize it’s your lipstick on his mouth.

When he pulls back, it’s too soon, and you chase his mouth without thinking.

He grins down at you, wicked and wild, and pats your cheek. Not gentle, not quite a slap, but something in between. Like a good dog.

Then, standing tall again, he grabs the base of his cock, lines himself back up, and guides it back into your mouth. He’s slow at first, letting you feel the weight of it. The heat. The way it stretches your jaw until your lips ache, the base of him thick and veiny against your tongue.

“That's it,” he murmurs, his hand tightening in your hair, “all the way into your throat, baby.”

He starts to move again in controlled, steady thrusts that make your throat flutter and your eyes tear up all over again. You moan around him, and the vibration makes him grunt, hips stuttering forward like he wasn’t ready for how good it feels.

His other hand drops to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he watches the slick shine building around your lips.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You moan again, louder this time, and your thighs squeeze together.

Tightly.

The pressure spikes, your breath shallow and high, and your hand flutters down between your legs before you even think about it. Your fingers find your soaked folds—so warm, so wet you could cry—and you can’t help it. You have to touch. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. You swirl two fingers over your clit, barely a brush, just enough to ease the pressure.

Your throat tightens around Joel’s cock as you jerk against your fingers, and his eyes widen as he looks down at you.

“You touching yourself right now?” he asks, voice low. Disbelieving. His eyes drop to where your thighs are clenched together, to the subtle movement of your hand, and then back to your mouth wrapped around his cock. “Jesus fuck, baby.”

You moan around him again, your free hand bracing against his leg, nails digging into the muscle of his thigh.

“Couldn’t help it, huh?” His voice softens, but not with mercy—with need. “S’that good? That what my cock does to you?”

You nod as best you can, eyes fluttering, lips sucking harder, chasing that praise like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. Your hand moves faster between your thighs, the pressure building hot and tight, a slow coil of need that burns through you like fire.

Joel groans above you, his hips starting to move again—deep, steady thrusts, like he’s savoring every inch of your mouth. You can’t help but moan around him again and again, eyes glazed, desperate.

But then, to your dismay, he slows.

And then he stops.

You whine, brows knitting together as he pulls out of your mouth, his cock heavy and flushed, spit-slick and twitching just inches from your lips. You blink up at him, lips wet and trembling, throat aching and still wanting more.

He doesn’t let you whine or complain before his hand is pulling yours away from yourself, tugging you up from your knees. Your legs are unsteady, muscles cramped and shaky from the floor, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. In one swift movement, you’re off the ground, hauled up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you gasp, hands scrabbling at his back, your stomach squished against the hard plane of his shoulder.

He swats your ass—hard—the sound sharp in the hallway. You yelp again, and his voice drops to a low, lethal hiss.

“Quiet.”

He carries you past Sarah’s door, the floor creaking beneath his boots, his arm tight around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place. You bite your lip, breath catching in your throat as you pass the one room you’ve never dared to enter.

And then he opens it.

His door.

The space is dark and warm, and you only have a second to process it before you’re flung onto the bed.

You land with a soft grunt, arms propping you up as you sit up to look at the man before you. He takes off his shirt, shucking off his jeans with haste, and is on you in the next breath.

“Ain’t about to let you come all by yourself on those fingers,” he says, reaching for your thighs and yanking them toward the edge of the bed with one rough pull.

His hands are already on you again, calloused palms spreading your thighs apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you gasp.

Joel groans in his throat, his eyes still on your glistening center, thighs shaking and slick with yourself. Your red cheer top is still on, bunched up slightly, your stomach showing and quivering under his touch.

He grips your thighs harder and spreads them wider, dragging you to the edge of the bed until you can feel his breath against your skin. His eyes never leave your pussy—pupils blown wide, jaw slack and lips parted like in awe.

And then he dives in, no hesitation, no slow teasing or light licking. No, Joel Miller devours you. Like a man possessed.

His tongue flattens against your folds and drags up, slow and deep, tasting everything. Your head is thrown back at the feeling, a moan escaping you before you have the wherewithal to keep yourself quiet.

“Christ,” he mutters, mouth slick with you, “tastes better than I ever coulda’ dreamed, baby,”

Your hips buck up, and he throws an arm over your stomach, pinning you down.

“Nuh-uh, you stay still,” he growls, nose nudging your clit before his mouth wraps around it, sucking. His tongue sends your vision white.

“Oh my–oh my god,” you gasp, crying out, hands clawing for his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he eats you out like it’s the last fucking supper. He moans into you, beard soaked and eyes hooded, watching you squirm. But just as your thighs begin to shake, your moans getting high and choked and frantic–

He stops. Your hands fall from his thick hair, gripping the sheets instead as you whimper. You open your eyes to look down at him, nearly sobbing at the loss.

“What’d I say about bad girls?” he asks, voice gravel and sin.

“I’ll–I’ll be good,” you stammer, breathless, “I’ll be good, Mr. Miller, I swear–”

He nips the side of your thigh, and your thighs still shake with the aching tension lost from them. “Come on now, baby,” he purrs, “call me Joel. Think we’re past the formalities when your pussy’s soakin’ my face.”

Your face burns red hot, stomach tightening and flipping on itself at the deepness of his sex drunk voice.

“Please,” you whisper, “please, Joel, let me come.”

But he’s already pushing himself up, stroking his pulsing cock in one hand, eyes on the slick mess between your legs.

“No,” he says, voice rough, “not yet.”

You let out a soft whine, your legs still twitching, your body begging.

He climbs over you, slow and deliberate, crowding your space. He nudges you up the bed with the weight of his body, palms guiding you like you’re something delicate. His knees cage your thighs, and his hand finds your ribs, broad and warm and steadying. His thumb curls under the hem of your uniform top.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?” he says, and you’re surprised when it’s said so gently, even if his eyes hold a hunger so deep they’re nearly black. You nod, lifting your arms up, and he pulls it over you swiftly, throwing it to the side of the bed. His eyes fall to your chest, and his hand is back on you, splayed wide against your skin.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your pebbled breasts. You shiver, hips lifting unconsciously, and you feel the pulse of his hard cock against your thigh.

He leans in, taking your peaked nipple into his mouth, so warm and wet. Your back arches at the feeling of his tongue lapping over you, teeth grazing until he releases your breast with a soft pop, kissing between the valley until he finds the other nipple, treating it to the same gentle worship.

His lips move up to your throat then, slow, hot, the kind of open-mouth kiss that's more tongue than anything else. You gasp as he finds the crook in your neck, goosebumps rising as your back arches into him.

You feel his wide, open palms slide beneath you, one pressing into the small of your back, the other across your shoulders. You feel the shift in his body before he moves. His muscles tighten as he gathers his strength, and then he’s rolling you over.

He turns smoothly, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of movement, his hands still wrapped around you. But as you find yourself on top of him, in his lap, you sit upright.

“You wanna come so badly, baby?” he murmurs. “Then take it.”

Your eyes go wide as you look down at him, palms splayed across his chest, feeling the heat and sweat slick over taut muscle. He’s burning beneath your hands, every breath you take ragged and shallow.

Whatever you had been expecting tonight, whatever you had thought would happen the more and more you goaded him, it wasn’t this.

Joel Miller was filthy and delicious and feral.

“Go on,” he says at your hesitation, “show me how much you like when your best friend’s daddy touches you.”

Your breath shudders out of you, his hands finding your hips and gently brushing his thumbs against your heated skin.

You reach down, moving your hips back to make space for your hand to wrap around the base of his cock. The moment your fingers make contact, his eyes flutter shut, his breath hissing out of him. You watch his face as you position yourself above him, teasing the head through your slick folds, dragging it up against your clit.

You take a deep breath as his cock catches the notch of your entrance, his eyes flashing open at the sudden feeling of you sinking onto him. You roll your hips, adjusting to him, his hands tight against your hips.

“Fuck,” he chokes.

The stretch of him as you glide down him slowly, gently, nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too much, way too much. But it’s so perfect, the sheer girth and stretch of him making your eyes roll back. Your mouth falls open as you inch your way down, down down, until you’re fully sheathed over him, your hips meeting his.

You sit there for a moment, rolling your hips a bit back and forth, around, letting yourself feel every vein, every nook and crevice of him, and when you look up at your face, a breathless little smile grows on your lips.

“This got you all worked up, Joel?” you purr, “All that grumpy ass attitude, you just needed this, didn’t you?”

You move again, adding a little bounce, and his jaw slackens, his grip tightening on you.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, nearly wrecked.

“You’re so easy, Mr. Miller,” you hum, rocking over him again, “all that control, that stoicism, just…gone.”

He narrows his eyes, something dangerous flickering there. He bares his teeth, voice tight and low.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, growls, “Keep runnin’ that slutty mouth of yours, see where it gets ya.”

You lean in close, hands moving to his hair, lacing your fingers through his thick locks as your lips press to his ear, “Where, Joel?” you whisper, “What’re you gonna do? Punish me?”

His grip on you shifts, he moves his hands up your body, mirroring your hands and pushing his through your hair, wrapping tight at the nape of your neck. He yanks your head back, exposing your neck. Your breath catches, somewhere between surprise and delight. Your pussy clenches around him at the feeling, and he groans beneath you.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you?” he hisses, “I give you a little control, let you ride my dick, and you already have shit to say, huh?”

His hips thrust up hard, and you choke on a moan. The new angle makes you jolt as he drives into you, deep and unrelenting, hitting places he hadn't before.

You cry out when he keeps moving, hips grinding in steady, punishing strokes, each one pushing deeper, like he’s chasing something inside you only he knows how to reach.

“Fuck, Joel!”

“There she is,” he says, lips kissing and teeth nipping at your jaw as he holds you in place by your hair, “there’s my filthy little girl. Pussy is so tight, practically drippin’ all over my cock. Still doesn’t stop that little mouth of yours, does it?”

You try to grind down on him, and he chuckles darkly, “You like the way my cock fill’s you, huh baby?” he mutters, voice thick, groaning at the feeling of you, “Like the way I stretch you, fill you up? S’like you were made for me, huh?”

You nod, your voice completely wrecked as you moan.

“Tell me..”

Your cheeks burn, “Y-yeah,”

He tuts, fingers clinging harder to your hair, “Try again.”

“Feels so fucking—so fucking good, Joel,” you whisper, “please, please–want more,”

He hums in satisfaction, loosening his grip on your hair. Your neck aches, sore and stretched, but the second your eyes drop to his, his mouth is on yours.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough. “Now ride me like you mean it.”

You sit back up, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles at first, testing what he likes, watching his eyes flicker with each shift and grind. Joel’s hands slide from your thighs to your waist, up your sides, palms rough as they settle there.

“Look at you,” he says, “Ridin’ me so sweet now. Just needed a little direction, huh?”

You gasp as his hands drag up, thumbs brushing under your breasts before his palms cup them, fingers curling around your nipples. He rolls them slowly, tugging just enough to make your hips jolt, your mouth falling open in a broken moan.

“That’s it,” he groans, “Feel good?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Show me,”

You lift one hand from his chest, one still bracing against him for balance while the other slips between your legs. Your fingers trace around your lower lips, feeling them stretch around his cock until they slide up and find your clit. The little bundle of nerves is still slick and swollen from the edge he’d pulled you off, and you start to circle it, starting to slowly build up the pace as he watches.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hips pushing up into you, “Touchin’ yourself on my cock like a good girl.”

You whimper, the pressure building up again so easily as you watch his face. His dark hair is all mussed and sticking to his forehead with a wet sheen of sweat, eyes on you, barely blinking as he watches your fingers.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he pants, voice rough and strained. “Gonna soak me like that pretty pussy’s meant to?”

“Kiss me,” you blurt out.

His eyes flicker up to yours.

You slow your fingers, breath catching, heart pounding in your throat.

“Want you to kiss me again, Joel,” you whisper, trembling. “Please.”

Something shifts in his expression, his hand moving from your breast to your cheek, cradling your face so gently it nearly aches. You lean into him, nuzzling his wide, warm palm as he begins to sit up.

As he leans forward, his cock still buried inside you, he uses one hand to prop himself up while the other holds you, and he presses his lips to yours.

It’s not filthy this time. At least, not at first. At first, it’s just a gentle press of his lips, soft and tender against yours. But as you moan and rock against his cock, his hand moves into your hair, pulling you closer to him, and his tongue breaches the opening of your mouth. You kiss him back hungrily, his mouth tasting like something sweet and heady, like you.

As your tongue slides against his, Joel groans softly. He shifts his hips, just slightly, enough for you to feel him inside you, a reminder, still hard and thick and pulsing.

You begin to move again, grinding yourself faster and faster, your walls beginning to tighten around him. You open your eyes when his lips fall from yours, his jaw slack and brows furrowed tight. You clench around him, and a guttural groan escapes from his throat.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans, then his eyes open, looking up at you, “come on now, baby. Can feel how badly she wants to come all over me. Let me feel it, please. Let me feel you come all over me.”

He meets every one of your thrusts now, cock reaching the deepest parts of your cervix, hands sliding down your back, guiding your movement, your hips, and you follow the rhythm instinctively. His cock hits an angle inside you that has you shrieking his name.

“There it is, baby, can feel it right there,” he chants, “come on now, give it to me.”

Your breath stutters, your hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life as your fingers work your clit faster and faster.

Suddenly, your vision pops with stars, head tilting back, mouth held open in the perfect ‘o’ as you gush around him. Your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, your body clenching and shivering around him.

He holds you through it, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your thigh as you twitch and shudder through the last pulses of your orgasm. His hips start to stutter—uncontrolled now, jerking deeper like his body’s no longer listening to him.

“F-Fuck—fuck, baby,” he pants, voice ragged and unraveling, “I’m—Jesus—I’m gonna—”

“Yes, Joel,” you breathe, voice wrecked and sweet in his ear, “come inside me.”

He falters, choking on a breath, still thrusting helplessly as your words wrap around him as he pulls back to look at you.

“Wh-What?”

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, voice low and urgent, “I have an IUD, come inside me, please,”

His eyes widen, glassy, and stunned, but you keep going.

“Wanna feel you when I fall asleep,” you murmur, hips rocking gently into his, “when I wake up tomorrow. Want the reminder. Want it dripping out of me. Please, Joel.”

That’s it.

He lets go with a broken sound, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he drives into you one last time—deep and hard and final. His cock throbs inside you, and he comes with a low, brutal groan into your neck, his whole body shaking against yours.

He stays buried deep, breath hitching in your ear as he presses his chest to yours, both of you slick and panting. His back finally hits the mattress, and he pulls you with him, your bodies still tangled, his arms never leaving your waist.

You collapse against his chest, cheek pressed over his racing heart, both of you trembling and silent for a long moment.

His hand finds the small of your back, tracing lazy circles against your damp skin as your breathing starts to settle. The room is quiet now, the storm of what just happened still buzzing faintly in the air between you. You shift slightly against his chest, and he pulls you closer.

Then, after a long pause, you hear him say, “You’re…you’re not drunk, are you?”

You huff a laugh against his collarbone “No.”

He waits, though, still uncertain.

“I had one drink,” you say, lifting your head to look at him. He lifts a brow at you.

“Okay, two.” You roll your eyes. “But I swear, not drunk. Not even tipsy.”

He nods, slow. His jaw’s tight again, but not in anger this time—more like restraint. Like he’s keeping something bigger from getting loose.

“Just didn’t wanna…” He clears his throat. “Didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow and…”

You blink at him, “Regret this?” you ask, and your hand moves up to cup his scruffy jaw, “how could I regret somethin’ that I’ve been thinking about every time you so much as look at me?”

Joel stares at you.

Like really stares.

And you just smile a little harder, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, covering his face with one hand, the other still cradling your hip. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin into his chest. “Might be a good way to go.”

And Joel—tired, wrecked, full of you—just laughs.

Really laughs.

And that’s how the night ends. Not in panic. Not in guilt.

But with your legs tangled up, and Joel Miller already falling for you.

#joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #tlou #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel x you #joel miller x you smut #ethel cain inspired

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vanteguccir · 28 days ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: BOSTON SURPRISE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where is the Boston show of the Surprise Party Tour, Y/N is pregnant, and it's Matt's turn to bring his surprise.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　being pregnant.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

After a long two year wait, the Sturniolo Triplets Surprise Party Tour was finally on the road.

The buzz of the theater was really electric, the pre-show jitters vibrating as fans filled the seats just beyond the thick curtains separating backstage from the main stage. Y/N practically radiated excitement, her steps light as she roamed around, eyes scanning every corner for Matt.

She was beyond ecstatic, to say the least. Being on the road with the triplets was her absolute favorite thing, and she had missed it so much since their last tour in 2023.

Her oversized custom shirt - the one that Nick had personally designed - hung loosely over her frame, matching his own shirt for the night. She smiled softly as she walked past crew members, setting up last-minute details. Nick and Chris were talking to the organizer somewhere behind the stage, deep in conversation, but her only focus was on finding Matt.

Just as she rounded a corner, Paula’s familiar voice echoed.

"Y/N! You look stunning."

Y/N turned her head, catching sight of the boys’ stylist walking toward her, a warm smile on her face.

"Nick did amazing with this shirt." Paula continued, eyes scanning the outfit with approval. "It looks amazing on you."

"You're too nice, Paula." Y/N’s cheeks heated as she grinned. Paula always had a way of making her feel extra confident. "Have you seen Matt?"

"He’s still in his dressing room." Paula replied before a yell of her name echoed, followed by the woman quickly excusing herself.

Y/N continued down the hall, stopping in front of the door marked with Matt’s name. She knocked gently, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of the crowd outside.

Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek her head inside.

"Hey." She greeted softly, her lips curving into a small smile at the sight of Matt's fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans, his shirtless torso on full display.

His soft blue eyes lifted to meet hers as she stepped in and closed the door behind her, and the moment they locked onto hers, his entire body seemed to relax just slightly.

"Hey angel." He muttered gently.

She wasted no time crossing the room, stepping into his space as her arms wrapped tightly around his bare waist. Her hands ran up the milky skin of his back, relishing the warmth radiating off him as she pressed soft kisses against his lips before tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

His arms wound around her immediately, pulling her so close she could barely breathe, but she didn’t care. She loved being wrapped up in him like this.

A heavy sigh left Matt’s lips as he rested his chin atop her head. He was holding her like he never wanted to let go, and Y/N could feel it - his tension, his nerves, the anxious beat of his heart against her own chest.

She pressed a hand flat against the middle of his back, rubbing small, soothing circles.

"Hey, deep breaths, baby."

He obeyed, inhaling deeply, his hands sliding down to settle against her hips. His thumbs brushed over the soft fabric of her shirt above her lower stomach as if grounding himself.

"M'so nervous." He admitted, voice raspy and low, his forehead dipping against hers. "Not about what my- our family will say, I know they’ll be happy. But the fans..." His arms tightened slightly. "I just- this is so big, y'know?"

Y/N smiled softly, tilting her chin to kiss him once more, her lips lingering in reassurance.

"They’re going to be so happy, Matt." She murmured against his lips, her hands cupping the soft skin right above his ribs. "And even if they need a second to process it, we have each other. We’ve always had each other."

His eyes softened, filled with nothing but love and admiration as he let out a shaky breath. He leans in even more, basically smothering her, but she doesn’t mind - he needs the comfort, and he’s always only been able to be calmed by her.

"I love you." He whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

Before she could respond, a loud knock rattled the door.

"Matt!" Nick’s voice rang from the other side. "Are you dead in there? We gotta go!"

Matt groaned.

"Angel." He exhaled sharply, anxiously searching for Y/N's eyes one last time.

"You got this, my little star." Y/N nodded softly, and Matt's grip tightened for just a second longer before he finally, reluctantly, pulled back.

She smiled, squeezing his biceps one last time before stepping aside as he grabbed his shirt, ready to walk out onto that stage and into one of the biggest moments of their lives.

Matt, Chris, and Nick were lounging on stage like it was their living room, already used to the two iconic, slightly worn orange couches that had followed them across the country like loyal dogs.

Matt had claimed the right couch for himself, sitting cross-legged with a mic resting casually in one hand. On the left couch, Chris and Nick sat shoulder to shoulder, mirroring each other’s relaxed posture.

In the crowd, Y/N was in her usual spot - dead center, front row, the seat Matt always reserved for her. The one where he could look down and find her face instantly, grounding himself with just one glance.

But tonight, she wasn’t alone.

To her right sat Mary Lou, her hands folded neatly in her lap and a warm smile decorating her radiating face. Next to her was Jimmy, sitting tall and expectant, eyes scanning the stage like he was trying to drink it all in.

It was the first - and only - show they could attend, thanks to this tour stop being just a short drive from home. The last time they saw their sons on stage felt like a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, the giant screen behind the triplets lit up. A video snapped to life, flickering for a second before showing a clip of Matt fixing his tie.

And just like that, the room erupted. Screams shot up like fireworks, echoing off every wall.

Matt leaned back dramatically, flopping his free arm up.

"Alright, alright, chill out!" He grinned, voice teasing over the noise, trying not to laugh with the giddiness that came with his fans' reactions to himself. "First of all, I just wanna say, I deserve a full-blown award for keeping this secret."

Nick whipped his head toward him with a suspicious look, brows raised.

"No, I’m not even joking." Matt laughed, eyes wide with mock seriousness. "You guys have no idea how hard it was not to spill. Like, not just to you." He pointed at his brothers. "But to them too."

He turned, locking eyes with his parents, who were watching him intently, frowning.

"But when I found out we were doing a Boston show." Matt continued, voice dipping into something more sincere. "I knew this had to be my big surprise. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months."

The cheers kicked back up again - high-pitched, chaotic, and full of love.

"Okay, before we play the video, I need y’all to promise me something." He pointed toward the audience. "I need complete silence while it plays. Like, I want every single one of you to just sit back and take it all in." He smirked. "Don’t worry, you can scream after."

As the room quieted, you could feel the shift.

And then - click - the screen changed.

A home video. The inside of the triplets' LA house flickered onto the screen.

The camera wobbled for a second before being placed down on the coffee table. The image sharpened, revealing Matt's upper body moving a bit away from it, leaning down against the cream-colored couch, red hoodie up, grey sweatpants low, looking as cozy as humanly possible.

He waved at the camera with a little grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes yet.

"Hey, guys. If you’re watching this." He started, voice soft. "That means I finally get to say something I’ve been dying to share."

He ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling slowly like he was about to let go of a weight he'd carried for way too long.

"This message is for two very important groups." He said, pointing toward the lens. "One, my family. And two, every single fan watching right now."

Back on stage, Nick was glued to the screen, eyes narrowed, completely focused. Chris, meanwhile, kept shifting, glancing between Matt and the video like he was trying to figure out what was coming next, his leg bouncing with anxiety.

"So, here’s the deal." Video-Matt continued. "Two weeks ago, something happened. Something kinda insane. And when I found out about the tour the next day, I knew... I just knew this had to be one of my surprises."

He leaned forward, eyes flickering down for a second as he nervously clasped his hands together, like grounding himself.

"So, uh... yeah. Here it is."

The screen went black.

And then a low, steady sound filled the theater.

Thump-thump.

Not music.

Not a voice.

Something deeper, more alive.

A heartbeat.

Small, fast, and impossibly real.

The video sharpened into focus, though clearly filmed on a phone, the angle a little off-kilter like it had been propped up in a rush. The room on screen was soft and warm, washed in late afternoon sunlight.

Not a studio, not a stage. A hospital room. Neutral-colored walls. A monitor to the side.

Y/N lay on the examination bed, her brown sweater lifted to reveal her lower belly, shiny with gel. Her leggings were pulled down slightly, allowing the doctor to gently move the ultrasound wand over her skin.

Matt was right by her side, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way. Completely undone.

His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy with emotion. Tears slipped down silently as he gripped Y/N’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the planet. His commitment ring shimmered in the soft light as his right hand constantly - and very awkwardly - cleaned the tear tracks.

Y/N had her free hand over her mouth, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe through the sob building between her ribcage and going up full force. Her eyes were locked on the monitor, wide and wet, as a tiny, hazy figure wiggled faintly on the screen.

The doctor’s voice was quiet, almost reverent.

"That’s your baby’s heartbeat."

And Matt let out this broken, wet laugh, the kind that happens when you’re completely overwhelmed and overflowing all at once, a sob following right behind. He shook his head like he couldn’t even process what he was seeing.

"That’s our baby." He whispered, his voice cracking in half as he pulled Y/N’s hand to his lips and kissed it, keeping it pressed against his mouth. "That’s literally our baby."

Back in the theater, no one moved.

Not a sound.

It was like everyone in the room had just had the wind knocked out of them. Mouths covered in shock, eyes wide with disbelief.

Chris sat frozen, his jaw slack. Nick blinked slowly like he was trying to reboot.

Neither of them said a word - they couldn’t.

Their brother was having a baby.

Mary Lou, on the other hand, was already sobbing into her hands, her shoulders shaking, eyes covered in glasses tightly shut as if trying to hold back even more tears. Jimmy sat beside her with shining eyes, blinking back upcoming tears with a shaky inhale like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

On the screen, Matt’s watery smile stayed glued to the monitor, completely and utterly obsessed.

"Can’t believe y’letting me make you a mumma." Matt hums, almost in awe, like the words tasted too good to be true. "Gonna be the best, angel. I know it."

The video faded to black again.

Y/N, sitting quietly in the theater seat, was trying her best to keep it together, her eyes glassy and full. She pressed her pink tinted lips tightly together, like any little crack would shatter her.

The sound of her baby’s heartbeat echoed in her ears, and it was everything - terrifying, surreal, breathtaking. She clutched her stomach with both hands without thinking, her decorated nails lazily scratching over her shirt, like holding the secret tighter would make it easier not to cry.

Then, one last clip.

Matt, back in their cozy LA living room, sitting in his usual spot on the couch, his eyes slightly red but glowing, lit up with so much love.

"So, yeah." He sniffled, grinning shyly. "I wanted to tell you guys in the best way I knew how." He paused, visibly holding back more tears. "Y/N and I are having a baby."

He glanced off to the side for a second, sniffing.

"And we couldn’t be happier."

The screen went black.

Not a sound.

Not a breath.

And then, the world exploded.

Screams ripped through the air like a tidal wave, the theater shaking from the sheer force of it. Fans were crying, sobbing, yelling, clutching their faces in disbelief. It was chaos - beautiful, euphoric chaos.

Nick was the first to move, and he didn’t move. He launched. One second, he was sitting on the couch. The next he was across the stage, slamming into Matt with so much force, it nearly knocked them both down to the floor.

Chris was right behind him, eyes glossy, chin wobbling, and then suddenly, all three brothers were in this tangled, messy pile of limbs and love.

"Oh my god, Matt." Nick choked out, arms locked around Matt’s neck. "You’re gonna be a dad. You’re gonna be a freaking dad."

Chris was now crying - full-on crying - Fresh Love covered shoulders shaking, fingers gripping the back of Matt’s jacket like he didn’t wanna ever let go.

"I’m gonna be an uncle." He whispered, voice breaking like glass, pink lips wet with tears. "I get to be an uncle, man-"

And Matt just stood there in the middle of them, eyes wide, smile splitting his face in half, heart pounding like a drum solo inside his chest.

Down there, Mary Lou had already jumped to her feet, tears streaming down her face as she delicately pulled Y/N up and into her arms, pulling her shaking body into the warmest, tightest, most mom-like hug imaginable. The kind of hug that made everything feel safe.

"Oh, sweetheart." She whispered, voice shaking with emotion. "You just made me the happiest woman alive." She pulled back for a second just to cup Y/N’s cheeks, ignoring how her fingers got wet by Y/N's salty tears, soft eyes twinkling with pride and love. "You’re gonna be such a good mom. And I’m gonna spoil the hell outta this baby, just you wait."

Y/N couldn’t even speak. She just nodded, blinking through fat tears, heart hammering against her ribs.

Then, Matt looked down.

Somehow, in the storm of screaming and crying and fans limbs and lights, his eyes found her. His girl. Standing between the stage and the front row, being held by his mom, trembling hand over her belly, absolutely wrecked by the moment. Teary, overwhelmed, glowing in the most heartbreakingly beautiful way.

And something snapped in him.

He didn’t think.

He ran.

The bodyguards surrounding both sides of the stage went wild, arms outstretched, trying to block or guide him back, yelling over their earpieces.

But Matt didn’t care.

He dodged through them like it was instinct, ears muted to the fans yells from the front row, like his body was already halfway to her before his mind even caught up.

He reached her.

And without a word, without a second’s hesitation, he pulled her into the tightest hug, body accidentally hitting Mary Lou's in the process.

Big hands met Y/N's back, circling around her upper body, lifting her slightly off the ground as he wrapped himself around her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

"You- you-" He stammered against her cheek, their tears mixing between skin. "You did this. You’re giving me everything."

He kissed her face - cheeks, nose, forehead - his lips shaky and soft and desperate.

And then, with one hand still on her back, the other reached for the mic.

He turned back to the crowd, chest heaving, heart out in the open.

"I’M GONNA BE A DAD!!"

The theater detonated.

Y/N laughed through her now ugly cry, burying her face into Matt’s neck.

And Matt just held her tighter.

"So that's the reason Y/N's been using more hoodies than normal."

2K notes · View notes

astrologydray · 3 months ago

Text

Neptune through the degrees 🧜🏽‍♂️🧜🏽‍♀️

🧜🏽‍♀️Neptune represents dreams, illusions, spirituality, creativity, and transcendence. The degree it occupies in your birth chart fine-tunes how you experience intuition, fantasy, escapism, and spiritual awareness.

🧜🏽‍♂️Since Neptune moves very slowly, it’s generational, but the degree it sits at in your chart adds a unique personal imprint to its energy.

0° Neptune – The Pure Mystic

• Deeply intuitive, with a strong connection to unseen realms.

• Can be highly idealistic or lost in dreams.

• A natural spiritual seeker.

1° Neptune – The Visionary Pioneer

• A bold dreamer, unafraid to explore new spiritual or artistic paths.

• Can struggle with grounding their visions in reality.

• Charismatic yet mysterious energy.

2° Neptune – The Devoted Believer

• A strong sense of faith, devotion, and spiritual discipline.

• Can be overly trusting or easily influenced by illusions.

• Drawn to religious or mystical experiences.

3° Neptune – The Enchanted Storyteller

• Natural talent for storytelling, poetry, and imagination.

• Can blur the line between reality and fiction.

• A gift for channeling higher wisdom through words.

4° Neptune – The Gentle Healer

• Deep compassion and healing abilities.

• Strong emotional sensitivity, which can lead to escapism.

• Drawn to holistic medicine or alternative healing practices.

5° Neptune – The Magnetic Dreamer

• Charismatic and naturally attractive to others.

• Can inspire through art, music, or spiritual insights.

• Needs to be mindful of self-deception or delusions.

6° Neptune – The Empathic Visionary

• Extremely sensitive to the energy of people and places.

• Can struggle with boundaries or absorbing others’ emotions.

• Psychic or intuitive abilities are strong.

7° Neptune – The Free Spirit of Illusions

• Highly independent in their spiritual or artistic journey.

• May have unconventional beliefs or a unique creative vision.

• Can drift between reality and fantasy.

8° Neptune – The Powerfully Intuitive One

• Magnetic, with a mysterious and compelling presence.

• Can tap into collective energies and channel wisdom.

• Needs to avoid manipulation or deceptive influences.

9° Neptune – The Cosmic Adventurer

• Drawn to spiritual journeys, travel, or astral experiences.

• Can struggle with restlessness or feeling lost in the physical world.

• A seeker of higher truth beyond ordinary limits.

10° Neptune – The Master of Dreams

• Strong creative and spiritual potential.

• Can manifest visions into reality with focus and discipline.

• Needs to balance imagination with practicality.

11° Neptune – The Electric Mystic

• Has sudden flashes of insight and genius.

• Can experience spiritual awakenings or shocking realizations.

• Drawn to futuristic or progressive spiritual ideas.

12° Neptune – The Dream Weaver

• Can create entire worlds through imagination.

• Strong connection to dreams and subconscious messages.

• Needs to avoid getting lost in illusions or fantasy.

13° Neptune – The Charismatic Idealist

• Inspires others through idealism and artistic expression.

• Can be a dreamer who struggles with harsh reality.

• Must learn discernment in spiritual and romantic matters.

14° Neptune – The Mysterious Creator

• Gifted in music, art, or spiritual expression.

• Can be deeply private about personal dreams and beliefs.

• May have a secretive or enigmatic presence.

15° Neptune – The Spiritual Balancer

• Seeks harmony between the material and spiritual world.

• Can have a talent for diplomacy and understanding others.

• Needs to avoid people-pleasing or deceptive tendencies.

16° Neptune – The Faithful Seeker

• Has a deep connection to higher guidance.

• Can feel guided by fate, destiny, or divine intervention.

• Needs to cultivate inner strength and independence.

17° Neptune – The Karmic Mystic

• Intense past-life connections and karmic lessons in spirituality.

• May have vivid dreams or memories of other lifetimes.

• Needs to release illusions and embrace higher truth.

18° Neptune – The Deep Soul

• Profound emotional and spiritual depth.

• Can experience deep transformations through dreams and intuition.

• May struggle with periods of depression or isolation.

19° Neptune – The Illusionist

• Gifted at creating illusions in art, media, or perception.

• Can be highly persuasive but must avoid deception.

• Needs to use creative gifts for positive influence.

20° Neptune – The Architect of Visions

• Able to build dreams into reality with patience.

• Has a strong ability to channel spiritual messages into structured work.

• Needs to avoid perfectionism or fear of failure.

21° Neptune – The Messenger of the Unseen

• Naturally gifted at receiving and sharing mystical insights.

• May be drawn to divination, astrology, or mediumship.

• Needs to stay grounded while working with higher energies.

22° Neptune – The Master of Spiritual Power

• Strong manifestation abilities—what they envision can come true.

• Needs to be mindful of ethical responsibilities with spiritual knowledge.

• Can struggle with control issues in relationships.

23° Neptune – The Bold Dreamer

• Willing to take risks in creative or spiritual pursuits.

• Can push boundaries of traditional beliefs or artistry.

• Needs to avoid reckless idealism or blind faith.

24° Neptune – The Profound Romantic

• Sees love as a spiritual experience.

• May have highly karmic or fated relationships.

• Needs to balance fantasy with realistic expectations in love.

25° Neptune – The Guardian of Secrets

• Deeply intuitive and private about their spiritual experiences.

• May hold or uncover hidden knowledge.

• Needs to avoid paranoia or unnecessary secrecy.

26° Neptune – The Silent Visionary

• Prefers to work behind the scenes in creative or spiritual fields.

• Has deep wisdom but may struggle to express it openly.

• Needs to share their gifts without fear of judgment.

27° Neptune – The Cosmic Healer

• Strong connection to spiritual healing and compassion.

• Can have a mystical or shamanic presence.

• Needs to protect their energy from negative influences.

28° Neptune – The Restless Dreamer

• A seeker of spiritual truth, always searching for deeper meaning.

• Can struggle with feeling disconnected from reality.

• Needs to focus on grounding their visions into something tangible.

29° Neptune – The Karmic Illusionist

• A highly fated placement—this person is finishing a spiritual cycle.

• May experience extreme highs and lows in spirituality, love, or creativity.

• Needs to master disscernment and clarity before moving to a new life phase.

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #astrology observations #astrology degrees #decans

1K notes · View notes

violentdelightsandviolentends · 5 months ago

Text

best seat in the house.

blame it on the moustache.

eddie diaz x female reader (nickname - blue)

warnings - smut. cursing. I think the word moustache is in this about 500 times.

word count - 3k

authors note - save a horse, ride a… firefighter. we all know I go feral for a pornstache, so it was only a matter of time before this happened.

masterlist. inbox.

You’re going insane.

You’ve been away for two months, on a placement course with the academy. As a trainee EMT, you’ve been lucky enough to earn your place in the 118, the one firehouse that every firefighter and paramedic in Los Angeles covets. With that comes training days and practical exams and occasionally, a two month placement that you’re scored and assessed on.

You passed with flying colours, of course - no one doubted you for a second. You’d expected to cruise back into your firehouse after some time away like you’d never left, everything exactly the same as it was.

Except, you’re going insane.

Eddie Diaz has a moustache.

A full on 80s inspired pornstar brush of a moustache.

It suits his face beautifully, accentuating his dark features and those big brown eyes. It’s made him ten times more attractive - which you didn’t think was even possible. You’ve had a harmless crush on him ever since your first day, and the moustache seems to have accelerated it tenfold.

“Are you okay?”

A heavy arm is slung around you, pulling you into the side of a solid body. You know who it is based on his cologne. You relax into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He looks at you skeptically, eyebrows raised.

“Blue.”

“Buck.”

“You’ve been kinda spacey these last couple of days. What’s the deal?”

“There’s no deal. Just tired, I guess.”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong though, right?”

You look up at him, heart melting at the genuine concern in his eyes.

“Of course I would,” you reassure. “Love you.”

“Love you,” he mumbles into your hair, pressing a kiss onto your head. “Even if you are stubborn as hell.”

You chuckle, burrowing further into his side and getting comfortable on the couch. You both sit like that for a while, praying the alarms don’t sound so you can enjoy your peace a little while longer.

“Hey, Blue?”

The source of all of your stress comes striding up the stairs, all bright eyed and gorgeous.

“Eddie.”

He takes a seat on the other side of you, pressing his thigh into yours. You will yourself to take a deep breath and calm down, before he feels all of the tension in your body.

“Chris has been counting down the days until you came back. You wanna come over for dinner tonight? He’s missed you like crazy.”

“I’d love to,” you breathe, grinning at him like an idiot.

He grins right back, squeezing your thigh quickly. You determinedly ignore the way electricity zips through your veins at the action.

“Alright, I’m gonna workout for a while. Let’s hope we don’t get a call when I’m mid weight set,” he laughs, winking at you cheekily before heading down the stairs.

Heat blooms across your chest as you bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from beaming from ear to ear. As soon as he’s gone, Buck grabs both of your shoulders, shaking you like a maniac.

“Oh. My. God.”

“What? Buck, what? Jesus, what?”

You grip onto his wrists, willing him to still his movements.

“That’s what’s gotten into you! It’s Eddie!”

You choke on your words, struggling to get any out - so you punch his leg as hard as you can, giggling when he yelps. Buck swings his arm around your neck, catching you in a headlock and pulling you into his lap. All you can do is try to wriggle out, smacking any of his body parts you can reach. Eventually you separate when you both crash onto the floor, laughing and out of breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he pants, lying next to you on the ground.

“Tell you what, Evan?”

“That you’re in love with Eddie.”

Your eyes go wide as your jaw drops open, alarm bells going off in your mind.

“Woah- that’s, yeah, uh… no.”

“Okay, not love, then. But you’ve got the hots for him. Big time.”

You sigh in defeat, head dropping back onto the wooden floor.

“He’s a handsome man.”

“I know,” he agrees. “All of us would agree with you on that.”

You lie in silence for a moment, praying that no one comes up the stairs and finds you here. Buck intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing reassuringly.

“It’s the moustache,” you whisper. “The goddamn moustache.”

“Oh, you like a man with some facial hair?” he smirks, propping himself up on his elbow.

You sit up, leaning back against the sofa and dusting yourself off.

“I do. I like you better when you have a little bit of stubble going on.”

“Noted,” he winks. “You should tell him.”

“Huh?”

“That you like the moustache. He’ll appreciate it.”

“Yeah. No. Not gonna happen.”

“You never know… something good might come of it.”

“Evan. Are you hearing yourself?”

“Loud and clear, Bluey. Listen, you’re a beautiful girl. You tell Eddie you like his moustache… he tells you he likes your entire face… and boom. Fireworks.”

You throw your head back as you cackle, laughing with your full chest.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying! You never know what might happen.”

“And I’m just saying… you’re ridiculous.”

You’re startled suddenly by the bells ringing and lights flashing, both of you jumping up and running down the stairs towards the truck.

“Saved by the bell,” Buck grins, winking at you.

Saved by the bell indeed.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

An evening with Chris is exactly what you need.

Only… that’s not what you get.

“He got invited to a birthday party at the movies last minute. I didn’t have the heart to tell him you were coming over. I should have called, Blue - I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you soothe, kicking off your shoes by the door like you’ve done so many times before. “I brought wine, anyway. Just in case.”

“You’re the best,” he chuckles, heading to the kitchen to get some glasses. “You and I can catch up tonight. I want to know all about your assessments.”

“It wasn’t that exciting, really. Lots of time in a classroom listening to some old dude talking.”

You get comfy on the couch, tucking your legs underneath yourself and happily accepting the glass of wine that Eddie holds out to you. He takes the cushion next to you, turning so his body’s facing yours.

“Did they let you drive the ambulance?”

“Yes! We had driving lessons, which were hilarious. There were some people there I wouldn’t trust to drive a golf cart, never mind an ambulance with a dying patient in.”

He cackles, knocking his knee into yours. All you can think about is how good he smells, all woody and musky and masculine.

You launch into a story about an emergency amputation on a plastic doll to distract yourself, which ends in both of you in fits of laughter, tears dripping down your faces.

The bottle of wine goes down too smoothly over the course of the evening, both of you a little tipsy. You’ve inched closer, legs tangled as you lean into each others sides. You can’t stop giggling, warm and flushed and happy to be in one another’s company.

Eddie’s phone vibrates, both of you scrambling around the cushions to find it. Eventually, he finds it, both of you chuckling at the theatrics of it all.

“Hello? Oh, hi Jenna. Yeah, sure. No worries, that’s fine. Give me a call if he needs anything, alright? Okay, tell him I say goodnight. Thanks, Jenna.”

You raise your eyebrows in question.

“Chris is going to stay the night at Cameron’s. His mom was just checking it’s okay.”

“He’s so grown up now,” you sigh. “Where does the time go?”

“I wish I had the answer to that,” he says as he throws his phone onto the coffee table. “I’ve got no idea.”

You lean against the back of the couch, resting your head on top of your arms. Eddie stares at you with the softest look on his face that you’ve ever seen, mirroring your posture.

“We all missed you,” he murmurs. “The 118 wasn’t the same with you gone.”

“I missed you. All of you. I was counting down the days until I could come back.”

He smiles at you all gentle and honey sweet, and you’re surprised you don’t melt into a liquid on his nice couch. Your heart is thumping against your chest, working overtime to keep you upright and breathing.

It’s never been like this with Eddie. Or maybe it has. You’ve always been able to tamper down your feelings, keep them buried and in check - so much so that a beautiful friendship has blossomed over time. You don’t want to ruin what you’ve built by admitting you’ve got some silly school girl crush on him and his moustache. It’d kill you if you lost him - Christopher too.

“Have you done something different?”

His buttery voice breaks you out of your daydream.

“Hmm?”

“You look… different. In a good way. Beautiful.”

He’s rambling, trying to cover his tracks so it doesn’t look like he’s coming onto you. You smile, shaking your head.

“Thank you, but I don’t think so. Oh wait, I have a new blush on my cheeks. Maybe it’s that?”

“Suits you.”

You bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“If I ask you a question, will you be honest with me, Blue?”

“Always.”

“What do you think of the moustache?”

Oh no. You pause, trying to formulate an appropriate answer quickly.

“I… like it.”

“You don’t sound like you do,” he chuckles.

“No, I do. I like it.”

“I thought you promised to be honest.”

His hand is resting on your knee, settled and comfortable. You’re not sure when he put it there, but you’re not complaining.

“I am being honest.”

“Look me in the eye, then.”

You hadn’t even realised you’d been avoiding him, too busy worrying about keeping your heart rate steady. You finally catch his gaze, those big brown eyes staring straight into your soul.

“Blue?”

“Eds?”

Your voices are low and cautious, careful not to disrupt the atmosphere you’ve created. You’re both wine drunk and warm, giddy off of the happiness of being reunited with one of your best friends.

“Tell me what you really think about the moustache. I trust you to be honest - if you think it’s terrible, I’ll shave it off right now.”

“Don’t shave it,” you say a little too quickly. “I meant it when I said I like it. Promise.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You look good. Fuck, you look good.”

The wine is making you too honest, but it’s too late to turn back now. He wanted the truth… he’ll get the truth.

“Oh. You like it, don’t you?”

He’s got this cocky smirk on his face, arrogant and self assured. You wish you hated it, but you don’t. Unfortunately.

“So what if I like a man with facial hair? Is that a crime?”

“It’s not a crime,” he laughs. “Just didn’t think the pornstache would be your kind of thing.”

“Well I didn’t think it’d be yours either, but here we are.”

He looks at you with nothing but mischief in his eyes, gaze raking up and down your body slowly. A shiver runs down your spine, the hairs on your arms standing up in anticipation. You sit in the quiet for a moment, waiting for Eddie to make the next move - you’re worried that your raging crush means that you’re misreading the atmosphere of the room.

“You wanna take it for a spin?”

Time stands still for a moment, both of you holding your breath.

“I- I- you… Eds, I- what?”

He chuckles all low and slow, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“You wanna take it for a spin?”

You’re looking at him with your jaw hinged open, blinking like a deer in headlights. When you don’t say anything, Eddie speaks again.

“You wanna sit on it?”

You’re quite convinced you’re in another dimension, catapulted into an alternate reality all of a sudden. An alternate reality where Eddie Diaz is… asking you to sit on his face?

“I- what, um… where has that come from?”

You’re only now noticing the blush on his cheeks, unable to tell if it’s from you and the close proximity or the bottle of wine that now sits empty on the coffee table.

“You like the moustache. And I like you.”

He looks almost sheepish, like he didn’t mean to confess out loud.

“I… do like the moustache. And I do like you.”

He grins at you all bold and beautiful, and you can’t help but grin right back.

“I had a dream last month that you sat on my face,” he murmurs, leaning in so he’s talking right into your ear. “I can’t get it out of my head. It’s like it plays on repeat.”

You clear your throat, attempting to get words out.

“Tell me more.”

“It was the hottest thing I’d ever seen in my life. It felt so real, Blue. I swear I could taste you on my tongue when I woke up.”

You’re almost gasping for breath, heart working overtime in your ribcage as you pant.

“Well I guess I better… how did you say it? Take it for a spin?”

He quirks an eyebrow at you to ask are you sure?, which has you smirking at him with nothing but deviance in your eyes.

“It’d be rude not to, Eddie. Seeing as you asked so nicely. And seeing as the universe is sending you psychic, prophetic, sexy dreams about me.”

He doesn’t waste another second, shuffling down the couch so he’s lying flat. When you don’t move, he props himself up on his elbows, looking at you expectantly.

“You can’t sit on my face from all the way over there, Bluebird.”

Laughing in disbelief, you crawl your way up his body, stopping when you’re straddling his waist. You lean down, pausing so you’re nose to nose as you breathe each other in.

“Can I kiss you?”

He looks confused that you’re asking but nods eagerly, softness written all over his face. You kiss him gently, carefully, sweetly. You’re figuring each other out, not wanting to push any boundaries too far too soon.

Eddie slips his tongue into your mouth eagerly, hips bucking up into yours. It’s all teeth and lust carnal need, years of built up longing bubbling to the surface. When you’re both so out of breath you’re lightheaded, you pull away, pecking his lips quickly before standing up to shimmy your shorts and panties down your legs. Eddie looks drunk - not on the wine, but on you.

You climb back on top of him, shuffling up his chest so you’re hovering over his face. You’re completely sure you want this, but there’s a tiny little inkling of anxiety that’s spreading through your veins, lighting up your nerves.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, looking up at you with nothing but love in his eyes. “Always.”

“I know,” you smile, gently moving a stray strand of hair away from his eyes. “Show me what you’ve got, Diaz.”

With that, you quit the hovering and sit down exactly where he wants you, throwing caution to the wind.

Eddie takes it slow at first, taking mental notes. It’s all careful and loving and considered, both of you holding back. He’s kitten licking, sucking gently, savouring the taste of you while he can. Eventually, you get a little impatient, accidentally bucking your hips into his face.

“S’that what you want?” he mumbles from underneath you. “Use me, Blue. Take what you need.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice, as you instantly grind your hips forward. He slips his tongue inside you, your back arching when the gorgeous slope of his nose bumps against your clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, tangling your fingers into his hair to use as leverage. “Right there, Eds. Keep doing that.”

He does exactly as he’s told, curling his tongue just right as you rock forwards and backwards, taking control of the situation. He’s groaning beneath you, clearly enjoying this just as much as you are. When you let out a particularly pornographic moan, his hips are bucking up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction.

“Close,” you mumble, fingers tightening in his hair. “So close, Eddie.”

His hold on your thighs only gets firmer, his grip bruising as he digs his fingertips into your flesh. As if he knows you need a little push, he smacks your ass hard with an open palm, the unexpected jolt of it sending you flying into your climax.

Eddie works you through it, tongue never ceasing its movements until you’re tugging him away and shuffling down so you can collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, drawing patterns on any skin he can reach to calm your racing heart. There’s not an inch of space between you, bodies plastered together on his couch.

“You okay?” he’s asking all muffled into the top of your head.

“Never better.”

You feel his laugh rumble through your bones, making you chuckle.

“So… you don’t want me to shave the moustache?”

“You’re annoying,” you grumble, looking up at him with stars in your eyes. “But don’t you dare.”

“Yes ma’am,” he teases, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Loud and clear.”

You’re not sure how long the two of you lie all tangled up on the couch together. It doesn’t matter.

Tonight, you have all the time in the world.

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unboundprompts · 5 months ago

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Hii!! I came across your blog and immediately followed since I thought I might needed some help with my fanfics, and if there's one thing I'm bad at is describing fight scenes with like guns or magic, I've been struggling to write it and did some practices and didn't like how they came out, I'm hoping if you can do some fighting prompts, I hope this isn't too much!!

How to Write Fight Scenes

-> check out @howtofightwrite , they are an excellent resource for writing realistic fight scenes.

Set the Stakes Early

Why are they fighting? Establish the stakes of the fight clearly before it begins. If the reader understands what’s at risk, they’ll feel more invested. Stakes could be personal (revenge, survival), emotional (protecting a loved one), or strategic (achieving a mission).

Use the Environment

Incorporate the setting to add depth and realism. Are they fighting in a cramped alley, an open field, or a crowded city street? Describe how the environment affects movement, line of sight, or weapon use.

Vary Sentence Length for Pacing

Short sentences create tension and speed, while longer sentences allow for brief moments of reflection or description.

Incorporate Sensory Details

Highlight the senses beyond sight to ground the reader in the fight. Describe the smell of sweat, the metallic taste of blood, the weight of a sword, or the deafening roar of a gun.

Example: “Her ears rang as the blast reverberated around the alley. Smoke filled her nose, thick and choking, but she ignored it, tightening her grip on her weapon.”

Focus on Key Moments, Not Every Movement

Avoid blow-by-blow descriptions. Instead, highlight critical moves, reactions, and turning points to keep the scene flowing and avoid overwhelming the reader.

Show Physical Strain and Fatigue

Fights take a toll, especially over time. Show characters struggling to keep up, panting, sweating, or even stumbling as exhaustion sets in.

Example: “Her arms ached, each swing feeling heavier than the last. Her breathing came fast, ragged, but she couldn’t stop now.”

Capture Emotions and Mindset

Mix action with glimpses of your characters’ thoughts and emotions. This adds depth and reminds readers why the fight matters.

Describe Injuries Believably

Injuries impact the pace and intensity of a fight. Showing injuries realistically adds tension and makes victories feel hard-won.

Example: “She hissed as pain flared in her side where his blade had grazed her. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to stand, one hand pressed to the wound.”

Build Up to a Climax

As the fight progresses, increase the stakes and bring tension to a peak. This could be a devastating blow, a risky last-minute decision, or a surprising twist.

Example: “He was backed against the wall, nowhere left to run. She raised her hand, a final spell crackling in her palm, the light casting a fierce glow in her eyes.”

Conclude with a Realistic Aftermath

Show the immediate aftermath of the fight: physical exhaustion, injuries, and the character’s emotional response. If they won, are they triumphant, relieved, or traumatized? If they lost, what happens next?

Fight Scene Prompts (with Magic)

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

As they crept down the dim hallway, the flash of gunfire exploded from behind, forcing them to dive to the ground, bullets ricocheting off the walls around them. She barely had time to pull her weapon, pressing her back to the wall as footsteps drew closer. With a steadying breath, she waited for the right moment, then spun, firing off two rounds that hit their marks with surgical precision. The hall fell silent, the smell of gunpowder hanging in the air.

Electricity crackled around his hands as he stalked toward his opponent, energy building in his fingertips. She mirrored his stance, blue flames licking up her wrists as her gaze narrowed. He made the first move, sending a bolt of lightning in her direction, but she countered with a quick flick of her wrist, sending the flames forward like a living shield. Sparks flew as their magic collided, the force of it rattling the metal beams around them.

He ducked behind the dumpster as gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off the conjured barrier that surrounded him. He gritted his teeth, feeling the strain as his shield flickered with each impact. His opponent advanced, shouting taunts over the noise, but he focused, raising one hand to push the barrier outwards, turning it from defense to offense. With a growl, he flung the shield forward like a battering ram, the force slamming his opponent back against the alley wall.

They ascended into the night sky, wind whipping around them as spells flew between them like streaks of fire. He could barely keep up, dodging her relentless attacks as the city lights twinkled below. Finally, he unleashed a burst of energy from his hands, the force spiraling outward in a shockwave. She managed to deflect it just in time, retaliating with a beam of light that sliced through the night like a comet, forcing him into a desperate mid-air roll to avoid it.

#writing prompts #creative writing #writeblr #dialogue prompt #story prompt #prompt list #ask box prompts #how to write #how to write a fight scene #fighting prompts #fight scene prompts #fight scene #writing advice #writing tips #writing resources #writing help #writing reference

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paucubarsisimp · 10 days ago

Text

surprise gone wrong

pairings: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you try surprising lando...

warnings: angst, cheating

melbourne, australia – sunday night

you hadn’t been this excited in weeks.

the plane landed thirty minutes early, but it still felt like it took forever to reach the city. every step off the plane, through customs, into the cab—it all buzzed with a kind of electricity that made your fingers twitch. you were barely keeping it together.

you were going to surprise him. your boyfriend. your person.

lando.

you hadn’t seen him in three weeks. the season had barely started, but it already felt like the world was swallowing him whole. interviews, practice, media, debriefs. your conversations had gone from long, late-night calls to quick voice notes and blurry facetimes while he was on the move.

but today was different.

he won. first place. finally.

you watched it on the tiny tv at home, hands over your mouth, heart pounding with his. and when he crossed the finish line, when the team screamed over the radio, when his voice cracked through the headset—you felt it all. pride. joy. love.

you booked the flight that same hour.

you didn’t tell him. didn’t want to. it was supposed to be a surprise. you wanted to show up, wrap your arms around him, and whisper, “you did it. i’m here.”

the rooftop bar was chaos.

you barely made it through security, but someone from mclaren must’ve recognized you and let you up. the elevator was packed with strangers—some people dressed like they lived here, others clearly part of the racing circus. cameras were already out. music thumped through the walls.

when the doors opened, the night hit you full force.

neon lights. booming bass. drinks spilling over glasses. laughter, loud and echoing. flashes from phones and disco balls and champagne bottles. the kind of party that blurred together like a fever dream.

but your eyes were searching for one thing. just one.

him.

and then you saw him.

lando.

halfway across the rooftop, surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces—some engineers, a few of the pr team, people you’d met once or twice. his curls were a mess, shirt slightly untucked, a drink in one hand, and that signature post-win smile stretched wide across his face.

your breath caught in your throat.

god, you’d missed him.

you stepped forward, your fingers gripping your purse a little tighter, heart ready to burst.

and then everything stopped.

because she was there.

a girl. standing too close. laughing at something he said, one hand on his chest.

and before you could even blink, he leaned in. and kissed her.

slow. familiar. like it wasn’t the first time.

you froze.

it was like your body short-circuited. like someone hit pause on the world, but forgot to tell your heart to stop breaking.

his hand was on her waist. hers tangled in his curls—the curls you used to touch when he couldn’t sleep, when he was anxious, when he needed grounding.

and he was smiling into it. drunk. relaxed. like there was nothing wrong.

like you weren’t even real.

you didn’t know how long you stood there.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t blink. couldn’t even breathe properly.

the music was too loud. the lights too bright. the room spinning too fast.

lando norris—your lando—was kissing someone else.

and you were just… standing there.

uninvited. unseen. the girl who showed up late to her own story.

your heels clicked too loudly as you turned around. pushed through the crowd. passed people who didn’t know you, didn’t care. the elevator took forever. someone asked if you were okay. you nodded without hearing them.

once outside, the air hit you like a wave.

melbourne at night was still buzzing. people celebrating. cars honking. the city alive.

but your world had gone completely, painfully still.

you walked. didn’t know where. didn’t care.

you just needed to get away from that rooftop. away from the music. the cameras. the kiss.

you had come here to surprise him. to celebrate with him.

but he had already moved on.

sunday night – 1:42 a.m.

you didn’t remember getting to the hotel.

your phone said it was fifteen minutes away, but your mind had gone quiet somewhere between leaving the club and stepping into the empty, too-clean lobby. everything felt hazy. like you were watching yourself from the outside, like you were just playing a part in a story that was never really yours.

the keycard slid into the door with a beep. you stepped inside the room. lights off. no sounds. just the low hum of the air conditioning and the dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your purse on the chair. kicked off your heels. the dress, once so carefully picked for him, slid to the floor with a whisper.

you stood there in silence. bare. weightless. like if you closed your eyes, you could just disappear.

but you didn’t.

you walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and finally—finally—let it out.

not the sobbing kind of cry. not the messy, movie-scene breakdown.

this one was quieter. smaller.

it started in your chest. then your throat. then your eyes, slow and warm and unrelenting.

you buried your face in your hands. curled in on yourself.

this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

you’d imagined it so many times.

lando opening his hotel door and seeing you there. his eyes going wide, grin stretching across his face as he pulled you in, lifted you off your feet like he always used to. his voice thick with disbelief, “you’re actually here?” followed by kisses, laughter, maybe even tears.

you would’ve run your hands through his curls, whispered, “you did it, baby,” and he would’ve held you like the world had stopped.

that was the version you flew across the world for.

but instead, he kissed someone else.

and smiled while doing it.

your phone lit up on the nightstand.

1:51 a.m. text from: oscar

hey, lando’s pretty out of it. you coming by? he’s been looking around like he forgot something. maybe you?

you stared at it.

what were you supposed to say to that?

you started typing.

i saw him.

paused.

deleted it.

typed again.

i’m here.

no. not right.

you sat there, thumbs hovering over the screen, heart pounding in your ears.

finally, you sent:

tell him congrats.

short. distant. detached.

you turned the phone face down after that.

you laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. the sheets smelled like hotel bleach and artificial lavender. the kind of clean that made everything feel more sterile. more empty.

you used to feel so close to him, even when he was halfway across the world.

but now?

you’d never felt farther away.

you thought about calling someone. your sister. your best friend. anyone who could make this moment less sharp. less lonely.

but how do you explain flying across the world to surprise someone, only to find out they stopped waiting for you?

how do you explain watching the person you love put their hands on someone else like it meant nothing?

you didn’t want to talk.

you just wanted to forget.

your eyes fluttered shut. and for a second, the image played again behind your eyelids.

lando, laughing. her fingers in his hair. his mouth pressed to hers.

your stomach turned.

you rolled over, facing the wall, trying to breathe past the ache.

you came all this way. you were the surprise.

but he didn’t even notice you were gone.

flashback – eight months ago, london

the rain had come out of nowhere.

you were both soaked—shoes squishing, clothes clinging to skin, hair plastered to your faces as you ran down the narrow london street, laughing like idiots.

lando had forgotten an umbrella. of course.

“i told you to check the weather,” you teased, huddled under a shop overhang, trying to catch your breath.

“you did. i just didn’t listen.”

he was grinning. water dripping from his lashes, curls a mess. he looked ridiculous. beautiful.

you stared at him, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling.

“we’re actually drenched.”

“romantic, though.” he leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “like a movie scene.”

“a very soggy movie scene.”

he laughed. and then he kissed you. right there, in the middle of the street, while strangers rushed past and the sky kept pouring.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect. but it was real.

that was the thing with lando—he made even the messiest moments feel soft. warm. like something you wanted to wrap yourself in.

later, back at his place, you sat on the kitchen counter in his hoodie while he made tea. music playing low, windows fogged up from the cold. the quiet kind of night that felt like home.

he walked over, pressed a mug into your hands, then stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“i hate how much i love you,” he said softly, eyes on yours.

you raised an eyebrow. “that a bad thing?”

he shook his head. “no. just scary. i’ve never had this before.”

you swallowed.

you’d never had it either.

“what’s ‘this’?”

“you.” he smiled, just a little. “you feel like the only thing that makes sense when everything else is insane.”

you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“then hold onto me, yeah?”

“always.”

and you believed him.

present – melbourne, 3:13 a.m.

you were still awake.

still staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the hotel room was quiet except for the occasional car down on the street below. you hadn’t moved much. your body felt heavy. not tired, just… hollow.

you kept replaying that night. london. the rain. his hands. his words.

he said he’d hold onto you.

but somewhere between then and now, his grip slipped.

or maybe yours did.

maybe the distance got too loud. maybe the silence in between texts got too long. maybe love needs more than belief to survive.

you reached for your phone again.

no new messages.

not from him.

not from anyone.

you considered texting him. asking why. asking if he meant to do it. if he even knew you were there. if she was just some mistake or someone he’d already planned on seeing long before tonight.

but deep down, you knew the answer.

lando never did things by accident. not like that.

you turned your phone over again. shoved it under the pillow.

whatever you had—whatever you were—maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

pt.2 alt ending

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

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pookalicious-hq · 1 month ago

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365 party girl ...

library | navi | next

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ : paige ends up having to pull you away because who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman? tags: swearing, paige bueckers x baddie!reader, mention osf "wife beating", bballl player reader, not proof read so many typos, established relationship

Anyone could tell when someone was made to perform. There was always a distinct look in their eye, a deep breath released in what should’ve been a career-changing action. It didn’t take an expert to figure out that you were meant to be seen.

It was in the way the cameras always found you—during warm-ups, during time-outs, even in those fleeting moments between plays. Your presence wasn’t just noticed. It was felt.

UConn’s most dominant defensive guard alongside with an offensive playmaking machine. A nightmare for any offense, quick-footed and relentless. You were everywhere—pressuring passes, cutting off lanes, moving in ways that turned good guards into hesitant ones. They knew if they fumbled, if they hesitated even a second, you were already on them.

And still, even in the chaos of the game, you looked perfect.

A flawless base, lashes full and fresh, nails a sleek, polished set—practical enough for the court, but still you. Hair laid to perfection, untouched by sweat despite the intensity of the game and atmosphere. When the camera cut to you, lips slightly parted, eyes burning with intensity, everyone watching across the nation didn’t know if they wanted you or wanted to be you.

The arena was electric. The matchup was personal. Everyone was here to watch UConn, to watch South Carolina.

To watch your girls.

And tonight? Under the blinding lights of March Madness, against South Carolina, with the whole world watching?

This was your stage.

So who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman?

The piercing tone of a whistle broke through the crowd’s outraged cries, and the image of Sarah Strong on the ground.

The foul was blatant—a hard block, sending Sarah sprawling onto the hardwood. But it wasn’t just the foul that set you off. It was the way Ashlyn stood over her, staring her down, like she had the right to intimidate her.

Like she had the right to intimidate anyone.

Before the refs could even get between them, you were already there. Your body moved before your mind fully processed it, stepping right into Ashlyn’s space and giving her a solid push—just enough to separate her from Sarah, just enough to send a message.

Ashlyn barely budged. But her expression shifted instantly—no longer that smug, self-assured look. Now, it was something harder, something pissed. She wasn’t used to anyone daring to move her.

Sarah, still wide-eyed and holding her head, reached up for your hand. Without hesitation, you gripped her wrist, pulling her up with authority, keeping your focus locked on Ashlyn. Sarah stumbled slightly, her hand coming up to her head, but Paige was there, steadying her her voice low, checking in on Sarah.

The gym was in full chaos—shouts, gasps, the air so thick you could feel it in your chest. Everyone felt the heat radiating off you. You were like a fuse waiting to explode, and Paige? She’d seen it before. Knew how deep that fire ran. You’d fight through hell for anyone on your team, and right now? Sarah was yours to protect.

Ashlyn’s smirk came back, but it was laced with pure irritation. She tossed her head back, then scoffed. “Make sure you hit the weight room, fucking rookie,” she muttered, her voice a venomous drip of arrogance.

And that was it.

Your jaw clenched. The muscles in your neck tensed. Your nostrils flared. Ashlyn knew better to keep her mouth shut. Before you could even think, the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

"Better stop hitting anyone else or we might hafta call the cops again, fuckin’ wife beater."

The gym froze.

For a half-second, just long enough for the weight of your words to crash down. The crowd was silent, processing what you just said, trying to piece it together.

Then? Chaos.

The crowd exploded. Some in shock, some in laughter—loud, boisterous, the kind of reactions that only March Madness could ignite. On the UConn bench, Geno’s face was already in his hands, an exhale that said he’d seen this trainwreck before. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing down his face, mentally preparing for whatever he’d have to explain later.

In front of you, Ashlyn’s face twisted from irritation into pure rage.

Before you could fully process the chaos around you, Ashlyn was already in your face. Her steps were heavy, chest puffed out, eyes burning into yours.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

You didn’t move a muscle. If anything, you stood taller, chin lifted just enough to show you weren’t scared. The air between you two thickened, crackling with tension. The gym wasn’t silent—far from it. Whispers swirled through the stands, the crowd unsure whether to stay quiet and hear what was going down, or to keep up with the drama.

“I said,” you drawled, each word slow and sharp, “maybe you should stop hitting people… or should we check the police reports, sweetheart?”

Behind you, Paige muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sarah, still holding her head, glanced between you two, unsure whether to step in or just let you handle it. Her hand stayed by her temple, like the hit was still rattling around in her head.

Ashlyn’s nostrils flared, her voice dropping lower, filled with venom. “Watch your mouth.”

You laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a mocking, unapologetic laugh, sickingly sweet. “Or what? You gonna hit me next?”

The gym hummed with tension now. People were leaning in, trying to hear every word exchanged, but only a select few could actually catch what was said—UConn's team, some of the players around you, and those courtside. The rest? They could only pick up on the heat radiating off the exchange.

Paige was still close enough to mutter under her breath, “She’s not worth the tech.”

You didn’t care. Not one inch. You stood your ground, your voice low but cutting. “Honey, I’ve got 911 on speed dial and two thousand witnesses who’d love to see you with an ankle monitor.”

Ashlyn’s face twisted in anger, her eyes narrowing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But before she could respond—before you could provoke her further—Paige made her move.

With effortless ease, Paige wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing.

“Nope,” Paige’s voice was firm, carrying through the chaos around you.

“Paige, put me down, right now.” You kicked your feet, your anger still boiling just beneath your skin. You could feel the crowd’s eyes on you, the way they were all in suspense, waiting for something to happen. You weren’t about to let them down now.

“Nope.”

“I’m fucking serious—”

“I know, babe.”

Still kicking, still throwing insults over Paige’s shoulder, you shot a look back at Ashlyn. “Yeah, that’s right, keep walking, Ashlyn. You got more fouls than made shots, anyway.”

The gym exploded. The noise went from tense whispers to full-blown shouts and laughter. The stands were electric, people on their feet, some hooting and hollering, others still trying to catch the tail end of what had just gone down. UConn’s bench was fired up, while South Carolina’s players shifted, looking to see who would make the next move.

From the bench, Azzi’s voice cut through the noise like a knife: “Paige, sit her ass down. I’ll grab the duck tape.”The crowd’s laughter reached a fever pitch, some of the students clapping, others just shocked at the boldness of it all. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal. You’d stood up for your team, your freshman, your entire squad. And the gym knew it. Ashlyn? She was in over her head, and everyone watching could see it.

a/n: from a situation that just happened with me and my teammates...

I LOVE MY WIFE

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #uconn wbb x reader #uconn wbb #sarah strong #azzi fudd #wnba x reader #kk arnold #wlw fic #wlw #fluff #paige bueckers fluff

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redr0sewrites · 11 months ago

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ahem ahem... I saw your requests were open and i am viciously starving for arcane content sooooooo

Praise n Mommy kink w/ Service top Caitlyn x fem reader? 👀

Decent...?

🥀A/n : GRRRRR I LOVE U FOR THIS- it has a twist at the end i really enjoyed hehe, so i hope u like it too!!! gen considering making this a series...

🥀 Pairing(s) : Caitlyn x fem!reader

🥀Cw : smut, aftercare/fluff at the end, mommy kink, praise, safeword mention, pwp, Vi walks on on yall at the end, sub!fem!reader

🥀 minors dni

you hurry up towards Caitlyn's room, navigating the familiar passageways of her mansion towards your lover. you were stopping by to visit her after hearing about her return to Piltover, and you couldn't deny that you were excited to hear about the experience. she had sent you a letter in the middle of her trip, but you were practically dying for more details.

while it had only been a few days since you'd last seen her, you were already bubbling with anticipation. you had heard all about her theories and hoped, for her sake, she had caught a lead.

you had also heard about her escapades with a certain red head from the undercity, and above all, you were intrigued about the new acquaintance she had seemingly made.

as you approached the door to her room, you felt a moment of hesitation overcome you as your hand hovers over the door knob. you hope she wasn't too tired, Caitlyn had a tendency to wear herself out after long days and difficult jobs. you didn't want to wake her if she was sleeping, but your desire to see her trumps your worries.

knock, knock.

you gently knock on the door, and after a beat of silence, a familiar voice beckons you in. however, before you could enter, Caitlyn opens the door without you even touching the handle and pulls you into a tight hug.

"hey, baby.. you okay?" you ask, gently carding a hand through her hair. she releases you, a tired but warm smile on her face. "i'm better now that you're here, darling." she gently pulls you into her room, closing the door to reveal its emptiness. you were both relieved and disappointed, as you were hoping to meet Vi, but grateful for the time alone.

the room is quiet as you move towards the bed and sit down, the mattress dipping beneath you. you kick off your shoes before climbing fully onto the bed and, after a beat of silence, you broke the tension.

"soo... how'd it go?" Caitlyn heaves a sigh, flopping down beside you on the bed and groaning. she takes off her shoes and outer layers, and begins to rant. "so much happened, it was incredible, and terrible, and life-changing all at once... and even after all that we- I failed. i found the truth about the undercity, about the crystal, everything, and yet- i couldn't retrieve it." Caitlyn sighs again, and turns to press a kiss to your temple.

"i'm sorry.." you whisper, unsure of what to say. fuck, why is comforting people so hard? Caitlyn chuckles, her breath light against the side of your face. "it's okay, none of it is your fault. i'm just a bit... stressed, darling. nothing to apologize for."

Caitlyn's gaze meets yours, and your breath hitches as clear blue eyes meet yours. "y'know.. i know something that can help with stress," you tease, and shoot Caitlyn a corny wink. she bursts out laughing, lurching forward slightly and your noses brush together as you both giggle.

"oh, shut it, you!" she laughs, but pulls you into a kiss. the mattress creaks slightly as she gets onto her knees, and you follow her lead. she sits up on the bed and you follow, lips chasing hers as she ravishes you.

"mngh.."

the soft whine that escapes your lips made your cheeks heat as Caitlyn pulls you onto her lap. how is this woman so composed? her lips immediately find yours again as she pulls you in, both of her hands frame your face as you meet in another electric kiss.

even though it had only been a few days since you had seen eachother, Caitlyn was determined to make it up to you.

you struggle to ground yourself, gasping between kisses as Caitlyn gently pushes you down upon the bed. she moves to straddle you, her muscular thighs are firm against you and in the moment, you can think of nothing but her. fuck, how did i pull her? the thought evaporates in an instant as she leans down to kiss you again, her skirt riding up as your lips press together.

this kiss is more fierce, a sloppy and entrancing mixture of teeth and tongue. delicate hands travel down to your waist as your back arches off the bed, and you feel a twinge in your gut as Caitlyn rolls her hips against you. "hngh-" you gasp, and Caitlyn pulls away slightly to take in your flushed features.

"is this okay, darling?" you nod fervently, your back arches slightly as your hands find purchase on her hips. Caitlyn chuckles at your enthusiasm but says nothing, before climbing off of you completely. you almost let out an indignant whine, when Caitlyn quickly begins to undress. immediately understanding, you follow her lead, until your both bare except for your undergarments.

"your so pretty, darling," she murmurs, and kisses your collarbone. your breath hitches as her trail of lovemarks and affection travels lower and lower, until she reaches your navel.

Caitlyn presses a gentle kiss on your happy trail before hooking her fingers through the waistband of your soaked panties. her gaze drifts down to your drooly pussy, yet she doesn't move an inch.

"is this okay, my sweet?" the sight of her piercing gaze on your clothed cunt combined with her velvetty words made you tremble, and you nod yet again. your brain is already turned to mush, and both of you know that you're too far gone for words at this point. you have been dating Caitlyn for a few months, and yet you still fold from just a few simple touches. maybe you are pussy whipped.

Caitlyn removed your panties and tosses them to the side before gently toying with your soaked pussy. you clench around nothing as nimble fingers trace through your folds, gathering your slick.

"already so wet, such a good girl," Caitlyn whispers, before leaning down to press a kiss on your clit. simultaneously, she curls a finger inside you, slowly stretching out your gummy walls and easing you into a comfortable rhythm. you can't help but squirm at the intrusion, and the addition of another finger only makes your brain more fuzzy.

"thats it, that's my girl," she coos, curling two fingers against a spot that makes you see stars. at the same time Caitlyn leans down and licks a stripe up your cunt, sucking on your pulsing clit and stimulating all the places her fingers can't reach. "o-oh!" you gasp, your back immediately arching as you begin to slowly grind against her face, desperate for friction. Caitlyn chuckles against your aching cunt, and the vibrations against your pussy make your head spin.

"ffuck- Caitlynnghhg-" you mewl as she slips a third finger into your clenching heat. your slick coats her lips and fingers, and you can feel your release approaching. "m close, please please mommy-" you whine, throwing your head back as your thighs begin to tremble. your lover notices the familiar pet name and realizes how close you are, and begins to speed up her fingers' pace.

in tandem with her strokes, Caitlyn sucks harder on your clit, her tongue working wonders as it swirls over your needy bud. "mommy, please-" you keen, feeling the coil in your stomach tightening to a breaking point.

your cunt flutters and siezes around her fingers as she pushes you over the precipice. with a final, guttural moan, your back arches and your thighs squeeze around your lovers head as your first orgasm of the night washes over you.

as you begin to come down from your high, you realize that Caitlyn has stood up and is scuffling around by your bedside table. your stomach flips in excitement as you see her take out a familiar strap. Caitlyn quickly joins you on the bed, and fastens the harness.

"you did s'good for me, darling, so good. now, i need you to suck on mommy's cock n' get it all wet, okay?" your cheeks flush at her words, and you realize how lewd you had sounded before. "don't get shy on me darling, i need you to stay with me. now, open up, okay?" Caitlyn reaches out to grab your face as you lay on your stomach in front of her. your neck cranes to "taste" her silicone dick as it rubs against your cheek, and you take her cock in your mouth.

you make sure to swirl your tongue over the tip, making direct eye contact with Caitlyn as you do so. a sliver of drool slips past your lips and she doesn't hesitate to scoop it up with her thumb. the amount of trust between you two, combined with the vulnerability of your position, only makes you more needy.

Caitlyn gently pulls her strap out of your mouth, careful not to move around to much lest she choke you. her silicone cock is dripping with your own spit, and she orders you to lay back on the bed.

"relax, dear, just give me a second.." Caitlyn murmurs, crawling atop you and aligning her dripping strap with your soaked cunt. she pauses as she rubs her dick against your folds, and makes eye contact with you. "do you remember the safeword?" you nod, tucking your head into the crook of her neck and whispering it in her ear.

"good girl," Caitlyn murmurs, almost absentmindedly. she aligns her strap with your aching cunt, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh while the other toys with your clit. "your so sweet for me.." she whispers, and slowly begins to push her cock inside of your cunt. you mewl at the intrusion, burying your head into thr crook of her neck as your gummy walls clamp down on her strap.

"you can take it, darling," Caitlyn purrs, and thrusts fully into your soaked heat. swift fingers continue to toy with your clit as you fall apart, crumbling even though she hasn't even moved yet. Caitlyn seems to realize this, and slowly pulls out before pushing her cock back inside of you. her strap reaches places inside of your pussy that your fingers could never hit, and your eyes roll back from pleasure.

"mnghh-ommy!" the term of endearment slips out yet again before you even have the time to think, and Caitlyn curses under her breath. her thrusts begin to increase in pace, reaching deeper and deeper inside you as tears well up in your eyes. the pleasure is mind numbing as she continues to circle your clit with her thumb, and your hips instinctively roll up off the bed towards her touch.

Caitlyn's hair slips over her shoulders, framing the both of you in an indigo silhouette. you can already feel your release beginning to build as Caitlyn thrusts in, buried to the hilt in your sloppy pussy. your clit pulses beneath her touch, already yearning for release.

"mommy, please," you mewl tearily, thighs quaking as your eyes roll back into your head. "m close-" Caitlyn shuts you up with a kiss, burying her tongue in your mouth. you can taste your own slick, and the thought only makes you needier. Caitlyn's thrusts begin to grow sporadic as the bed shakes, and you know that you won't last much longer.

as if on cue, Caitlyn breaks away from your kiss to whisper in your ear. "its okay, baby, you can cum," she murmurs, accentuating her words with a deep thrust. the tip of her cock ever so gently brushes against your cervix and you sob from the mixture of pain and pleasure. the coil in your abdomen is tightening beyond belief, and a few more wanton moans fall past your lips.

Caitlyn rolls her hips especially deep, rocking against you as the sound of skin slapping against skin and your own moans drown your senses.

"go on, hah, darling. you can cum," Caitlyn's voice slurs, her breath tickles your face as your bodies collide. all it takes are these few words for you to come undone, your back arches and your eyes roll back as you fall into ecstasy. tears stream down your face as pleasure washes over you like a tidal wave.

as you come down from your euphoric high, Caitlyn presses soft kisses across your face. "you did so good for me, my sweet, so good. 'm so proud," she coos, brushing the hair out of your face and pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. all you can do is nod, too fucked out for anything else.

"lets get you cleaned up, okay darling?" again, you nod, melting into her embrace as she scoops you up. and head towards the bathroom. fuck, she's strong, you think, nestling into her embrace as she presses yet another kiss to your forehead. you wouldn't have it any other way.

suddenly, a knock on the door startles you both and, without warning, a red haired girl barges in.

"Caitlyn! i have something to- OH SHIT" the girl turns away, face almost turning the color of her hair in shock. you rush to cover yourself with a nearby robe, flushing under the scrutiny of the stranger in front of you. Vi, you recognized internally. Caitlyn had only been able to send you one letter while she was in the undercity, but it had told you a bit about the red haired stranger in front of you.

"Vi! what did i tell you about knocking!" Caitlyn is flushed, and quickly wraps a towel around her bare form. Vi, clearly embarrassed, turns away, and you can't help but laugh at the sight of such a gruff individual looking so awkward.

Caitlyn soon joins you in your laughter, and Vi rolls her eyes. "can you two please get decent so i can talk to you?" she huffs, and you can't help but smile. "alright, alright", Caitlyn sighs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you bathe without me, okay? i'll join you in a minute, after i get decent". she accentuates the last words in a mocking tone, and Vi grumbles again. "lovebirds.." she sighs, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

"that should teach her to knock," you giggle, and Caitlyn shoots you a look. "knowing her, it won't," she chuckles, and you squeeze her hand. you can tell she's concerned about whatever Vi had to say, and you know how important this case is to her. "go talk to her, she wouldn't have barged in if it wasn't important."

"i don't want to leave you-"

"i can handle myself, Cait. now seriously, go. i think Vi will throw a fit if you don't join her soon," you reply, kissing Caitlyn again on the nose.

"i love you, darling," she murmurs, and you watch as she gets dressed. blowing you one last kiss, she leaves the room, where you can see Vi's silhouette in the hallway. Caitlyn closes the door behind her and you enter the bathroom, relaxed and content. you knew Caitlyn would join you soon, but for now, it would be best to enjoy a peaceful shower alone. you hope your next meeting with Vi would be less chaotic, and more, as she put it, decent.

Caitvi x reader slowburn multi chapter fic... what do yall think... ummm...... these woman are corrupting my brain hhhhhh..... aaaaaaaa!!! would yall want Decent to become a series?? anyways GOSH this took wayyyyyy too long like i could NOT finish the smutty part in the middle i hope it wasn't too obvious🙏🙏🙏 i actually really enjoyed this req ehhehee- hope u enjoyed too!!!

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daegudrama · 17 days ago

Text

Title: Suck It Part 1

Pairing: Reader/Jung Hoseok

Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.

Word Count: 13.1k

Part 2

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The room stills as Hoseok walks in, his confident aura palpable. His easy smile and effortless cool seem to draw the air toward him, like gravity bending to his presence. It’s always fascinating to see the way he commands a room without saying a single word. Your breath catches, despite having rehearsed with him and the rest of the dancers for weeks now. That spark of awe hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it's grown, fueled by the moments he’s given you. The encouraging nods, and the praise he doesn’t usually offer lightly.

Hoseok’s gaze sweeps over the group, and when it lands on you, his grin widens just slightly. “Alright, team. Let’s go hard today. I want the energy up, no holding back,” he says, his voice warm but firm.

The room bursts into motion, everyone eager to match the energy Hoseok expects. The rehearsal is grueling but electric, every step and every movement carrying weight and purpose. You throw yourself into the choreography, pushing your limits, aware of Hoseok’s eyes occasionally flicking in your direction. The senior dancers seem to notice too, their expressions tight, their movements sharper than usual as if they’re trying to outshine you. Good luck.

The tension lingers in the air, but you keep your focus. You’ve worked too hard to let their jealousy rattle you now. Every move, every count, is an opportunity to prove yourself, and to everyone else, why you belong here.

By the time Hoseok claps his hands, signaling the end of the rehearsal, your muscles ache, and sweat clings to your skin. “Good work today, everyone,” he says, his voice carrying genuine approval for once. “Let’s keep building on this energy. Get some rest and stay hydrated. We are just a few weeks out now.”

The team disperses, some dancers chatting in low voices while others grab their bags and file out. You linger to stretch, avoiding the sideways glances from the senior dancers as they leave in a cluster. Their whispers trail behind them, but you block it out, focusing instead on your breathing as you pack your things.

Feeling the need to clear your head, you wander into an empty practice room down the hall. The space is quiet, the mirrors reflecting the stillness. You drop your bag by the wall and start running through a few sections of the choreography on your own. The rhythm grounds you, each movement a reminder of why you’re here.

“Still working?”

The familiar voice makes you freeze mid-step. You turn to see Hoseok leaning in the doorway, his expression soft but unreadable. He steps inside, letting the door close behind him.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” you admit, your voice a little shy.

“I could say the same to you,” he replies with a faint smile. “You already gave everything in rehearsal. What’s keeping you here?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lips. “I guess…I just needed a minute to breathe. To clear my head.”

Hoseok crosses the room, his movements unhurried. “I noticed the way some of them were acting today,” he says, cutting straight to the heart of it. “I wanted to check in with you after rehearsal, but I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone.”

Your chest tightens, embarrassment and frustration swirling together. The things you overheard earlier reply in your mind, stinging like fresh wounds. You’d walked into the changing room mid-whisper, and though they stopped when they saw you, the smirks and knowing looks said it all. The other dancers' whispers were sharp, accusing you of things so far from the truth they almost felt laughable—if it didn’t hurt so much. They assume you’ve slept with someone, blackmailed staff, or even bribed Hoseok to get the opportunities you’ve earned. None of it is true. You pour everything into this, long nights perfecting choreography, pushing through exhaustion, and showing up with relentless determination. All you want is to be accepted and appreciated. But it doesn’t matter to them. They refuse to see your effort, dismissing it all as underserved favoritism. Now standing in front of Hoseok, the weight of those baseless accusations feels heavier, but the steady warmth in his gaze offers a sliver of relief. Without needing to hear the details, he seems to know exactly what’s on your mind, and the sincerity in his presence alone reminds you why you’ve fought so hard to be here.

“I’m fine. Really,” you say quickly.

Hoseok’s eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to gauge how much of that “fine” is genuine. His expression softens, and he steps closer, his tone careful but firm. “You don’t have to say that. I know what it’s like being in the spotlight, having people assume the worst just because they don’t know your story or don’t want to see your talent for what it is. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”

Your throat tightens, the effort to hold back the emotions you’ve been bottling up threatening to break. You nod, lowering your gaze to the floor. “I’ve worked so hard, Hoseok,” you admit quietly, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Every single thing I’ve gotten, I earned. But no matter how hard I push myself, they don’t see that. They don’t want to see it.”

He exhales softly, a look of understanding crossing his face. “They’re threatened,” he says simply. “By your talent, your energy, and the way you carry yourself. That’s not on you, that’s on them.” His voice drops slightly, more serious now. “But I need you to promise me something: don’t let their insecurities dim your light. You’re here because you deserve to be here. Nothing anyone says can take that away.”

You blink, his words settling over you like a warm blanket. For a moment, the weight on your chest eases, and you feel seen. Not just as a dancer, but as someone who’s been fighting for their place. “Thank you,” you whisper, the sincerity in your tone matching his.

Hoseok smiles gently, his hand twitching like he’s considering reaching out but stops himself. “Don’t thank me for telling the truth,” he says with a wink, his tone lightening. “But if you need to talk, about this, about anything. I’m here. You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

The warmth in his words stays with you as he steps back, giving you space. He gestures to the empty room with a small grin. “Now, let’s see what you’ve been working on. Show me that fire they’re so jealous of.”

The silence in the practice room becomes a melody of its own as you reset to the opening pose, your heart thundering as you meet Hoseok’s gaze in the mirror. You take a steadying breath and let the music in your head guide you. With each movement, you channel everything—the doubts, the whispers, the quiet anger, and the determination that keeps you moving forward. You’ve rehearsed this choreography countless times, but tonight, it feels different. Hoseok’s presence sharpens your focus, pushing you to dance not just for yourself but for the truth of your abilities.

As you finish, your chest heaving from the exertion, you finally look at him. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes tells you everything. He takes a step forward, clapping once, slow and deliberate. “That,” he says, his voice low but filled with certainty, “is exactly why you’re here. No one can take that away from you.”

You don’t trust yourself to respond, simply nodding as you gather your things. Hoseok doesn’t say anything more, giving you a parting glance that lingers just long enough to leave you wondering.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next rehearsal is nothing short of brutal. The room pulses with intensity as bodies move in perfect synchrony, sweat painting the floor beneath them. Each beat of the music is met with sharp, deliberate motion as the group drills the choreography again and again, the echo of sneakers and stomps filling the mirrored space. You’re dancing like muscle memory has taken over, fluid, focused, determined, barely noticing the burning in your limbs anymore.

After a full run-through, the choreographer finally calls for a break. Everyone collapses to the floor or grabs their water bottles, panting and grateful. You grab a towel to dab the sweat from your neck, catching your breath when the lead choreographer suddenly steps forwards again.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, his voice slicing through the hum of low conversation. “J-Hope choreographed a new section that will feature three pairs. He’ll be choosing who gets the spotlight tomorrow. Until then, you’ll be working with assigned partners to learn the duet. Learn quickly and show me you want this.”

You sit up straighter as he begins pairing dancers. There’s a flicker of anxiety in your chest, this section is important. It’s not just about technique anymore. It’s about chemistry, presence, making people feel something.

Your name is called alongside Heeseung’s, and relief washes over you. He’s one of the few who doesn’t treat you like an outsider. Maybe it’s because he’s newer to the team too, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t get involved in the drama. Either way, you’ll take it.

The music shifts to something lower, grittier, slower. You both watch as the assistant choreographer demonstrates the duet. It’s bold, sensual, and more intimate than anything you’ve done with this group before. Hands sliding over waists, synchronized steps that pull the dancers close before sending them apart again, dramatic pauses that demand eye contact. It’s not raunchy, it’s electric, and it’s meant to make the audience feel something.

You glance at Heeseung as the demo ends. He just raises his brows with a quiet smirk and says, “Ready?” And just like that, you fall into step.

Heeseung matches your energy beat for beat. His movement is clean, sharp, but when the music calls for it, he melts into the flow like honey. His facial expressions are deadly. Confident, teasing, completely in sync with the mood. Rehearsing with him doesn't feel like work; it’s fun, even a little thrilling. For the first time in days, you’re reminded why you love this.

But not everyone is thriving. You notice Mina and her usual crew struggling to grasp the rhythm and comfort of the pairing. Some of the girls look visibly uncomfortable, hesitating at the close contact or fumbling through transitions. There’s a mean spirited satisfaction in watching the girls who usually whisper about you now floundering under pressure. Maybe it’s petty, but it feels like karma is right on time.

“YN and Heeseung, come to the front.”

You both step forward, brushing past someone who audibly sighs and rolls their eyes behind you. The choreographer ignores it, gesturing for you two to demonstrate.

“Watch them,” he says to the rest of the room. “This is what I’m looking for.”

The music kicks in and you lose yourself in it. You give every step your full attention, every beat your best expression, letting the tension and chemistry between you and Heeseung do the work. When the final pose hits and the music fades, the room is quiet before the choreographer claps once, satisfied, but only with you and Heeseung.

“Again,” he says simply. And so you do it again. And again. Until you stop counting.

By the time rehearsal ends, your shirt is sticking to your back and your thighs ache with the effort of hours spent pushing yourself to the limit. You’re grabbing your things when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Hey!” Yunjin jogs up beside you, practically bouncing. “You killed that duet. Like, seriously—if Hoseok doesn’t pick you tomorrow he’s blind. That section is so good. I love it.”

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yunjin narrows hers. “Okay. What’s up? You’re not freaking out about Mina again, are you?”

“I’m not freaking out,” you say quickly, but the look on her face tells you she doesn’t buy it. You sigh. “I just…we cannot mess up tomorrow. Hoseok is going to be extra critical. We have to be perfect.”

Yunjin giggles. “You sound like you’re about to audition for the Olympics or something.”

“We kind of are. The duet is a big deal.”

A mocking voice chimes in from behind you. “As if he would pick you.”

You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. Mina.

She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one hip cocked like she owns the hallway. Her perfectly arched eyebrow is raised, her lips curl into a smug little smirk. There’s no denying she’s talented, probably one of the best dancers in the crew, but her jealousy has always poisoned her shine.

You turn to face her slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should focus on your own part before worrying about mine.”

Mina’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t reply right away. Her gaze flicks to Yunjin and then back to you, eyes narrowed. “We’ll see who he picks tomorrow.”

She walks off without another word, her ponytail swinging like a warning behind her.

Yunjin scoffs beside you. “She’s just mad you were asked to demonstrate. Again.”

“Still,” you murmur, staring down the hallway. “Tomorrow is going to be a war.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next day, the rehearsal room buzzes with nervous energy before anyone even steps onto the floor. There’s an edge to every voice, a sense that something important is about to happen. You can feel it in your bones. Today matters.

You’re already stretching in the corner when thet door swings open and Hoseok walks in, sunglasses perched on his nose, a cap pulled low, and that unmistakable aura trailing behind him like static electricity. The room seems to exhale all at once, tension morphing into something else. Anticipation, maybe. Respect. He’s calm but focused, nodding a silent greeting to the choreographer and a few dancers he passes on the way in. Then his eyes sweep the room.

When they land on you, he gives a small smile, barely there, but enough to make your stomach flip for a second before you snap your attention back to your warm up. He’s always been kind, professional, but tough. Hoseok doesn’t hand out praise easily. You have to earn it.

“Alright team,” he says, clapping once, his voice sharper than the last time you heard it. “I’ve seen the footage from yesterday. Some of it was promising. Some of it…needs work.”

A few dancers shift uncomfortably. Mina stiffens beside you.

“We’re going to run all the pair choreo. I want to see full energy, no holding back. Expressions. Intensity. Chemistry. Everything.” He pauses. “At the end of rehearsal, I’ll be choosing three pairs to feature.”

There’s a murmur through the group, some excited, some anxious. Hoseok doesn’t reveal the last part of the plan, but the stakes are already high. The chance to be in a featured pair for a section he choreographed? That’s already enough to make people push past their limits.

You and Heeseung watch from the sidelines as the first duets go up. Some are good, technically clean, and well rehearsed. Others lack a spark. Mina’s routine is sharp, but her partner feels like an afterthought. You can almost see her trying too hard to win instead of just dance.

Finally, your names are called.

You move into position with Heeseung, exchanging one quick glance before the music hits.

And then, it’s all instinct.

You both dive into the choreo like you’ve done this hundreds of times, like you were made to move together. There’s tension, heat, and a boldness to every step. Your hands slide into places like muscle memory, your eyes lock when they need to, and your movements match so seamlessly it barely feels like performance, it feels like connection.

When the final beat hits and you hold the last pose, the silence in the room feels different.

Then Hoseok claps. Just once. Crisp and deliberate.

“That,” Hoseok says, a smile creeping onto his face. “That’s the energy I want.”

You pull back slightly, catching your breath as the music fades. Heeseung subtly bumps your shoulder with his, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“Take five,” Hoseok says. “Then we’ll run it one last time with the final picks.”

You step off to the side, heart still pounding, when Yunjin beelines for you with wide eyes.

“He clapped,” she hisses, gripping your arm like she might explode. “You know what that means.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, but you’re still buzzing. Hoseok never claps for the group unless something really hits. The look in his eyes when you're finished…there was something extra there. Something calculating.

Across the room, Mina stares daggers through your reflection, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. You ignore her.

When the break ends, everyone regathers, tension thick in the air.

Hoseok stands at the front again. “I’ve made my decisions,” he says. “These three pairs will be featured in the sections.”

He starts calling names—Heeseung and your name first.

Your stomach flips. You don’t look at Mina, but you can practically feel the steam coming off her.

Hoseok finishes naming the other two pairs, then adds, “One more thing.”

The room stills.

“There’s another slot. Not a pair.” He pauses just long enough for everyone to start glancing around. “One dancer does the duet with me.”

You blink.

A duet with Hoseok? A sharp, electric silence stretches through the room as he scans the group again, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll decide after one final run through,” he says, stepping back. “So if you’re holding back…now’s your last chance.”

The final run-through feels heavier, like everyone is pushing beyond their limits. The chosen pairs are locked in, but that solo duet spot is still up for grabs.

You give the routine everything. Every movement, every look, every shift of weight is intentional. You know Hoseok is watching—really watching—and there’s no room for mistakes. Heeseung matches your energy, and for a second, you forget about the stakes, about the competition. It’s just you and the music, your body moving like it belongs in this moment.

When the last beat lands, you hold your final pose, breathless, feeling the weight of Hoseok’s stare.

Then, after a long pause, he exhales and nods.

“Alright.” His voice is calm, but the decision is final. “The featured three pairs are set. And for the solo…”

The tension is thick. You swear you hear someone’s breath hitch.

“…YN.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

There’s a ripple of reaction around you, some hushed murmurs, a sharp intake of breath. Mina stiffens, her arms crossing, jaw tight.

Hoseok continues, his voice steady. “It’s a shame to separate such a strong pair, but YN is the best pick for this.” His eyes flicker to Heeseung for a brief moment before returning to you. “You have the control, the expression, and the versatility this role needs.”

You barely register Yunjin’s hand squeezing yours in excitement before Hoseok speaks again.

“Heeseung, you’ll be with Yunjin.”

Yunjin lets out a tiny squeak, trying, and failing, to keep her composure. Heeseung just grins, giving her an encouraging nod.

That’s it. That’s the final lineup.

You and Hoseok in the front. Three pairs behind.

Mina…nowhere.

The realization sinks in across the room, and you don’t miss the way her hands clench into fists at her sides, but she says nothing. Doesn’t make a scene. Just lifts her chin slightly, as if daring anyone to pity her.

Hoseok claps his hands together. “That’s it. Rehearsal’s over. Get some rest and we run full-out tomorrow.”

You exhale, the adrenaline still pulsing through you.

As the dancers begin filtering out, Yunjin throws an arm around your shoulder, practically bouncing. “Are you kidding me? With Hoseok? Front and center? You’re about to be iconic.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe it.”

She grins. “Believe it. And be ready because if he’s dancing with you, he’s expecting perfection.”

You already know that. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel terrifying.

It feels like a challenge you’re ready to take.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The room empties out slowly, dancers murmuring their goodbyes as they head for the exit. You start to follow Yunjin, but before you can take another step, Hoseok’s voice calls out behind you.

“YN, stay for a minute.” Just beyond the doorway you see Yunjin pause. Hoseok notices and addresses her. “Yunjin, I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

You pause, turning back to face him. He stands in the center of the room, rolling his shoulders out, an easy confidence in his stance. Your heart kicks up slightly. You take a slow breath, stepping back onto the dance floor as the last of the others disappear down the hallway. The door swings shut, leaving just the two of you in the massive rehearsal space.

Hoseok tilts his head, studying you for a beat before speaking. “I wanted to run through a few things. It’s important that we’re comfortable with each other before we start full rehearsals with this.”

You nod, shifting your weight slightly. It makes sense. Dance, especially a duet, is about trust.

“I know you can handle yourself,” Hoseok continues. “You’re an amazing dancer. But I also know it can be intimidating dancing with someone like me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he raises an eyebrow, and you know he’s right.

It’s not that you doubt your skill. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. But Hoseok is Hoseok. Years of experience, endless stage presence, and an almost supernatural ability to make every move feel effortless. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of that.

Still, you refuse to let nerves show. “I’ll be fine,” you say.

He grins. “Good. Then let’s start.”

You move into position. The choreography isn’t foreign anymore, but the difference is immediate—this isn’t Heeseung. He is a few inches shorter than your previous partner and Hoseok moves with a fluidity and confidence that makes every step feel like second nature to him.

But when it comes time to place your hands on him, you hesitate. It’s just for a fraction of a second, but he notices.

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Pretend I’m Heeseung.”

You blink.

“It’s the same thing,” he says easily. “Same hands, same pressure. No difference.”

No difference. Right. You swallow, nodding, and this time, when your hands find their place, you commit to it.

Hoseok hums approvingly. “Better. But—” He shifts, taking your wrists in his hands, adjusting them slightly. His grip is warm, firm but not forceful. “More weight here. Less here. Feel the difference?”

You do. He guides you through it, step by step, his touch light but precise. The smallest corrections, pressure, angles, breath control and as you move, something shifts.

The hesitation melts away, replaced by something new. Tension. Not the bad kind. The kind that makes every movement electric, every glance charged. Hoseok notices it too, but he doesn’t acknowledge it outright. He just meets your eyes for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away.

“Good,” he says simply. “That’s enough for now.”

You exhale, feeling something unravel inside you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You both just sit on the floor, catching your breath. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you say, “I danced from when I was three until I was fifteen. I don’t know how they got the idea I just started a few years ago. Dance was my whole life for most of my life.”

Hoseok turns his head slightly, listening.

“I had to stop because I tore my ACL.” You glance down at your knee, absently tracing a pattern on your leggings. “I recovered pretty fast, but when I tried to come back, my peers had already gotten too far ahead. I felt like I couldn’t compete anymore.”

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

“So I quit.” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I didn’t dance at all for years. Until about three years ago.”

Hoseok leans back on his hands. “What changed?”

Your lips curve slightly. “I saw a BTS dance practice.” His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I don’t even remember which one it was,” you admit, shaking your head. “But something about the way you guys moved made me want to move again. I started learning choreography for fun and before I knew it…I was back.”

A beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

“That’s crazy,” he murmurs. Then softer, “In a good way.”

You finally glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of something behind his eyes, like he’s processing more than he’s saying. And then he smiles, slow and knowing.

“Well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand. “Guess that means this dance is a full-circle moment, huh?”

Your chest tightens just a little. You take his hand.

And as he pulls you up, you think—yeah. Maybe it is. Your hand is still warm from his as you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You expect him to head out first, maybe give a casual “see you tomorrow,” but instead, Hoseok lingers near the door, waiting for you.

“You ready?” he asks.

You blink. “Uh…yeah.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You give him a sideways glance. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I said I would,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Told Yunjin I’d get you home safe.”

You’re not sure if he’s doing it out of politeness or something else, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”

The night air is cool when you step outside the building, still warm from rehearsal. Hoseok walks beside you, his hood pulled up again, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t say much at first, and neither do you. It’s a comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that settles in when something meaningful just happened.

You expect him to point you toward the train or call a staff car to take you home.

Instead, he falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you say gently, glancing over.

He shrugs. “I know.”

You pause. “Then why are you?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his gaze forward, but you catch the faintest lift of his lips. “I said I’d make sure you got home safe, didn’t I?”

You smile softly, heart fluttering. “You didn’t have to actually do that. People are gonna talk.”

“They already do,” he says, voice light, teasing. “Might as well make it worth it.”

You laugh, and he grins at the sound.

As you walk, the sharp edges of the professional Hoseok, the perfectionist, the dance leader, the choreographer, start to fade away. Instead, something else emerges. Softer. Warmer. This is the version of him you’ve only seen in clips. The one who makes dumb jokes on Run BTS, laughs with his whole chest, and gets way too into silly games.

“You know,” he says, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets, “you looked like you were gonna pass out the first time I corrected your placement.”

“I was not,” you protest, bumping your shoulder lightly into his. “Okay, maybe a little. You’re kind of a big deal.”

He laughs. “Nah. I’m just a guy who never stops dancing. Kind of annoying, actually.”

You shake your head. “You’re really not.”

There’s a pause, and when you glance over, he’s watching you with that same unreadable look from the studio. It’s not intense or overwhelming, it’s just steady. Thoughtful.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you. “You’re a good dancer and you feel the music. That’s rare.”

Your cheeks warm. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I said you inspired me.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he replies. “You’ve got something.”

You walk a few more paces in silence before his voice comes again, this time quieter. “And hey…I meant the other thing, too.”

You glance at him.

“If something’s ever messing with your head, whatever it is, you can tell me.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

The memory of that conversation in the empty studio flashes through your mind, the way his voice had softened when he told you he knew what it was like, the way he saw straight through you without prying. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

“I’ll remember that,” you say quietly.

He nods like that’s enough. You reach your building quicker than you thought. When you stop in front of the gate, you half expect him to wave you off and leave. Instead, Hoseok lingers.

“This is me,” you say, turning to him.

He nods, taking a step back but not quite leaving. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be brutal.”

You smile. “Looking forward to it.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then gives a small salute and turns to go. You don’t move until he disappears around the corner.

Inside, the lights are on. Yunjin is waiting, perched on the edge of the couch, a snack bag in her lap and a look of pure, concentrated mischief on her face.

You don’t even get your shoes off before she pounces.

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

You blink, taking a step away from her. “I—”

She stands. “Nope. Don’t even try to play it cool. You stayed late with J-Hope. You walked home with J-Hope. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” you mumble, which only makes her laugh harder.

“You so are,” she says, grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the couch. “Spill. Every little detail. Right now.”

And you do. Eventually.

But as you tell her the story, there’s one part you leave out. A moment too small to explain, but impossible to forget:

The way Hoseok looked at you when he said, “You can tell me anything.”

Like he meant it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is quiet now. Most of the dancers have filtered out, the buzz of today’s rehearsal replaced with the faint hum of a speaker left on low volume. You’re sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of you, rolling out your calves with a foam roller. The mirror reflects the tired set of your shoulders, your hair sticking to your neck, and the slightly dazed look in your eyes.

You’re not sure when Hoseok came back in, but you hear the door click shut and the soft shuffle of his steps before he drops onto the floor beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits close enough that your arms could brush if you leaned a little to the side. Then he speaks and it’s quiet, but direct.

“You good?”

You glance at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected him to actually sit down.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”

Hoseok doesn’t look convinced. His expression is steady, unreadable like it always is when he’s being careful with his words.

“You danced like you were somewhere else today,” he says, not unkindly. “Still sharp, but…distracted. Off. It wasn’t physical, it was in your head.”

You press your lips together, pretending to focus on the roller beneath your thigh. “It’s nothing serious. Just some…catty stuff.”

He tilts his head. “Catty like ‘someone wore the same shoes as me,’ or catty like ‘people are being assholes behind your back’?”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok shifts his weight, leaning forward a little. His voice softens, but there’s an edge of seriousness under it. “It clearly does matter. If something’s going on that’s affecting how you feel here, I need to know.”

You glance at him. His brows are drawn in concern, not in a nosy way, but in that quiet, careful way of someone who’s watching more closely than he lets on.

You try to smile, but it feels tight. “It’s just some girls being salty. Nothing new.”

“Was it Mina?”

You pause. That alone tells him everything.

He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What did they say?”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long sip to stall.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, gentler now. “I’m not asking because I want drama. I just don’t like the idea of you being put in a bad spot because of me.”

You blink. “You?”

He meets your gaze, expression open. “I’ve been around long enough to know what people say when they think attention isn’t fair. Especially when it comes from someone like me. I shouldn’t have pulled you aside yesterday without making it clear to the group why. It gave them room to assume things.”

Your chest tightens. “It’s not your fault.”

“But they’re whispering about you, aren’t they?”

You look down. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “They said I must’ve begged for the rehearsal. Or offered something in return. That I don’t deserve the spot.”

There’s a heavy silence. Hoseok doesn't respond right away.

When you glance up, his jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.

“I can talk to them,” he offers.

You shake your head instantly. “No. Please don’t. That would just make it worse. If they think I ran to you, they’ll hate me even more.”

He doesn’t argue, but you can feel the tension in him.

“You shouldn't have to deal with this,” he says finally, quieter than before. “None of this is your fault. You work hard. You earned your spot. And anyone who can’t see that, who chooses not to see it, doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously.”

You nod, barely. He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts slightly, bumping your knee with his.

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

You look over at him.

“I mean it,” he says. “Even if we’re not close or whatever yet. If stuff like this keeps happening, please don’t carry it alone.”

You nod again, this time more sincerely.

“Thanks,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He gives you a small smile, then gets to his feet and holds out a hand.

“C’mon. Show me where you got stuck earlier. Let’s work through it before we call it.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, and before you can say anything, he’s already stepping back toward the center of the studio gesturing for you to follow.

“Let’s go from the beginning,” he says, sliding his foot across the floor into position. “Just our duet. No pressure…feel it out.”

You nod and move into place, facing him, your heart still a little tight from the conversation, but lighter than before. The music kicks in low from the speaker, just loud enough to hear the rhythm, and you both fall into motion.

You mirror each other for a few counts before stepping into the partnered section, his hands catching yours, the turn, the lift, the slow lean-in that has your breath catching for a reason that has nothing to do with the choreography.

His eyes flick up to meet yours for just a second, the barest glint of mischief in them.

“You sure you’re not mad at me?” he asks mid-spin, voice teasing as you land.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Your grip is kind of intense,” he jokes, laughing softly.

You scoff and roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush all the same. “Maybe I am mad at you.”

“Damn. I knew it,” he says dramatically, tossing his head back in mock despair before resetting for the next movement. “Guess I’ll go cry in the corner. Alone. With my incredible sense of rhythm.”

You huff a laugh, the tightness in your chest easing just a bit more.

The next run-through goes smoother. Your timing aligns perfectly, and the tension that’s been coiled in your body all morning starts to melt away. Between counts, Hoseok slips into goofy-mode. He’s pulling exaggerated faces during transitions, pretending to wobble like a baby deer when you jump, and fake-swooning when you land a tricky turn.

“You trying to show me up?” he asks between breaths, hands on his hips. “I thought this was a partnership.”

You smirk. “Sounds like someone’s feeling threatened.”

He gasps. “Okay. Wow. I’m being disrespected in my own studio.”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “You started it.”

“Me?” He points to himself with wide eyes. “I’m innocent.”

“You’re literally never innocent.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, but I’m cute.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to notice, your brain scrambling to process whether that was flirting or just…Hoseok being Hoseok.

He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing and spins toward the mirror, smoothing back his sweat-damp hair in exaggerated slow-motion. “Okay. Again from the top,” he declares dramatically. “This time with ten percent more flirtation and twenty percent more sass.”

You snort. “Is that the official note?”

“Yes. I’m very professional.”

He catches your eye in the mirror, and you smile without meaning to. He returns it, softer this time, a little more real.

“Seriously,” he says, tone dropping just a bit, “you good now?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Hoseok just nods, like he expected nothing less, and lifts a hand toward the speaker. “Then let’s dance.”

And this time, when the music starts again, you really let yourself move.

The music flows around you, the rhythm pulling you back into your body as you and Hoseok move together again. Everything sharpens, the way your hands connect, the heat of exertion building under your skin, the way he smiles when you hit the counts just right.

You’re in the final eight, the part where your bodies come close—close enough that your breath catches and you almost forget you’re supposed to keep moving. Hoseok’s palm slides to the small of your back, guiding you through the turn. His voice is low but playful.

“See?” he says. “Told you we’d get it.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lift. “You’re not always right, you know.”

“I am when it comes to this,” he grins. “And also when it comes to—”

The studio door creaks open with a soft click.

You both freeze.

He’s still close. His hand is still on your waist. Your breath still feels just a little too loud in your throat.

Sana stands in the doorway, blinking like she didn’t expect to see anyone. Her brows lift a fraction as she takes in the scene, your closeness, the music, the fact that you’re both very clearly in the middle of something.

“Oh,” she says, smiling a little too wide. “Didn’t realize there was still rehearsal going on.”

You step back immediately, your body going stiff as you reach for your water bottle, suddenly hyper-aware of how this must look.

Hoseok clears his throat, casual but a little clipped. “Private practice,” he says evenly. “We’re running duet sections.”

Sana’s eyes flick between you two. “Right. Of course.” Her tone is perfectly polite, but there’s something just beneath it. You know she’ll twist this. She doesn’t need evidence, just the image.

She lingers a second longer before turning toward the lockers. “Don’t mind me,” she calls over her shoulder. “Just grabbing my sweatshirt.”

You glance at Hoseok, but he’s already looking at you.

“Ignore her,” he says under his breath. “This is our time. Let her talk if she wants.”

But your chest has already tightened again.

You nod, trying to keep the knot in your stomach from growing. “Let’s just finish the run.”

He hesitates, eyes scanning your face, then gives a soft, reassuring smile. “Okay. From the top. Let’s kill it.”

The music starts again, but it’s harder now to ignore the whispers that you know are coming.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is already humming with quiet chatter and the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor when you walk in the next morning. Your duffel hangs heavy on your shoulder, but not as heavy as the pit in your stomach. The last rehearsal before tour. The final run of the full program. It should feel exciting.

Instead, the energy feels…off.

You’re barely a few steps inside when you catch it. Low whispers, the kind that stop just as quickly as they start. You glance toward the mirrors, where Sana and Mina are stretching with two other girls. One of them, Momo, smirks and leans in closer to Mina, who’s pretending to focus on her split stretch.

“Must’ve been a late night,” Mina says under her breath, not looking at you.

Sana hums thoughtfully. “Mm. Guess some people need the extra help.”

The girls snicker, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. Yunjin, walking just behind you, hears it too. She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “I swear to god,” but you gently tug on her arm before she can say anything louder.

“Not worth it,” you murmur.

Yunjin shoots you a glare, protective and fiery. “They think they’re slick, but they’re just sad.”

You give her a small smile, but the edge of it wavers.

You take your usual spot on the floor to begin warming up, trying to stay focused, but the tension in the room is palpable. Everyone knows this is a big day. The full run-through. All eyes will be on Hoseok’s final decisions who shines, who doesn’t, and who might get more spotlight once the tour kicks off.

Your nerves were already frayed, but now the added scrutiny. The stares, the fake laughter, the whispered theories about why Hoseok chose you for the duet, it makes your stomach churn.

You stretch in silence, headphones in, trying to block them out. You know you earned your place. You know. But it doesn’t stop the noise.

Hoseok walks in fifteen minutes later, ball cap low over his brow and a coffee in hand. The room shifts instantly. Everyone straightens, energy tightening like a wire pulled taut.

His eyes flick across the studio as he greets everyone with a quick, “Morning,” before his gaze lands briefly on you.

It lingers for just a second.

You don’t smile. You don’t react.

You can’t. Not with every pair of eyes watching.

“Alright,” Hoseok claps his hands together. “Let’s run it top to bottom. No stops. Treat it like a real show. Find your focus and give me everything you’ve got.”

People start moving to their places, but the whispers haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve just gone quieter slinking under the surface like snakes in tall grass.

You swallow hard and exhale through your nose. One more rehearsal. Then the tour begins, and maybe hopefully you’ll finally be too busy proving yourself to hear them at all.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The first few shows in Seoul go off without a hitch. Every cue lands, every formation clicks, and the energy in the KSPO Dome is electric. Hoseok commands the stage like he was born on it, and somehow, being beside him under the lights feels more natural than nerve-wracking. You move in sync, you hit every mark, and the crowd responds with deafening cheers that echo in your chest long after you leave the stage.

But the online reaction? A different story.

Korean fans aren’t exactly thrilled about the close choreography between you and Hoseok. Some accuse the creative team of pushing too hard for attention, as if this wasn’t his idea. Others aren’t shy about voicing their discomfort, dissecting every interaction between the two of you with brutal intensity.You don’t let it get to you, you’ve worked too hard to be shaken by faceless usernames and half baked speculation.

Brooklyn night one is just as electric. The crowd is louder, rowdier, and when you step off stage soaked in sweat, there’s a fire in your blood that you don’t want to put out.

Then comes night two and the day starts to unravel just a few hours before showtime.

You’re in the dressing room, tying your hair back, when the stage manager walks in looking like she’s carrying a live grenade. “Wardrobe issue. One of the interns hung your outfits in the wrong place and they are ruined,” she says, holding up her phone. “Customs seized the backup costumes when they came into the U.S. The shipment paperwork was flagged.”

You blink. “All of them?”

“Everything. Yours, the duets, even the encore outfits.”

Your stomach sinks. “So…what are we supposed to wear?”

She disappears behind a garment rack and pulls out a hanger. It holds a cropped jersey with the tour logo in silver glitter across the chest. On the back, it reads in huge block letters:

HOPE’S GIRL

You stare. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“They were from a scrapped number. We have a full box of them in the truck. They’re clean, they’re pressed, and they fit the aesthetic.”

You eye the jersey. It’s cute. Actually, it’s really cute. But it’s also really cropped, your stomach will be fully on display. And the name on the back? Way too bold.

“Isn’t this a little…” you gesture vaguely at the lettering. “Much?”

“Do you want to fly to Newark and sweet talk the customs agents yourself?” the manager asks, half-joking, half-panicked. “Because call time’s in thirty.”

You don’t have a choice. You change.

The jersey fits like it was made for you. Snug in all the right places, sleeves cuffed just above the elbow, hem hovering above your waist. You check yourself in the mirror, trying to ignore the lettering burning into your back.

When you step out, conversations stall. A few dancers glance over. One of the stylists lets out a low whistle. Then Hoseok turns, mid-discussion with a crew member, and his eyes land on you.

He freezes.

Then, slowly, he grins. Not the polite stage smile. The real one. The one that makes his eyes crinkle and your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the jersey. You glance down, suddenly hyper-aware of just how much skin you’re showing, and the text stretched across your shoulder blades.

Still, the moment passes. The music starts. The show goes on. But the mood sticks with you. A little unsettled, a little unsure. You look amazing. The crowd will scream. The performance will be flawless.

So why do you feel so weird inside?

The lights dim. The roar of the Barclays Center swells around you like a wave, and the opening VCR flickers to life on the screens above the stage. You’re already in place, heart hammering in your chest, fingers twitching at your sides as you wait for the music to drop.

The crowd is louder tonight, maybe it’s the weekend energy, maybe it’s just New York. Maybe it’s the jersey.

Your jersey.

The one that reads HOPE’S GIRL in massive silver letters across your back.

You try to shake it off. Focus. Breathe. You know the routine inside and out, muscle memory will take over. But as the spotlight hits and the opening beats explode through the arena, you can’t help the flare of heat that climbs your neck when you and Hoseok hit your first mark center stage.

He’s already smirking when he looks at you.

You swear it’s a little cockier than usual.

The crowd loses it when he reaches for you during the duet section. His hand grazes your waist, right where the cropped jersey ends, and you hear the collective shriek ripple through the venue like a current. You don't falter, not even for a beat, but your pulse skitters. You wonder if he notices. (He does.)

The chemistry tonight is different. Tighter. Sharper. Every move is crisp, charged, laced with something just below the surface. Hoseok doesn’t break character once, but there’s something extra in the way he watches you, like he’s feeding off the crowd’s energy, and you're the spark.

At one point, he leans in for a choreographed moment—faces close, breaths shared—and you swear you catch him whispering, “They’re gonna riot.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you snap into the next move, heart pounding, mind focused, eyes locked.

When the last beat hits and the lights go black, the arena erupts. It’s deafening. Screams echo through your bones as the two of you jog offstage, breathless and slick with sweat. You’re grinning, high on adrenaline, already tugging your in-ear out when Hoseok turns to you in the wings.

“You crushed that,” he says, still breathless. “That jersey…” He whistles, grinning. “Might have started a war.”

You roll your eyes, breath hitching on a laugh. “Don’t even.”

But he just flashes that infuriating smile again. “Hope’s girl, huh?”

You shove his shoulder, but your cheeks burn, and even as the crew moves around you resetting for the next set, he lingers a second longer, eyes lingering like he’s memorizing you all over again.

The show ends in a blur of lights and music, the crowd's cheers still ringing in your ears as you make your way backstage. Your body aches from the intense performance, sweat dripping down your back as you strip off the jersey, feeling the cool air hit your skin. You’re breathing hard, but there’s a high buzzing through you, an energy that doesn’t quite fade yet.

Yunjin is there in an instant, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Okay, first of all,” she starts, eyes wide, “what was that?! You were literally on fire tonight. You looked so hot, I almost couldn’t concentrate! Like, how does that even happen?”

You laugh, wiping your face with a towel. “It was just the jersey, Yunjin.”

“Just the jersey?” She places a hand over her heart dramatically. “You’re telling me you don’t know what you were doing out there? The way it clung to you, the way you moved, if I were in the crowd, I’d be screaming my head off. Hoseok probably had to be holding himself back from jumping off stage just to catch you.”

You try not to grin, but the thought makes your chest tighten. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am not. Babe, I don’t even know how you stayed so calm. I was practically hyperventilating on the sidelines watching you. You’re like…a goddess.”

Before you can reply, the sound of footsteps clicks through the hallway, and you know who it is before you even turn around.

Mina and Sana.

“Well, well,” Sana says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “look who’s enjoying the spotlight.”

Mina crosses her arms, eyes narrowing at the exposed skin of your stomach. “Must be nice. Wearing a jersey with ‘Hope’s Girl’ on it. Subtle.”

You don’t respond immediately, but you feel the tension creeping up your spine. Yunjin, however, isn’t having it.

“Really? That’s what you’re gonna focus on?” she shoots back, eyes flashing. “I think we all know the story behind the jersey, and it’s not like she went around asking for this attention.”

Sana smirks, a little too pleased with herself. “Sure, it’s just a scraped costume item. But only one of us got assigned that particular one, didn’t we?”

Mina’s gaze sharpens, her tone fake-sweet. “Yeah, just be careful. You might get too comfortable being everyone’s center of attention, those things don’t last long.”

Her words sting, but you keep your face neutral. You want to tell them to mind their business, but you hold back, not wanting to make a scene.

Yunjin steps closer, her voice low and cutting. “You guys are real classy, huh? Try not to be so obvious.”

Mina and Sana share a look before walking off, their footsteps echoing down the hall like a statement.

Yunjin exhales sharply, her fists clenched at her sides. “Seriously. Do they ever stop?”

You shrug, trying to shake it off. “Let them talk. They don’t get to decide what’s true.”

“Yeah, but damn, it’s hard not to hear them when they’re that loud,” Yunjin mutters, her eyes still on the retreating figures.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next few stops of the U.S. leg flow like muscle memory. Rehearsals, shows, after-show hangouts in hotel rooms or wherever you can find food that late. Everyone slips into their own rhythms. Little cliques form, some loud and chaotic, some quieter and tired. You and Yunjin are the latter, always rooming together, always ending the night whispering half-asleep jokes under hotel comforters, letting the adrenaline of performance burn off slowly.

Hoseok is kind to everyone, but there’s something a little softer in how he treats you. Even when he’s obviously exhausted with dark circles under his eyes and a gravelly voice. He'll still toss you a grin in passing, a warm “good work today,” or a brief shoulder squeeze as he walks by. Nothing intense. Nothing you can’t explain away. But still, it lingers.

Mexico City feels different the moment the plane touches down.

The crowd is electric, louder than anything so far, and the setlist tonight gives the dancers a chance to shine, one particular number puts the girls front and center, a line of you holding onto each other’s hips, all sweat-slick skin and sharp movement, hip thrusts and rhythm pulsing through the floor.

You barely even register it when Mina’s fingers dig into your waist. Not at first.

But then she digs. Sharp nails through the thin fabric of your costume, pressing so hard it feels like they’re carving into you.

You flinch, barely, but your body keeps moving like it’s on autopilot. You smile, you hit every beat, you power through. There’s a camera somewhere. Fans screaming. You don’t miss a step. But when you hit the wings, adrenaline drops all at once, and the pain settles in.

You rush toward the wardrobe first thing, heart thudding in your chest. “Hey, do we—do we have any backup options?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Like...something with more coverage?”

Thankfully, they do now. You swap out the crop top and slip into something looser. The scratches burn, but at least they’re not visible anymore.

You don’t think anyone noticed.

Later, the green room is quiet. Most of the dancers have drifted out, some heading to the hotel, others grabbing food or showering off the performance high. You stay behind to grab a hoodie from the top shelf of the wardrobe racks, reaching up on your toes.

The door creaks open behind you.

“Hey—” Hoseok’s voice cuts off. “Wait.”

You pause mid-reach, glancing over your shoulder.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, brow furrowed, eyes locked on your waist.

You look down.

Your shirt has ridden up just enough to show the angry red scratches along your skin, faint but clearly there. His expression shifts instantly, quiet concern turning sharp.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping closer.

You tug your shirt down quickly. “It’s nothing. Costume just rubbed me the wrong way.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Can I see?” he asks gently, his voice low, eyes searching yours.

You hesitate, then nod once, slowly lifting the hem of your shirt just enough to show the marks along your side.

His breath catches. “Jesus,” he mutters, kneeling slightly to get a closer look. “These are from nails.”

You lower your shirt again, already bracing.

“I have to tell management,” he says, voice calm but firm.

“No.” You shake your head. “Hoseok, please. You can’t.”

His jaw clenches. “She drew blood. You don’t do that by accident.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But if you report her, she’ll know it came from me. She already hates me enough.”

“I don’t care if she hates you. She crossed a line.”

You look down, fists tightening at your sides. “And if she gets reprimanded? Cut? Then every girl on this tour is going to think I’m trying to get people fired just because I’m close to you.”

“You’re not close to me,” he says without thinking, then winces. “I mean—not like that. I just mean, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So don’t make it worse.”

There’s a long pause. His gaze softens a little, but the tension’s still there, tight in his shoulders.

“I won’t go to management,” he says finally. “But only if you swear to tell me if she touches you again.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly still not thrilled, but lets it go, for now. Then, a little softer, “You didn’t even flinch out there. No one would’ve known.”

You offer a small shrug. “Didn’t want to mess up the show.”

Something flashes behind his eyes—pride, maybe. Or something warmer. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can feel it settle between you.

“Still,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you shouldn’t have to bleed for a stage.”

Back at the hotel, it’s just past midnight. You and Yunjin are in your room, both freshly showered, your hair still damp as you sit cross-legged on your bed scrolling through messages. She’s across from you, stretched out on her stomach and picking at a protein bar with barely-contained boredom.

“God, we should order fries or something,” she mumbles into her arms. “I know it’s late, but I’m still wired.”

You laugh softly, about to answer then you stretch.

Your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a faint red line on your side.

Yunjin sits up like she’s been electrocuted.

“What the hell is that?” Her voice is sharp, alarmed. She scrambles over the bed toward you, pushing your arm up before you can react. “Wait—is that a scratch? That’s blood.”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, trying to pull your shirt down again. “Seriously.”

She isn’t having it. “Don’t lie to me. Who did that?”

You go quiet.

“Who.” Her voice drops into a dangerous whisper.

You sigh. “It happened during the performance. Mina. She dug her nails in during the line choreo.”

Yunjin is already off the bed.

“Absolutely not.” She’s halfway to the door, hair wild, grabbing her hoodie off the chair. “I’m going to drag her. I’ll knock on her door and rip her fake lashes off one by one—”

“Yunjin!” You scramble up, grabbing her wrist before she reaches the handle. “Please. Don’t.”

“Are you serious right now? She injured you in the middle of a live performance!”

“I know. But if you storm down there, it just gives her what she wants. More drama. More fuel.”

Her jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle twitch. “She wants you humiliated. She’s been whispering garbage since Seoul and now she’s physically hurting you? And you’re the one worried about drama?”

You squeeze her wrist gently. “I’m tired. You’re tired. Just…let it go. For now.”

Yunjin glares at the door like she’s imagining it’s Mina’s face, but finally, finally, she exhales sharply and slumps back against the wall.

“I swear,” she mutters, “if she so much as breathes in your direction wrong again, I’m not stopping at lashes. I’m coming for her extensions too.”

You smile faintly, despite the sting in your side. “Noted.”

She walks back to you and flops down beside you again, grumbling under her breath, “Next tour, we’re getting roommate requests and I’m making sure we’re in a different hotel wing.”

You laugh. “You’d miss me.”

“Shut up and order the fries.”

You reach for your phone. The tension still lingers in the air, but it’s easier now, the weight of it softened by the person next to you who’s always ready to go to war, no matter how small the battlefield.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The fries are gone, Yunjin is out cold, and the hotel room feels too warm, too cramped with everything that happened still buzzing in your head. You need to get out of here.

You slip on a hoodie, grab your keycard, and make your way up to the rooftop lounge. It’s quiet at this hour, just past 2 a.m., and the Mexico City skyline stretches around you, lights glittering in the distance like stars fallen to earth. You sit down on one of the loungers, tucking your knees up to your chest, letting the night air cool your skin and settle your thoughts.

You don’t expect anyone else to come up.

Which is why your heart jumps a little when the rooftop door creaks open.

Hoseok steps out, hoodie pulled low, hair damp like he just showered. He spots you immediately and pauses, his expression unreadable for a second before he walks over.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he says softly.

You give a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” he nods, settling into the lounger beside yours. “Me neither.”

There’s a brief silence, comfortable, somehow. Then he turns his head to look at you, eyes catching faint light from the city below.

“How’s your side?”

You blink, still surprised that he seems to care. “It’s fine.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate for half a second, then pull the hoodie up just enough to show the bandage, a thin sliver of red peeking out underneath.

His jaw tenses.

“She really did that during the choreo?” He asks again, like he can’t believe that it was true the first time you had this conversation.

You nod. “It wasn’t that deep. Just enough to be petty.”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t even flinch on stage.”

“Can’t flinch when there’s seventeen thousand people watching.”

He shakes his head. “You’re tougher than most people I know.”

You snort, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” he says. “You don’t complain. You just keep working.”

You glance over at him, a little startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

“You notice that?”

He looks at you, the edges of his mouth quirking up. “I notice everything.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “Smooth.”

“I’m not trying to be smooth,” he says, laughing now. “If I was, I’d say something like you danced so well tonight I almost missed my cue.”

You giggle despite yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“Right? I knew it,” he grins, then leans back against the lounger, staring at the sky. “You know, people ask me the same questions in interviews. Favorite food, dream collaborations, stuff like that. But no one ever asks the weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff like what?”

He hums, making his thinking face where he looks up. “Like the first time I ever forgot choreography on stage. Or the first time I realized I liked dancing more than rapping.”

“You forgot choreo?” you ask, eyes wide.

He groans. “Yes! 2016 we were in Osaka. I completely blanked. I played it off, but I wanted to die. I still think about it sometimes when I’m in the shower.”

You laugh, and it feels easy, light in a way you haven’t felt since this tour started.

“You ever think about quitting?” you ask, quieter now.

“Yeah,” he says. “Twice, but I didn’t. I stayed. And then…people like you came along. Reminded me why I loved this in the first place.”

You’re stunned into silence for a beat, and he just smiles, leaning back again like he didn’t just drop a weight into your chest.

The air shifts, warmer now. More charged.

You stay up there with him until the sky starts to tint pink at the edges, trading quiet stories and silly jokes and tiny truths you’re not sure either of you mean to share, but don’t regret. Not even a little.

You and Hoseok sneak in your naps earlier in the day, quick, quiet moments of rest that leave you both looser and lighter. You haven’t spoken since the night before, but when your eyes meet across the green room as everyone starts getting into costume, there’s something wordless exchanged. A kind of mutual grounding.

When it’s time to run the show, everything clicks into place. Mina’s been shifted out of your proximity in all the formations. She’s still there, but now her energy can’t touch you. You don’t have to brace yourself. You can just dance, and you do.

The crowd is louder than night one. They are wild, alive, feeding you energy from the second you step out. Every cheer feels like it’s vibrating in your bones. Your body moves like it’s never known hesitation, hitting every count with precision and power. Every hair toss, every hip hit, every spin. You’re on fire.

The numbers flow one into the next, and soon enough, you’re side-stage again, waiting for the duet. Everyone else clusters on the other side, but Hoseok finds you right where he did the night before. You’re both smiling this time.

“Better night?” he asks with a little raise of his brows, already knowing the answer.

“The best,” you say, and you mean it.

He steps in close, just like yesterday, but there’s no hesitation now, only warmth. His hands come to your face again, thumbs brushing the tops of your cheeks as he leans in until your foreheads touch.

“You were glowing out there,” he says, voice low and playful. “Like, full-on radiant. Crowd’s obsessed.”

You laugh, heart hammering in your chest. “Pretty sure they’re obsessed with you.”

“Nah,” he grins. “Tonight, they’re yours.”

It sends something giddy fluttering in your stomach. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “Let’s go own this. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too,” you say, and you’re both smiling like you’re about to get away with something.

The cue hits. The lights flare, and then you're dancing together.

This time, everything is free and full. Hoseok’s energy wraps around you, not protective, not careful, just completely in sync. Hoseok dances with the kind of presence that makes people forget to blink. He still avoids the spot where your cut is healing, but it doesn’t feel like he’s pulling back. It feels like he knows you. Like you’ve built something real in all those hours of rehearsal, tension, and trust.

When the duet ends, the crowd goes wild, and as you hold the final pose beside him, Hoseok glances your way with that same dazzling smile. Only now, there’s something a little different in his eyes. Pride. Mischief. Maybe even a spark of something more.

You feel unstoppable.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The post-show adrenaline lingers like glitter on skin. The performance high, the crowd’s roar, the perfect execution, it’s all still pulsing through your veins as you sit with the other dancers and crew at a lively restaurant tucked into a buzzing neighborhood just beyond the venue. The energy’s infectious. Laughter pours from every table, drinks clink, and someone orders another round before you can blink.

Hoseok shows up a little after the rest of you, wearing a baseball cap and a plain white tee, the kind of casual that still somehow makes heads turn. He slides into the seat beside Yunjin, across from you, and when your eyes meet over the rim of your glass, you can’t help the quiet smile that rises.

He toasts you later with a simple, “To killing it two nights in a row.”

Eventually, most of the dancers rally into a louder crowd, talking bar hopping, clubs, “just one more,” and “we’re in Mexico, come on!” But you, comfortably buzzed and warm from the tequila and laughter, decide to head back. Yunjin stays behind, swept into the tide, and you’re happy for her.

Back at the hotel, you take your time. A long, hot shower. Moisturizer. Your favorite oversized tee and soft shorts. Then you pad barefoot down the hallway with a hotel-bar cocktail in hand and head for the rooftop lounge.

The air is cool but gentle, and the view stretches out like a glittering painting. You settle on a lounger, legs tucked under you, drink cradled in both hands as you sip slowly and let yourself feel everything. The ache in your muscles. The thrum of triumph. How far you’ve come.

And then—

“Thought I might find you up here.”

You look over your shoulder. Hoseok steps out onto the rooftop, holding a drink of his own, something dark and neat in a short glass.

He’s changed, too. Into joggers and a hoodie, hair still a little damp from his own shower. He looks tired, but content. You wave him over.

He settles beside you on the same lounger, close but not crowded, and for a while, you just… talk. About nothing. About everything. About how wild this whole thing is: the tour, dancing, fans screaming your name.

And then a song starts playing through the rooftop speakers. Something upbeat and groovy, with a smooth, bouncing rhythm that makes your shoulders sway almost instinctively.

You glance at him.

“Dance with me.”

He chuckles. “Right now?”

You stand, offer your hand. “It’s tradition now, isn’t it?”

Hoseok hesitates for half a second before taking your hand and rising to his feet. “Alright, tradition.”

The two of you fall into rhythm easily, bare feet sliding over the rooftop tile. It’s loose, playful. No choreography, no mirrors. Just movement. Just you and him. You laugh when he tries a silly body roll and laugh even harder when he copies your spin with exaggerated flair.

One song blends into the next, and somewhere along the way, it shifts. You’re still laughing, still dancing, but the space between you shrinks. His hands linger longer. Your breath comes quicker.

Then he twirls you.

Your back presses gently to his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. He turns you again, catches your hand in his, and dips you.

Time stops. You’re suspended in the moment, his arm strong around your back, your hand resting on his shoulder, and he looks at your lips.

Then, almost guiltily, his eyes flick away. Up, off to the side.

You look at his lips. Then back up at his eyes and you nod. Just once.

He kisses you.

One hand cradles the small of your back, holding you in place as the other comes to your jaw, tilting your chin up just right. The kiss is warm, slow, exploratory. His lips move like he’s learning the shape of you, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he realized. Your heart is slamming against your chest trying to understand what is going on. The kiss ends gently, like a breath, but the moment it does, Hoseok steps back like he’s just come to his senses.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” he blurts, voice hushed and panicked. His hand flies up, fingers brushing his mouth like the kiss might still be there. “God, I’m so sorry. That was…totally unprofessional. You’re my dancer. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You blink, still half-drunk on the feeling of his lips against yours, your body still tingling from where he touched you.

“I mean—” he keeps going, running a hand through his hair. “You’re just… you’re so pretty. You’re funny, and smart, and you’ve been killing it every single night and then tonight you looked at me like that and I just—” He breaks off with a frustrated groan. “Shit. I let my feelings get ahead of me. I shouldn’t have—God, I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Your thoughts are moving like molasses. You’re trying to process what just happened, what he’s saying, how this spiraled so fast from soft rooftop magic to this flurry of regret.

“I just don’t want to make things weird for you,” Hoseok says, already backing away, voice rough with self-recrimination. “You’ve worked so hard to be here and this is your moment to prove yourself. I don’t want to mess it up because I can’t control myself—”

“Hoseok—”

But he keeps rambling, barely hearing you. “Seriously, just forget I did that, okay? I’ll keep everything professional from here on out. You don’t need to worry about me, I swear.”

And before you can even figure out how you feel or how to respond, he’s turning to leave.

“Hobi—” You yell desperately. “Wait!”

He freezes. You’ve never called him that before. His favorite nickname hangs between you delicate and real. He turns just slightly, looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and searching. Now it’s your turn to be breathless.

You take a deep breath, gathering whatever courage you have left. The tension is thick, the air crackling between you both. You step closer, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying every ounce of confidence you’re trying to muster.

“If they’re going to whisper about me anyway,” you start, “might as well make it true.”

Before he can react, you reach out, catching his wrist in your hand, turning him back toward you. His eyes flash with a mix of surprise and something deeper, but before he can say anything more, you lean in, kissing him again.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pull away. He melts into it, his lips soft against yours, his breath steadying as he lets the moment wash over him. You can feel the tension leave his body, how he’s relaxing into you, like he’s been holding it all in for far too long.

You tug on the excess fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, your chest pressing against his. You feel the heat between you, the softness of his body as he leans in further, his hands moving to your back, tracing the curve of your spine. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, the world outside disappearing as the music plays softly in the background.

For a moment, there’s no tour, no pressure, no expectations. Just you and him, and everything feels right. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling in the air between you, Hoseok’s eyes are dark, lips parted as if he’s trying to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice quiet but filled with the same uncertainty he had before.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If they’re gonna talk anyway…might as well give them something to really talk about.”

Hoseok chuckles, low and breathless, before pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it’s full of quiet promises, no words needed. The rest of the world can wait.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The morning after, sunlight creeps in through the curtains, warm and golden across your sheets, but it doesn't soften the twist in your chest. You wake up slower than usual, almost like you’re trying to delay facing reality. There's no knock at your door. No message. No sign that anything happened last night at all.

You see him in the hallway a little later, just outside the elevators. You weren’t expecting it, so your smile catches you off guard before you can stop it. He’s walking with a couple of stylists, laughing at something someone says. His eyes pass over you like you’re a stranger.

Not even a nod. It stings more than you'd like to admit.

Back in your room, Yunjin is packing up her things, humming softly to herself.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us today?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “San Antonio’s got good food and my college friend’s letting a few of us crash at their place.”

You give her a half-hearted smile and shake your head. “I think I’ll stay behind a little. Be a tourist for a day. Last chance and all.”

“Your loss,” she teases lightly, dragging her suitcase toward the door. “Don’t forget sunscreen.”

She doesn’t press further. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong. No one does. You’re still smiling. Still functioning.

Just…quieter.

You spend the day wandering through the city, letting the sun soak into your skin and the colors of Mexico City blur into a kaleidoscope. You try mezcal at a street-side bar, buy a handmade bracelet from a vendor who compliments your earrings, and stand still in front of a cathedral until the bells chime and make your chest ache.

Hoseok stares at his phone like it might answer all the questions for him.

It doesn’t.

It just glows with the time. Too early for this kind of spiral, too late to sleep it off. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs, reaching for the only contact that might give him something useful.

He hits call. It rings three times before Jin answers, voice still thick with sleep.

“Hyung,” Hoseok says before Jin can even get a proper greeting out. “I messed up.”

Jin groans. “Hello to you too. What did you do?”

“I kissed her.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Who—wait. Her her? YN?”

“Yes.” It’s almost as if Hoseok can hear is hyung silenting judging him.

“Well damn,” Jin says, a little more awake now. “That’s…unexpected, and kind of bold. How’d it go?”

“She kissed me back. It wasn’t like—I don’t know. I didn’t plan it. It just happened and now I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“That checks out,” Jin mutters. “You’ve had a crush on her for a while, haven’t you?”

Hoseok winces. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to anyone with eyes.”

He groans again, collapsing back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think I’d actually do anything about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There’s a pause.

“I don’t even have her number,” Hoseok admits, his voice small. “I thought about asking someone on staff, but that feels…I don’t know. Weird?”

Jin snorts. “Yeah, kind of creepy. Don't do that.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you get her number last night?”

“I was distracted. I didn’t think—there was this moment, and it felt like everything in the world narrowed to just her, and then it was over.”

“Well,” Jin says, “it’s not over if you don’t let it be.”

“I saw her in the hallway this morning. She smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.”

Jin groans. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I panicked!” Hoseok snaps. “I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t want her to regret it. I’m her boss. I should’ve never—”

“You already did,” Jin cuts in, firm now. “So the whole ‘I shouldn’t have’ ship? It’s sailed, capsized, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Thanks for the imagery.”

Jin huffs a laugh. “Look, I get that this is complicated. But you’re allowed to feel things, Hobi. You’re allowed to want something good. If you’re serious about her—really serious—then don’t let protocol be the reason you ruin it.”

Hoseok is quiet for a long time. He watches a crack of sunlight stretch across the floor of his hotel room and thinks about how your smile looked under stage lights. He thinks about how he made you feel like you weren’t alone in it.

“…I am serious,” he says quietly.

“Then find a way to show her.”

🧡part 2🧡

#suck it #bts fanfic #jung hoseok #jung hoseok fic #hoseok fic #hoseok smut #jhope fic #jhope smut #jhope x reader #jhope x you #hoseok x you #hoseok x reader #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fic #kpop fic #kpop smut #bts smut

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 9 days ago

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reader riding rafe’s abs and rafe recording it? :p

❛ AB RIDING RAFE ❜

girlfriend¡reader . . . rafe cameron

You ease yourself onto Rafe’s waist, your bare skin meeting the warm, unyielding ridges of his abs, each chiseled line of muscle pressing into your core with a heat that steals your breath.

The room is hushed, bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp, its light tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his face, and the fierce, hungry spark in his piercing blue eyes. Your hands find his chest, fingers spreading wide over the firm swell of his pecs, feeling the steady, reassuring thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Your thighs tremble, a tangle of nerves and raw desire, your body already slick as you shift ever so slightly, the contact sending a shiver rippling through you, sharp and electric.

Rafe’s sprawled beneath you, one arm slung casually behind his head, the other reaching for his phone on the nightstand. He flicks it open with a lazy, practiced motion, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips—cocky, but softened by a flicker of something tender, something just for you.

“Gotta record this, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly, wrapping around you like a warm tide. “You ridin’ my abs like this? Shit, it’s too damn perfect not to.”

The phone’s red recording light blinks on, and your stomach twists, a heady mix of shy exhilaration and the raw vulnerability of being so utterly exposed.

Your cheeks flush, warm under his gaze, and you bite your lip, hesitating, your fingers tracing the deep, sculpted grooves of his abs to ground yourself. The slick glide of your core against him makes you gasp softly, the sensation immediate, unfiltered, and overwhelming.

“Rafe… you’re sure this stays between us?” you ask, voice quiet, a little unsteady, your fingers lingering on the hard lines of his stomach, each ridge a testament to his strength.

The slickness between you makes every subtle movement feel amplified, your skin tingling where it meets his, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches, already caught in the pull of him.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unwavering, the smirk easing into something more serious. “Only me, princess,” he says, voice firm but soft, like a promise. “This is mine. You’re mine.”

His free hand settles on your hip, fingers curling lightly into your skin, not guiding, just resting there, warm and possessive, the pads of his fingers rough against your softness. “Go on, move for me. Show me what you got.”

You draw a shaky breath, steadying yourself, and begin to roll your hips, slow and deliberate, testing the rhythm. The hard, unyielding ridges of his abs drag against your clit, slick and precise, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that makes your toes curl.

The friction is exquisite, each subtle shift of your body pulling a soft whimper from your throat, the sensation building in your core like a slow-burning fire.

Your hands slide up his chest, nails grazing the tanned skin, leaving faint pink trails as you brace yourself, thighs quivering with the effort of holding steady.

The slickness makes it smoother, your body gliding against his, and you can feel every detail of his abs—the way they flex subtly under your weight, the faint sheen of sweat mingling with your arousal, the heat of him searing into you.

Rafe’s watching, eyes hooded, the phone steady in his hand, its lens drinking in every detail—every hitch of your breath, every quiver of your hips, every flush that creeps across your chest.

His abs tense beneath you, not from strain but from the way he shifts, angling himself just right to give you more, to let you feel every inch of him. The slick glide of your core against his skin is intoxicating, each roll of your hips pulling you deeper into the sensation, your body chasing the pleasure with a single-minded focus.

Your breaths come faster, shallow and uneven, the coil in your lower belly tightening with every movement, your skin prickling with the intensity of it all.

You lean forward slightly, hands finding his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle as you pick up the pace, grinding harder now.

The change in angle makes you gasp, a high, trembling sound, as the pressure shifts, the ridges of his abs catching your clit in a way that’s almost too much.

Your core throbs, slick and aching, and you can feel the mess you’re making, the way your arousal coats his skin, glistening in the lamplight.

The vulnerability of being so bare, so exposed under his gaze and the unblinking eye of the phone, makes your heart race, but there’s a thrill in it too, a quiet power in knowing he’s watching, captivated, unable to look away.

His hand on your hip stays light, thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin, a silent reassurance that grounds you even as you spiral.

“Fuck, baby,” Rafe murmurs, voice rough, low enough to send a shiver through you. “You’re somethin’ else.”

He’s not pushing, not chasing anything for himself, just letting you take what you need, his eyes flicking between your face and the phone, like he’s torn between watching you in the moment and preserving every second for later.

The phone’s lens catches it all—the way your thighs tremble, the way your chest heaves, the way your fingers clutch at his shoulders like he’s your lifeline.

Your hips find a rhythm, steady but desperate, each grind pulling you closer to the edge. The slick slide against his abs is relentless, each ridge hitting just right, the texture of his skin driving you wild.

Your thighs burn, muscles straining as you rock faster, but the ache is secondary to the pleasure, the tight, pulsing need building in your core.

You can feel every detail of him—the faint trail of hair below his navel, the way his abs flex and shift under your weight, the slick heat of your arousal making every movement smoother, sharper

. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks, and you can’t help the soft moans spilling from your lips, each one louder than the last as the pleasure mounts.

You shift again, leaning back, hands bracing on his thighs behind you, the new angle making your clit catch perfectly against the hard lines of his abs.

The sensation is blinding, a white-hot spark that pulls a cry from your throat, raw and desperate. “Rafe,” you whimper, voice trembling.

Your head tipping back as the pleasure crests, your hair falling in a messy cascade around your shoulders. The slickness makes every grind feel effortless, your body moving on instinct now, chasing the high with a fervor that leaves you dizzy.

Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight, and the sight of him beneath you—his abs slick with you, his eyes dark and reverent—makes your pulse race, a heady mix of power and vulnerability.

Your breaths are ragged now, coming in short, uneven pants, the coil in your belly so tight it’s almost painful. You can feel the edge approaching, the pleasure sharpening with every roll of your hips, each drag against his abs pulling you closer to release.

Your thighs shake, the effort of holding yourself up secondary to the need driving you, the way his muscles press so perfectly into you. The phone’s still recording, capturing every shudder, every whimper, every flush that spreads across your skin, and Rafe’s watching, his gaze intense, like you’re the only thing that exists in the world.

“Keep goin’, princess,” he says, voice low, a quiet coax that sends a thrill through you. “You got this.” His hand on your hip tightens just a fraction, not guiding, just steadying you, his thumb brushing your skin in a way that feels like a lifeline.

He’s not moving, not seeking anything for himself, just letting you use him, his body a canvas for your pleasure.

Your hips stutter, the rhythm faltering as the pleasure peaks, and you lean forward again, hands clutching his shoulders, needing the anchor.

The change in angle makes you cry out, a broken, desperate sound, as the pressure hits just right, the slick glide against his abs sending you spiraling. Your body trembles, thighs quaking, and you can feel the mess you’re making, the way your arousal coats his skin, slick and glistening, marking him as yours.

The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that steals your breath. “Oh, God,” you moan, raw and trembling, your hips jerking erratically as you ride it out, pleasure pulsing through you in relentless waves.

Your core clenches, every nerve alight, and you shudder, grinding through the high, the slickness making every movement drag out the ecstasy.

Your vision blurs, your body shaking as the aftershocks ripple through you, your breaths coming in gasps, your skin flushed and sensitive. You collapse forward, hands still gripping his shoulders, your face pressing into the crook of his neck, overwhelmed, dizzy, the scent of his skin—salt and musk and him—grounding you.

Rafe sets the phone aside, the red light blinking off, and his arms wrap around you, pulling you close, his lips brushing your temple. “Fuckin’ unreal, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost awed, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

You’re still trembling, heart pounding, but safe in his hold, the world narrowing to the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart, and the quiet promise in his words.

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns

return home ⸝⸝

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eliasmelody · 16 days ago

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Tired babe? Take a seat!

Tag: Sol x reader, fluff Warning: grammar & spelling

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ You yawn again. Dragging your feet into the library like you’re floating more than walking. Your body’s heavy. Eyes sting from lack of sleep. Your brain's practically mush. It's been a long day. Honestly? You need somewhere quiet to crash. Just for a second.

Of course, he’s there.

Same spot, like always. Slouched over the desk, head dipped, dark clothes blending into the dim light of the corner. Pencil dancing lazily in his fingers. He doesn’t even blink when the door creaks open. Doesn’t move when your bag thumps softly against the floor.

Just a glance. Quick. Dismissive. Until he really sees you.

His eyes flick up again. Sharper this time. He clocks your posture. Your sluggish steps. Your barely-open eyes. His gaze lingers like it’s magnetized to the curve of your face. The slump in your shoulders. The way your hoodie’s collar slides off one side. And when you drag your tired body toward him, he straightens up.

You stand beside the table for a moment. Rubbing your eye with the back of your hand. You know there’s a seat beside him. But right now you want comfort. Not a cold wooden chair.

So you act on instinct.

Without saying a word, you swing one leg over and settle yourself right on his lap.

His breath stops. Like someone hit mute on his entire system. Arms frozen mid-motion. Eyes blown wide for half a second before he forces them away. Like he’s afraid looking too long might give something away. You shift to get comfortable. You feel it. His legs twitching beneath you. Fingers gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go pale.

"Hope you don’t mind." You mumble sleepily. Leaning your chest against his chest. Head tucking under his chin like it’s your usual spot. Hands drapes over his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Because right now, Sol’s fighting for his damn life.

Your scent fills his lungs with every breath. Warm. Soft. Intoxicating. Your weight against him is driving him insane. Every movement. Every sigh you make. Vibrates through his body like static electricity.

He tilts his head down slightly. His nose brushes against your hair. A low sound escapes him. Barely a whisper of a groan. He doesn’t know whether to hold you or dig his nails into the table to ground himself.

You shift again. Just slightly.

And he’s losing it.

His head tips back, eyes briefly closing as he tries to collect himself.

"Fuck..." He mutters under his breath. The sound of the air shifting in his lungs feels like a weight, and the ceiling above him seems to mock him as his mind races. His hands are shaking slightly, but he refuses to let you see it.

You hum sleepily. "What was that?"

He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just… stay still.”

His words are strained, like he’s trying to convince both of you, but more so himself. He doesn’t trust himself to say more. The feeling of your body against his, your weight pressing down in the most deliciously torturous way, is sending heat spiraling through him.

You hum, a lazy, contented sound, and you nuzzle further into him. Your head buries into his chest, and your breath, soft and warm, flows over his neck. He swallows hard. His throat feels tight. Every shift you make is a reminder of how close you are, how dangerously close.

"Mm. Okay." You mumble, your voice dripping with exhaustion, unaware of how it rips through him.

Sol knows it’s wrong. You probably don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. But he can't stop it.

His hands, the ones that had been trembling at the edges of the table, now drift. Slowly. Hesitantly. Until it finds its place on your hip. His fingers curl there like he's testing if this is real. If you're really letting him hold you like this.

He refuses to move anymore than that, unwilling to risk even a slight twitch, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.

Taking in a slow breath, trying to steady himself, his mind is all about the way you feel against him, how soft and warm and perfect you are there. Chest tightens, and heart races in a way that doesn’t make sense. Right now, all that control feels like it’s slipping.

"So cute... and all mine"

If you don’t move for the next ten minutes?

Well… don’t blame him.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ Art & characters from The Kid at the Back, created by Fantasia Kitt. ✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

#the kid at the back sol #the kid at the back #solivan brugmansia #sol x reader #sol x you #tkatb sol #tkatb #tkatb vn #the kid at the back vn

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cuntyji · 2 months ago

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HOW TO LOOSE YOUR DIGNITY IN FIVE SECONDS: A HOLI SPECIAL ౨ৎ JJK MEN HEADCANONS

synopsis: holi, the festival of colors, love, and inevitable regrets, has finally arrived. you’ve been waiting all year for this, but the real highlight of the day? your boyfriend’s first holi. whether he’s excited or absolutely dreading it, well… that depends on which one you’re talking about.

content warnings: gender neutral reader, jjk men headcannons (gojo, nanami, geto, toji, shiu, choso, no sukuna this time rip). mentions of hemp. lots of crack, based on many true stories <3

author's note: tell a friend she's back!! thank u for being patient with my break. happy holi if you celebrate, stay safe and have fun :)

gojo’s white hair is a warzone. not a single strand has been spared from the riot of colors that have taken him hostage. you can practically map out the battlefield on his head—electric blue from nobara’s ambush, a blotchy green courtesy of megumi’s grudge, streaks of pink and yellow from random kids who saw an opportunity, and, of course, the deep purple near his roots that is just part of him. his blindfold was a victim early on, ripped away in the opening skirmish, which left his poor six eyes to fend for themselves.

but does he regret it? absolutely not.

“this is the best holiday ever,” he announces, lying on the ground, looking like a pack of expired skittles. he’s positively beaming, grinning wide enough to blind anyone who still has uncolored vision left. “i am beauty. i am art. i am suffering.”

he sits up, running a hand through his hair, then pauses when some of the color transfers onto his palm. his grin falters for half a second before he recovers with a nervous chuckle. “this’ll come out, right? right?”

you don’t have the heart to tell him that some of these colors might have permanently altered his hair. it’ll be fun when he washes it and realizes his shampoo is an accomplice in ruining his life.

nanami thought he was prepared. in his mind, he had planned the ultimate holi defense strategy. crisp white shirt (because nothing says class like a man in white), sunscreen slathered on every inch of his exposed skin (because he would rather die than let the sun and colors double-team him), and a last-minute decision to invest in contact lenses because, well, the alternative was his glasses being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics.

big. mistake.

he comes back looking like a broken man. his shirt? unrecognizable. the white fabric has been violated in every color of the rainbow, some areas more aggressively attacked than others. his hair? streaked with color despite his best efforts to avoid it. and the worst part? the contacts.

nanami rubs his temples, his face twisted into a deep frown. “never again,” he mutters, looking like he’s reliving chapter 120 in real-time. he blinks rapidly, eyes irritated beyond belief, and you realize his biggest mistake was trusting those flimsy lenses to protect him.

you try—really try—to hold back your laughter. “so… the contact lenses?”

he lets out the slowest, most exhausted sigh. “i thought they would protect me.” a pause. then, bitterly: “i was wrong.”

you take in his utterly defeated state, the way he looks more emotionally drained than physically tired, and pat his arm sympathetically.

“on the bright side,” you offer, “you don’t have to worry about wearing white ever again.”

nanami closes his eyes. inhales. exhales. then, in a voice heavy with regret, says, “i miss my old life.”

toji fushiguro is that guy—the one who shows up to holi in all black like he’s at a funeral, fully aware of what’s about to happen to him but too stubborn to dress accordingly. maybe he thought he’d intimidate people into leaving him alone. maybe he thought the dark clothes would somehow hide the damage. either way, he thought wrong.

his face is mostly untouched, purely because no one can reach him. at his height, the average holi enthusiast doesn’t stand a chance. the few who dared to aim for his head either missed or got that look—the one that made them rethink all their life choices up until that moment. but his torso? completely massacred. the black fabric of his shirt has been ruined by every color imaginable, soaked through and weighing him down like a second skin.

toji tugs at his drenched shirt, scowling. “this is bullshit.”

you raise an eyebrow. “it’s literally holi. what did you expect?”

“not to be walking around in clothes that feel like they weigh twenty kilos,” he grumbles. he shifts uncomfortably, flexing his arms like that’ll somehow shake off the moisture. “shoulda just taken my shirt off.”

you glance at his utterly destroyed torso, streaked with a chaotic mix of colors, and smirk. “probably wouldn’t have helped. they went straight for your chest.”

toji knows. he can smell the disaster on himself—especially that horrible silver paint someone had the audacity to slap onto him. it’s clinging to his skin like a bad memory, and the worst part? it’s shiny. he feels like a failed art project.

he huffs, rubbing at a stubborn stain. “if i gotta be drenched, might as well be in red. at least then i can scare the little brats off and tell ‘em it’s blood.”

you give him a look. “so your solution is to traumatize children?”

toji shrugs, unapologetic. “ain’t my fault they’d believe it.”

geto approaches holi with the grace of a man who thinks he can organize chaos. he is all about class, aesthetics, and, most importantly, justice. while others run around like feral animals, flinging colors with reckless abandon, geto has meticulously arranged brass plates filled with neatly piled color powders. the water? prepared in large buckets, not for anarchy, but for people to responsibly fill their water guns. everything is meant to be orderly, beautiful, a functionable and fun holi experience.

he forgets that during holi, no one cares about any of that.

the moment he turns his back, all hell breaks loose.

one person—an absolute menace to society—takes a single look at the perfectly filled water bucket and dumps the entire thing on him. and just as geto is still processing the betrayal, the rest of them follow suit, overturning the entire mountain of color onto him like an avalanche.

it’s a spectacle.

he is left drenched, color clinging to every inch of his soaked clothes, dripping down his face in thick streaks. his once dignified, elegant aura? gone. instead, he’s standing there, utterly stunned, spitting out what can only be described as liquid rainbow.

you approach cautiously, trying—failing—to suppress your laughter.

geto wipes a hand down his face, looking at the sheer amount of color that comes off. he then glances at you, eyes filled with the weary realization of a man who should’ve known better.

“i’m going to have blue teeth by the end of this, aren’t i?” he mutters.

you nod, absolutely delighted at his suffering. “at least you made holi… functional.”

he exhales sharply, color still dripping from his chin. “never. again.”

shiu kong is the epitome of holi with class. while others are running around like headless chickens, he’s standing off to the side, nursing a drink that could only be described as delectable. a perfect mix, smooth, refined—enhanced, of course, with a liiiiittle hemp, because holi is about tradition. he’s not here to get drenched like some peasant. he’s here to enjoy himself.

or so he thought.

he doesn’t even realize the impending disaster until it’s too late. a horde of parched, wide-eyed kids approach him, looking up expectantly, their little hands outstretched. and shiu, in his blissfully buzzed state, barely registers what’s happening before he just hands over the drink with a lazy flick of his wrist.

there’s a beat of silence. then, chaos.

within minutes, he has unleashed the apocalypse. half the kids are suddenly hyperactive, screaming like banshees, running at inhuman speeds with fully loaded water guns, soaking anything and everything in their path. the other half? slumped against walls, swaying slightly, looking like they just saw the secrets of the universe and were not prepared for it.

shiu blinks. realization dawns. he looks down at his now-empty glass.

“…ah, shit.”

you stare at him, half-horrified, half-amused. “tell me you did not just give bhang to an army of children.”

shiu drags a hand down his face. “…i was feeling generous.”

a high-pitched, manic shriek cuts through the air as a color-streaked child launches a water balloon with the accuracy of a trained assassin. shiu watches it fly in slow motion before it smacks a poor soul across the face.

he exhales, stepping back like a man about to abandon ship. “alright. time to leave.”

choso is excited. painfully so. he’s that guy—the one who stations himself in a corner of the arena (or wherever the battlefield of holi has been set) with mountains of snacks and drinks, ready to distribute them at a moment’s notice. hydration is key, he insists. everyone should be well-fed. he’s got an entire system set up, like some kind of holi hospitality committee operating out of sheer enthusiasm.

but when people call him over to actually play, he gets all bashful. he waves them off, shaking his head, mumbling stuff like, "i’m good! you guys have fun!" like he’s some self-sacrificing monk who exists solely to ensure the well-being of others.

that is, until he joins in.

the second he steps into the fray, it’s like something possesses him. the bashfulness? gone. the gentle, food-distributing guardian? replaced. choso goes feral. suddenly, he’s dual-wielding a water gun and a hose pipe, simultaneously, with the skill of a trained marksman. he’s unstoppable. entire groups of people scatter in sheer terror because how is he this accurate?! even those his age shriek and flee for their lives when he mercilessly drenches them.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO BEING SHY?!” someone screams, barely dodging a ruthless stream of water.

choso, entirely deadpan, reloads his water gun. “i changed my mind.”

it’s absolute carnage. colors flying, people falling, screams ringing out—until the moment food is announced.

the instant he hears the words "lunch is ready!" the switch flips right back. suddenly, he’s all smiles again, cheerfully walking toward the food like he wasn’t just waging war seconds ago. he’s even helping people up, brushing color off their faces, offering them a drink like he didn’t just personally destroy them.

you stare at him, still catching your breath, completely drenched. “you’re insane.”

choso beams, already stacking his plate with food. “want some snacks?”

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vanteguccir · 14 days ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: CHICAGO DISS TRACK * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where at the Chicago show of the Surprise Party Tour, Chris is not only surprised by the diss track made by his brothers against him, but especially by his girlfriend being part of it.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I'm not a song writer by no means, so I apologize in advance if Y/N's part of the song sucks 😭✋🏻

A/N³: Stream LIKE ME right now!

The orange glow of the stage lights bathed everything in warmth, catching little glints in the shelves to the left of the stage, bouncing off the glossy top of the coffee table sitting between the two orange couches.

Y/N, standing just off-stage behind the curtain with the crew, had that weird ache in her chest she always got right before the surprise segment. She could practically feel the excitement coming from the fans, like static electricity tingling across her skin.

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling too hard. She already knew what the surprise was. I mean, how couldn’t she? She was in it.

She leaned forward a little, peeking past the thick curtain, watching the boys from her hidden little corner.

Nick was lounging - well, more like bouncing - in his seat on the left couch, leg jittering, fingers tapping on the cushion, clearly vibrating with excitement. Matt and Chris were sharing the right couch, the former sitting up straight with a smile. Chris, meanwhile, was leaned back with one arm stretched along the back of the couch, his head tilted in curiosity, eyes glued to the giant screen in front of them.

And then, it started.

The big screen flicked to life with a massive countdown in bold white numbers against a glitching screen.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

Everyone in the theater screamed. It was instant.

Echoing. Like someone had thrown gasoline on a fire and let it explode.

Y/N laughed under her breath, clutching her jacket at the chest. She swore her heart jumped with that countdown. It always did.

The screen flickered, and there they were.

Matt and Nick. Edited to be side by side, both in suits and ties, serious expressions. Nick was adjusting his already-too-tight tie, and Matt was patting down his shirt collar, eyes locked with the camera lens.

The crowd absolutely lost it.

Nick leapt up from his couch like someone had shocked him and started doing these little bouncy jumps toward Matt, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. His feet barely touched the ground, boots thudding heavily against the stage floor.

"Oh, Nick." Y/N whispered to herself, soft smile decorating her face, watching Nick’s expression explode into a wide grin as he reached Matt and wrapped him up in a huge hug.

Matt hugged him back with one arm and held the mic to his mouth with the other.

"I’m so excited."

Nick pulled back from the hug, mic now in his hand.

"We've been talking about this all day." He said, turning to the audience. "And I'm so excited that we're about to show this to you guys. I feel like me and Matt don't have many duo moments, right?"

The theater roared with approval, stomping and clapping and shrieking. Chris raised an eyebrow from the right couch, side-eyeing them both with an amused but skeptical expression.

"Oh, here we go." He muttered into his mic, finally standing up.

Y/N bit her lip, stifling her laugh as Chris casually strolled over to the left couch Nick had just vacated, flopping onto it in one fluid motion, stretching out like he owned the place. Which, well, he kind of did.

"Alright, I’m curious." He said, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it. "I’m suspicious, but I’m curious."

Nick, still standing, grinned mischievously, and held up a single finger.

"Okay." He started, pacing a little as he spoke. "Before we play this video, I know you’re excited. I know you’re screaming. I know you’re probably on the edge of your seat."

People in the front row giggled, phones held up and already recording.

"But this surprise?" Nick continued, voice dropping dramatically. "It’s a little dramatic. It’s a little drama. And it’s gonna be amazing. But I need y’all to listen while you watch it. ‘Cause we only get to watch this once, alright? And I want to make sure that you have the best experience watching it. So, be excited, laugh, but listen, and let's get into it."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Matt gave Nick a quick shoulder bump before the two of them made their way back to the right couch, both of them trying to suppress the stupid, excited grins tugging at their mouths.

Y/N clutched her chest.

The screen flickered again.

And the video began.

Matt and Nick sat on the edge of Matt's bed, both in crisp white long sleeves, shoulders brushing, Matt with his backward baby pink cap on.

"Me and Matt have some major plans today." Video-Nick said, not even waiting a single second to properly greet the camera. "And it all kinda involves shitting on Chris... Basically, Chris hasn’t done his fair share of shit on us, and going to the studio with his friends and making a diss track seemed just fair."

And that was when the place went feral.

People screamed. Hands flew over mouths.

On the right couch, Chris’s head whipped toward his brothers so fast it was a miracle he didn’t pull a muscle. His face was this perfect blend of betrayal and disbelief, pinkish lips parted in a dropped-jaw expression, blinking like he’d just been slapped.

And before he could even grab his mic to react verbally, Matt’s voice echoed again from the screen.

"Besides Chris’s friends, there’s gonna be another very important person in there with us to help create this diss track about Chris." He turned his head on the video to Nick beside him and added. "Also, Nick has never sung in a studio before. Not even once."

Video-Nick gave a little 'yeah, true' shrug and nodded.

"Never touched a mic for singing, actually. Either way, I feel like I’m more of a singer than a rapper, though."

"Chris needs a rap, not a pop song." Matt replied immediately, barely holding back a grin.

The crowd laughed.

Chris, still holding onto his mic like a lifeline, shook his head with this baffled little smile like he genuinely didn’t know how to react yet.

Then, cut.

The video jumped to a dimly lit studio room, those iconic blue neon lights casting this soft futuristic glow over everything. Matt stood in front of a mic setup, black headphones pushed over his ears, phone in one hand, looking relaxed but focused. He was glancing at someone off-screen.

"... If I have a visual cue of when the beat is gonna drop, it’s gonna be easier for me." He said, pointing slightly with the hand holding his phone.

And then, from somewhere just beside the camera, a familiar voice called out.

"Oh, you wanna see it drop?"

The second that voice hit, the entire crowd lost it.

Chris straight up jolted on the couch, body shooting forward like someone had zapped him. His cap almost flew off. His mic dropped from his hands to his lap - almost fleeing to the ground, and his whole expression screamed 'is that who I think it is?'

Because it was.

Video-Y/N's body walked into the frame. She had a big pair of headphones hanging around her neck, layered gold jewelry below it, catching the blue light.

She looked at whoever Matt had been talking to and nodded, her voice smooth and easy.

"Yeah, that would actually be very helpful."

That was it.

That tiny moment was enough to send the crowd into full-blown chaos. People jumped on their seats, screamed, you could barely hear over the shrieking.

Chris was still frozen with his mouth wide open, jaw starting to hurt, blue eyes staring at the screen, like his brain hadn’t caught up with what just happened.

And then he finally managed to react, dragging his mic to his lips like a man possessed.

"WHAT?!" He practically screeched, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Nick stood up, cracking up as he grabbed his own mic. He turned to where Y/N was obviously hidden behind the stage, grinning.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest for this surprise..." Then he pointed his free hand toward the side of the stage. "Y/N, come out here, queen!"

And right on cue, Y/N appeared, that same smug little smile on her lips like she knew she just turned the theater upside down.

She walked to the center of the stage, waving sweetly to the audience, blowing a kiss toward Matt and Nick’s couch, then heading over to Chris’s one, her movements chill and confident, already used to being on a stage after standing on its side for six shows in a row.

Chris hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He stared at her the entire walk to the couch, his expression a mixture of love and betray.

Y/N plopped down beside him, letting her shoulder bump his casually as she laughed at the chaos around them, thighs touching his jeans covered ones, feeling instantly his body heat penetrating her skin.

Chris dragged his mic back up dramatically, his eyes following hers.

"Did you really make a diss track about your own very good boyfriend?"

The tone was so wounded, so fake-offended, the crowd roared.

Y/N just rolled her eyes, leaning in more - as if it was even possible with how close they already were -, plump lips covered in pink gloss pressing a quick kiss on his milky cheek, leaving glitter behind, and leaned back with a shrug, turning her head to the screen.

"Gotta keep you humble."

Chris stared at her like she’d just invented fire, completely smitten, then dropped his head back with a groan into the couch.

"Unreal..." He muttered into the mic. Though he was smiling so wide, it nearly broke his face.

On screen, Y/N turned to Matt, pressing just one side of her headphones against her ear, listening to what Matt and Nick had sung until now while waiting for the producer to do what Matt had proposed.

"'I’m the favorite child, you can go and ask your father' is literally the best thing you could think of, Matt." She said, eyebrows raised, half-laughing in this low, amused tone that came straight from her chest.

From behind the camera, Nick cackled.

Matt just nodded super fast, his whole face smug, a crooked smile already spreading.

"No, exactly! If he comes with that shit of 'Oh, I have the best tour surprise', dude, I’m getting my gay brother who watches RuPaul’s Drag Race four times a week and his girlfriend who’s obsessed with him to come to this studio and diss rap him for hours."

Y/N snorted.

"Guilty." She muttered, tossing her free hand up dramatically, one foot tapping the ground to the beat that was still echoing from her headphones directly to her ears.

The crowd was still going wild as everyone’s attention kept glued to the screen, the video now slowly fading into what looked like the start of a music video.

The screen lit up with Nick.

Back to the camera, hood up, shoulders squared, and standing in front of a closed elevator.

The hoodie was pitch black and decked out in silver spikes that looked like they could kill someone if he turned too fast, catching the dim light of the scene and gleaming like daggers.

The second his figure appeared, there was a wave of gasps.

"Oh my God." Chris's voice echoed from his mic to the speakers, his eyes darting from the screen to Nick and back again.

DING

The elevator doors slid open, and Nick stepped in without hesitation.

Inside the elevator, the vibe somehow got even cooler.

Matt was standing on the left, looking like he had just gotten out of an important meeting, body covered in an all-black suit. He gave Nick the quickest up-and-down look, raising his eyebrows before turning back to face the closed elevator door again.

The crowd was already going crazy again. People clapping, some laughing with his reaction.

But then the camera moved again, and there she was.

Right side of the elevator.

Leaning back on the wall like this was the most boring situation in the world.

Her body was covered in a black faux leather pleated mini skirt that sat low on her waist, a wide belt looped around it, thick and grommeted, fastened with a large silver buckle that sat slightly tilted.

The skirt was paired with a long-sleeved black mesh top, fitted close to her body, dotted with tiny, scattered rhinestones. Her sleeves extended into fingerless gloves that wrapped around her hands decorated with silver rings.

Black shiny boots to her knees. Choker on.

She had her arms crossed, one knee bent, chewing gum like she could not care less about the world.

She didn’t even look at Nick.

Didn’t acknowledge anyone.

Just chewed her gum with this bored expression.

And that’s when the entire room collectively combusted. Someone yelled 'HOT' so loud it echoed above the screams.

Meanwhile, Chris went through five stages of falling in love all over again in two seconds.

His eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and this huge smile just took over his face. The kind of smile you try to hide but it’s too late, it’s already there and it’s so obvious you’re whipped.

His body acted almost on instinct, reaching for Y/N and just gently wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His fingers pressed into her upper arm like he was making sure she was real, and he tugged her softly until she leaned into him.

Her laugh was caught in the mic, soft and warm, tilting her head to look at him, but Chris, still staring at the screen, shook his head with the most insane look of awe.

"That's my girl right there, everyone." He said into the mic, taking more screams out of everyone.

Y/N didn’t even try to hide her grin. She leaned fully into him, nuzzling her head briefly on his covered shoulder before turning to look at the big screen like everyone else, her cheeks a little pink from the screaming crowd and the way Chris was looking at her like she hung the moon.

[When you get dressed, you should think a little longer]

On screen, the elevator dinged once more. The doors opening.

Only Nick stepped out, walking to the corridor that stretched in front of him. Neon purple lights on the ceiling. He walked forward, still not looking at the camera.

[First verse + Chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

The space was bathed in neon purples and soft violets that kissed the black, curved walls. One big circle light glowed from above, dead center, like a spotlight from another planet.

And then, Y/N stepped into frame.

She moved with this crazy mix of confidence and chill, her steps slow and controlled as she slid into the middle of the frame like she owned the place. Half-lidded eyes decorated with shiny gems just below her lower eyelid locked with the camera in that way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

"You talk big, babe, but you're softer than my skincare. Actin’ like a player, but your game’s just not there..."

Y/N’s voice wasn’t sweet. It was smooth, sultry, sharp as glass wrapped in silk.

The crowd gasped.

Literal gasps. Audible whispers.

"Holy fucking shit." Chris's voice sounded choked against his mic, his tongue poking out to wet his lips in a hypnotized manner, pupils intensely widening.

"You say you run the house, can’t find clean underwear. Yeah, I date you, it’s a choice, but let’s not go there."

She bounced gently with the beat, arms moving effortlessly, shoulder dips, slow turns causing her skirt to dance around plump thighs, little half-smirks on the beat drops.

[Middle verse]

[... I'm the favorite child, you can go and ask Mary Lou]

The music video jumped into the next part. Purple. Neon. Glowy and deliciously moody.

"Your brothers roast you, I just add the spice. Lucky that I love you, boy, I’m way too nice."

There she was.

Y/N on the screen, in that dim, vibey room, with a glowing purple haze washing over everything. She was standing front and center, with Nick and Matt behind her, each on each side of her.

Nick was bobbing his head from his place in the left back of the dark room, smirking.

Matt had this calm confidence on his face, nodding along in the right back, his arms moving to the beat while his eyes locked onto the camera, blue bandana moving with each movement.

A smug smirk stretched across her face, exposing the two tooth gems glued to her pearly canine teeth's.

Two silver stars, shining below the camera flash.

"The gems!" Chris yelled on the mic before pointing it to the big screen, blue eyes widening. "Oh, you're gonna have to use those every day now."

Y/N laughed, her body shaking against his.

"It looks amazing, doesn't it? I was the one who told her to use them." Nick nodded from his place on the couch, a smug look taking over his features.

"And we all say 'thank you, Nick'." Matt muttered against his mic, snorting.

Then the video flickered.

Now it was all white neon light. Their dark silhouettes danced and vibed in perfect sync. Just their outlines, glowing in white and shifting around with the beats.

"So sip your soda, flex that 'Rizz God' fame. But let’s be honest, you'd forget your own name."

Every word, she looked straight into the lens like she was talking to someone specific.

Back on stage, Chris turned slowly to her and narrowed his eyes.

"You’re lucky I love you."

"Aw." She said into his mic, pouting her lower lip with the fakest sweetness ever. "You’d forget your own name without me anyway."

[Last verse + last chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

When everyone thought the music video was over with how the beat got lower, the final scene started.

The crowd screamed, gasping in surprise.

"Wait, what the fuck?" Matt's voice yelled from his place, echoing from the speakers and bouncing against the theater walls. "There wasn't-"

"The song ended... it ended with that chorus! Wha-" Nick picked up from where Matt abruptly stopped, body sitting a little more straight on the orange couch, frowning.

Dark neon purple again. But this time, deeper. Intense.

Y/N was back, alone in that glowing room.

She was staring straight into the camera, half-lidded eyes, lips already curled into that smug, almost daring little smirk. Her head purposefully tilted just slightly to the side.

She had a Fresh Love unreleased black cap pulled low over her forehead, the brim shadowing her eyes a bit. But not enough to hide them. Not even close.

They were sharp. Locked in.

Her lips were red now, glossy and full, a little too perfect.

And then, she rapped.

"Okay, but listen, he’s mine, so tread light. Y’all can joke, but I swing when it doesn't sit right."

And holy shit.

Chris audibly choked on stage.

Nick had to grab Matt’s arm, jaw dropping so hard that anyone who paid close attention knew it hurt.

Matt let out the longest "AYOOOOOOOOO" into his mic like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

And the crowd?

Feral. Hands in the air. People screaming.

On the screen, Y/N's hands moved as she spoke, smooth and expressive. Her long black nails with silver glitter caught the light and sparkled as she pointed to herself on 'he’s mine'.

She looked down for just a split second, then licked her lips casually as the next line dropped.

"You call him the worst? Nah, he’s my favorite view."

She dragged that line with the softest rasp, just enough flirt in her tone to make the entire crowd go still for half a second like they needed to process it.

Chris's hand flexed around Y/N's shoulder, discreetly adjusting his hips and legs in a manspread position to try and hide how turned on he actually was, jaw flexing and adam's apple bobbing as he gulped, watching the screen like he could devour her video version with his eyes.

"Say what you want, but he’s better than the two of you."

The screen paused on her face for one last beat. Her smirk still there. Her eyes still locked into the camera like she was daring anyone to come for her man. Like she was saying, 'go ahead, try me'.

And then it all fades to black.

The music stopped.

And for a second, the theater was pure silence.

Until the crowd exploded.

Screams. Claps. Cheers. Laughter. Chaos. Literal hysteria.

Nick had his eyes still locked on the big screen, mic frozen halfway his mouth, while Matt glared at Y/N with a playful hard gaze.

"Oops?" Y/N pressed her lips in a fine line.

"How did you even record this part without us knowing?"

Y/N just sat there all smug, doing a little shoulder shrug.

"I just went back to the studio a week later. Me and the producer had it all planned since day one." Her eyes darted from Matt to Nick. "And then, I talked to the crew that helped us record the music video and asked them if we could film the last part and add it to the already edited MV. The one you both received didn't have this part."

"I'm shocked. This is actually insane, Y/N." Nick shook his head, looking at the crowd with raised eyebrows. "I guess we all were surprised tonight, guys."

Y/N jokingly rolled her eyes at him before turning to look at Chris with this soft little smile, one that was completely different from the cocky on-screen version of her. One from the girl who loved him too hard, who wrote verses like that not to roast him but to make him laugh.

Her fingers were affectionately tapping against the inside of his thigh, her arm resting comfortably above his legs, cheeks glowing with the most genuine happiness.

Meanwhile, Chris was just staring at her with this look, like she was the only person in the room before turning to the crowd.

"Y’all heard that, right? That was a threat." His eyes moved to his brothers. "I would watch my back now if I were you two."

Y/N giggled and grabbed the mic from him, casually resting her free hand on his chest.

"It was a love letter, babe. Relax."

The crowd screamed again.

Matt shook his head, fixing his cap before looking at her again.

"You’re so scary sometimes."

Chris snorted, pressing his mouth to the side of her head before turning to the mic again.

"I don’t care what anyone says... you’re better than all of us."

Nick nodded.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, the protector of Chris’s dignity, the queen herself, give it up for Y/N."

The cheers were deafening.

Y/N peeked down to the crowd, eyes wide, lips bitten back into a shy smile, shaking her head.

Under all the lights, with all the noise, the chaos, the screaming, Chris leaned in, whispering in her ear just for her.

"So just to confirm... I’m your favorite view, yeah?"

She turned to look up at him, eyes shining.

And without even thinking, she kissed him.

Just a peck. Quick, sweet. Pure instinct. Pure them.

Everyone screamed as loud as the whole crew thought it was possible, the stage shaking with it.

"Oh for fuck's sake- Chris!" Matt yelled, throwing his free arm up.

"CUT THE CAMERAS." Nick followed right after, standing up and waving his hand in a frenetic way, holding back his laugh.

Chris just held her tighter, his own laugh echoing like music around the speakers.

RECORD BREAKING FIRST RELEASED SONG - IS THERE ANYTHING THE STURNIOLO TRIPLETS CAN’T DO?

By E! News Staff

The Sturniolo Triplets have officially made their mark in the music world. Nicolas and Matthew's debut single, LIKE ME, has climbed into the Top 20 Most Streamed Songs on Spotify less than 24 hours after release, garnering over 1 million streams. The track, which features Chris Sturniolo’s girlfriend, Y/N, has taken the internet by storm.

Alongside the single, Chris’s fashion brand Fresh Love released a limited-edition black cap that Y/N wears in the music video. The drop sold out in just six minutes, reportedly bringing in over $100,000 in merchandise revenue within the first day.

With viral success, chart-topping numbers, and a fast-growing presence in both music and fashion, the Sturniolo Triplets are proving they’re more than internet personalities. They’re building an empire.

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