mari, 25 years old, brazilian and literature student.
everything i post here is made from fan to fan. i don’t allow copies or reposts of my stories. if something i wrote inspires you, please tell me — i’d love to know! :)
english is not my first language, so please be patient with possible translation mistakes.
yes, i do take requests, but i won’t write obscenities. at most, something lightly suggestive.
i don’t have a posting schedule and usually take a long time to finish what i write, so please don’t feel upset if your request takes a while — i’m doing my best!
currently, i write for haikyuu!!, my hero academia and naruto. other fandoms may be added soon. ♡
i should just start posting my works in portuguese. it would be more practical. anyone who wanted to read it could use a translator or something like that :/
i'll defend fanfic for my whole life. like the joy it brings is genuinely transformative and indulgent in a way unique to the genre. it isn't meant for a market, it isn't meant to be sold or marketed. it is born out of such care and passion for a media that one must write and must share it, so other folks can enjoy it to. for no other reason than love and joy. do you know how special that is? especially in our current social and political climate.
summary: they're dating a musician.
pairing: izuku, katsuki.
genre: fluff.
warnings: katsuki being a teaser (because i think we need that kind of warning); use of feminine pronouns.
wc: 2.5k
a/n: as someone who loves singing in the shower, this is probably one of my favorites. i wouldn't have posted it if my best friend hadn't encouraged me, so all credit goes to her. happy holidays, everyone!
izuku
the sound of soft guitar chords echoes through the room. melodious murmurs follow each note. the early morning hours cradle the sound the way a mother cradles her child.
izuku stands still at the doorway. he stayed up late grading exams — brought too much work home once again — and expected to find you fast asleep; after all, it was already past two in the morning. how surprised he is to see you sitting on the bed instead, the guitar resting on your crossed legs, a notebook and a pen laid out in front of you.
there’s a small cup on the nightstand. he wonders when you went to the kitchen without him noticing. had he been too absorbed in his own work?
you’re composing. your focus is almost tangible. your eyes move between your notes and the fingers positioned on the guitar’s frets and strings. phrases, rhymes, disconnected notes spill from your mouth in a torrent — it reminds him of himself.
watching you in this creative trance, he simply knows he shouldn’t interrupt. so he walks slowly across the room, almost counting his steps, goes to the wardrobe, picks out a change of clothes and a towel, and heads toward the guest bathroom, avoiding the one in the suite.
your soft laugh makes him freeze at the bedroom door.
“what are you doing, ’zuku?”
he smiles sheepishly, as if he’s been caught.
“i don’t want to interrupt.”
you shake your head.
“you never interrupt, darling. you might even help. do you know any word that rhymes with ‘fields’? i can only think of insipid things.”
he laughs and comes closer, dropping the clothes onto the bed. he sits beside you and reaches for your little notebook.
“may i?”
you nod.
“it’s messy,” you warn him. “don’t be embarrassed if you can’t understand something. sometimes i don’t either. my handwriting is awful.”
“no, it isn’t,” he murmurs, reading the words on the page.
some things do seem incomprehensible — but not because of your handwriting. you crossed out a lot; three entire stanzas were discarded. on top of that, every time you crossed out a word, you wrote something in the margins or right over it. it really was a mess.
he wonders if this is how your mind works and drifts into a reverie, unable to focus on what he’s reading. it feels like he’s holding a small piece of your mind in his hands, and that enchants him in a way. it’s the first time, since you met, that you’ve let him see your composition notebook, isn’t it? he can’t remember another occasion.
“darling?”
he looks at you, slightly disoriented, and then remembers the favor you’d asked of him.
“right. yes. the rhyme. well… what do you have in mind?”
“absolutely nothing.”
your honesty makes him laugh.
“of course you do, love. do you want an exact rhyme, or something with a similar sound?”
you sigh, frustrated.
“similar, i think. i don’t know. the line is ‘life opens up into new fields,’” you point to the sentence in the notebook. “but all i can think of is ‘shields,’ which is kind of odd. it doesn’t fit the song’s aesthetic either.”
izuku thinks for a moment.
“what’s the name of that brazilian poet you like so much? the one with the poem about landscape and telephone.”
you frown, clearly confused.
“landscape by telephone,” you correct him. “it’s joão cabral. joão cabral de melo neto. why does that matter?”
“isn’t he the one who does that thing where he rhymes based on stressed syllables? you explained it to me once.”
“yes, yes, a particular kind of internal rhyme. poetry stuff. where are you going with all this, anyway? stop laughing or i’ll kick you out. i asked for help, not laughter.”
izuku composes himself and points to the line in the notebook.
“you could do what he does: build the rhyme around the stressed syllable of ‘fields.’ if i’m not mistaken, it’s the first syllable. you can look for words with the same or a similar stress. you wanted something similar, right? have you thought about ‘veil’?”
you fall silent, absorbing the suggestion. izuku can almost hear the gears in your brain turning. a little more effort and smoke would come out of your ears.
suddenly, your eyes — once clouded with confusion and frustration — light up, as if you’ve reached some ultimate level of spiritual fulfillment.
“it’s perfect,” you murmur, enraptured.
you set the guitar aside, kneel on the bed facing izuku, cradle his face in your hands, and give him a lingering peck. the sudden touch completely melts him. he can’t suppress a soft, satisfied sound when your lips meet.
“thank you, darling,” you whisper as you pull away, quickly returning to the guitar and the notebook as if nothing had happened.
izuku stays still for a moment, still feeling the phantom touch of your lips on his, a mix of surprise and satisfaction pulsing in his chest.
then, like a snap, he remembers that he needs to shower and sleep — that both of you do. but you seem oblivious to any basic need: eyes fixed on the page, pen moving furiously, melodic murmurs unceasing.
he decides to leave you alone in your little world. he kisses your temple softly before standing up, grabbing his clothes, and leaving.
when he comes back a few minutes later, you’re dozing off while sitting upright, leaning against the guitar. he gathers your things carefully: slips the guitar into its case and places the notebook on the nightstand. the song — he notices before closing the notebook — seems to be finished. he smiles, proud.
he helps you lie down on the bed and lies beside you. the movement makes you open your eyes, half-asleep, and give him a lazy smile.
“i finished it, ’zuku.”
“i saw, love.”
“it turned out so beautiful. i couldn’t have done it without you. i love you so much.”
he thinks his cheeks might tear from how wide his smile is as he looks at you. you don’t see it, of course: after the small confession, your body gives in to a heavy sleep, as if every last bit of stored energy has been drained.
he pulls you against his chest, gently settling you over him, and kisses the top of your head.
“all the credit is yours, my dear. it always is.”
katsuki
the first thing katsuki notices when he steps into the apartment is your old pair of sneakers by the entrance. the second is the soft scent of lavender disinfectant.
with a quick glance around, he realizes the dishes that had been piling up in the sink are back in the cabinets, the dirty laundry has been washed and hung out to dry, and the floor no longer has that dusty, greasy look.
not that katsuki was someone who didn’t care about keeping his space clean. quite the opposite — he valued organization a lot. that week, however, had been especially exhausting. every time he came home, he was too tired, almost completely drained. the household chores piled up, and he had planned to do a deep clean that day, since you’d promised to visit — he’d even left the agency early to get ready. but you arrived first and, to his horror, cleaned the entire apartment.
embarrassment warms his face. he calls out loudly as he leaves his boots and gauntlets beside your sneakers.
“baby?”
no answer. he starts walking through the apartment — now spotless — looking for you in every corner. the living room is empty. in the kitchen, only a few pots sit on the stove; you made curry, he realizes. he calls again:
“baby!”
he’s about to knock, to call you again, but his hand freezes midair when you hit a high, sharp note so cleanly and naturally it sounds like a soft exhale. involuntarily, he smiles. first, a small, simple smile — pure enchantment. then you do it again — louder, clearer, more beautiful — and his smile spreads wide, proud.
in response, a soft, melodic voice comes from the hallway. the bathroom, he thinks, frowning. you usually use the en suite, not the guest one. at the door, the sound grows louder, clearer. the melody takes shape — rhythm, cadence. words rise from what had once been indistinct sounds. the noise of the shower serves as background — the instrument accompanying your voice.
he won’t interrupt. he doesn’t want to. he leans against the wall across from the door, crosses his arms over his chest, and stays there quietly, listening. you sing two or three songs. none are your own — he knows your compositions by heart. they’re by that pop singer you like, the one whose concert you went to together. what was her name again? he’s always been terrible with that kind of thing. but it doesn’t really matter. the songs sound much better in your voice.
given how long it’s taking, you must be washing your hair. he should shower too, take advantage of the free bathroom — but that would mean leaving, and he’s far too comfortable where he is, fascinated, like he’s listening to a siren’s song. maybe that’s your true individuality: your singing. who cares what’s written on the registry? with that voice, you could enchant and defeat countless villains.
no wonder you’re one of the most recognized singers in japan. your name is everywhere, your shows always sold out. fans, reporters, producers, composers — all kinds of people wanting a piece of you, of your voice. and yet, here you are, singing pop songs in his bathroom. a private show.
he’s lucky as hell.
the sound of the door opening pulls him out of his thoughts. he uncrosses his arms and steps away from the wall, moving forward until he’s standing right in front of you. there’s a towel wrapped around your hair and another in your hand. you’re wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, big enough to look like a dress.
your eyes land first on the chest of his uniform. he follows — with some appreciation — the movement of your face lifting, your neck tilting slightly back, until your eyes finally meet. how could someone so small have such a powerful voice? it’s the only thought in his head.
you break into a wide smile. he feels a sharp pang in his chest.
“’suki!” you exclaim, happy as if you’re seeing your favorite person in the whole world. “why are you standing here?”
he shrugs as he wraps his hands around your waist.
“my girl was giving a private show,” he says, leaning closer, smiling sideways. “i’d be pretty disrespectful if i didn’t stop to listen, don’t you think?”
he watches, satisfied, as color blooms on your cheeks.
“idiot,” you murmur. “you should’ve taken a shower. your face is covered in soot.”
you rub your thumb over a smudge on his cheek. katsuki leans into the touch, and you smile again. then you lift your other hand to his hair, brushing a few strands away from his forehead and sticking them to a small cut there. your face tightens with concern.
“you should’ve washed this, ’suki. so it doesn’t get infected.”
he shrugs again and tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you a little closer. when the distance finally satisfies him, he bends over you, resting his head in the curve of your neck.
“thanks for cleaning the apartment. when did you get here? i thought you’d be at the studio later.”
your hands slide up to the back of his neck, stroking it gently.
“you don’t need to thank me, baby. i got here before three. we wrapped up recording earlier than i expected, so i came straight here. oh — and thanks for the spare key. it was really useful.”
he murmurs something you don’t quite catch and squeezes you a bit tighter. you groan, feeling a dull ache in your spine, and slap his arms.
“’suki! you’re squeezing me! ow! stop that, you maniac! i’m not going anywhere. you, on the other hand…”
he loosens his grip and lifts his head to look at you.
“where would i go, woman?”
“to the shower, maybe? forgive me, baby, but you’re filthy.”
he laughs and presses his forehead to yours.
“come with me.”
“i already showered, ’suki.”
“i don’t care. come with me.”
“i already washed my hair.”
“we’ll wash it again.”
“katsuki bakugō…”
“oh, come on! let’s go! since you helped me clean my place, you can help me clean my body too.”
“katsuki!”
“did i say something wrong?”
you huff, your cheeks flushing again. katsuki laughs, releasing your waist to cradle your face in his hands. he kisses the tip of your nose — something he knows always makes you give in — and smiles genuinely.
“come on, love. it’ll be quick.”
you roll your eyes and pull his hands off your face. then you start pushing him toward the bedroom bathroom. he goes willingly — otherwise your effort would be useless; after all, he’s basically a pile of muscles.
“is that a yes?” he asks, teasing.
“hurry up before i change my mind.”
he suddenly turns around, grabs you by the waist, and throws you over his shoulder.
“katsuki! put me down!”
“no,” he replies simply. “you agreed to this.”
“i didn’t agree to anything, you idiot. put me. down.”
he laughs again, walking into the bedroom and heading for the bathroom.
“relax, sweatheart. everything’s going to be fine. my house, my bathroom, my woman, my rules. you should be used to that by now.”
“asshole!”
“wow! such a dirty mouth! do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“katsuki bakugō!”
your protests fall on deaf ears. he only sets you down once you’re at the bathroom door. and the moment your feet touch the floor, he’s already pushing you inside, almost making you slip.
“katsuki, i swear to god—”
“yes, yes, let’s go.”
“if you get me wet—”
“and how are we supposed to shower without getting wet, darling?”
“we?”
katsuki gives you a sideways smile as he looks at you — brows furrowed, cheeks puffed out, annoyance written all over your face. slowly, he grabs the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing, getting ready to pull it over your head. you stop him, placing your hands over his. he freezes immediately.
“hands down, boy. the one taking a shower is you, not me.”
“i thought you were going to keep me company.”
“you dragged me in here.”
he snorts softly and lets go of the shirt, starting to remove his own uniform.
“but you’re still here, darling,” he says gently.
you roll your eyes and sit down on the toilet.
“i’m not getting wet again.”
he sighs dramatically, feigning deep offense.
“could you at least sing for me? i love showering with music.”
you shoot him a murderous look. katsuki laughs, fully satisfied with how much he’s teasing you.
a few minutes later, already under the shower, katsuki hears your light footsteps leaving the bathroom and a soft, quiet song begin to echo through the apartment. he smiles to himself.
summary: how they sleep next to you.
pairing: izuku, katsuki, shoto.
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
wc: 0.7k
a/n: ok... this one has been on my mind for a long time, and after many drafts, i was finally able to finish it. i particularly like the izuku's part (i'm falling in love with him again... what a fate!).
izuku
izuku’s shyness never kept him from being affectionate; if anything, it seemed to intensify it. in the bedroom or in public, his hands were always hovering around you: intertwining fingers during walks, resting on the small of your back to guide you through crowded places, or simply tracing small, indecipherable patterns on the back of your hand — and between your fingers, as if trying to memorize every detail.
he draws those same patterns along your spine when you lie on top of him. this is, without a doubt, izuku’s favorite way to sleep: you resting on him, your head on his chest, your hair tickling his chin, your hands somewhere between his chest and waist, your breaths syncing with his until they seem to become a single rhythm.
he feels a particular kind of completeness when he holds you like this, as if before that moment there had been an empty space inside him he hadn’t even known how to name. it feels like there’s a world — a private universe — contained within his arms. and his heart beats, aches, throbs, pumping pure love through his veins when you try to get even closer, when your hand — so small compared to his — grabs the fabric of his pajama shirt and your face buries itself against him, seeking his scent like it’s the most comforting perfume in existence.
he certainly confesses his love to you countless times — even though your sleep is far too deep for you to hear — letting affectionate words spill from his lips like running water.
when it comes to sleeping, he always pulls himself as close to you as possible. his chest pressed against your back, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, his legs entangled with yours, his chin resting on top of your head — a warm cocoon only he knows how to form.
katsuki
even though he didn’t like physical closeness most of the time, there was something about the intimacy of the bedroom that turned katsuki into someone surprisingly receptive to touch. suddenly, his hands were everywhere on your body, exploring you like someone following a trail already known but still fascinating.
his body is larger than yours — he’s always been taller — so he ends up covering you entirely, enclosing you in a shell that blends protection with quiet possession. your mobility becomes limited; and as someone who moves a lot in your sleep, it took you a while to get used to this position. but katsuki always pays attention: whenever you try to shift, he loosens his steel-like grip just enough for you to settle however you prefer, only to pull you back against him afterward.
katsuki likes to sleep while holding you — but only if you’re comfortable. and a single sigh from you, or the smallest brush of your fingers against his hand, is enough for him to adjust everything without complaint.
shoto
shoto’s stoic posture rarely wavers. he is always serious, observant, much like an owl. yet this posture doesn’t imply coldness — on the contrary, it makes him the ideal partner: attentive, helpful, gentle. it’s as if he’s always anticipating your needs, offering you a cup of hot tea or a foot massage after a particularly stressful day.
in bed, it’s no different. he always prioritizes your comfort, waiting for you to settle in whatever way feels best before he finds a place for himself. he’s altruistic to that degree: he thinks of you at every moment. you are his person, after all — the one who matters most, the one above anything else.
shoto sleeps in any position you want, feeling comfortable simply because you’re close to him. but if at any point during the night you turn toward him — your face nestled against his chest, your fingers weakly holding the fabric of his pajama shirt, your warm breath brushing softly against his skin — he reaches something close to spiritual bliss.
an overwhelming feeling takes hold of him — so intense it’s as if his heart has turned into a wild horse, galloping violently against the walls of his ribcage. his breathing shifts — faster, unsteady. his hands tremble slightly as they trace the curves of your body, circling your waist with a gentleness that almost contradicts his serious expression. and he looks at your sleeping face as someone gazes upon a saint’s, arriving at the calm, undeniable understanding that you are something worthy of adoration.
in those moments, shoto comes close to understanding what it means to be a boy in love. he holds you a little tighter, entwining his legs with yours and resting his chin on the top of your head.
he doesn’t confess — not in words — but the feeling is there, suspended between you, settled like a plant with roots deep in the soil.
summary: the one where you fall a little more in love with bakugō.
genre: slightly angst; fluff.
warnings: mentions of war.
wc: 1.0k
a/n: so… i haven't written in the last few days because i'm participating in the selection process for a master's degree at my university. i think i have a good chance, so wish me luck. :)
katsuki bakugō was a complex figure. he was harsh — without a doubt — like a rough stone, always offering curses and rudeness to anyone who came near. however, sometimes his loud nature fell silent. his posture relaxed, his voice softened, his eyes dimmed, and something new emerged. sometimes, he even smiled gently, showing an infinitesimal amount of kindness. in those moments, you fell for him a little more.
and despite that feeling having grown quite a lot over the past few months, you never considered confessing. in truth, you liked the one-sidedness of it, the platonic way everything unfolded. every time you fell in love, you kept your emotions to yourself. after all, they were yours, weren’t they? you could handle them however you pleased. bakugō’s life wouldn’t change if he found out how you felt, but yours would certainly take a sharp turn — and that wasn’t a pleasant thought. no, you would maintain the status quo: bakugō would keep his complexity, you would keep your feelings, and everyone would be fine.
however, fate had different plans from yours. while you carefully planned and protected yourself, walking through life in hesitant steps like someone on a tightrope, bakugō ran with steady feet, carving grooves into life’s ground like a plow through soil. and maybe he bumped into the support of your tightrope, or maybe you slipped and fell right on top of him. regardless of how it happened, your paths crossed. suddenly, he was there, at the entrance of the support course workshop, calling your name as he talked with professor maijima.
“they told me she’s good with explosive-type costumes”, was the justification he gave before asking whether you could fix some damages in his hero costume. you considered saying no, determined to keep him out of your reach, but too much was at stake. the threat of villains and the imminence of war weighed far more on your decisions than the possibility of your crush being discovered. japan on the verge of collapse and you afraid of one simple boy? you were in no position to be selfish.
and so, you and bakugō began working together.
he explained the issues with the costume, you proposed some modifications, your ideas clashed at several points, and maijima had to step between you to keep you from fighting like stray dogs. you found yourself exasperated by how easily the blond boy threw you off balance. you knew he was difficult to deal with and tended to be rigid in his decisions, but seeing him behave that way specifically toward you was… surprising. and irritating. there was condescendence in the way he spoke, even when he tried to be polite. he underestimated your abilities; his way of acting and speaking toward you overflowed with antipathy, rudeness, harshness. there was none of that softness you thought you had seen. your crush withered little by little.
after three tormenting days, with bakugō on your heels questioning everything you said and did, the costume was finally ready. it wasn’t your best work — but who could perform well under such mentally exhausting conditions? as if the country’s circumstances and the mobilization of the support courses for the shigaraki capture plan weren’t enough, there was still that bold, arrogant boy mocking your efforts and belittling your abilities. you were nearly out of strength as you tightened the last screw. bakugō, who had entered the workshop moments earlier, watched in silence. his expression, you noticed, looked just as tired as yours. turning to him, you said:
“i’m almost done, but i can’t tighten this last screw. can you help me?”
he blinked slowly, as if waking from a daydream, and stepped closer.
“which screw?”
you pointed with the wrench. he extended his hand, you gave him the tool, and the screw was tightened with ease. god bless strength training, you thought.
“i believe it’s finished,” you said, looking at the grenade-shaped bracer. after observing it carefully, you turned to bakugō, who was still staring fixedly at the freshly tightened screw, and said: “you can take it now, bakugō.”
he didn’t say anything. didn’t even move.
“is everything okay? do you need anything else?” you asked.
he shook his head. you couldn’t tell which question he was answering. he was strangely quiet.
“right…” you began, unsure of what to say. “i have to go now, but if you need anything, you can talk to me or professor maijima, alright?”
he nodded. that gesture you understood. you smiled softly and bowed, even though he couldn’t see it since he was still staring at the equipment. you thought that maybe he was simply anxious for the next day’s mission — everyone was anxious, including you. you wanted to say a few encouraging words, but your tired mind was blank. in truth, you just wanted to sleep a little, and if you left quickly enough, you might manage a short nap. bakugō’s low voice broke through your thoughts.
“sorry.”
you blinked, startled.
“pardon?”
this time, he turned toward you, his eyes locked on yours. that softness you thought you had imagined suddenly reappeared. standing before you was no longer the person with the sharp posture and harsh voice who had fought with you for three days straight, but another bakugō entirely. his posture seemed vulnerable, and his eyes showed nothing but exhaustion and remorse. he looked fragile, as though made of glass and about to shatter. suddenly, you remembered he was just a teenager in the middle of a war — just like you.
“these last few days, i was really rude to you. i’m sorry.”
you nodded, feeling your heart skip a beat.
“it’s alright. you don’t need to worry about that.”
“don’t be so polite. i know i hurt you.”
“yes, but… that’s not what matters right now. not now, you know?”
you looked at each other in a heavy silence.
“when this is over, i’ll make it up to you. for everything.”
you smiled, touched.
“i’ll wait, then.”
he bowed politely, and you mirrored the gesture. as he left the workshop, all you could think about was that maybe — just maybe — your crush would return even stronger.
“i wanted to look good for juli. but i didn’t want her to think that i wanted to look good for her.”
“and less than twenty feet away from me was juli. my juli, with eddie trulock? she’s laughing.. what was she laughing about? how could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?”
“i wasn’t interested in his hobbies, or what was in his basket.. all i could think of, was juli.”
I forgot to get off anon , sorry 😭 the baker reader x gaara was me !
don't worry, honey! it's okay! :)
and it's done! you can read it here! it was a lot of fun writing it for you, and i'm so sorry for taking so long to reply. i've been busy with personal issues and university stuff :( but despite the delay, i hope you like it! ♡
summary: the one where the end of the afternoon blends with sugar and desire — or the one where the kazegake receives a visitor.
genre: fluff, slightly suggestive.
warnings: none, i think? well, there's a slight mention of kissing, but it's such a small thing…
wc: 1.1k
requested by: @jone3y
a/n: i loved writing this one (even though it took two major drafts before the final version)! i wish it were longer, but I think it's fine as it is.
gaara considered himself a calm person — reserved, even.
he had spent a long time restraining his own emotions before allowing himself to feel them. sometimes, he had the impression that he was simply incapable of bursts or fits of sentiment. there always seemed to be something that held him back, something that pressed against his chest and kept him still.
some scolded him for being so serious, so detached.
you, however, never said anything, never seemed bothered by it. unconsciously, you guided him through paths where feeling wasn’t a mystery or a difficulty — and that alone was more than most had ever done for him.
by your side, he began to experience his own emotions in a new way: your way. it wasn’t restrictive, nor was it imposing. you were simply a little freer than he was, and that freedom inspired him, pushed him to act in kind. little by little, his emotions began to take shape — your shape.
that was why it came as no surprise when a faint, involuntary smile appeared on his lips the moment the scent of brown sugar and wheat flour filled the office. the aroma announced your arrival even before the sound of your knock echoed through the room.
gaara lifted his eyes — tired from so much bureaucracy — and looked at you standing by the door, holding a small container.
“hey,” you spoke first. “am i interrupting?”
he shook his head and motioned for you to come closer.
“i brought this for you,” you said as you stepped forward, pushing the little container across his desk. on top of the lid sat a small plastic fork. “temari made me test a few weird recipes today, and this one was... the least terrible of the bunch. i made some changes to the dough and filling because, as it was, the dough would’ve turned out dry and the filling way too sweet. but those are just bakery details. i think i’m rambling.”
“you can talk. i’m listening.”
he took off the lid and looked at the dessert. the scent of spices rose above your own and wrapped around him, sending him into a haze of sensations that left him slightly dazed for a few moments.
it was a mix of cinnamon, apricot, walnuts, and five or six pastry techniques. you explained the process, saying things he loved hearing — he loved watching how your passion for your work made your voice light up. but he wasn’t really listening. not all of it. he was distracted, not only by the dessert but by the gesture of you bringing it to him.
slowly, delicately, he picked up the fork and took a small bite of what you’d brought, bringing it to his mouth soon after. the world seemed to explode into something new when the flavor of the spices touched the tip of his tongue — and he couldn’t hold back a soft, pleased hum.
“it’s perfect,” he murmured, mouth still a little full.
“right? i didn’t think the gratin part would work. temari said i was crazy, but i…”
he smiled through his nose, realizing you’d misunderstood him; you were too caught up in your explanation to notice that he’d long stopped listening the way he usually did.
he thought maybe he’d liked the dessert a little too much—but he was sure what really had him lost was the simple fact that you were there, in his office, talking about how his favorite pudding had inspired you to tweak the recipe. that was one of the few bits he’d actually caught clearly.
and it was precisely that thought that made his heart and mind melt for you all over again.
you had remembered him, made a recipe with him in mind, and even brought it to him in person. the most touching part was that you didn’t have to — you were supposed to meet later at your bakery, after his shift ended.
the thought that maybe you’d just been too eager to see him — or too excited to show him something — enchanted him.
almost unconsciously, he rose from his chair and walked to where you stood at the edge of the desk. you, still talking, didn’t notice his approach, and he found that endearing. just as endearing as the way his fingers brushed against your waist before settling there, palms spreading over your curves to pull you close.
he couldn’t think of a reason to justify it. you were just there — simply existing — but you looked so utterly magnificent in that moment. the late afternoon sun painted your features gold. your hands moved as if reenacting every motion you’d made while baking. your voice echoed like a distant song, bewitching him, drawing him closer.
“ah... what are you doing? aren’t you going to finish eating?”
you were blushing. adorable.
“later. did you try it?”
“just a little, while i was making it. why?”
“allow me.”
one of his hands on your waist moved up to your face, cupping the space between your cheek and the curve of your neck. you licked your lips in anticipation, stirring a very specific corner of his mind.
then, when your lips met and you echoed the same satisfied sound he had made moments ago, he found himself once again lost in that sweet, dizzying haze.
traces of the dessert — and something else — still lingered on your tongue. your small, soft hands rested on his forearms, as if seeking balance. your body seemed to melt beneath his touch, especially when he bent you back just a little, deepening the kiss.
when you parted, slightly breathless, he pressed his forehead against yours; he had to bend a little to do so, since you were a bit shorter. from above, you looked almost ethereal: the soft shine of your lips, parted and trembling with uneven breaths; the sunlight still brushing your cheeks, blending with the blush there; your wide pupils gazing up at him as if he were something divine.
“d-did you... like it? i-i mean, the dessert.”
he chuckled quietly.
“yes, sweetheart. and you?”
“i-i think i need to taste it a bit more.”
you slipped from his grasp, stumbling a little as you returned to the table. “i’ll just enjoy what’s left in the container.”
gaara shook his head, laughing softly at your clumsiness. you always seemed a bit dazed, lightheaded, after they kissed — trying to act as if nothing had happened. enchanted, he simply watched you walk away toward the small container. he didn’t move, just stood there, quietly waiting as you tasted the dessert... and as he prepared to taste it from your lips once more.
