#I AM SO PROUD OF HOW SHE TURNED OUT LOOKING

[vxnillabxn]

Hello! I’m new to your blog and I have been enjoying your works! With the new banner coming out I thought it would be cute to request the main5’s reaction to MC catching a bouquet at a wedding.

Feel free to ignore if you’re not comfortable!!

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x fem!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff, slightly suggestive! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚AHHH, i actually love weddings. i want to get married, i am a hopeless romantic and i love, love, love this new banner (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ i loved this request, sorry for taking so long! and btw, thank you so much and welcome! feel free to request anytime ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

caleb and you had known this girl since you were kids, so seeing her in a gorgeous wedding dress and sharing such a special day with her made you both feel so happy and proud.

of course, as you admired how beautiful she looked, he was just looking at you; imagining what it would be like to marry you, to slide the ring onto your finger, to hold your hands shakily as he recites his vows. he's sure you'd look just as radiant —if not more.

he already sees you dressed in white, smiling warmly just for him, holding a bouquet, wearing his ring proudly, and leaning in to kiss him, closing those gorgeous eyes you chose to keep only for him for the rest of your lives.

and he's also sure he'd be bawling the second he sees you, unlike your friend's groom, who is just smiling.

as you two enjoy the ceremony and the delicious dinner in the gorgeous woodland setting, some of the bridesmaids and other young women gather when your friend calls them over.

when she spots you, she waves you over excitedly too.

ah, right. the bouquet toss tradition.

you look back at caleb and grin challengingly.

“what if i catch it?”

he tilts his head, surprised you just burst his daydream, then grins from ear to ear.

“bet.”

you stand up confidently, though you doubt you'll catch it among thirty single women excitedly shifting and jumping around.

you try to pick up the hem of your long dress first, but someone else's heel nearly rips the fabric as it digs in. you frown and lean down, just as the bride tosses the bouquet.

screams, giggles, and squeals fill the air, and when you look up, there it is.

the precious target.

flying straight for your face.

you gasp and try to dodge the others' hands, but end up falling on the soft grass, eyes squeezed shut and your hands clutching the bouquet.

…

wait. clutching the bouquet?

you hear cheering and playful groans as the others leave. when you open your eyes, you realize.

you actually got it!

the bride squeals and rushes to help you up, just as caleb rushes in too.

he picks you up bridal style, wearing the biggest smile. then he glances down at your slightly damp dress.

“not the smoothest catch, pips…”

before you can scold him, he spins you around. if he had the ring right here —it's in his car— you two would already be running away to get married too.

the bride clears her throat, and you both look up at her with embarrassment. right, she's still here.

“so… i hope i get invited to your wedding soon! we all thought you'd be the first. caleb, step up!”

she points at him with narrowed eyes before walking away, obviously teasing.

once she's gone, he hides both your lips behind the bouquet and kisses you sweetly, then rests his forehead against yours and asks:

“you know what this means, right?”

you raise an eyebrow.

“uh… that i won a new centerpiece for our coffee table? or that we're officially being forced to get married?”

he chuckles, carrying you toward your table, or so you think.

“technically, yes. but… it also means we've been blessed to do so.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, smoothing the front of his formal uniform, then kissing his jawline.

“well, for that to happen, you'd have to propose first, silly.”

but suddenly his playful smile isn't so playful anymore. instead, he turns and starts walking you out of the venue, holding you in his arms, moving a little urgently.

too urgently.

and from the look on his face, you can tell: he doesn't want to steal your friend's day with a proposal, it is her day, after all.

but she won't find out if he claims you as his in every way possible somewhere else, will she?

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

rafayel got invited to the wedding of the year after selling some of his pieces to the couple and, of course, making a few connections. sure, he didn't really want to go, until you asked if you could come with him. after all, the groom was a best-selling author you loved, and you wanted to meet him.

needless to say, he suddenly got very excited to go. he helped you with your makeup and hair, helped you find a dress that would match his tailored suit, and that same afternoon, you two were off to a gorgeous island.

the ceremony went beautifully, the dinner offered a wide variety of sea delicacies, and overall, rafayel and you spent the evening chatting and giggling in your own little bubble among the guests.

soon enough, the beautiful bride gathered all the unmarried women to the center of the venue for the bouquet toss tradition.

you rested your head on rafayel's shoulder, sighing softly as you watched the excited crowd. it was a lovely tradition, but you were a bit shy about seeming too eager —or worse, not catching it and dooming your luck with him.

“won't you test your luck, cutie?”

he asked, kissing your cheek, his hand gently caressing your shoulder.

“hm… why would i? do you want us to get married soon, raf?”

even when you secretly wanted it too, you couldn't help teasing him just a little.

his gaze softened, and a faint blush tainted his cheeks before he looked away. he didn't just want to marry you; he needed to, in every sense. but he pouted instead, keeping it playful.

“don't tell me you're scared of not catching it, cutie. doubting your reflexes? that's sooooo not you.”

ah, that taunting tone. you clenched your fists, stood up, and arched a brow at him, pointing your finger in challenge.

“if i catch it, you owe me a big one, fishy.”

he grinned, nodding toward the group with a spark in his eyes.

determined but nervous, you joined the crowd. when the bride tossed the delicate bouquet, your hand shot up and caught it effortlessly.

even you were surprised, but warmth blossomed in your chest. luck was on your side tonight.

you turned back to rafayel with a smug grin as the other ladies clapped and cheered. but his teasing look had softened into something gentler, warmer.

he thought destiny wasn't so cruel after all, since it blessed you two with the luck the tradition promised.

he stood up, took your hand, and spun you around, making you laugh softly at the sweet, spontaneous gesture.

and seeing you like this, holding the bouquet, smiling just for him, he couldn't help but imagine kissing you after you say “i do.”

“i owe you a big one, right?”

you nodded quickly, pressing the bouquet playfully against his chest.

“absolutely.”

he kissed your lips, then pulled back with a mischievous smile.

“then i shall repay you, alright…”

and soon enough, he was leading you by the hand out of the venue, down to the moonlit beach, hiding behind the docks.

you asked what he had in mind between soft giggles, and he answered by kissing you. it was slow, deep, and tender.

maybe he'd ask what you wanted as your prize, or maybe he'd just silently wish for this luck to stay with you both as he claimed you under the stars, away from everyone else.

for now, this was enough, until he could give you everything properly: his heart, his body, his soul… sealed forever with a wedding ring, even when they were already yours, completely so.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

it wasn't your fault. he came to visit you during a mission, and you had to get him out of there urgently before someone saw him, despite him moving as slow as a snail just to annoy you.

heels clicking sharply on the ground, a frown on your face, and your hands gripping him tightly were clear signs of your frustration.

when you two finally got away, you dragged him to a secluded corner to scold him.

“sylus, i'm quite literally undercover right now. you can't just barge in and start asking for me!”

he just looked down at you with amusement, then glanced back at the elegant wedding ceremony you were at moments ago.

“it is quite… tasteless.”

you sighed, rubbing your temples.

“what are you, a wedding critic? i'm being serious, sylus.”

he smirked, stepping closer until his hands settled on your hips.

“don't i look serious too, sweetie?”

you looked up, trying hard not to give in. you really couldn't risk drawing attention to yourself.

“sy…”

“you could've invited me, kitten. i'm not one to turn down your invitations.”

“sy, you draw attention everywhere you go. i don't need to end up in the spotlight.”

he clicked his tongue and took your hand gently in his.

“you'll find a way to shine either way, sweetie. you're far too bright not to.”

then, softly but firmly, he guided you back inside to attend the ceremony, leaving you no choice. you couldn't risk another dramatic scene.

a few glasses of champagne and being beside sylus eased you, just a little. he reassured you that if anything went wrong, he'd handle it.

after a soft kiss on your temple and his large hand resting on your thigh, you finally started to enjoy the ceremony for what it was.

that is, until the bride, a young and enthusiastic woman, called all the single ladies to gather for the bouquet toss. you tried to stay back, but sylus nudged you forward, his hand at the small of your back.

you panicked.

“sy—”

“you'd look more suspicious if you don't go. you're supposed to be a guest, aren't you?”

you shot him a look of disbelief but reluctantly stepped into the group. you didn't want the attention… but deep down, catching the bouquet felt like it would be something soft and magical, like destiny blessing your love life.

and somehow, the bouquet landed almost perfectly in your hands. you weren't sure if you imagined the faint, dark red mist that trailed behind it… or if sylus had done something he absolutely shouldn't.

your heart pounded as the other women glanced your way —a stranger among them— but they quickly cheered, assuming you were another guest.

you returned to sylus' side and gently set the bouquet down on the table, still feeling the adrenaline.

“i suppose i should congratulate my gorgeous future bride.”

you looked up, catching the playful glint in his eye before he leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, brushing his tongue lightly against yours.

when he pulled back, you gazed at him, breathless and a little dazed.

“sylus… this bouquet means—”

“it does,” he cut in. “i usually don't care about rules i didn't set myself, but… i could make an exception for this one.”

he straightened and offered you his arm.

“don't worry, kitten. our wedding shall be far better than… whatever this is.”

you rolled your eyes softly but took his arm anyway.

“sylus, my mission…”

he just gave you that look —the one that made your knees weaken every time.

“...okay. let's go.”

you whispered, and he hummed in approval before quickly leading you away.

he hadn't planned on whisking you home right in the middle of your mission… but he'd enjoy this outcome all night long, as he started to plan the perfect wedding, and showed you exactly how perfect of a future groom he could be.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

xavier and you were mindlessly walking around the main street, where a festival was in full blast. the weather was perfect, the atmosphere upbeat, and it felt like the perfect, spontaneous date.

you saw tons of game stalls, food stands, and a big main stage where people waited patiently. it was decorated with delicate flowers, white lace, and some objects you guessed were props for a show. you didn't know exactly what for, but xavier was curious, so you both stayed.

when it started, a couples game was announced, and five couples were randomly chosen to go on stage. the winning couple would get to “marry,” receive a cute certificate, some photos, a candy ring, and a beautiful bouquet, all just for fun.

xav and you watched until the very end, clearly rooting for an elderly couple who were —of course— already married, but still wanted to show how much they loved each other.

after a series of silly but sweet games, they won. the old lady then got to toss the bouquet. sure, the crowd was packed, and you wanted to join in, but you were a bit far from the stage, and the other girls were going wild. xav, though, noticed your bright, hopeful eyes and had to do something.

“hold on tight.”

he whispered softly in your ear before lifting you over his shoulders. you gasped, clinging to him just as the bouquet flew into the air, tossed a bit too powerfully.

that old lady still had some strength.

it wasn't exactly fair to the other girls jumping around, but their boyfriends weren't even trying to help them out —so maybe it was a sign for them not to marry those dummies.

you lunged forward and caught the bouquet, a huge smile spreading across your face as you started to cheer. some girls groaned, others sighed in adoration, watching how xavier acted like such a prince just to help you.

when he heard your cheering, he knew you'd caught it. he couldn't see anything from below, but he smiled and gently set you back down, pulling you into his arms.

“i got it, xav!” you beamed. “does this bouquet count? i mean, it's not from an actual wedding…”

you giggled, looking down at the flowers in your hands.

he looked at you holding that bouquet, smiling so softly, and this man just couldn't wait any longer to see you at the altar.

“let's get married.”

he said it quickly, then nodded once, as if making sure there was no doubt in his voice.

“let's be together… until we look like that couple, and even after.”

he gestured toward the elderly man, who was shakily slipping the candy ring onto his wife's wrinkled but delicate finger. they shared a gentle kiss, and the crowd burst into cheers.

you grinned, hugging xavier tightly and peppering his cheeks with light, happy kisses.

“let's!”

you nodded eagerly, letting him take you away from the crowd, feeling his heart already racing and his palm turning warm and sweaty at the thought of people calling him your husband one day.

and he went straight to the jewelry shop. he didn't care if you knew he'd propose, or if you picked the ring yourself. he just knew he'd do anything to make you happy, and if that made him happy too, then there was no time left to waste.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

zayne got invited to a wedding. one of his teachers had a son, and he was getting married this weekend. of course, zayne wanted to go, since he held the professor in high regard.

he asked about your schedule first, and when you casually told him you were free, he automatically invited you. as you two rarely have the same free days, you agreed right away.

the wedding set-up was breathtaking. honestly, you'd never seen something so intricate, so lovely, so pure. the groom stood proudly, and the bride looked like a princess.

you kept glancing up at zayne from time to time, feeling slightly giddy before nuzzling against his arm. what would marrying him be like? you couldn't picture the exact wedding, but you could already feel butterflies blooming all through your body.

he gazed down at you before kissing the crown of your head. he was, of course, picturing it too, already running through the logistics in his mind.

after a while, you stood up and walked over to the dessert table, picking up a few things to bring back, as other guests were doing too. you hummed softly to yourself, walking back with a full plate next to a sweet, older lady.

but then, a group of ladies gathered in the middle of the way, and when the bride tossed the bouquet, it flew right toward the elderly woman. the other girls rushed forward, and you gasped. they'd crush the poor lady!

you stepped in front of her, holding your hand up and clutching the dessert plate for dear life.

the bouquet smacked against your palm, and you instinctively grabbed it, a bit harshly, honestly.

the ladies gasped and backed away, quickly apologizing once they realized what almost happened.

the older woman thanked you over and over, and zayne was by your side in seconds.

you let out a relieved sigh and handed him the plate.

“phew… here you go. that was crazy.”

he looked down at you, then pulled you into a soft hug. when he stepped back, there was an amused grin on his face. he took the plate and set it on a nearby table.

“you saved the groom's grandmother.”

you glanced back and saw her laughing with zayne's professor about what happened, shaking her head fondly.

zayne checked you over quickly, then tilted your chin up.

“and you also caught the bouquet.”

“oh, you mean this beautiful thing? yeah, it was super easy,” you teased, shrugging.

he smiled.

“if i'm not mistaken, that means our wedding shall be the next.”

“oh? i didn't think you'd believe in those traditions, dr. zayne.”

he laughed softly, more like a quiet sigh.

“i believe in our love, and i want us to marry.”

your gaze softened, and you smiled, feeling that giddy warmth all over again.

“i'd love that.”

he cupped your cheeks gently, but just then his professor walked over.

“ah! if it isn't my prodigious student and the hero of the day!”

zayne smiled softly and dipped his head, and you greeted him politely.

“i must say, never did i imagine zayne meeting such a brave partner. you two make a beautiful couple.”

you smiled warmly at the genuine compliment, and zayne subtly wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you a bit closer.

“if you two need anything at all with the wedding, please let me know.”

after chatting a bit more and enjoying the ceremony, you two finally headed out to his car.

zayne didn't waste a second opening the door for you, but before you could get in, he leaned forward, trapping you gently between him and the seat.

“so, it's decided then. people already assume we'll get married, you caught the bouquet, and we both want it, don't we?”

you looked up at him, fingers brushing over his tie before giving it a soft tug.

“mhm. you should kneel and propose to me then, dr. zayne.”

and kneel he does. he doesn't have the ring yet, but there are plenty of ways he can think of to propose… or, alternatively, plenty of ways to show you his devotion tonight.

or even right there, kneeled and ready to love you, away from prying eyes.

[ruinix]

Can we have sweet luke seeing you in a sundress and getting horny

Hey there, my sweet lovely. There was a specific time I had been—still am—a menace with sundresses thots. My main witness: @ajuice-matts (<- this girl started it, I fear. She sent me wild thoughts about it, especially tugging on the top WHAT), and my lovely friends here who got me yapping about sundresses. Also, special mention @definitelynotdomanique (-> I remember the tits or ass convo we got and it really stayed in my head). Now, now, I hope I wrote this well enough. I included a bonus content here in your POV. Like always, it is optional but it does contain a glimpse of the date. Also, excuse his hat in the picture, he's just Lukey. His curls are immaculate, aren't they? I wanna tug on it. So cute!!

Sundresses and Summer Dates

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut and Fluff, Slight Oral Sex (f receiving), Unprotected sex (please be safe! Use protections!), Lukey being horny, Slight car sex detail (in Bonus; the SLIGHTEST (one small paragraph); careful where you get intimate, lovelies)

Count: 2157 words (+ 1095) | Masterlist | Taglist

Luke audibly gulps when you step out of the walk-in closet with that flowy dress that swishes below your knees and its color is making you glow. His eyes trail to the tiny flowers printed and embroidered on the fabric. It looks so beautiful on you. You look beautiful.

He gulps hard, thanking his decision to wear black pants and a loose-fitted button-down shirt which he got half-tucked into his pants. He promised to be normal for your date today. He already feels hot and bothered. How can he not when his sweet girl looks so amazing? This is not good for him. He will probably—

His thoughts trail when he notes the way you tighten the string on your low neckline. Pulling it makes your cleavage appear delectable, meaning he might as well be drooling. He's so mesmerized by your tits. He just wants to grab them and bury his face on it. As you step, he notices the slit running up your thigh. It isn't too pronounced but he can see it. The flowy skirt swishes to give him a glimpse of your leg and he might die. He's in so much trouble, isn't he? There's no way he can survive the whole date. No. Way.

He freezes when your eyes meet his. You smile at him. He may as well burst at the seams, his cheeks burning, as you stop so close to him. You stare up at him with wide eyes emphasized by your mascara and a slightly shimmery eyeshadow. You're so pretty.

"Can you help tighten the strings for me, Lukey?" You ask so sweetly. When he helplessly nods, his voice failing him, you grin. "Make sure to fix the part that cinches too. Please."

"Mmhmm," he hums, nodding with determination, some of his curls bouncing on his temple, brushing his reddening ears.

He honestly doesn't know how to tighten your dress, but he can tie his skates, so how hard can it be?

After a few seconds of him tugging and fixing what you told him to fix, he realizes it isn't hard but a bit confusing. He panics whenever you tell him to pull it tighter, but after ten minutes, he finishes his task, his lips turning into a proud smile when you give him a kiss.

"Thank you, Lukey," you murmur against his lips, your hands smoothing over his chest, down his abdomen, hooking into his belt hoops. You smile, tugging him forward, making him wrap his arms around you. "Oh, what's this?"

He shudders. His secret is all out. His hard-on presses against you. He literally can't speak as you giggle at his problem. Why are you so cruel? He's suffering from your gorgeousness and you're laughing at him.

"We have a date, Lukey." You pout, your hands popping open his pants. "We got a flower arrangement workshop and beach! I wanna go to the beach." You shake your head, lecturing him when you're the one unzipping him, the one crumpling his shirt, and the one slipping your hand into his briefs to wrap around his cock. "Lukey, you're so hard."

"You're being so fucking mean," he gasps, stumbling with his words, stepping back against the wall, grunting when you step closer. You start to jerk him off and he's losing it. "I just..."

"You just?" You urge, your eyes falling on his lips, your thumb teasing over his slit.

"I just needed a minute then you—Fuck!" He hissed when you trace a finger from his base to his tip, when you smeared his pre-cum around his head then down his length. He panted, "W-we'll be late for the workshop."

Luke is the one who found that workshop and signed you both up when he saw your excitement after he mentioned it. He only aims to please, to see you happy, while also to experience that with you. He loves it when he makes you laugh or excited or happy or giddy. He loves it all.

Although, right now, when you're kissing the corner of his lips, not letting him kiss you, when the soft glide of your hands makes him shiver, when all he wants is to take you to bed and fuck you, he is doubting that you two should go at all. It suddenly doesn't matter that he carefully planned this day. Maybe he could reschedule everything. Afterall, it is summer.

"I am sweet, and I..." Your warm breaths fan over his lips, pushing him further into a haze with his heart pounding in his ears. "…know that the workshop is in two hours, and the drive is just half an hour. So..."

With his hands coming up to your cheek and your nape, Luke pulls you into a kiss, a soft gentle peck turning into a feral mash of your lips and his, as he rolled his hips to thrust into your hand. Your touch is so perfect, but he would rather touch you.

One moment he was against the wall, the next he was pushing you down on the edge of the bed, his tongue memorizing the feel of your tongue against his, like it's his first time kissing you. The taste of mint is wonderful when it's mixed with you. So sweet, so refreshing, so delicious.

"I love this dress," he groaned, tugging at the string you tied. Your hand stops, your breath hitching as he undoes the ribbon, his fingers grazing your cleavage. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."

"I've been waiting for you to say that," you rasp, falling back on your forearms, gazing at him like he has given you the world.

While his hand plants on your side to support his weight, his other hand slips into the slit of your dress, tracing up, up, and up until he finds...nothing. No bloomers or shorts. No lace panties that you love to wear during your dates. All he finds is your soft and heated skin and your wet and quivering pussy.

"Sweet, huh?" He growls, his voice rumbling in his chest. "I don't think so, naughty girl."

He kisses you again, pushing you to lay down, his fingers sliding into your pussy, gasping as you clamp around his fingers. Fuck. His. Life.He moves his thumb around your clit, teasing it, making you whine into his lips. His other hand slips underneath you to unravel what he had laced.

When you spread your legs, he's there, kneeling on the floor, his tongue running up from entrance to your aching clit, then diving into your quivering heat. He groans at your taste, at the feel of your skirt as he grips your ass. Even better than the mixture of mint and you. So fucking divine. Your heady taste might as well be his meal for every day and every hour of his life.

"Oh, fuck, Luke!" You scream, your hands tugging at his curls, your back arching, your hips pressing against his ministrations.

He greedily gulps your wetness, panting hot breaths against your pussy when you tighten around his tongue, sliding and curling in your sweet pussy, stretching you until he sees you rolling your eyes as he reaches that spot that has your toes curling every time. He grinds down against your clit with his nose, before he dips two fingers right below his tongue.

You whimper, shaking your head. "I need more than this, Luke. Please."

But he wants to make you come on his face. He wants to drink up your cum. He needs that, but fine, he can't resist you. He moves, grunting when he separates himself from his meal, greedily licking his lips to savor your arousal on his face. He crawls over you, tugging his pants down, hooking your legs around his waist. He runs his length along your folds, shuddering as his sensitive tip grazes your clit. This is unreal. You're just so beautiful with the dress spilling around you. Your hair looks like halo. No. A crown. Fuck, how can he be so lucky to have you?

He licks your stained lips before he dives for a kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he sinks his cock in your pussy. He lets you take him, inch by fucking inch. He knows that you can take it.

"Luke," you whine, writhing to meet his thrusts. "Fuck."

Like before, he's mesmerized. Your cheeks are so red. Tears gleam in your eyes. Your tits bounce with his thrusts, but he isn't satisfied. He pulls down your neckline, letting you tits spill out so he can grope them, so he can play and twist and tug your nipples. Fuck, he's obsessed with your tits. They feel so perfect in his palms, like you're made just for him. For him. No one else. Just him.

"I love you," he pants, moaning at the sight of your eyes rolling up for a second. That's him. That's all him. He's making your pretty eyes roll up. Him. It's him.

"I love you too, Luke," you breathe out, reaching so he moves closer. "My sweet Lukey."

"Hmmm," he hums, tasting the sound of your endearment, taking it down to his soul, his very being. "Again," he demands.

A smile tugs on your lips. You repeat, "My sweet Luke."

Your lightly wet hand—the one you jerked him with, the one you used to smear his pre-cum all over him—finds his cheek. He shudders. You're making him so fucking dirty. He likes that so much. He's yours to mess with. All of him. He presses a kiss on your palm, then he licks, from palm to the tips of your fingers. Every single one.

He grins when you curse, smirks when you scream as his guides that hand to your clit. He helps you play with that pearl of pleasure that has tears running down your pretty face. He marvels, wondering why your mascara isn't smearing. He wonders if it's sorcery or you're simply fucking amazing. He bets it's the latter. His logical mind is turned off, forgetting that hours of you ranting about waterproof mascaras and its risks but you said fuck the risks because it looks amazing on you. There's no way that he can remember that as his mind fills with the feel of your pussy clenching around him, with the wet sound his hips slamming against your ass, with the need to hear more of your whines, groans, moans, and cries. His mind is totally empty about anything else.

"Tell me who's making you feel good," he rumbles, feeling his orgasm so fucking close.

"You," you sob, your legs quivering "Fuck, I'm so close."

"Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me whose pussy is this."

"Yours," you cry.

"Fuck yes, it is. It's mine." It comes out like a growl, his voice dropping in a octave, but it's a pathetic fucking growl, because it breaks. It trembles as his emotions—his impossibly deep love for you, his nearly obsessive need for you—squeezes up his throat. "You're mine. All mine."

You come with a broken wail. Your fingers stop circling your clit, so he moves them himself. He watches you writhe and struggle between the choices of pulling him in or pushing him away. Luke makes the choice for you, slamming hard into your pussy, his cum spurting in harsh and hot rivulets. His own thighs shake, feeling like fucking jelly. This is so good. So good.

He rests his forehead against yours, inhaling your exhales, feeling so greedy with you. All he needs is you.

"I love you," he says again, his eyes burning. Before you say it back, he repeats with more desperation. "I love you, my Heart."

You shiver before you smile so tenderly. Your hands come up to brush away the tears that escape him. "I love you, my Soul."

His eyes widen, because that's new and he loves the sound of that.

He demands you to say it again, and you do. And again. And again. He's weeping by the fourth time, feeling so overwhelmed by the endearment and his love for you.

"I want to spend forever with you," he confesses, hiccupping. "May I please keep you forever?"

You grin with tears streaming down your face. "Only if I can have you too."

"You have me," Luke sniffles.

"Then we're stuck with each other. Forever."

"Forever," he echoes, feeling his shoulders lighten from the load he didn't know was there.

For minutes, you two spend just holding each other.

You both ignored the fact that that time is ticking. That you are both a mess and need to fix yourself within ten minutes or you will be late. That his cum is already dripping around his dick and out of your pussy, making a mess of the dress he is so fucking obsessed with.

You two savor each other like you always do.

Luke loves that more than anything.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

"You've cut that one way too much, Lukey," you tease Luke who is currently stressing over his vase and has been going scissor heavy. It won't be long until he's left with every flower in a competition of being the shortest. "Don't cut it again."

He huffs, frowning as he side-eyes you, snipping. He immediately regrets his decision after he placed it in the vase. "What the fuck!"

He earns a lot of attention from the other couples on their own tables. He immediately blushes red, ducking his curly head as if that will help him hide his over-six-feet body.

"I told you so," you say in a sing-song voice, nudging him with your elbow. "Not having fun?"

"No, I am," he lies, flinching as he meets your eyes. He pouts, sighing, "I'm just frustrated. I don't get it."

"Let me help you," you offer. He looks at you like you're going to sabotage him. "Oh, come on, Lukey. I'm basically a master at flower arrangements."

You're not. Both of you know it. The evidence is right in front of you. Your flowers are a mess but at least they're properly prepped, not turning into stumps. The only problem in your vase is how much you overload it. The harmony is nonexistent, but you're proud of it. Plus, you'll be taking home a lot of flowers. You're definitely a genius. Not at arrangements though.

"Fine. Just don't add more flowers. I don't want a forest." He scrunches his nose.

You gasp, feigning offense. "How dare you."

You two bickers, grinning ear to ear, elbows digging in each other's sides. You help him with trimming, sneaking one flower or two when he's looking away, giving him your best puppy-eyes when he realizes your addition, being dramatic when he complains so he ends up compromising by letting them be. It's so fun. By the end of the workshop, you have two overfilled vases that don’t pass the flower arrangement standard and are secured by seatbelts in the backseat of Luke's car.

After a few minutes of driving, he asks, "Are you hungry?" His hand softly squeezes your thigh, not knowing that you're getting riled up from his touch.

"Not really. I wanna see the ocean, Lukey." You place your hand on his hand, so he overturns his to hold yours.

"Are you sure? We haven't had lunch." His eyebrows meet, looking so worried. Your Lukey always worries about you, and it makes you feel soft and mushy.

So even if you're not hungry, you say, "Maybe we can get drive thru. I'll feed you as you drive."

His reaction is immediate; he looks relieved. It's like just taking care of you makes him feel good. You feel the same way. You worry about him so much that your heart feels tight. When he's on ice. When he gets cross-checked or simply hitting the boards. When he's travelling and playing so far away. When he calls you while holding back tears after a frustrating game. When he wins but instead of fully celebrating, he looks forlorn from being far away. It's hard but you try your best because you know he tries his.

He smiles when he meets your eyes, his cheeks flushing. Yours also heats up. Clearing your throat, you try to contain your feels and turn on the radio, singing along to the songs you know.

Luke ends up getting you both the biggest burgers, fries, and soda. They're so comically large that it's actually so hard to eat, so he pulls to a gas station. You two eat, laughing when one bites and makes a mess on the handkerchiefs on your laps. While you eat, you also people-watch. You two—silently or not silently—gaze at different people, wondering where they go and what they do in life. But most of the time, you two simply stare at each other with smiles on your faces.  

"Now, we smell like burgers," you tease, folding your leftovers neatly for later, while Luke crumples his wrappers.

"I don't mind." He shakes his head, before he pulls you in for a kiss, his tongue sliding in to meet yours. "Do you?"

You shake your head, panting, your legs closing as heat rushes down south. "Umm, Luke, your windows are heavily tinted, right?"

His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps. He nods, his jaw working. "Let me put the flowers in the trunk."

He does, while you climb over the console. When he joins you, you're already ready for him, mounting his lap to fuck him. At some point of the tryst, he has you on your back instead. It's quick but it feels so good. He even cleans your pussy with his tongue, making you come again, before you two are the on the road again.

You fall asleep after ten minutes of driving. When he shakes you awake, it is already late afternoon, and the sounds of waves crashing on the sands is a clear indicator where you are.

"Sorry for sleeping on you," you yawn, sighing as he pulls you to his side to keep you from falling or tripping on the sands.

"You snore," he laughs.

"No, I don't!"

"How would you know?" He snickers.

You huff, rolling your eyes, bumping your hip against his. "Whatever."

That only makes him laugh harder, his curls moving with the wind, the sun dipping down the horizon and casting a warm glow on his cheeks. He looks handsome. Beautiful, even.

You push him away to shake him off his mood of teasing you, hurriedly removing your sandals, grinning when he does the same. You run, your feet sinking into the rough and wet sands, the warm water teasing your ankles when the wave comes, your skirt bellowing behind you. When his hands grab your waist, you grin up at him, your cheeks hurting from all the smiling today.

"Let's dance, Lukey," you whisper as he turns you to face him.

"Okay," he agrees like the sweetest man ever.

With the skies splash with orange, red, pink, and purple, with the smell of salt from the sea, with the water sodding your skirts and his pants, you two dance with your laughter and the beat your hearts as music.

You can't wait to show him all the dresses you bought for him. Or the lingerie he has yet to notice in your shared closet.

You can't wait to have more dates with him.

You can't wait to experience forever with him.

Because he’s your Love. Your Soul. Your Everything.

Yours.

Lovelies @dancerbailey3 @loser-pretty-girl @r0wdymaize86 @tiredallthetimex @quinnintheabyss @macka @hughesmybaby @hockeygirlyyyy

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[lupinqs]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ━━ 8 Letters

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 10.9K

❀ ━ warnings: masochism, smut (oral, fingering), like i think that’s it?

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: wowwowow it’s really done… imma actually write the epilogue for this one trust 🙏🏻 thank you guys for the support on this series, i know a lot of you have probably been frustrated for the sporadic updates 😭 but thanks for reading, i seriously, seriously appreciate it. love yall, onto the next !! (also fair warning i am not proud of how i ended the chapter it feels very rushed but writing ending paragraphs/sentences is so difficult)

PAIGE LEANS AGAINST the wall outside Jo's hotel room for far too long.

At first, she doesn't move because she can't. Like her knees won't work right. Like if she tries to walk, she'll fall apart—limb by limb, piece by piece—right there in the hallway. Her throat feels too dry and her face is wet and hot and her head is pounding with everything she didn't get to explain. With everything Jo refused to hear.

But it's not just dejection swirling around in her chest anymore—it's fire, too. Deep and rising. The kind that simmers and stings and coils tighter the longer she just stands there. There's a part of her that still feels shattered—still confused and devastated and aching—but it's getting drowned out fast by the sharp, crackling anger starting to take over.

Because, genuinely, what the fuck?

What kind of person does what Celeste did today? What kind of person looks someone in the eye, smiles all fake and kind, says "I hope you and Jo are happy," and then turns around and nukes everything with a goddam lie?

She should've trusted her gut. She should've slammed the door the second she saw that red hair.

Paige shoves herself off the wall, every step gaining force as she heads down the hallway. Her jaw is clenched. Her fists are balled, short nails digging into skin. There's a buzzing behind her eyes. It's late—probably past 1AM by now—but she doesn't care. Doesn't care if she wakes up the whole floor. Doesn't care if she pisses anyone off. Because there's only one person she wants to deal with right now, and she's behind one of these fucking doors.

It only takes her a few more steps to find it—the number she remembers being the admin's room. Celeste's room.

She pounds her fist against the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

It's loud, unforgiving. Probably too much. She winces for a second, thinking of Alyssa, one of the managers, who she thinks is the one who's sharing the room with Celeste. She's nice, undeserving of this mess. But the thought flashes and burns away just as fast.

Because then the door swings open and there she is.

Celeste Sinclair. Bright green eyes. Wet red curls like she's freshly out of the shower. Face perfectly still.

She blinks at Paige like she's confused. Like she's the one being wronged. "Hi... ?" she says, voice airy, like nothing is broken. Like she didn't just try to break the one thing in Paige's life that actually fucking matters.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Paige spits, stepping forward just enough to make her point. Her voice is sharp and venomous and loud and she wants it to be. She wants it to hit.

Celeste doesn't flinch, her expression unchanging. The only thing Paige can see is something smug behind her eyes now. Like she's been waiting for this. Like she's enjoying it.

"I should be asking you the same question," Celeste says smoothly. That tone—the one that was missing this morning when she was all apologetic and sweet and fake (goddamn theater major)—slides back into place like it never left. "You're the one banging on my door at one in the morning, Paige."

Paige's eyes narrow. She doesn't have time to be anything but blunt, getting straight to the point. "Did you think I wouldn't find out or somethin'? Are you really that stupid to think breaking apart Jo and I would make me want you?"

Celeste cackles. Full-on, grossly amused laughter. Paige wants to punch the wall.

"I didn't do all that because I want you, Paige," the redhead says simply. Her tone is slow, deliberate, like Paige is the dumbest person in the world for assuming so. Like she should've known better.

"Then why the fuck would you do it?" she asks. Her voice is sharper this time, not just angry but confused—again. Because for all her faults, for all the messiness between them, she never really thought Celeste was cruel.

But apparently she was wrong about that, too.

Celeste's answer is cold, dipped in ice water and frozen over. "Because you don't deserve it."

There's a pause. Paige feels her brain stutter like it's prematurely trying to figure out what's going to come out of Celeste's mouth next.

"You know, this semester, I've become friends with a few new girls in my classes," the redhead starts, and Paige scrunches her face a little, not understand the relevance of this at all. "A couple weeks ago, I was hanging out with a bunch of people and literally two of those girls told me that at some point during college, they'd been fucking you and you ended up breaking their heart."

Paige swallows hard, gathering where this is going.

"It hurt them, Paige," Celeste continues, matter-of-fact. "And it fucking hurt me too. So, why is it that you get to be happy when you've hurt all these people?"

That's the part that lands the heaviest. Paige stares at her, silent. Because the thing is—she's well aware she wasn't perfect. Especially not her freshman and sophomore years. She knows she was careless sometimes, flippant. She knows she had a reputation—and she earned it.

But she never lied to anyone. She never led them on.

She always made it abundantly clear: no strings. Just casual.

Yes, people caught feelings. Yes, maybe she didn't handle every exit perfectly. But she never promised more than what she meant.

And with Jo? She's never once played a game. Not once.

Celeste keeps going, like she's been waiting to get all of this off her chest. "I do feel a little bad about Jo. She was really heartbroken. But, honestly, I probably saved her from something worse by doing that. Because God knows you'd end up hurting her the same way you've hurt everyone else."

Paige feels something twist in her gut. It’s like she’s watching someone stab a knife into the version of herself she’s been trying to be. The version Jo sees. The one who loves so deeply it aches. The one who wants to do right.

And she knows that’s who she is with Jo.

But now? Now Jo’s on the other side of the hallway thinking she was just another name on a list. And Celeste is down here acting like Paige’s past is enough reason to steal her future.

Her jaw tightens. Her fingers twitch. She stares Celeste down and tries not to cry again. Not because of her—Celeste doesn’t deserve her tears—but because of what she ruined. What she took.

Joey.

But then, something else ignites in Paige's chest. It's slow at first, but then it's sharp, blisteringly hot. Protective, possessive. Because who does Celeste think she is—saying Jo's name like she knows her, like she has the right to even say it. To even think it.

Paige takes another step forward, towering over the redhead. She hopes it makes Celeste feel as small as she deserves.

"You don't know a thing about Jo," Paige snaps, low and firm, like she's holding back from yelling only by the thinnest thread. "Or what she and I have. So don't fucking talk about her like you do."

Celeste flinches, just barely. Her expression tightens, eyes flicking away momentarily like she knows she's hit a nerve. She doesn't say anything back, though.

"And you're sick," Paige adds, stepping in again, "for trying to ruin something that had nothing to do with you."

Still, Celeste says nothing. Her arms cross over her chest defensively, chin tilting up like she wants to pretend she's not rattled, but Paige can see it in her��how her shoulders stiffen, how her eyelid twitches like she's trying to keep her composure and losing.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. And your friends, too, I guess," Paige says, voice coated in honesty even through the anger. "But you always knew what it was with me. I never lied. I never said I was gon' take you out or some shit. I never told anyone to catch feelings."

The air feels tighter with every word. Paige is breathing hard now. There’s heat in her palms, in her neck, all of it boiling to the surface.

“That’s not on me,” she tells her, quieter now, but somehow sharper. “And I’m sorry that it hurt. But you don’t get to turn around and ruin Jo’s life because of it. You don’t get to do that.”

Celeste’s jaw clenches. She blinks a few times, and Paige sees something flicker—maybe regret, maybe shame, maybe just the sting of being told the truth. But then it’s gone.

That smug smile returns like armor, like habit. She crosses her arms again and says, “Sucks to be you, then. Because you’re gonna have to deal with me for another whole year.”

Paige lets out a laugh. A real one. Bitter and cold and sharp-edged. A laugh she didn’t know was in her chest until it spills out.

“You’re funny,” she says, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“What?” Celeste asks, starting to frown.

“You think you’re gonna be with the team next year?” Paige asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s funny. You been tamperin' with team chemistry, Celeste. Playin' people against each other. Lying. Manipulating.” She pauses, letting it settle, then says coolly, “You’re not getting the job back.”

Celeste’s face falls like a stone.

“Paige, wait—” she says, and it’s the first time Paige hears it: panic. The beginnings of fear.

That smug little grin drops fast. Her eyes go wide. She starts stepping forward like she wants to plead, like maybe she thought this was all just petty drama and not something that would actually cost her.

But Paige is already stepping back.

“Night, Celeste,” she says flatly, and then she turns, walking away without another look.

Celeste calls her name again, but Paige doesn’t even flinch. She walks fast and steady back down the hallway, back toward her and Aubrey’s hotel room, jaw tight, eyes forward, fists still balled up from everything she’s holding in.

And for a second—for one second—she feels powerful. Just one. It lasts through the hallway, through the keycard swipe, through shutting the door behind her.

But then she’s in bed. And none of it matters.

Because humbling Celeste didn’t fix anything.

Not the hollow space where Jo should be. Not the look on Jo’s face when she told Paige she couldn’t even look at her. Not the panic in Jo’s voice when she said, “I can’t do this.”

So now Paige is curled up in bed, still in the same sweatpants and hoodie she wore to the game, her hair tied back loosely, eyes burning but no more tears left. She’s got Sunny—the little purple dragon plush Jo gave her after the ACL tear—clutched to her chest so tight it hurts.

The hoodie smells like Jo. That stupid expensive perfume Jo started wearing in December. It still lingers in the collar and Paige feels herself curl tighter around the dragon like it can replace her somehow.

It can’t.

And now all she can do is hope—pray—that maybe Jo will give her a chance to explain tomorrow. Maybe Jo will listen. Maybe there’s still time to make it right.

Because if there’s not…

Paige doesn’t even want to think about it.

THE NEXT DAY passes by in a blur, like Paige is stuck inside some foggy simulation of her own life, moving through it without really feeling any of it.

She and Aubrey don't really say much as they pack up their hotel room. It's mechanical—stuffing clothes into bags, unplugging phone chargers, shoving shoes into suitcase compartments they don't quite fit into. Paige doesn't even bother folding anything. It all gets shoved down with zero regard for how wrinkled or tangled it might end up, because she just doesn't have it in her to care. Nothing feels that important right now.

Jo's name sits on the edge of all her thoughts, and her absence is deafening.

Paige doesn't see her all morning—not until the team finally gathers in the hotel lobby, bags in hand, UConn gear on, the usual travel routine underway. Jo doesn't look at her, not once. Not that Paige really expected her to.

The younger girl stands with Caroline, who often jokes about Jo being her "favorite child." It feels a little protective, right now, how close the two stand, how Jo ends up leaning her temple on Carol's shoulder. Paige can't tell if Caroline is doing it to shield Jo from her or if Jo's just using her as a buffer. Either way, it stings. Jo's expression is schooled over, neutral in a way that looks too practiced, like she's working too hard to stay calm and normal. That almost makes it worse—knowing Jo is still mad, still hurt, and all Paige can do is trail behind, wanting to talk to her again but not knowing how.

The ride to the airport is quiet. Paige sits next to Aubrey, staring out the window with her AirPods in. She doesn't even really listen to the music that's playing.

Once they board the plane, Paige drops down into a seat in the very back, glad they're allowed to spread out. Azzi slides into the aisle seat in her row, an empty seat between them like always, for more comfort and space. Azzi pulls her hoodie up and takes out her unicorn neck pillow like she plans to sleep the whole way back to Connecticut.

Paige tries to do the same. Closes her eyes, leans her neck back, pulls her hood over her head, wraps her arms around herself. But her brain won't turn off. Her chest won't settle. Her knee aches a little, probably from all the stress.

She ends up bothering Azzi after about fifteen minutes. Nudges her. Whispers a quiet, "you awake?" even though she knows she is.

Eventually, she pulls Nika over too. Makes her move from the seat across the aisle to the one between her and Azzi. The three of them talk low—soft murmurs in the hum of the plane, almost like they're conspiring.

Paige keeps her voice quiet, her arms crossed over herself, leg stretched out to help the ache. It's cold back here. Or maybe she just feels cold.

She explains everything in bits and pieces—some of it Azzi already knows, obviously, and Nika gets caught up fast. They're both stunned by Celeste's boldness. Not surprised, exactly, but stunned she actually went that far. Paige watches them both react with wide eyes and disbelieving expressions, and it helps. A little. Just knowing she's not crazy. That it really was as messed up as it felt.

But still—none of it undoes it. None of it fixes the look on Jo's face last night.

Azzi tells her to wait. Nika agrees. Let Jo come to her. That it'll happen. That Jo needs time to calm down and process things, especially after the loss. That they live together, so it's inevitable, and when it does happen, Paige will be able to say everything she needs to say.

And Paige knows they're right—but that doesn't make it easy.

Every inch of her wants to fix it now. Wants to walk up to the front of the plane, pull her into the bathroom, and tell her exactly what happened, make her listen. Because the idea of going back to their apartment and pretending like everything hasn't completely crumpled into dust makes Paige's chest feel too tight.

So, when they get back to campus, Paige doesn't go to their apartment. She goes to Azzi's. She drops her bags just inside the door, toeing off her shoes. Azzi, Ines, and Ice all dump their own things back into their respective bedrooms before coming back out to the living room.

All four of them fall into a normal silence, just laying on couches and scrolling on phones. It's calm and familiar.

Eventually, Caroline shows up, probably to specifically hang out with Azzi if Paige had to guess. But she's here and Paige isn't wasting the opportunity.

Paige watches the brunette from across the room. Waits a minute. Then, clears her throat and nods towards Azzi's room. "Can we talk for a sec?"

Carol gives her a look—somewhere halfway between tired and soft—and nods.

Inside Azzi's bedroom, Paige doesn't sit down. She stands by the dresser, fidgeting with the zipper on her hoodie. She lays it all out: how Celeste showed up that morning with the necklace that she stole, how she spun some story about the two of them hooking up, how obviously Jo believed it.

She keeps it mostly factual. The emotion's all there—thick in her voice, tightening her chest—but she tries not to let it show too much. Just enough to prove she’s serious. Honest. Because she knows Caroline first heard this story from Jo, and she needs Carol to believe her, and not let Celeste win anything else over.

Caroline doesn’t interrupt. Just listens with that same unreadable face. And when Paige is finally done, when she exhales and finally looks up, Carol smiles. A small one. The kind that says she’s been waiting for Paige to get this off her chest.

“I know, P,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t do that.”

It should be more reassuring than it is, but it still makes something unclench in Paige’s chest.

"She's just scared," Carol continues after a moment. "You know how badly Asher hurt her. And Celeste showing up with the necklace—it looked real. It was believable evidence, and I think she just... panicked."

Paige nods slowly. She's already really gathered all of that on her own.

"I was actually gonna go over to be with her in a little," Caroline adds. "I'll tell her to talk to you. Hear you out. I just want you guys to be happy."

She gives Paige a quick hug—just enough to say I've got you—and then they both walk out like nothing happened.

It's late when Paige finally drags herself back to her apartment. She stands in the front hallway with her huge duffle still slung over her shoulder, while carrying her backpack as well, just staring at the space. She turns the lights on—the place is silent.

She walks over to her bedroom, dropping her bags onto the floor. She kicks her shoes off and shrugs off her hoodie. She should probably shower or at least brush her teeth, but instead she finds herself drifting to the end of the hallway.

Jo's bedroom door is cracked just enough that Paige can hear the faint hum of white noise playing from Jo's phone. The sound is familiar; it's what usually lulls her to sleep, too, curled up against Jo's back, her hand under Jo's shirt, their legs tangled.

She reaches for the doorknob before she even thinks about it. She pauses before carefully pushing it open.

Jo's asleep.

The covers are pulled up high, her face soft and tired, eyelashes fanned against flushed cheeks. She always looks young when she's sleeping. Vulnerable in a way Paige doesn't get to see too much because it's usually wrapped over with a smile.

She hates this. She just wants to be with her.

She could wake her up right now. Explain everything. Beg her to listen.

But Paige doesn't.

Instead, she closes the door just as quietly as she opened it and turns to her own bedroom to sleep alone.

JO STOPS, her feet planting hard against the sidewalk as she bends over, hands braced on her knees, chest rising and falling in a quick, heavy rhythm. Cold sweat clings to her skin, stinging in the wind that cuts sharp through her thin half-zip. The sleeves are pushed halfway up her forearms, and her shorts are clinging damp to her thighs, her body caught somewhere between freezing and burning alive. It's barely six in the morning, and the sky over Storrs is still that pale early-blue that always makes her feel a little lonelier.

She tells herself it's just the run making her feel like this—like her body can't keep up with her mind, like her chest is too tight, like her stomach's churning from something deeper than effort. But it's not just the run. She knows that. She's not stupid.

It's Paige.

Even thinking the name makes her ribs pull tight like someone's got a hand clenched around her sternum.

She straightens up slowly, breath still shaky, lips parting as she tries to regulate it. It's too much. She shouldn't have gone out. Not with four hours of sleep and a stomach full of nothing but a couple sips of water. But she needed to do something. She needed to feel something. And pain is easier than everything that's been swirling through her the past two days.

It's just what she does. Masochism at its finest. It's how she coped when Asher cheated and they broke up—run in the dark until her calves cramped and her lungs stung, stopped eating until she could crawl back into bed and sleep without dreams. She went through those motions until Paige put her foot down and dragged Jo out of the habits herself.

Except now it's different because she's here again, because of Paige.

And Jo doesn't really know how to reconcile that.

They got back from Dallas yesterday and Jo barely made eye contact with her. She couldn't. Not without hearing Celeste's words again. Not without picturing Paige's stupid necklace glinting in Celeste's hand.

She'd actually planned on talking to Paige yesterday. Just... talk. Not accuse or yell like the night prior. Just talk.

But she couldn't bring herself to.

Because what if Paige really had done what Celeste said?

What if Paige said something that made it all worse? What if she begged in that sweet, trembling voice, and Jo believed her, and it ended up being a lie only for her to get hurt again?

She's been through this before. The crying, the begging, the gaslighting, the lying once they know you know what they've done. She never thought Paige could make her feel that way, too.

But she's starting to realize that maybe Paige might not have done anything wrong.

Because, last night, Caroline told Jo she talked to her. And that she believes what Paige told her.

And Jo trusts Carol more than almost anyone.

So why can't she let itgo?

Her Apple Watch buzzes with a completed run notification—something minor, meaningless—and Jo groans aloud, dragging a hand through her damp hair. The ponytail is loose and frizzy, clinging to the sweat at the back of her neck. Her body aches in that dull, buzzing way that means she pushed too hard. Her bad knee—the one she tore her ACL on a couple years back—is probably going to be mad at her all day.

It's then that she hears Siri, dull and robotic in her AirPods, saying something about a Snaphact notification.

Jo opens the app without really thinking.

It's a memory; two months ago today.

A selfie—Paige's cheek pressed to hers, her teeth mock-biting at Jo's skin, both of them laughing in the tangled warmth of Jo's bed. Jo can still remember the way Paige's skin felt against hers, the sound of her giggle, the way—just after this was taken—Paige was kissing every inch of Jo's face like there was nothing else in the world she'd rather be doing.

Jo stares at it for a long time. The photo doesn't disappear. Not until she lets it.

She closes the app, eyes burning, and pulls one AirPod out. Her fingers drift to the little waistband pocket of her athletic shorts. She unzips it and pulls out the necklace.

Paige's necklace. Her necklace. Their necklace.

The one Celeste gave to her. The one Jo threw in the trash two days ago and pulled back out.

She doesn't know why she brought it with her this morning. She couldn't wear it—her chest ached too much just looking at it—but she also couldn't leave it in her room.

It felt like abandoning something that didn't deserve to be.

Now, it rests in her palm, the silver catching the weak morning light. Steady glares slightly.

Jo closes her fist around it.

Fuck. She has to talk to Paige.

Not eventually. Not sometime.

Now.

Because this—this sick, hollow ache in her—isn't something she can live with. Not if there's a chance she's wrong. Not if there's even the smallest possibility that Paige is telling the truth.

Jo turns around on the trail and starts running again. Not to punish herself.

This time, she's running to get home.

JO'S HEART is beating way too fast as she pushes open the front door, the quiet click of the lock loud in the silence of the apartment. Her legs are still shaky from the run. Her throat feels dry and her shirt is clinging to her back, damp with cold sweat. It's barely seven in the morning. The living room is dim, shadows stretching long across the floor from the first hints of daylight slipping through the blinds. She kicks off her shoes near the door.

She doesn't know what she's doing, not really. She could still chicken out. Could just head straight to the shower, buy herself another ten minutes, maybe even a whole hour. Paige's door is shut, she can see it from here. Jo doubts she's up—she never is on off days unless she absolutely has to. She could shower, sit on her bed, overthink everything like she's so good at.

But her feet keep moving.

The hallway is cold and narrow, and Jo moves down it slowly, the way you move when you're trying not to wake someone—when you're trying to give yourself time to make a decision before it makes itself.

The bathroom door is in front of her. She could walk straight, could turn the handle and disappear behind the water and the steam and the noise of it, escape for a little longer.

But her head turns toward Paige's door instead.

The light is off. The room is quiet. But something in Jo—something deeper than nerves, deeper than anger or fear—begs her to just open the door. She can't even name it. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's desperation.

Maybe it's love.

She breathes in. Then out. Then in again.

And she opens it.

The room is mostly dark, a pale stripe of early light cutting across the carpet. Jo's eyes take a second to adjust, but she sees Paige almost immediately—curled up on her side in bed, the glow of her phone casting a soft blue light on her face.

Jo freezes. Paige looks up. Their eyes meet.

Paige jolts upright like she's been electrocuted, like the sight of Jo in her doorway has scrambled her whole nervous system. Her hair is messy, pillow-creased on one side. Her voice comes out higher than usual when she says, "Hi."

Jo stays standing in the doorway, fingers still wrapped around the edge of the frame. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" she asks, even though she knows she didn't.

"No, no, I— I was awake," Paige says quickly. Her voice is all nerves. She's not acting like herself. She's acting like she's afraid Jo might bolt, like she's walking on the edge of something too thin to hold her weight.

Which—fair. Jo's been very distant.

Before she can say anything else, though, Paige's gaze flickers over her frame, brows furrowing. "Were you out running in that?" she asks softly, her voice lined with worry. She gestures vaguely to Jo's shorts, her half-zip.

Jo glances down at herself. "Yeah."

"Jo, it's freezing, you're gonna get sick again—" Paige starts, like she's personally wired to make sure Jo stays as healthy as possible.

"Paige," Jo says, gently but firmly, cutting her off. She needs to say what she came in here to say. Paige quiets instantly, mouth pressing shut, like she knows it, too. "I wanna talk."

Jo steps fully into the room and closes the door behind her with a soft click. It's quieter now. LIke the whole room is holding its breath. She walks to the bed, slow and hesitant, and sits on the very edge of the mattress. She doesn't look at Paige, but she feels the movement as Paige shifts up beside her, both of them now sitting upright—but far apart. Too far. It's jarring, the space between them. They're usually curled into each other, arms and legs tangled, Jo's fingers in Paige's hair or Paige's hand on Jo's thigh. Now, there's a chasm. An ache in the space between.

Jo presses her lips together. Her fingers move back to the zippered pocket of her shorts. She unzips it slowly. Her fingers close around the cool metal of the necklace. She pulls it out. Looks at it for just a second.

Then, she gently reaches for Paige's hand.

It feels like a risk. A bigger risk than anything else she's done this week.

Jo places the necklace in Paige's palm and then sets her own hand on top of it. The metal sits cool and weighty between their skin. Paige doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Jo finally lifts her gaze, meeting Paige's eyes. She hasn't done that in days. Hasn't looked at her like this—directly, intentionally, like she's searching for something. Her eyes already sting. Her throat tightens.

"Tell me what happened," Jo says softly.

And she means it. She’s ready to listen. Ready to really listen. Because she needs to hear it from Paige. Needs to believe it, not just feel it. She wants to believe her. She thinks she already does.

But she needs to hear it in Paige’s voice. Right here. Right now.

Jo watches Paige take a deep breath, her pretty blue eyes scanning every inch of Jo's face like she can't believe she's even sitting right next to her right now.

She shouldn’t even be in here—sitting on Paige’s bed, still in her freezing sweat-soaked running clothes, her pulse too high and her stomach too tight. Jo feels jittery, the way she vets before a game she's not sure she's ready for. But this isn't a game. This is... them. And it could be the end of them. She's not even sure what "them" is anymore. All she knows is that the second Paige sat up in bed and looked at her like that—like she still wanted her—something sharp and painful wedged itself behind Jo's ribs and hasn't moved since.

"Okay," Paige says slowly. It's tentative, gentle. She looks like she's thinking a thousand words, weighing each one before she lets them out. Jo understands. She really does.

But then Paige blinks and says, "Actually, 'M sorry—can you—can you please tell me exactly what Celeste told you first? I wanna know exactly what you think happened, because I'm still a little... a little confused."

Jo looks at her for a second. Paige's eyes are wide now, soft and earnest and a little panicked, like she's begging Jo to hand her the map before she can explain how they got lost.

For a second, Jo considers holdng it all in.

Not because she wants to hurt Paige or make her guess or punish her, but because—god—it’s so ugly. She doesn’t want to repeat it. She doesn’t want to admit, out loud, that she believed any of it. That it sunk so deep into her she started to think maybe Paige was just another person who didn’t actually mean what she said.

But Jo’s not good at holding things in. Not when it comes to Paige.

So, she shifts on the bed, gaze falling to the floor. Her hands curl into one another on her lap, fingers twisting. She doesn’t watch Paige anymore, doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s not ready for that. Instead, she focuses on the blank TV, on the way her socks are uneven, on anything but the weight in her chest.

"She came to my room right before breakfast that morning," Jo starts, voice quieter than she means it to be. "Like, early. Right after I finished braiding my hair."

She swallows. "She looked... nervous. Like, almost scared, or—or guilty? I don't know. I thought something was wrong, so I let her in. She was quiet for a while, and I just kept asking her what was going on. And then she pulled out the necklace."

Jo pauses. The memory makes her insides twist. She still feels sick when she thinks about it—the sudden rush of cold that spread through her chest, the way her heart practically stopped when she saw that little piece of silver glinting in Celeste's hand.

"And I just... I didn't understand how she had it. Like, I knew you wouldn't just lose it. You're careful. And I didn't want to think anything bad, but—she looked so serious."

She lets out a breath. Her hands are shaking now. She presses them tighter together to hide it.

"She told me you came to her room that night. Around 12:30. Said you told her that you and I had broken things off, for the better of the team. She said you apologized to her. That you said you wanted to make things right. That you gave her the necklace because it didn't mean what it used to mean anymore."

Jo's voice falters a little. She blinks quickly, eyes burning.

"She said the 'steady' was for her now."

She doesn't realize how much she's shaking until she reaches up and wipes her eyes. Her knuckles come away damp. She bites down hard on her bottom lip.

"And she said you slept with her."

It comes out small. Like saying it too loud will make it more real.

Jo doesn't say anything for a long moment after that. Her hands drop into her lap again. She stares at the floor. She doesn't want to cry anymore. She's cried enough.

And still, there's more to cry about. Always.

She knows how crazy it all sounds now. But in the moment—when she was tired and hurt and already spiraling from the loss, from the stress of the Final Four, from the fear that maybe she and Paige were too good to be true—she believed it. Or maybe, she didn’t believe it, but she was too scared not to believe it. Because then she’d be the idiot who let herself get her heart broken again.

It was easier to believe that Paige had turned into someone else. Some version of herself Jo didn’t know anymore. That maybe Celeste had just come at the right moment and Jo was the one who had misread everything.

But now, sitting here beside Paige, Jo doesn’t feel righteous or justified. She feels small. And tired. And like she’s been carrying a weight that was never hers to carry.

She hears Paige shift beside her, quiet and tentative.

Then, soft enough to break her heart all over again, Paige murmurs, “Jo? Can you—can you look at me? Please?”

Jo doesn’t move at first. Her lungs feel stuck.

But then she turns her head, slow and reluctant, and lets herself look. Really look.

Paige is right there, eyes glossy and wide, her whole face filled with a kind of careful desperation. Not like she’s trying to convince Jo of something—but like she’s trying to show her the truth. Jo feels something break open inside her at the sight.

Tentatively, Paige reaches up to cup Jo’s cheek, her fingers warm and steady against skin that still feels cold from the run. Jo doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t lean into the touch either. She just… watches her. Through the wet blur in her eyes, through the pounding in her chest. Watches the way Paige looks at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world—like she’s still worth touching gently even after everything.

Paige keeps her hand there, soft and unmoving, thumb just barely brushing at the tear tracks on Jo’s cheek.

“Jo,” she says, voice thick with something that sounds like truth, like a vow, “I swear on everything—everything—that none of that happened.”

And Jo—God, Jo wants to believe her. She wants to let that be enough. Wants to shove the past three days into a box, light it on fire, and never think about them again. She wants to fall forward into Paige and sob into her hoodie and let it be over.

But it’s not. Not yet.

Jo sucks in a shaky breath, staring straight into Paige’s eyes. “Then how did she get the necklace?”

Because that’s still the thing she can’t explain away. That little silver chain with steady engraved on it. Something so personal, so real—so theirs. That’s what made the whole thing so believable. What cracked Jo open in the first place.

Paige takes a breath. A big one. Like she’s bracing herself. Her hand is still on Jo’s cheek, grounding them both.

“She came to my hotel room that morning too,” Paige says slowly. “Really early. Like, right after I got out of the shower.”

Jo’s brows furrow, heart thudding as she listens.

“I’d taken the necklace off because I didn’t want it to rust. I never wear it in the shower. I’d just changed into my clothes. I was about to put it back on, and then she knocked.”

Jo is still, listening. Not moving. She can picture it—Paige in their hotel room, steam on the mirror, necklace resting on the counter like it always is when she showers. She’s seen it herself. A little routine Paige never strays from.

“I answered the door. Obviously, I was confused. She had my UConn ID. Said she found it downstairs in the conference room where we had dinner. She seemed… normal. Like, actually genuine. I took the ID, I thanked her for bringin' it to me. And then she said she was sorry. For how she acted when she found out about us. Said it was immature of her. And then she just... left.”

Paige pauses. Her voice cracks just slightly when she adds, “And a few minutes later, when I looked over at the counter by the door—where I left the necklace—it was gone. I thought it dropped or something. I was freakin’ out about it. But clearly… she took it.”

Jo swallows, and the sound feels too loud in the room.

And the thing is—it makes sense. Every part of that story fits perfectly into place with what she knows of Paige. The ID thing, the timing, even Celeste’s strange apology. It sounds real. And more than that—it feels like Paige. The way she’s telling it, not trying to over-explain, not pleading, just honest. Like it’s breaking her heart to have to walk Jo through it piece by piece.

Jo feels the tears come again, and she hates it. Hates that her heart still feels like it’s trying to climb out of her chest. But this time, they’re not tears of betrayal. Or confusion. They’re just exhaustion. From hurting. From doubting. From being scared of losing someone she’s so, so in love with.

But even now—there’s still one thing.

Jo clears her throat, voice small. “But the night before that… after I gave you the necklace, you didn’t go in the direction of your room.”

She feels Paige’s grip tense slightly, just barely.

Jo continues, quiet and cautious, not accusatory—just… scared. “You went the opposite way. Toward hers.”

She watches Paige closely, sees the blonde’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion. Like she’s flipping through memories trying to find what Jo’s talking about. And then—Jo sees the shift. Realization washing over her face like a wave. Paige blinks, and her brows knit together as she speaks.

“Jo,” Paige says gently, letting her hand drop from Jo’s cheek and slide back into Jo’s lap to hold her hand more fully, “the vending machine was that way. I got Aubrey and I each a bottle of water before bed. I didn’t go to her room.”

Jo doesn’t know why this is what finally breaks her open. Not the necklace. Not the story. Not even the quiet, sincere way Paige walked her through every little detail to help her make sense of something that’s been chewing her alive for the past three days. No, it’s this—this simple sentence, this explanation about the vending machine. The honesty in Paige’s voice. The clarity. The way she says it without hesitation, without defensiveness, like it’s just the truth, plain and simple.

Jo believes her.

God, she believes her.

And somehow, that realization doesn’t bring immediate relief. It brings more tears. They sting behind her eyes and spill over before she can stop them. A choked little sob catches in her throat and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep it together, but she feels her chest heaving with every breath like her body is trying to catch up with the emotional whiplash.

She doesn’t even realize she’s shaking until Paige is suddenly not beside her anymore.

Jo blinks through her tears and looks down, and Paige is on the floor, on her knees, still holding Jo’s hands. Their fingers are laced together and Paige is staring up at her with eyes that are as glassy and broken and desperate as Jo’s feel.

And Jo’s never been looked at like that. Never. Not in all her life.

Not by Asher, not by anyone. It’s like Paige sees every single broken part of her and still chooses her. Still wants her. Still loves her.

The tears come harder.

Paige lifts their joined hands to her mouth and presses a kiss to each of Jo’s knuckles, soft and reverent. Then, still crying, still holding her hands like they're the most delicate things she’s ever touched, she leans in and kisses Jo’s knee—then the other. The one with the scar, from her ACL. She kisses it with this tenderness that makes Jo feel like her heart is going to rip straight out of her chest.

“Joey,” Paige says, voice shaking as much as Jo’s is. “Jo. Josephine. I—God, I would never hurt you. Never, baby. I swear. All I want is for you to be safe and healthy and happy. That’s all I want. That’s why I didn’t tell you about Azzi and Aubrey and Nika knowing. I knew it would make you anxious and I just… I just wanted to take any pressure away from you that I could.”

Jo’s hand clenches slightly in Paige’s. She doesn’t mean to, but she’s holding on so tightly now, like if she lets go, any of this might slip away again.

Paige sniffles, wipes her face with the back of her arm, then keeps going.

“Jo, I’m in love with you,” she says. “I am so in love with you. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more and I’m not sure how exactly to handle it, but I want you. I want to be your girlfriend, for real, and I want to take you on dates, and I want the whole team to know about us, and I want us to meet each other’s families as girlfriends, not best friends or teammates or roommates or anything else. I want you in any and every way possible. Please, Jo.”

Jo can’t take it anymore. Her hands are trembling as she untangles their fingers, reaching out instead to cup Paige’s cheeks. Her thumbs brush over the tears there, over skin that’s warm and soft and familiar. Paige doesn’t resist. She leans into the touch like it’s all she’s ever wanted.

Jo pulls her up. She doesn’t say anything at first—just holds Paige’s face in her hands and brings her forward until their foreheads are touching, both of them crying, both of them shaking, both of them breathing the same air again for the first time in days.

“I want you, too,” Jo whispers. Her voice cracks halfway through, but she doesn’t stop. “I love you. So much. And I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you before. I’m so sorry. But I do now. I believe you. And I want to be your girlfriend. I want you to be mine.”

And it’s like the second she says it, everything inside her comes undone. Not in a bad way—no, it’s like letting go of this massive weight she’s been carrying since the moment Celeste knocked on her door. Like exhaling after holding her breath for three days straight. Her arms wrap around Paige’s shoulders, and Paige’s wrap around her waist, and then they’re clinging to each other.

Jo buries her face in Paige’s neck, and Paige’s hand finds her hair, her back. The sobs shake them both but neither of them tries to stop it. It’s messy and raw and real and them.

“I was so scared,” Jo whispers into Paige’s skin.

“I know,” Paige whispers back, kissing the side of her head. “Me too.”

Jo pulls back just enough to really look at her.

Paige’s face is a mess—her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, the tears making them even more impossibly blue, cheeks streaked and flushed like she’s been crying for hours. But her mouth is pink and parted and she’s breathing like she just ran a mile, and she’s looking at Jo like she’s the only thing that’s ever existed. Like nothing else matters. Like Jo hung the goddamn moon.

Jo can’t help it.

She leans in and kisses her. Hard.

It’s not soft, not tentative—there’s too much built up in her chest, too much that’s been swelling and festering and clawing at her from the inside since that morning in Dallas. And God, God, she didn’t think she’d get this again. She wasn’t sure if Paige would even want to kiss her again after everything she said. After the way she looked at her in that hotel room, like she couldn’t believe Jo wouldn’t even let her explain.

But Paige does want it. She kisses back instantly, like she’s been waiting for this just as desperately, and Jo feels her whimper against her mouth, hands sliding up into Jo’s hair with the same kind of urgency.

Jo reaches blindly, grabs at Paige’s waist and guides her up, tugging her gently by the hips until Paige is shifting back on the bed. They fall together—half-tangled, the movement awkward but natural. Jo ends up half on top of her, hands braced on either side of Paige’s face, legs tangled with hers, mouths never parting.

It’s like the past few days didn’t happen. And yet they did, and that’s what makes this worse and better all at once.

Because Jo knows she fucked up. She knows she did. Paige didn’t do anything wrong, not one fucking thing, and Jo still let herself believe that Paige was like Asher. That she was just another person Jo would fall stupidly, completely in love with only to have it blow up in her face. That she wasn’t special. That none of this had ever really meant anything.

And that’s what makes Jo’s chest ache with guilt now.

Because this—Paige—has always meant everything.

Paige’s hand slides under the hem of Jo’s shirt, fingertips grazing her lower back like she’s trying to memorize the shape of her all over again. Jo kisses her harder, her body melting into Paige’s, and they’re pressed so close now it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. And maybe that’s how it’s always been between them. Maybe that’s what scared Jo so badly in the first place. How much of herself she gave to this girl without even realizing it.

Jo pulls back only for a second, just long enough to breathe, just long enough to look at her again. Paige’s lips are swollen, her skin flushed, and her eyes—those eyes—are still locked on Jo like she’s the sun. The way she’s looking at her, even now, after all of it... Jo doesn’t feel like she deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” Jo whispers, forehead resting against Paige’s. She can still taste the salt of Paige’s tears. Or maybe her own. “I’m so sorry, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I got scared. And I didn’t want to be the one getting hurt again, and I didn’t even let you talk, and that was—”

“Jo,” Paige breathes, hand curling around Jo’s wrist, grounding her. “It’s okay. You were scared. I get it. We're okay now, promise.”

Jo closes her eyes. Tries to believe her. Tries to let go of the weight she’s been carrying since that knock on her hotel door. Since Celeste’s voice. Since the way it all cracked apart without warning.

“I love you,” she says softly. “So much.”

Paige’s thumb brushes against her cheek. “I love you too.”

Paige leans back in to kiss her, mouth parting. Jo lets out a little noise, kissing back. Her fingers reach down, curling into the hem of Paige's t-shirt. Paige lifts her arms, already helping her. The shirt slides up and over and then it's gone, tossed to the side of the bed, forgotten. Paige doesn't sleep in a bra—Jo knows that. But the sight of her still knocks the wind out of her a little.

Because she's beautiful. God, she's so beautiful. And she's letting Jo see her like this, even after everything. Even after being accused of something she didn't do. Even after Jo all but shut the door on her.

Jo feels like her hands are shaking. Not from nerves, not exactly. It’s something heavier. Something deeper. Guilt, yes, but more than that—gratitude. Relief. A kind of love that scrapes up her throat and catches in her chest and makes it hard to speak, hard to breathe. She doesn’t try to put it into words. Instead, she just leans in, kissing Paige again—slow this time, and soft. Not asking for anything. Just there.

And then Paige reaches down and pulls Jo’s half-zip off for her, exposing the thin black sports bra underneath. Their chests press together and Jo thinks she might actually combust from how warm and real and close this all is again. She’s missed this. Missed her. Missed being them, even if it hasn't been that long.

Jo's mouth moves instinctively—along Paige's jaw, her pulse point, the delicate slope of her neck. She kisses over the places where Paige's skin is warmest, where her breath catches, where Jo can feel her heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface. Each kiss says something: I'm sorry. I love you. You're real. I'm here.

She trails them down slowly to Paige's collarbone and then further, her lips brushing along Paige's breasts, lips wrapping around one of her nipples. She feels Paige's hips twitch slightly beneath her and hears the quietest noise escape her throat—something soft, something vulnerable—and Jo pauses, letting her forehead rest against Paige's sternum for just a second.

Jo's hand slides downward, gently, and she presses her lips to Paige's ribs, just above the waistband of her sweats. Paige's breath hitches again, and Jo glances up to check with her eyes, but Paige doesn't say anything—just nods quickly. Jo hooks her fingers into Paige's sweatpants and boxers at once, sliding them down slowly, slowly, kissing her knee when it bends to help, kissing her thigh as the pale skin of it is revealed.

Jo settles between the blonde's legs, watching as Paige exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut, hand instinctively finding Jo's hair, threading through it. Jo dips her head, kissing gently first. Soft, warm presses of her mouth to Paige's clit. She takes her time, letting herself settle into a rhythm.

And the way Paige reacts—the way she opens under her, hips twitching slightly, breath catching—makes Jo feel emotional all over again. The trust, the closeness. The way Paige is whispering her name in that shaky voice she has during this kind of thing, gasping out tings like, "baby... fuck, Jo..." like this is love and this is home and this is everything they nearly lost.

Jo's more focused than she's ever been. Careful, present. She doesn't rush like she used to a couple months ago, when she first started. She remembers being clumsy, nervous. So unsure of herself, Paige guiding her through all of it. But now, it's different. Now, she knows Paige. She knows what makes her tense and what makes her fall apart. She knows how much pressure to give, how long to hold, when to pull back.

"Baby," Paige whimpers as Jo's lips wrap around her clit, sucking. "So good. Fuck—I love you. Love you so much, Jo,"

Jo closes her eyes at that, humming softly in response, tongue swirling and flicking quicker, Paige's hand tightening in her hair. Jo keeps going, steady, until Paige's legs are trembling beneath her palms and her voice is a breathless, repeating litany of Jo's name and please and don't stop.

It doesn't take long.

Paige comes with a, "Joey, baby, I'm gonna—" and then a broken, choked moan. Jo works her through it slowly, tongue easing its pace.

She doesn't even get a second to say anything, though, before Paige pulls her in by the back of her head, kissing her like she means it. Like she’s trying to tell Jo something with her mouth that she doesn’t know how to say otherwise. Jo melts into it immediately, lets herself be kissed, lets herself get swallowed up in the heat of it. Paige tastes like sweat and sweetness and something Jo can’t name but wants to drown in.

Then, her bra is being tugged over her head, and Jo lets it happen. She lifts her arms and watches it join the growing pile of clothes. She sucks in a sharp breath when Paige shifts on top of her, and then she's the one underneath now, and it's Paige leaning over her, staring down, blue eyes practically twinkling.

Jo's stomach flips.

Paige dips her head and starts kissing across her chest, slow and unhurried. She takes her time. Her mouth is warm, wet, sucking softly at one nipple and then licking over the other. Jo makes a sound in the back of her throat that surprises her. Her hand slides into Paige's hair without thinking, fingers tangling in those messy blonde strands. Her eyes flutter closed as she arches into the touch.

"Paige," Jo whispers, barely audible, more breath than voice.

Everywhere the older girl's mouth touches sends a little shockwave straight to Jo's core. It’s not even just the physical part—though that alone would be enough—it’s the care. The attention. The way Paige isn’t rushing anything. Like she’s memorizing her, just like she's done a million times over.

Soft at first, Paige's fingertips glide across Jo's stomach, featherlight. Jo's muscles jump under the contact. She swallows thickly, heartbeat picking up. The anticipation coils tight inside her.

Paige's hand slips under her waistband, slow and careful. She moves like she's checking for permission even though Jo hasn't said—and won't be saying—no. Her breath catches as Paige's fingers slide beneath her shorts and underwear, finding slick skin and sensitive heat.

Jo opens her eyes again, finds Paige looking right at her.

She nods.

It’s small, barely perceptible. But Paige sees it.

And she smiles—this quiet, understanding thing—before leaning down to kiss her again. Not hurried. Just real. Just theirs.

Jo feels Paige’s fingers dip lower, between her legs now. She gasps, one hand tightening in Paige’s hair, the other curling against the sheets beneath them. She’s already wet—has been since she made Paige fall apart a few minutes ago—and the first touch is almost too much. She’s hypersensitive. Every nerve in her body feels like it’s tuned to Paige.

"You don't—" Jo starts before cutting herself off with a gasp. "You don't have to be so gentle—"

"I want to be," Paige murmurs, her voice low and raspy right in Jo's ear. Her fingers move slow and steady over Jo's clit, just the lightest circles. Jo can't breathe right, can hardly think straight.

The brunette's lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Just a sharp inhale and a soft whimper. Her hips tilt without permission, chasing Paige's hand, chasing more. Always more. But Paige stays patient, almost maddeningly gentle, like she’s not in a rush to get Jo anywhere fast. Like she wants Jo to feel every second of it. And she does. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Her breathing’s ragged now, and she doesn’t even realize she’s right up in Paige’s ear until she hears herself—these little shaky exhales that are barely words. Her fingers are still twisted in Paige’s hair, holding on like it’ll keep her grounded, but it’s not working. Nothing’s working. She’s already coming undone.

“Mm, Joey,” Paige murmurs, soft and affectionate. Jo shudders under her.

The nickname lands different when Paige says it like that, her voice low and rough, mouth brushing Jo’s neck like a whisper. There’s something about it—something real, something tender—that makes Jo’s stomach flip and her chest ache at the same time. Paige isn’t even looking at her right now, but Jo feels completely seen. Like she’s being held open, emotionally and physically, and Paige isn’t flinching.

And then Paige’s fingers slip inside her—slowly, carefully—and Jo’s whole body jerks.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, voice cracking with it.

Her legs twitch. Her back arches slightly. Her grip on Paige’s hair tightens just enough to make Paige hum into her neck again, the vibration going straight through her.

It’s not even the stretch—it’s the feeling. Of being filled. Of Paige inside her. Of how fucking gentle she’s being, even though Jo’s already a mess.

Paige kisses the side of her neck, right below her jaw. “You okay?” she murmurs, fingers still, waiting.

Jo nods fast. Too fast. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah."

She doesn’t even recognize her own voice. It sounds wrecked. Desperate. Real.

Paige pulls back just enough to look at her, just for a second, and the way she’s looking—eyes half-lidded, hair a little wild, face flushed—it makes Jo’s stomach clench. Paige looks at her like she’s the only girl in the world.

Jo swallows hard. Tries to hold her gaze, but it’s too much. She looks away, cheeks burning, even as her hips roll up to meet Paige’s hand again.

Paige moves her fingers slow, deep, and steady. She knows exactly what Jo needs—enough pressure, enough rhythm, but still that soft touch that makes Jo feel like she’s being cherished, not just fucked. It's just what she wants.

Paige continues pumping her fingers as she shifts downward slightly, her hair dragging across Jo's chest. Paige is moving lower, kissing her way down, mouth trailing heat and intention. And for a split second, Jo thinks maybe she should let her. Maybe she should just stay quiet, let it happen, let Paige do whatever she wants.

But then that flicker of something—hesitation? vulnerability?—cracks through the haze, and Jo tightens. Not because she doesn’t want it. God, she wants Paige all the time, wants her in every version of every possible way. But right now… right now it's not what she needs. She doesn't need more sensation. Doesn't need more heat. She just needs Paige.

She reaches out without even thinking, slipping her arm around the back of Paige’s neck, fingers brushing lightly at her nape. Paige stills immediately, head tilting up.

“Wait,” Jo whispers, voice still wrecked, hoarse around the edges. She swallows and clears her throat, eyes searching Paige’s. “Can you just… stay up? Wanna be close to you.”

It comes out a little shakier than she means it to. A little too soft, like the words were waiting somewhere in the center of her chest and just fell out. She hopes it doesn’t sound weird. Doesn’t sound like rejection. She doesn’t want to push Paige away, not again, she wants the opposite really—she wants her here.

Paige pauses, hovering above her, the dim light catching the edge of her profile. Her face softens instantly. Something shifts in her expression, something gentle and open, and Jo swears she could cry from how easy Paige makes it feel to be honest.

“Yeah, baby,” Paige murmurs, and she leans back in, pressing a kiss to Jo’s mouth like she never left. No hesitation or confusion, just genuine understanding.

Jo’s fingers tighten against the back of Paige’s neck, like she’s scared she might slip away if she doesn’t hold her close enough. But Paige stays right there, kissing her slowly, her weight settling over her again. And even though her hand doesn’t stop—doesn’t stop moving between Jo’s legs, fingers still deep and steady—somehow it feels less about sex now. More about them. About the feeling of being known. Which is all Jo ever feels with Paige.

Jo isn’t sure how long Paige keeps touching her—how long her fingers move slow and deep inside her, how long she whispers into her mouth and kisses her through every breathless high and trembling exhale—but time has stopped mattering. The only thing Jo can register anymore is this. Paige’s weight on top of her. Her body surrounding hers like a blanket. Her hand between Jo’s thighs, slow and steady and so fucking tender it makes Jo want to cry.

It’s not just the pace, either. It’s the care. Paige listens—every time Jo’s hips shift, every gasp she lets slip out into the warm space between them, every twitch of her legs—Paige listens. Adjusts. Presses deeper. Circles tighter. She speeds up just slightly when Jo starts breathing faster, moaning against her mouth. She goes back to slow when Jo arches like she’s too close, like she needs to calm down before she loses it completely. It’s all so—attuned. Like Paige is playing her. Like Paige knows her body better than Jo ever has.

Jo can feel it building, low and hot and dizzying. The kind of orgasm that creeps up on her until it’s too late. And her body is already starting to fall apart, little tremors moving through her legs, her stomach, her chest. She’s soaking. She knows it. She can feel it with every drag of Paige’s fingers, slick and shame-free.

"You're doin' so good, baby," Paige whispers, her lips brushing the skin of Jo's ear between words.

Jo whimpers, her head falling back, neck arched, mouth open and useless. "P..."

"Mm, I know. I know, Joey." Paige kisses the edge of her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "Just breathe. I got you."

And then Paige curls her fingers just right and presses her thumb with a little more pressure on her clit and Jo breaks.

The orgasm hits hard—fast and unforgiving—and Jo cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that feels like it comes from somewhere buried under her ribs. Her thighs lock up around Paige’s hand, legs trembling, chest heaving. She clutches at Paige’s back with both arms, desperate and wordless, just trying to anchor herself.

“I got you,” Paige murmurs, her voice calm and close and steady. She slows down again, working Jo through it, kissing her softly, over and over. “I got you, I got you."

And Jo just nods. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth against Paige’s neck. She holds on until her muscles finally give out, her body limp and shaking in the aftermath.

They stay like that for a while—no rush to separate, no need to fill the silence. Paige eventually slips her hand out, wiping it gently on the blanket, and Jo doesn’t flinch when she touches her stomach. She doesn’t even look away. Just breathes, lets her heart slow down, lets her chest rise and fall against Paige’s, feeling her own body come back to itself.

Later—she doesn’t know how much later—they’re lying on their sides, tangled up in sheets that don’t quite cover everything, skin warm and still a little sticky from sweat and each other. The lights are low. The room is quiet in that safe way, where nothing has to be said unless they want to say it. And Jo doesn’t want to talk. Not yet. She’s never felt like this before. Not just sated, but… settled. Like everything that used to rattle around inside her has finally found a place to rest.

Paige’s fingers are tracing gentle lines along her back. Slow, meandering. Like she’s drawing her own version of a map, just for Jo. And Jo lets her. She keeps her eyes closed, her forehead pressed to Paige’s collarbone, one leg hooked lazily over her thigh.

She doesn’t know how to explain what this feels like. Just that it’s not scary. Not anymore.

“Still with me?” Paige mumbles after a while, voice rough with sleep.

Jo hums. “Mmhm.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jo whispers. Then, after a second: “You?”

Paige shifts just enough to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah.”

Jo opens her eyes slowly, blinking at the soft shadows on the ceiling. Then she tilts her face up, finds Paige already looking at her. Their eyes meet in that quiet way—no dramatics, no swelling music, just two people staring at each other like maybe they’ve figured it out. Maybe this is the part where things stop running from them.

Jo brushes her thumb across Paige’s ribs, right over the place her breath moves. "I love you."

Paige grins down at her, as real as anything Jo has ever seen. "I know."

[tommysparkles]

19 for the cuddle prompts 🥺🫶🏻

kelllyyyyyy 19. when someone's sick. I did Buck sick, so now it's Tommy's turn 🤭 Please excuse the fact that this is probably not medically accurate.

This is not how Buck ever thought he'd spend a Friday night, but he supposes it's what happens when your husband collapses to the kitchen floor, unable to stop coughing so hard that he can't breathe. He supposes he can take comfort in the fact that even though they're currently in the ER of First Presbyterian, at least Tommy's in his arms. So there's that, he thinks.

Tommy gives a weak cough behind his mask from where his face is tucked into Buck's neck. Buck tightens the arm around his shoulder, kisses the top of his head through his own mask, tries to cuddle him as close as he can.

"Okay?" Buck murmurs.

Tommy coughs again. "No."

Fair enough. He'll even tell him that he's proud he was totally honest with him when Tommy can breathe easier again.

"Mr. Kinard?"

Buck holds an arm up for the nurse. "Over here. We, um, might need some help. He's not very steady right now."

She motions to another nurse and they both make their way over, helping Buck lever Tommy out of the chair.

"We can get a wheelchair," the nurse says.

"No wheelchair," Tommy says mulishly.

Buck sighs and looks at the nurses.

"You may not have a choice, Mr. Kinard," she says gently. "Come on, let's get you back."

They get Tommy back to a room, get him into the hospital gown and the nurse takes Tommy's vitals.

"Oxygen is a little low," she admits. "But not dangerous levels. I'll let the doctor know you're ready okay?"

"Thank you," Buck says as he helps Tommy settle against the pillows, trying to find some way to alleviate the pressure in Tommy's chest. "Okay?"

Tommy nods and holds out a hand. Buck takes it and kisses his palm.

"Sorry you're stuck here," Tommy says, eyes fluttering closed, then open again, like he's trying to keep himself awake. Buck's heart aches with sympathy; he knows exactly how tired Tommy is.

"You're here," Buck says gently. "Where else am I going to be?"

Tommy's eyes smile a little at that. Buck kisses his forehead.

The doctor comes in, examines Tommy and orders some chest X-rays. A couple of hours later, they've got a diagnosis of bronchitis.

"We're going to keep you here for a couple more hours," she says. "Get you on a nebulizer treatment. We don't want this turning into pneumonia."

"Okay," Tommy rasps. "Thanks."

She smiles, pats his leg. "Of course. Press the call button if you need anything. We'll get the neb in here as soon as possible."

"Thank you," Buck says. She leaves with one last sympathetic look and Buck turns back to Tommy, sees his face mostly covered by an oxygen mask to keep his levels stable.

"Well, babe," Buck says, sitting on the bed near his hip. "I know we said we wanted more dates to keep up some variety in our marriage, but I'm not sure this was the way to go."

Tommy huffs a laugh, which devolves into a coughing fit. Buck winces. "Sorry."

"S'ok," Tommy murmurs. "Cuddle with me."

Buck examines the bed. "Don't think we're both going to fit on there."

Tommy looks at him with big, blue eyes, sleepy and sick. Damn it. Tommy knows what showing vulnerability like that does to him. He guesses that's what a decade of marriage will do.

Buck sighs. "Scootch over."

Tommy does and soon enough, they're both lying with Tommy curled into Buck's chest. His breathing seems to be a little easier like this, to Buck's relief. He runs a hand up and down his back.

"So tired," Tommy mutters.

"I know you are, baby," Buck answers. "Try and sleep, for now, okay? I've got you."

Tommy curls impossibly closer. "I know."

[fieldofdaisiies]

Shadows of Dawn IV

"During Amarantha’s reign, she would delight in ripping out the feathers of Peregryn she was displeased with - one by one. She once made a dress out of the feathers."

third part / story masterlist / azriel taglist

Whatever it is about his presence, it calms you. The way he looked at the Autumn Court males with their sneers and dirty looks, the way his power radiated in that moment and how his shadows curled around him, ready to strike, it calmed you. And made your heart slow down. You weren’t afraid, weren’t scared, you know with him in the room, nothing would happen to you. His presence somehow steadies you. Although it confuses you, you like it.

And somehow, you have to admit that you like him. His calmness. How observative and gentle he seems. Something draws you to him.

And that’s why it feels right that you asked to speak to him alone. You know it. It is the right thing to do. And you feel it deep inside your heart. 

Right where the bolt of pain went when you saw his insecurity about his scarred hands. You know this feeling all too well. Know exactly what it is like. To carry those scars, those old wounds, and being ashamed of having them while actually you should be proud of having survived whatever tried to break you. 

It’s the right thing to do. The right decision.

You politely excused yourself after the meeting, and so did Azriel, now walking beside you outside the large marble doors. You deliberately ignored the look your brother gave both of you that said “the Night Court male is a dead male if he only as much as dares to touch my sister“. You still feel his eyes on you, and have to release a little chuckle the moment you turn the corner and are finally out of sight. 

“Your name is Azriel, right?“

“Yes, exactly,“ the tall male beside you answers, and you feel his eyes on your face. 

“It’s a beautiful name,“ you tell him and turn to him, smiling softly. “I’m Y/N.“

Now it’s his turn to smile before the unreadable mask falls in place again. “I was quite surprised when you suggested this,“ —he gestures between the two of you— “this rather private meeting.“

You dip your chin, unsure of what to say because quite honestly, you also surprised yourself with your suggestion.

You have and will always be careful and a little reserved around males, not able to fully trust them. But with Azriel it felt and still feels different. Like he would never hurt you, never make you fear him. Like you could trust him already. 

“I know, I’m sorry if I caught you off guard.“ You lead him towards a small door, gestures at it before pulling down the handle and leading him inside. “It’s just that … uhh … well, I have seen your reaction to me looking at your hands and I wanted to apologise. I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable.“

“You didn’t,“ he answers and presses his lips in a thin line. Silence falls upon you once more as you lead him through a chamber, then a corridor until you arrive on a secluded balcony bathed in the golden light of the lowering sun.

His shadows cling to him like armour, but they flicker a little unsettled. You can feel the weight of the silence around you, heavy with things neither of you knows how to say.

Azriel forces another small smile onto his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So you brought me here to apologise? Which you obviously don’t have to do.“

“You lower your chin and step closer to him. “I do. I made you feel uncomfortable and I am very sorry for this.“ Shaking your head, you take another step closer. 

“As I said, you didn’t. You really didn’t. It had nothing to do with you looking at my hands, more with … how I still feel about them.“

This is when you decide to be brave. There are courts between you, politics and everything. You should be professional but in this very moment you are just you. You are just fae. With feelings and emotions and so you reach out, taking his hands into yours, gently, slowly, reverently.

His skin is warm and calloused beneath your touch, his fingers twitching slightly in surprise. But he doesn’t pull away. He lets you hold him and electricity sparks between your palms. 

“I wasn’t staring because I pitied you, Azriel. I was just… seeing you,“ you tell him and swallow roughly. “Your scars… they’re not something to hide. They are proof that you survived. That you didn’t break. That you are stronger than whatever tried to break you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but his shadows still, and something flashes in his eyes before they begin to glisten over. 

“I didn’t want you to think I was uncomfortable because of you. I wasn’t. I just didn’t know how to say it then.”

”That’s alright,“ you comfort him, smiling softly up at him. You have to tilt your head back because he is so tall. But not in an intimidating way.

For a moment there’s just silence between the two of you. Not an uncomfortable one, but one where you hold each other’s gaze and everything around you fades into insignificance.

Eventually, you draw in a deep breath and open your lips. “You’re not the only one wearing scars, Azriel.” You inhale once more and let go of his hands as you step back. 

He looks at you with a mix of confusion and fear, a deep crease forming on his forehead as if unsure of what to expect. 

You turn around, your back facing him now and sweep your hair over your shoulder. 

Your fingers move to the right strap of your dress, hesitating only a moment before you pull it aside, then the left one as well, catching your dress in the front and simultaneously revealing the pale, pinkish splotches and lines etched across your back.

You don’t turn away. You let him see them. All of them.

A shiver runs through you when you feel him approach. When you feel his fingers hovering just above your skin. 

”May I?“ he asks, voice hoarse, at the edge of breaking and you nod. 

>>>>>

Although his hand is already lifted, Azriel can’t move for a moment. He just stands there, staring at the scars carved into your back. His whole body trembles, shaking with pain and anger for you. Who did that you? Who hurt you like that?

It’s clear that where there are now scars, there once used to be wings. He can make out the joints, the attachments that once used to be there because he carries the same…

His breath catches. Not from shock, but from the weight of it. What it means. He knows what it means. The phantom pain he has been feeling all the time. That never made sense. His eyes widen. His heart stutters. It’s yours. He’s been feeling your pain.

The shadowsinger doesn’t know how to breathe. How to act. How to keep upright. He draws in a sharp inhale and closes his eyes. Then opens them slowly. He needs to get a grip on himself. He’s a warrior, some even call him a brute, but when he touches you, his fingers brush over your skin as softly as a feather. 

His shadows curl tighter around him, his mind whispering truths he’s not ready to face.

The bond.

It has to be.

It has to be the mating bond.

You are his mate.

That dull ache in his wings, the sharp pain in his back that came and went and made no sense, it was all your pain.

He swallows hard as his fingers drift across your skin. He can’t tell you. Not yet. But he’s almost certain now. The bond is there. Between you. Strong and slowly coming alive.

His voice is low, tinged with emotion as his fingers still for a moment. “May I ask… where you got them from?” You didn’t ask him, but he wants to know.

You stiffen, shoulders tensing and he can hear your breath catch. 

For a moment, he thinks you won’t answer. That he pushed too far. That he crossed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. But then you nod, just once and your shoulders lift with a deep intake of air.

“Under the Mountain,” you finally say with a trembling voice.

Azriel’s blood runs cold.

“Amarantha… she ripped out my wings. Made a dress out of them.” You swallow roughly. “And made my brother and Thesan watch because Thesan didn’t obey one of her orders.“

Azriel’s hand, the one not touching you, curls into fist at his sides. Rage and sorrow start to brew inside him.

He wants to break Amarantha back to life only so he could kill her again. Rip her into shreds. Tear her apart. Piece by piece.

But he can’t do that. All he can do is gently place his hand on your shoulder.

"When she took my wings, it felt like she took part of who I was. She took my freedom." You turn to him, pull the straps of your dress back in place, and hold his gaze. "I knew that if I ever get to leave Under the Mountain … it would be without my wings. Without ever being able to fly again."

You haven’t noticed that you have reached for his arm, holding onto him to steady yourself. "Your High Lord offered to eliminate every part of remembrance I have of this day…but it’s not what I wanted. This day I lost part of myself, but I wouldn’t give up. I did not let her win. She tried to humiliate and destroy me, but she didn’t win. She died and I lived."

"Because you are stronger than her." Azriel inhales sharply. "Stronger than most fae I know." He swallows thickly, letting you hold onto him. "I had no idea you two know each other. That it was you … who got her wings taken. Rhysand told us the story. But I had no idea it was about you. That you might know one another."

A small, sad smile appears on your lips. "Well, how could you, Azriel? We’ve only just met. And Rhysand and I don’t really know each other. I was scared of him Under the Mountain, in all honesty. But I … I think it was the worst for my brother. She made him watch, bound him with magical shackles and forced him to watch me get my wings taken. I know he acts strong, but I‘m not sure if this nightmare will ever leave him. He cares too much, loves too much, his heart is too big, and I know she broke him just as much that day."

A tear slips out of the corner of your eye and rolls down your cheek. "But he was also stronger than her, didn’t let her win. He fought and keeps on doing so every day. It makes me proud and gives me comfort."

"I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like for him," Azriel says solemnly. He‘s already devastated from just hearing the story, but being there, watching as the wings from the person you probably love the most get taken … he can’t even put it into words what this must be like.

"I don’t think I can't talk more about this day right now." You close your eyes for a small moment.

"That‘s alright. You don’t have to, but I want you to know that I‘m always here to listen." Azriel steps the tiniest bit closer.

"Thank you," you whisper. 

There’s a moment of silence, then—

“Can I…?”

You glimpse up at him with wet eyes, pulling your dress back in place and dipping your chin. 

Azriel opens his arms, heart stuttering as he tries to steady his breathing. You step into him like you belong right there, and he wraps your arms around you, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other resting lightly on her spine.

It feels a little wrong, a little inappropriate - this is an official, political meeting, and there’s no place for such things in such a meeting. But why does it feel so right then, Azriel thinks. And knows the answer. 

Because you are mates and your souls have finally found one another. 

Your heartbeat thuds against his chest, and he can feel it beat just as fast as his own. It is almost too much, almost getting too much, the closeness, the yearning, the desire. 

Azriel closes his eyes, and inhales your scent while holding you safely within his arms. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t speak of the bond, although it’s becoming more and more alive deep within him. 

Now, however, is not the right time to talk about it. It would be out of place, overwhelming, and he can’t risk scaring you off. 

One day, when he’s ready, he’ll tell you. For now he just holds you. And lets you know that you’re not alone. And he will make sure that you will never hurt again.

>>

story tag list: @apenasandorinha @i-am-infinite @shinyghosteclipse @whoreforfictionalmen18 @aevoit @sstrohma @readingintooblivion @breathingstarlight @byteme05 @1-800-crazy @buttermilktea11 @ashduv

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @cadiawrites @bookishbroadwaybish @tele86 @fuckingsimp4azriel 

[mingiatz]

Y/N thinks Kang Yeosang is cold and arrogant. He’s actually just shy—and secretly been crushing on her for years. A group project, late-night study sessions, and a little chaos from his friends slowly pull them closer.

Pairing: Kang Yeosang (ATEEZ) × Female Reader (Y/N)

Trope(s): Slow Burn, Academic Rivals-to-Lovers, Found Family

Genre: College AU, Romance, Fluff, Light Angst, Comedy

Featuring: All ATEEZ members as Yeosang’s friends + Y/N’s best friend

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

"Okay,” Y/N said, hands on her hips. “Tonight is the night.”

Yeosang stared at her like she had just declared war.

“You’re going to practice the presentation,” she continued, “in front of a real audience.”

Yeosang blinked. “I thought you meant… you.”

“I am the audience. But also—” she opened the door to the living room dramatically “—so are they.”

On the couch: Wooyoung, San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho, Seonghwa, Hongjoong, and Y/N’s best friend.

All of them holding snacks. All of them looking way too excited.

“Oh no,” Yeosang whispered.

“Oh yes,” Wooyoung grinned. “Present for us, Yeosang. Show us the magic.”

“This is not a safe environment,” Yeosang muttered.

“Don’t be shy,” Mingi said. “Well, you can be a little shy. That’s kind of your thing.”

Y/N nudged Yeosang toward the front of the room. “Come on. You’ve got this. Think of it like exposure therapy—except with snacks.”

“I hate this.”

“You’ll be fine.”

He inhaled deeply, opened the laptop, and clicked to the first slide.

Then stood there.

Silent.

Blank stare. Slightly trembling hands.

And a visible blush creeping up his neck.

Y/N could practically feel him short-circuiting.

She stepped up beside him and lightly touched his forearm. “Hey,” she whispered, “you’re okay.”

He turned to look at her—

—and immediately turned red.

Like, full-blown, tomato in a hoodie red.

Wooyoung made a noise like he was choking on popcorn.

“I’m going to combust,” Yeosang said under his breath.

“You’ve got this,” Y/N said gently, smiling at him. “Start with the thesis. Just like we practiced.”

He nodded once—tiny, panicked—and started reading the first slide. His voice was quiet, a little shaky, but it came out.

“Today, we’ll be presenting a comparative analysis of how…”

From the couch, Yunho gave him two big thumbs up.

Jongho leaned over to Hongjoong. “He’s talking. This is progress.”

Y/N’s best friend leaned over to Wooyoung and stage-whispered, “He’s sweating.”

“He’s in love,” Wooyoung whispered back.

Yeosang made it to the second slide before his hands started shaking again.

Y/N stepped in and read the bullet points aloud with him, her shoulder brushing his.

When she glanced over, he was trying very hard to look anywhere but directly at her.

“Almost done,” she murmured.

“I think I’m dying.”

“Nope. Still breathing.”

“I’m not meant to do this in front of people.”

“You’re doing great,” she said softly.

He looked at her. Really looked.

And for a moment, the entire room seemed to fade.

Until—

“Woooo!” Mingi cheered. “That was not terrible!”

“Yeosang didn’t pass out!” San added.

“I give it an 8.5 for content and a 12 for blushing,” Wooyoung said.

Yeosang slowly closed the laptop.

Then sat down.

Then buried his face in his hands.

Y/N laughed and sat next to him, gently patting his back. “You survived.”

“I need to go into hiding.”

“I’m proud of you.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “Really?”

She smiled. “Really.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Later that night, after the snacks had been eaten and the chaos had moved on to a heated Mario Kart tournament (and Wooyoung had been dramatically defeated by Y/N’s best friend, much to everyone’s delight), Yeosang offered to walk Y/N home.

It wasn’t a long walk. The moon was out, and the air was crisp.

They didn’t talk much at first.

Then: “Thanks,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him. “For what?”

“For making me do that. Even though it sucked.”

She smiled. “You didn’t suck. You did great.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Sure you could’ve.”

He shook his head. “You… make it easier. Talking. Being around people. I don’t feel like I have to perform.”

Y/N’s heart did a weird little flutter.

She stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. “Well… good. I’m glad.”

They stopped at her dorm entrance.

Yeosang looked at her like he wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

So she said it for him.

“I’m really glad we got partnered for this project.”

He blinked. “You hated me at first.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was wrong.”

He smiled.

It was small.

But real.

And suddenly, she didn’t feel confused anymore.

She just felt… warm.

Y/N had never felt this prepared for a presentation before.

She was calm, focused, confident.

But mostly?

She was watching Yeosang.

Because even though his grip on the cue cards was a little tight and he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t retreating. He was right beside her, standing tall, mouth set in quiet determination.

And when it was his turn to speak?

He did.

His voice was soft—but clear. Steady. Every line they’d practiced came out just right, and when his eyes flicked to hers, she gave the smallest nod.

And he kept going.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud.

But it was Yeosang. Thoughtful. Direct. Present.

By the time they reached the conclusion slide, the professor looked genuinely impressed.

When it was over, Y/N smiled and closed the laptop. “Thank you,” she said to the class. “We’ll take any questions now.“

No one raised their hand.

A few students even clapped softly.

Which was basically a standing ovation in their department.

They left the classroom in a stunned kind of silence.

Then Y/N turned to him, wide-eyed. “We nailed that.”

Yeosang let out a breath like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. “We did.”

“You didn’t even stutter!”

He gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “I blacked out a little.”

She laughed—and then, without thinking, threw her arms around him.

“You did so good,” she said against his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

For a split second, she panicked. Maybe that was too much. Maybe she’d just overwhelmed him—

And then his arms came around her.

Gentle. Steady. Careful like he thought she might disappear.

She froze for half a second.

Then melted.

Yeosang was warm.

And soft.

And smelled like clean laundry and something faintly sweet.

And—most dangerously of all—he held her like he meant it.

They stayed like that for longer than was strictly necessary.

Until finally, slowly, she leaned back.

But his arms didn’t drop immediately.

And her hands didn’t either.

And when they looked at each other—really looked—everything else went quiet.

Y/N’s heart was beating too fast.

Her stomach flipped like it had been waiting for this.

And suddenly, she wasn’t confused anymore.

She knew.

She liked him.

And it wasn’t a maybe. It wasn’t a crush.

It was… real.

Something in his eyes shifted, too. Like he was on the verge of saying something.

And that’s exactly when it happened.

“Yeosang!”

Two girls from their department walked up—giggling, hair flipped, eyes bright.

“You were amazing in there,” one of them said, stepping way too close.

“Seriously,” the other added. “You should present more often. It was, like, really impressive.”

Yeosang took a step back instinctively, one hand awkwardly dropping to his side.

Y/N blinked, the warm bubble between them immediately popped.

“Oh,” one of the girls said, just noticing her. “You’re his partner, right?”

“Right,” Y/N said flatly.

“Cool. Anyway—Yeosang, do you want to come to the study café later? We’re planning a group session. Could be fun.”

Y/N felt her jaw tighten.

Yeosang glanced at Y/N, hesitating. “I—uh—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the answer.

She stepped back, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Well,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Congrats again. I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t look back as she walked off.

But she didn’t miss the look on Yeosang’s face—caught between regret and something he didn’t have time to say.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

A week passed.

Seven days.

And Y/N still hadn’t stopped thinking about the way Yeosang held her.

It wasn’t just the hug. It was how he melted into it. How his arms didn’t fall right away. How warm he felt. How safe.

And how the moment broke when those girls walked over, all flirty smiles and sparkly lip gloss.

She’d told herself it didn’t bother her.

She was fine.

Except… she wasn’t.

Because for the past week, she’d been catching herself smiling at nothing.

She’d been replaying his laugh in her head, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

She found herself staring at his name in their shared Google Doc like it might blink back at her.

And worst of all?

She missed him.

Even though their project was done. Even though they hadn’t officially made plans to see each other again. Even though she was pretty sure she’d said “I’ll see you later” like she wasn’t dying inside.

Her best friend noticed, obviously.

“So are you gonna tell him you’re in love, or should I just post it on the student bulletin board?”

“I’m not in love,” Y/N muttered, flopping face-first onto her dorm bed.

Her friend raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m not weird. I’m emotionally compromised.”

“So… in love.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ve said that every time I’ve been right,” her friend said smugly.

Y/N groaned into her pillow.

That afternoon, she escaped to the library.

Not to see him. Not really.

She just needed to focus.

Except she couldn’t even focus on focusing, because two familiar voices drifted from the next table over.

“I’m still so bummed he said no,” one of the girls said with a pout. “He’s so dreamy when he talks. That presentation? Instant crush.”

“Same. I thought we had a chance,” the other one sighed. “But he turned us down so politely. Said he was busy and already had plans.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly.

She pretended to read the same paragraph three times.

Plans?

She smiled to herself without realizing.

And suddenly, she didn’t care what the plans were.

All she cared about was the quiet, warm satisfaction blooming in her chest.

She stayed in the library longer than planned.

Hours passed. Her coffee got cold. The sky outside turned dusky blue, then deep indigo.

By the time she packed her bag, the main lights were dimmed and most of the tables were empty.

Y/N blinked at her phone.

11:14 p.m.

Crap.

She hadn’t meant to stay that late.

Still… she didn’t want to bother anyone. It wasn’t that far. Just a ten-minute walk.

She pulled on her coat, tugged her bag higher on her shoulder, and stepped out into the night.

It was chilly, the kind of cold that slipped beneath your sleeves.

The streets were quiet—only the hum of faraway traffic and the occasional flicker of streetlights keeping her company.

She told herself she was fine.

It was fine.

Until the fourth time she thought she heard footsteps behind her.

And that tiny, anxious feeling began to creep in.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The walk home was quiet at first.

Just cold air, her boots on damp pavement, and the echo of her own thoughts.

She shouldn’t have stayed so late. Should’ve asked her roommate to meet her. Should’ve taken the longer path through the dorms instead of the shortcut past the empty campus quad.

But she didn’t.

And now someone was walking behind her.

At first, she told herself it was a coincidence. Same direction. No big deal.

Until he sped up.

Until she could hear his breathing.

Until she stopped walking, and so did he.

Y/N’s heart kicked up in her chest.

She tightened her grip on her bag and kept moving, a little faster this time, ducking her head as fat raindrops started to fall.

Great. Perfect.

“Hey,” the guy called, footsteps quickening. “Wait up.”

She didn’t.

“Hey! You dropped something.”

She glanced back instinctively—and he was closer now. Too close. Early 20s. Hoodie up. Smile too wide.

“I didn’t drop anything,” she said quickly, turning away again.

“You sure?” he asked, catching up with her now, matching her pace. “I thought I saw something fall.”

“I’m fine. Thanks,” she said, voice clipped.

He reached for her arm.

She flinched.

“I just wanted to talk,” he said. “You’re pretty. What’s your name?”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said firmly, pulling her wrist away.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, stepping in front of her. “I’m just being nice. Give me your number, yeah?”

“No.”

“Come on—”

“I said no.”

She tried to move past him, but his hand caught her wrist again—tighter this time.

“I’m being polite. Don’t make this weird.”

Her breath hitched. The rain came down harder now, soaking her hair, her coat, everything. Her heart pounded like a warning siren.

“Let go of me,” she said, sharper now.

But he didn’t.

Not until—

“Let her go.”

The voice was quiet. But firm.

Deadly, even.

She looked up—and there he was.

Yeosang.

Soaked from head to toe, hood down, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. A plastic convenience store bag swinging from his wrist, forgotten.

His eyes were locked on the guy.

Cold. Sharp. Unmoving.

The guy let go of her like he’d been burned.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he muttered. “Just wanted to talk.”

“She said no.”

The guy scoffed, but took a step back. “Whatever, man. You don’t need to act like her bodyguard.“

Yeosang didn’t respond.

Just stood there. Still. Staring.

And somehow, that was enough.

The guy muttered something under his breath and finally walked away, disappearing into the rain.

Y/N stood there, frozen.

Drenched.

Shivering.

Yeosang stepped toward her.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

Her voice barely worked. “I—I think so.”

He didn’t touch her. Just stood close enough to block some of the rain with his body.

“You’re soaked,” he said, brows furrowing. “Come on.”

“Where—?”

“My dorm,” he said. “You need to get out of the rain.”

She wanted to say she was fine. That she could make it home.

But the adrenaline was still buzzing under her skin. Her wrist ached faintly. Her heart was still racing.

And Yeosang—quiet, gentle, solid—was looking at her like she was someone worth protecting.

So she nodded.

And followed him into the dark.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang didn’t say much on the walk to the dorm.

Y/N was too cold, too wet, too stunned to speak either.

The rain hit hard and fast, plastering their clothes to their skin. Her shoes squelched with every step. Her fingers were frozen.

But Yeosang stayed close. Every time a car passed too close or a puddle splashed near her, he shifted—subtle, instinctive—like a barrier she didn’t know she needed.

By the time they reached the dorm, her legs felt numb.

He unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside, motioning for her to follow.

She barely got a foot through the door before—

“Yo, did you buy the spicy ramen or the normal one?” Wooyoung called from the kitchen.

“Please say spicy,” San added. “I need to feel alive.”

“I swear to god if you brought that off-brand crap again—” Jongho started.

Yeosang sighed quietly, kicking his shoes off.

“Oh my god, just admit you have a little crush and—”

“Shut up,” Yeosang said under his breath.

The guys went quiet for a beat.

Then Yunho peeked out from the kitchen and froze. “Uh… guys?”

Mingi followed. “What—oh, shit.”

In seconds, all seven of them were crowding the hallway.

Y/N stood there, dripping water on the floor, eyes wide and shell-shocked.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asked first, voice low and serious.

“Why is she soaking wet?” Hongjoong added.

“Did you fall in a fountain? Are you okay?” San asked, already moving to grab a towel.

“I’ll get blankets,” Yunho said instantly, rushing off.

“Wait, wait—what happened?” Wooyoung said, looking from her to Yeosang. “Why do you both look like you got chased by ghosts?”

And that’s when the adrenaline wore off.

Y/N opened her mouth—and it hit her.

Her wrist still ached. Her coat was heavy with rain. Her hair was stuck to her face.

But worse than all of that… her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“I—” she choked, voice cracking.

And then she was crying.

Like, full-on tears. Ugly, embarrassing, unstoppable tears.

They came without warning—fast, loud, real.

Yeosang’s eyes widened in panic.

“I—I was walking home and this guy—he followed me,” Y/N gasped, holding her wrist. “He grabbed me. I told him to stop, and he wouldn’t—he grabbed me and I couldn’t—”

“Hey, hey,” Seonghwa said immediately, stepping forward. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

Wooyoung was already tossing her a fresh towel. “What the hell? What guy?!”

“Where is he?” Jongho said sharply.

Yeosang didn’t say a word. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Y/N sobbed, wiping her face. “He wouldn’t stop. I thought—if Yeosang hadn’t been there—”

Yeosang finally spoke. “You’re safe now.”

His voice was calm. But cold.

Colder than any of them had ever heard it.

They got her into the bathroom with Seonghwa’s help. Hot water. Clean towels. A fresh hoodie and sweatpants from Yeosang’s room.

The house was uncharacteristically quiet by the time she came out—hair damp but clean, face puffy from crying, bundled in clothes two sizes too big.

She found them all in the living room.

Blankets. Hot tea. A pillow on the couch with her name on it.

Yeosang looked up when she entered.

Everyone else gave her space.

He didn’t.

He walked right up to her, gaze flicking to her wrist.

The second he saw the bruise forming beneath her sleeve, something shifted.

His expression didn’t change much.

But she saw it.

The tension in his jaw.

The way his hand closed into a fist for half a second.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked away silently, returning a moment later with an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

He held it out without a word.

When she hesitated, he gently—so, so gently—took her hand, sat beside her, and settled the pack on her wrist himself.

Y/N blinked down at their hands.

He was so careful.

Like she was glass.

And when she looked up?

He was already looking at her.

And she blushed.

Hard.

Because he wasn’t saying anything dramatic. Wasn’t declaring vengeance or swearing to protect her forever.

He was just… there.

Present. Steady.

And suddenly, her heart didn’t feel so broken anymore.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The spare room was warm, the hoodie Yeosang gave her soft and clean and comforting. The sheets smelled like fabric softener and something vaguely like cedarwood.

But she couldn’t sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, her mind flashed back to the street.

To the stranger’s hand around her wrist.

To the words she said—I said no—and how little they had mattered.

She curled into herself tighter, tucking her knees up, gripping the blanket like it might anchor her back into the present.

She wasn’t cold anymore, not physically.

But she was still shaking.

And no matter how many times she told herself she was safe—inside, dry, surrounded by people she trusted—her heart refused to calm down.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, she sat up and looked at the door.

Her body moved before her brain fully caught up.

Barefoot and silent, she padded across the hallway and stopped in front of Yeosang’s door.

Her hand hovered for a second.

Then she knocked—softly. Barely a tap.

The kind of knock that said "I need you.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang couldn’t sleep either.

He laid on his side, staring at the ceiling, fists curled in his sheets, chest still tight with rage.

That guy.

That stranger.

The moment Yeosang saw him with his hand around her wrist, something in him snapped.

He wasn’t loud. He never had been.

But he didn’t need to be.

Because one look at her face—wide-eyed, rain-soaked, terrified—and all he could think was, get her away from him. Now.

And later, in the living room, when he saw the bruise—

God, he hadn’t even realized how tightly his jaw was clenched until his teeth ached.

She’d cried in front of all of them.

She never cried. Not like that.

She looked fragile. Not weak—never weak—but breakable.

And he hated that someone had made her feel like that.

Even now, all he wanted was to make it stop. To rewind time. To put himself between her and the world before it hurt her.

Because he didn’t just like her anymore.

He… felt something else. Bigger. Softer. More terrifying.

And then—knock knock.

He sat up immediately, heart jumping.

That knock wasn’t one of the guys.

He crossed the room and opened the door carefully.

And there she was.

Barefoot. Hair damp. Sleeves pulled over her hands. Looking smaller than usual. Sleep nowhere in her eyes.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey,” he echoed, blinking. “Are you… okay?”

“I just—” she looked down. “I can’t sleep.”

He stepped aside instantly. “Come in.”

She hesitated for only a second. Then slipped past him and into the room.

He watched her, still stunned that she was here. That she’d come to him.

She didn’t look at him right away—just stood there awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching the hem of the hoodie.

“Do you… want to stay in here?” he asked softly.

She nodded, eyes flicking to the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he added quickly. “You can have the bed. It’s clean.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He was already moving, grabbing an extra pillow and a folded blanket from his shelf.

Y/N stood there for a moment longer, and then—just as he sat down on the floor beside his bed—she whispered, “Thank you.”

He looked up.

She was looking right at him now.

And she wasn’t shaking anymore.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The room was dark, lit only by the soft glow of Yeosang’s desk lamp and the occasional flicker of headlights from the street outside.

Y/N sat on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Yeosang was on the floor beside her, back against the wall, long legs stretched out, hair still damp from the rain earlier. He hadn’t changed out of his hoodie yet, and it looked too big on his already lanky frame.

Neither of them spoke at first.

It wasn’t awkward—just… quiet.

Like they were both waiting to see who would break the silence first.

Y/N did.

“Does it always feel like this?” she asked softly.

Yeosang looked up. “Like what?”

“After something scary happens. Like your body’s here, but your brain hasn’t caught up yet.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s like… delayed fear.”

“Exactly,” she murmured. “I didn’t cry at first. I didn’t even feel scared. But now… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His voice was quiet when he replied. “That’s normal.”

She looked down at her hands, wringing the fabric of the blanket. “I hate that he touched me. I hate that I froze. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did everything right.”

“But I couldn’t stop him—”

“You didn’t need to,” he said firmly. “It wasn’t your job to fight him off. It was his job to listen. And he didn’t.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She glanced at him, eyes stinging.

Yeosang didn’t look away.

“You were brave,” he said. “You still are.”

A beat of silence.

Then—“You were brave too.”

He looked almost embarrassed at that. “I didn’t do much.”

“You showed up,” she whispered. “That was everything.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. His ears turned red.

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it felt fuller—like something had been shared, something important and unspoken.

Y/N laid back slowly, her head sinking into the pillow, body finally beginning to relax. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then, without turning, she said:

“You know… the bed’s big enough for two.”

Yeosang blinked.

His breath hitched ever so slightly. “You want me to…?”

“If you want to,” she said quietly. “It’s just… less weird than talking to the ceiling.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly—cautiously—he stood and climbed onto the bed.

He didn’t face her.

He laid down with his back to hers, keeping a careful distance, arms tucked to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

Neither of them moved.

The only sound was the soft ticking of Yeosang’s old wall clock and the gentle exhale of their breathing.

After a minute, Y/N shifted just a little, and their backs brushed.

He froze.

She did too.

But neither of them moved away.

And like that—barely touching, breath shared, hearts loud in the quiet—they fell asleep.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Warm.

That was the first thing Y/N noticed.

The second was weight—gentle, steady, wrapped around her like gravity had finally decided to be kind.

She blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the early gray light filtering through Yeosang’s window.

She wasn’t alone.

She was tangled in something—someone.

Her cheek was pressed against something solid. Warm. Bare.

Something that rose and fell steadily beneath her.

Her eyes drifted downward, confusion blooming.

Her hand.

Under his shirt.

Resting flat against skin.

Firm, warm skin.

She felt—

Abs.

She felt Yeosang’s abs.

Y/N’s entire brain froze.

She tensed instinctively, but Yeosang shifted just then—pulling her slightly closer in his sleep.

His chin rested gently on top of her head. One of his arms was draped around her waist, the other loosely curled under the pillow they shared.

She hadn’t even realized they’d moved during the night.

She definitely hadn’t realized they were now spooning.

Full-body contact. Legs tangled. Skin-to-skin.

And he was warm. Really warm.

And—

Softly, she felt him stir.

He inhaled against her hair, his breath warm at her temple, and then—

Still half-asleep, his voice low and rough:

“Good morning.”

Y/N stiffened.

Yeosang stilled.

And in the silence that followed, you could feel the exact moment his brain caught up.

His entire body tensed.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

He was very aware of where her hand was.

She was very aware of… everything else.

And yet—

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift or untangle or recoil like she expected.

He just exhaled a quiet, shaky breath and whispered again, “Good morning, Y/N.”

Her heart thundered.

She dared to look up at him.

His face was bright red. Eyes wide. But calm.

Soft.

He looked at her like she was something fragile and holy.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t let go.

Just kept her in his arms like this was the most natural place for her to be.

And somehow, despite the flustered panic coursing through her veins—

She didn’t want to move either.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“I think I accidentally felt his abs.”

Her best friend froze mid-spoonful of ramen.

“…You what?”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, groaning into the sleeve of her hoodie. “I woke up, and my hand was under his shirt. He didn’t even say anything—just said good morning and let me stay there.”

There was a long pause.

“Girl.”

“I know.”

“You. Felt. His. Abs.”

“I KNOW.”

Her best friend put down her spoon slowly, then folded her hands like this was a formal intervention. “Y/N. Please explain to me how this doesn’t mean he likes you back.”

Y/N threw herself backward onto the couch dramatically. “Because! He’s Yeosang. He’s quiet and polite and soft-spoken and smart and way out of my league.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he didn’t pull away, but he also didn’t like… do anything either. Maybe he was just being nice.”

Her best friend stared.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Y/N muttered.

“No,” she said. “Because you’re being ridiculous.”

Y/N sat up again, cradling her tea. “I like him.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I really like him,” she repeated, softer this time. “Like, it’s not just a crush anymore. It’s worse. I like his voice. I like how he listens. I like that he reads the feedback on every paper we write. I like that he gets overwhelmed in big groups but never leaves anyone behind. I like how he brings snacks to the library even when he says he’s not hungry. I like him.”

Her best friend blinked. “…And the abs.”

Y/N groaned. “Yes, and the abs.”

She sighed, leaning her head on the back of the couch.

“I think I’m going to tell him.”

That made her friend pause.

“Seriously?”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Not because I think he likes me back. Just so I can… let it out. Get it off my chest. Move on.”

Her best friend gave her the most exasperated face she could muster. “You’re literally confessing like it’s a funeral.”

“I’m just being realistic!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I can’t keep feeling like this and pretending I’m okay when he sits next to me and smells like vanilla and safety.”

Her best friend snorted. “Vanilla and safety?”

“You know what I mean.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Well,” her friend said, finishing the last of her ramen. “When you confess, just make sure you’re not standing near any sharp corners. Because if Yeosang turns red the way I know he will, and then tells you he likes you back, I want you conscious enough to enjoy it.”

Y/N stared at her.

“I’m just saying,” her friend continued. “He looked at you like you hung the damn moon. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

Y/N’s heart pounded. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

Y/N bit her lip.

“I’m gonna do it,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll be here with tissues and cake if you need them,” her best friend said with a grin. “But you won’t.”

“Because he’ll reject me gently?”

“Because he won’t reject you at all.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“I woke up,” Yeosang said, staring blankly into his mug, “and her hand was under my shirt.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Bro.” Wooyoung gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth like he was personally offended. “YOU WOKE UP AND SHE WAS TOUCHING YOUR ABS?”

San choked on his cereal. “Did you say anything?”

“I said ‘good morning.’”

“You WHAT?!” Jongho yelped from the kitchen.

Yeosang sank lower into the couch.

“It was the first thing that came out,” he mumbled.

“Was she—like—touching-touching?” Mingi asked with wide eyes.

Yeosang’s ears turned violently red. “Her hand was… resting there.”

Seonghwa blinked slowly. “So she was basically cuddling you and copping a feel.”

“I don’t think it was on purpose—”

“Was she awake?” Yunho asked.

“I think so. Eventually.”

Wooyoung tossed a cushion dramatically into the air. “And you just stayed like that?! You didn’t combust?!”

Yeosang stared into his mug again. “I was… comfortable.”

The room exploded.

“I knew it!” Mingi shouted. “He’s in love.”

“He’s BEEN in love,” Hongjoong muttered, flipping through his notebook like this wasn’t groundbreaking.

“I’m not—”

“You let her sleep on your chest like a damn K-Drama lead,” Jongho said, pointing. “You’re in love.”

Yeosang didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

Because the truth was—he was.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. But somewhere between awkward library sessions, midnight ramen runs, watching her fuss over color-coded slides, and that terrifying moment in the rain—

It hit him.

She wasn’t just a crush anymore.

She was a feeling.

A presence.

Someone he wanted to protect. Someone he wanted to see smile. Someone whose voice made his heart speed up in the weirdest, softest way.

And now?

Now he was ruined.

“I think she’s going to forget me,” he said suddenly.

Everyone paused.

“What?” Seonghwa said gently.

Yeosang blinked slowly. “The project’s over. We don’t have an excuse to hang out anymore.”

“That’s why you make one,” San said, clapping him on the back. “Ask her out.”

“I can’t just—ask her out.”

“Why not?” Yunho asked.

“She probably doesn’t feel the same.”

“She fell asleep on your chest, hand on your abs, and didn’t scream.” Wooyoung pointed out. “That’s a pretty solid indicator.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… don’t want to scare her off.”

“She came to you when she was scared,” Jongho said softly. “That means something.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Yeosang said it—barely a whisper.

“I really like her.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Mingi whooped. Yunho flung his arms in the air. Wooyoung collapsed onto the floor like it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard.

“Finally,” Hongjoong muttered with a smirk. “Now do something about it before she thinks you don’t like her.”

Yeosang blinked.

Wait.

Was that possible?

Was it possible that she didn’t know?

That she couldn’t see it every time he smiled at her?

Every time he panicked over saying the right thing?

Every time he stood quietly next to her because the only alternative was staring at her too long?

Maybe she didn’t know.

But maybe she would.

Soon.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

It started as a normal day.

Well—normal by “I’m hopelessly in love with my former project partner” standards.

Y/N had asked Yeosang to meet up at the student café. Just a casual “we haven’t talked in a while” message that took her three hours to write and rewrite.

He said yes within two minutes.

She got there early.

Too early.

By the time Yeosang arrived, she was already on her second tea and nervously picking apart a muffin.

And of course—of course—he looked ridiculously good. Oversized hoodie, hair soft and slightly messy, a shy smile that nearly knocked her out.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” she echoed, trying not to combust.

They talked. About classes, campus rumors, a professor who’d mispronounced someone’s name as “Chandelier.” It was easy.

Until it wasn’t.

Two girls from the literature department passed by their table.

They paused.

Smiled.

“Hey, Yeosang,” one of them said sweetly, twirling a strand of hair. “Are you coming to the group poetry night tomorrow? We’re reading tragic love poems. You’d fit perfectly.”

The other one giggled. “We saved you a seat.”

Y/N glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He smiled politely. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Aw,” they pouted. “Too bad.”

They left with one last lingering look.

Y/N stabbed a piece of muffin with unnecessary force.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asked, turning to her gently.

She looked up, caught.

“What? Yeah. Fine.”

“You seem… quiet.”

“I’m always like this.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Not really.”

And that’s when she cracked.

“I just—” she burst, voice lower than usual but sharp with frustration. “It’s like… you’re so nice. To everyone. And people flirt with you constantly and you’re so polite about it that they never stop. And maybe it’s not a big deal to you, but I—I care.”

Yeosang blinked, stunned. “Y/N—”

“I like you, okay?” she said suddenly, words spilling out. “I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while now. And I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought maybe it would go away, or maybe I’d stop thinking about your dumb shy smiles or how you smell like clean laundry all the time, or how you always stand a little closer when I’m tired like you can tell—”

She paused, heart pounding.

Yeosang hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t said a word.

He was just… staring.

And her heart sank.

“Oh,” she said, voice small. “Okay. It’s fine. You don’t—”

“No—” he blurted suddenly, eyes wide. “Wait, no. I’m just—processing.”

Y/N stood up. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—needed to say it.”

“Y/N—”

“I’ll go. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

And then she turned and walked away before she could cry in public.

Yeosang sat frozen in his chair.

Staring at the empty space where she had been.

She liked him.

She liked him.

And he’d let her walk away.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

“Y/N!”

Her name rang out louder than she’d ever heard it.

Y/N didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Her face was burning, her heart felt like it might shatter right through her ribcage, and she just—couldn’t stand there and watch him pity her.

So she kept walking. Fast. Past the other café tables, past a few students turning their heads, past her own spiraling heartbeat—

“Y/N, wait!”

Footsteps.

Fast ones.

Then—

A hand caught her shoulder.

Not rough.

But firm.

And then the other hand, on her opposite shoulder.

She turned instinctively, startled, ready to snap or run or crumble—

But stopped cold.

Yeosang stood right in front of her, breathing hard.

And for the first time since she met him—

He wasn’t calm.

His hair was a little windblown. His eyes wide and urgent. His voice, when he spoke, cracked just slightly.

“Just—listen. Please.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

People were watching.

A few tables over, someone had stopped mid-bite.

But Yeosang didn’t care.

His hands stayed right there on her shoulders, gentle but grounding.

“I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t believe it,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Because I thought—there’s no way she’d like me back.”

Y/N blinked, frozen.

Yeosang swallowed hard.

“I’ve had a crush on you since freshman year.”

The world tilted.

“I sat behind you in that intro literature seminar,” he continued, voice softer now but still breathless. “You wore that oversized hoodie and had notes in different colors, and I thought—I’ve never seen anyone concentrate so hard in my life. And then you made that joke about Shakespeare being overrated, and I laughed for like ten minutes. Quietly. Internally.”

Y/N’s lips parted, stunned.

“I never talked to you,” he said, voice dropping. “Because I didn’t know how. Because every time I tried, I got so nervous I couldn’t form a sentence. You made me nervous.”

She blinked rapidly. “Yeosang—”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop you sooner,” he said. “I’m sorry I stood there like a statue instead of saying everything I’ve wanted to say for years. But I’m saying it now. I like you. I’ve liked you since before we ever spoke. I like your weird movie rants and your angry typing and your laugh when you don’t care who’s listening. I like you.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You… really mean that?”

He nodded. “I do.”

Silence stretched between them.

Around them, the chatter had quieted. A few people had definitely heard. Someone near the espresso machine was visibly eavesdropping.

But Y/N didn’t care anymore.

Because Yeosang was in front of her.

Heart open.

Hands warm on her shoulders.

And nothing else mattered.

She stepped closer, barely a breath between them now.

“Say it again?” she asked, a whisper.

“I like you.”

She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I like you too,” she whispered back. “Even when you’re a statue.”

He let out a breathy laugh, full of disbelief—and then, slowly, carefully, pulled her into his arms.

And this time?

Neither of them pulled away.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang didn’t let go.

Not when her arms slipped around his waist.

Not when her forehead pressed against his shoulder.

Not even when they both noticed the awkward silence around them.

Someone coughed loudly from a nearby table.

A girl whispered, “Did you see that? Oh my God.”

Another person muttered something about calling dibs on writing a campus confessions post about it.

Yeosang slowly pulled back, eyes flicking up—then immediately down, cheeks flushing pink.

Y/N peeked around his shoulder.

At least four people were staring.

“I—um,” she stammered, eyes wide. “Maybe we should… go.”

Yeosang nodded, already reaching for her hand. “Yeah. Come on.”

They walked quickly, barely speaking, too overwhelmed to say anything coherent.

Y/N’s hand stayed tucked in his the whole way.

His palm was warm.

Steady.

When they got to the dorm, the house was empty—blessedly, finally quiet.

The guys were all out: some in class, some gaming elsewhere, one probably asleep in the library.

Yeosang opened the door and let her in first.

No chaos. No teasing.

Just… peace.

He kicked off his shoes and led her up the stairs to his room without a word, their hands still tangled.

When the door shut behind them, she turned slowly, still catching her breath.

Yeosang stood near his desk, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

His hair was slightly messy, and his cheeks still held a soft flush.

It was quiet.

Safe.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly.

He looked up.

“I’m still kind of reeling,” she admitted with a shy smile. “You—you really meant all of it?”

He nodded. “Every word.”

She sat on the edge of his bed. “I didn’t know you were into dramatic public declarations.”

“I wasn’t,” he said honestly. “But��� you were walking away. And I panicked.”

Her chest squeezed. “I almost didn’t tell you at all.”

“Why did you?”

She swallowed. “Because I liked you too much not to. And I thought maybe… if I said it, I could finally move on.”

He stepped closer, something soft and searching in his gaze. “Do you still want to?”

“Move on?” she asked.

He nodded.

She shook her head.

Slowly.

“No,” she whispered. “I just want to move closer.”

She stood up.

They were barely a foot apart now.

She reached for his hand—slowly, deliberately—and watched as he laced their fingers together.

“Can I…” she whispered. “Can I kiss you?”

Yeosang didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at her like she was something sacred.

Then, finally—quietly—he nodded.

She leaned in.

Their noses brushed. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, his to her waist. And for a second, they just breathed the same air, hearts pounding between them.

And then—finally—

She kissed him.

Softly.

Gently.

With every slow, aching beat of the past few weeks blooming between their lips.

Yeosang kissed her back like he’d been waiting years.

And maybe he had.

At first, the kiss was soft.

Like they were afraid to break it.

But then Yeosang’s hand slid up her back.

And everything shifted.

His fingers found the nape of her neck, gentle but grounding, as his mouth pressed firmer against hers — less hesitant now, more sure, like something inside him had finally snapped free.

Y/N’s breath caught.

She wasn’t prepared for this. For him like this.

Because Yeosang — who was always quiet, always composed, always lingering just outside the center of attention — was kissing her like he meant it.

Like he’d imagined it.

Like he’d waited years to feel this.

His other hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer, their bodies now chest to chest. She let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he kissed her again — deeper this time, more urgent, like the room had gone silent and she was the only thing left in the world.

She gripped the front of his hoodie, heart hammering, knees slightly weak. Her other hand found his jaw — sharp, warm, real — and the feel of him under her fingertips made her dizzy.

They moved in sync, one kiss blurring into the next.

Everything else faded — the dorm, the walls, the time, her nerves — all of it.

Gone.

Just Yeosang.

Just the warmth of his lips and the way he tilted his head and exhaled so softly when she tugged him closer.

And then—

“BROOOO—”

The door slammed open.

“—GUYS. You will not BELIEVE the—OH MY GOD WHAT THE—”

Y/N yelped and broke the kiss instantly, stumbling a step back.

Yeosang’s hands shot to her arms, steadying her, eyes wide, lips very kissed.

In the doorway stood Wooyoung.

Behind him? Mingi. Then San. Then Yunho, already starting to wheeze-laugh.

They all froze.

No one said a word.

Then—

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Wooyoung shouted gleefully. “I LEAVE FOR TWO HOURS AND THIS HAPPENS?”

Yeosang, completely red-faced, cleared his throat and muttered, “Can you… get out?”

“You made out!” San said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Our boy made OUT.”

“I told you!” Mingi pointed at Yunho. “I TOLD YOU he’d be freaky in private!”

Y/N covered her face with both hands, mortified.

Yeosang looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“I swear to god,” he muttered, “if one of you breathes wrong, I’m locking this door for eternity.”

Wooyoung saluted. “Carry on, Romeo.”

Then the door slammed shut again.

Silence.

Then Y/N, still blushing, peeked at Yeosang.

“…They’re never going to let us live that down, are they?”

He sighed.

Then smiled.

“No. But I don’t care.”

She blinked.

He stepped forward again, voice softer now.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for so long.”

Her heart jumped. “Really?”

He nodded, gaze never leaving hers. “And… I’d kind of like to keep going. If you want.”

She laughed — breathless, flushed, floating.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I really want.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The next morning, Y/N walked into the café with a spring in her step and dread in her soul.

Because her best friend was already waiting at their usual table — grinning.

And she knew.

“Morning,” Y/N said innocently, setting her bag down.

Her best friend took one look at her, sipped her coffee like it was tea in a courtroom drama, and said:

“So. You and Abs Boy?”

Y/N choked on air. “Wh—what?!”

“Don’t you what me,” she said, pointing a perfectly painted nail. “Wooyoung already posted about it in the group chat. Something about walking in on a ‘PG-13 Yeosang experience.’”

“I—He—We—It wasn’t like—!”

Her best friend arched a brow.

Y/N gave up and dropped her face into her hands. “We kissed, okay?”

“I know.” She smirked. “So. Was it good?”

Y/N groaned.

“Oh my god it was good.”

“AHA!”

“I hate you.”

“No, you love me,” her best friend said sweetly. “Now. Spill.”

Y/N peeked up from her fingers. “He kissed me like he forgot what air was.”

Her best friend clutched her chest. “I knew shy boys had it in them!”

Y/N was still blushing so hard her ears hurt. “And then the others walked in.”

“WHAT.”

“It was chaos.”

“I miss everything,” she hissed dramatically. “I need a full reenactment.”

Before Y/N could bury herself in embarrassment any further, her phone buzzed.

Yeosang

“Heading to campus. Want to meet after class?”

Her heart jumped.

She tried to type something normal. She failed. She typed “yes” with three exclamation marks, deleted it, retyped it with one, then deleted that and sent a simple:

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Yeosang was not prepared for what walking into the dorm kitchen would be like the next morning.

The second he stepped into the room:

A chorus of wolf whistles.

“Ohhh, look who’s alive!” San called. “Barely survived the night, huh?”

“Was it romantic?” Mingi asked with fake curiosity. “Did you quote poetry?”

“Did you even breathe between kisses?” Wooyoung added, waving his cereal spoon.

Yeosang grabbed a banana and ignored them.

“Bro,” Yunho said, grinning. “You’re glowing.”

“Glowing?” Seonghwa repeated, arms crossed. “He floated down the stairs.”

Yeosang just sighed and peeled his banana.

“Are you gonna tell us how it happened?” Jongho asked, sipping his tea.

“No.”

“So she made the first move?” Wooyoung guessed.

“She asked if she could kiss me,” Yeosang mumbled.

Cue absolute uproar.

“She WHAT?!”

“That’s hot.”

“I’m jealous.”

“I told you she liked you!”

Yeosang rubbed the back of his neck and, despite himself, smiled.

“She kissed me,” he said again. “And it felt… right.”

The room quieted for a moment.

Then San clutched a hand to his heart. “Our Yeosang is in love.”

Yeosang didn’t deny it.

Because honestly?

He was.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

The group hangout was Yunho’s idea.

Which meant chaos was guaranteed.

He claimed it would be “a chill little gathering” at the dorm with “just snacks and a few games.” Naturally, this translated to three boxes of pizza, mismatched playlists, and half of ATEEZ already arguing over Mario Kart when Y/N and her best friend arrived.

“Welcome to the zoo,” Y/N whispered as they stepped inside.

Her best friend’s eyes immediately locked on Wooyoung, who grinned and pointed. “You. Still ignoring my charm?”

She smirked. “What charm?”

The room howled.

Mingi clutched his chest. “Bro, she’s gonna ruin you.”

“Ruin me gently, please,” Wooyoung said dramatically, earning a pillow to the face.

Meanwhile, Yeosang had come down from his room at the first sound of Y/N’s voice.

He wasn’t glowing exactly, but he might as well have been.

He made his way to her slowly, quietly, like always — but when she turned and smiled at him, the room blurred.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” she echoed, stepping into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And this time?

No nerves.

No second-guessing.

Just warmth.

Her best friend gave her a subtle thumbs-up across the room. Y/N tried not to grin too hard.

The rest of the evening was a blur of snacks, teasing, and way too many stories being told at Yeosang’s expense.

“He used to turn bright red if you asked him his favorite movie,” Seonghwa said, mid-game.

“He once wrote Y/N’s name on his notebook and then panicked and tore the page out,” Jongho added proudly.

Yeosang buried his face in Y/N’s shoulder. “Why did I agree to this.”

“Because,” she whispered, smiling, “you like me.”

He peeked up at her. “I really do.”

Later, when the games wound down and people started sprawling out across the dorm in various stages of post-pizza coma, Y/N and Yeosang found themselves back in his room.

Just the two of them again.

She sat cross-legged on his bed, fingers playing with the edge of his hoodie.

“I never thought this would happen,” she admitted quietly.

“What? Us?”

She nodded. “I thought you didn’t even notice me.”

He leaned forward, hand finding hers. “I noticed everything.”

She looked up, breath catching.

He smiled. “The way you drink tea like it’s serious business. How you hum when you’re reading. That tiny crease in your eyebrow when you’re confused.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered.

Yeosang squeezed her hand. “You used to feel so far away. Like something I wasn’t brave enough to reach for.”

“And now?”

“And now,” he said, leaning closer, “you’re here.”

She kissed him — soft, slow, content.

No rush. No panic.

Just them.

Weeks later, a new semester started.

People still whispered when they walked across campus together — the quiet top student and the girl who used to complain about him nonstop.

But now?

She held his hand.

He kissed her forehead before class.

And when they passed the café where everything changed, she smiled and said, “Still think I was imagining it?”

He shook his head. “Not even for a second.”

Because the thing about Yeosang and Y/N?

They took a while.

But the best things always do.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[akairawrites]

Can u make a childhood friends to lovers Timeskip oikawa fic?🤭 Thanks!!

The gym always smelled like sweat and floor polish—familiar, a little disgusting, but comforting in its own way. That was how it felt to Y/n. Like a second home. Maybe even more of a home than her actual house.

She sat on the wooden bleachers with a half-eaten taiyaki in her hand, watching the Seijoh volleyball team wrap up their evening practice. Her eyes, as usual, were fixed on a certain setter with soft brown hair and a cocky smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

Oikawa Tooru.

To everyone else, he was the flirty captain with a bright future and fangirls for days. To Y/n, he was the boy who once showed up outside her house at 2 AM after losing a match and cried in her arms without saying a word. He was the boy who stole fries off her lunch tray without asking and sent her voice memos of terrible love songs in the middle of the night. He was her best friend.

He waved at her now, two fingers raised lazily in greeting before turning back to bark orders at Iwaizumi, who flipped him off in return. She smiled.

God, she was in trouble.

⸻

It wasn’t just the late-night calls or the little smiles he saved only for her. It was the way he listened. Really listened. Like she was the only person in the world who mattered. He made her feel seen—known. And Y/n hated that somewhere along the way, that feeling had shifted and became something deeper.

“Y/n-”

Speak of the devil.

Oikawa jogged up to her after practice, towel slung around his neck, cheeks flushed from the heat. He dropped onto the bleacher beside her with a dramatic sigh.

“I swear Iwa’s trying to kill me.”

“You probably deserve it,” she said, handing him the last bite of her taiyaki without thinking. He accepted it, grinning.

“You wound me,” he said, mouth full. “After all I do for you?”

She snorted. “Like what? Steal my food? Humble me with your eternal volleyball rants?”

“Exactly,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “You’d be bored without me.”

Maybe. But lately, being around him made her heart twist in ways she didn’t understand. Like today—he’d high-fived a girl after practice and Y/n had felt something sharp and bitter curl inside her chest. It was stupid. He wasn’t hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer now. “You good?”

She blinked. “Yeah, just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, gazing at the empty gym ceiling like it held answers.

“You ever think about what comes next?” he asked. “Like after high school?”

Y/n hesitated. “All the time. It’s terrifying.”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped to a rare quiet. “I wanna go pro. I have to. I can’t be average. Not with… everything I’ve worked for.”

She looked at him then, really looked. At the shadows under his eyes. The pressure he carried like a second skin.

“You’re not average, Tooru.”

His eyes flicked to hers—wide, surprised. She rarely used his first name. But she meant it.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You always believe in me. Even when I don’t.”

She nudged his shoulder. “That’s what best friends are for.”

Right. Best friends.

⸻

The night he left for Argentina, she didn’t go to the airport.

She couldn’t. Because if she saw him—suitcase in hand, that brave smile on his face—she might have said something she’d regret. Might have asked him to stay. Might have told him everything she’d buried under years of bad timing and silent goodbyes.

Instead, she left a note in his locker.

“I’m proud of you. Go become a star, Tooru. I’ll be cheering for you. Always.”

He never replied.

And she never asked why.

Six years was enough time to grow out of a crush.

Or so Y/n told herself.

She lived in a quiet apartment now, tucked away above a bakery that always smelled like vanilla and fresh bread. Her life was calm, neat, uncomplicated—far from the storm of adolescence, far from loud gyms and louder boys with reckless grins and soft brown eyes.

But sometimes, in the stillness, Oikawa Tooru found her anyway.

He showed up in dreams. In the way the light hit the floorboards at dusk. In the ache that bloomed when she heard someone speak Spanish under their breath in line at the market. She hadn’t seen him in years, but his name lingered like a phantom on her tongue.

And then, one ordinary Tuesday, her phone buzzed.

Oikawa Tooru:

“Hey. I’m coming back to Japan for the off-season. Want to meet up?”

Her heart stuttered.

She stared at the message for a long time—like it might vanish if she blinked. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year. Not since he posted a photo of a trophy and captioned it with a pun only she would have laughed at. Not since she’d let herself believe that maybe he was finally out of her system.

Y/n:

“Sure. When?”

⸻

They met at a small café tucked between tall buildings in the heart of Sendai. He’d picked it.

When she arrived, he was already there—sitting near the window, coffee in hand, sunglasses perched in his messy brown hair.

He stood when he saw her, and for a second, time blurred.

He looked the same. And completely different. Older, somehow. Shoulders broader. Face sharper. There was a tiredness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—but also something gentle. Like peace. Like he wasn’t running anymore.

“Hey,” he said, smile blooming slow and familiar. “You look exactly the same.”

“You don’t,” she said, lips curving. “You look famous.”

He laughed—a real one, head thrown back—and her chest ached.

They talked. About small things first. His team. Her job. The weather in Argentina. The coffee in Japan. But under every word was something heavier. Unspoken.

Until, eventually, it cracked.

“You know,” he said, stirring his drink slowly, “I thought about you. A lot.”

Her breath caught. She looked up, trying to read him.

“I kept meaning to message,” he said, voice softer. “But I didn’t know if I had the right. I disappeared.”

“You didn’t disappear,” she said. “You chased your dream. I always knew you would.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“I missed you,” he said.

It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t dramatic. But it hit her harder than any confession ever could.

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

⸻

They walked together after, like they used to—side by side, steps in sync, the air thick with everything left unsaid.

Rain began to fall—soft, gentle. He offered her his jacket, even though she didn’t need it. She took it anyway.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked as they turned a corner. “Leaving?”

“No,” he said. “But I regret not asking you to wait for me.”

She stopped walking.

He did too.

“I would’ve,” she said, barely audible.

His eyes searched hers—wide, uncertain, open. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

“I used to think I couldn’t afford to fall in love,” he said. “Not when I hadn’t proved myself yet. Not when I still felt like a failure inside. But I think—”

She cut him off with a small, trembling laugh. “Tooru…”

And then he said it. Quiet. True.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time you made me laugh after I lost that match to Shiratorizawa.”

Her heart clenched.

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” she whispered.

“Maybe it was always supposed to be more.”

⸻

They didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

But when he walked her home that night and paused at her door, he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d been chasing all this time.

Rain tapped lightly against Y/n’s window.

It had been a week since that night with Oikawa—since he walked her home, lingered at the doorstep with eyes full of regret and maybe-love, and left her with a heart too full to sleep.

They’d seen each other twice since then. Always in public. Always talking around it.

She hated it.

Not him—never him. Just this purgatory they were in, where the past and present crashed into each other but neither of them reached for the future.

Until tonight.

⸻

It was late when he called.

“Can I come over?”

She didn’t hesitate.

⸻

He showed up in a hoodie and sweats, damp hair clinging to his forehead from the rain. A memory flashed—him back in high school, complaining about Iwaizumi’s sets and stealing snacks from her bento.

But this wasn’t the same boy.

This was a man who had fought his way to the top of the world. And now he stood in her doorway looking unsure of everything but her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

⸻

They sat on her couch for a while, wrapped in the hush of night. A candle flickered on the coffee table between them. The air smelled like rain and chamomile tea.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Y/n murmured. “About being in love with me.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly.

“It wasn’t a new feeling,” he admitted. “I think… I’ve been in love with you in stages. In high school, it was innocent. Quiet. Something I didn’t understand. After I left… it became loud.”

She turned toward him.

“Then why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His jaw tightened, like he’d rehearsed this answer before.

“Because if you had said no, I couldn’t have handled losing you. Not when I was already losing everything else. I needed you to stay… even if it meant staying just friends.”

Her heart cracked. “That’s not fair. You decided for both of us.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

A beat passed.

Then she said, “I loved you, too. I just didn’t know how to say it. I thought if I waited, you’d come back and feel the same.”

He reached out, gently taking her hand. His thumb traced circles on her skin—soft, reverent.

“I’m here now,” he said.

“And are you ready now?” she asked.

He met her eyes.

“Yes.”

There was no dramatic kiss. No swelling music or sudden tears.

Just a slow lean in. A breath held. A pair of lips brushing like a promise.

When their mouths met, it was soft—familiar. Like they had done this before in another lifetime and had just found their way back. He cupped her face like she might disappear. She curled her fingers into his shirt like she’d never let him go.

[pinkvaquita]

After so... SO FUCKING LONG...

I finally re-desing my oc for one if my oc x canon ships!

Remember Sugar Coated Grape Cookie? Well yer name is just Grape Ade Cookie. Honestly I really wanted a shorted and lesd complicadate thing for her.

And damn it turned out good, SHE IS SO PRETTY <33333

Also, take some doodles of her being down bad for Butter roll cookie :3

[thesnivy123]

I don't wanna be a tragedy, a means to make ammends- I don't wanna be a memory, a picture, happy end~

lyrics from Sleeping In The Kitchen by Addison Grace- i was thinking about how sybil, even if unintentionally, is the reason it all happened, and how maybe it's a good thing her memory is so hazy... can you imagine the sheer guilt of causing the apocalypse?

not that i blame her. i think sybil can do whatever she wants forever <3

[itspeanutlove]

2 of the only artfight drawings ive done so far aaa (my ahh is not consistemt w my style ngl)

[eternadreeblissa]

Man I just realized how better I was at drawing traditional than digital

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

@hilda-appreciation-week Day 1 - Favourite Character(s)

Kaisa (A.K.A - The Librarian)

Wow. Shocker, I know. I unfortunately didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted to do with her for today, so I decided to try out some sketches of me attempting to figure out other drawing styles. Feat my turtleneck Kaisa and my caffeine addicted Kaisa agendas

References - x x x x

[talkfastcal]

i love being a collector btw<3<3

[liliesandthemoon]

memories.

[cicadidae-tm9899]

I'm having an art style crisis rn and the way I'm trying to fight it is by doing studies 👍👍

[lxnarphase]

━ ❝ OH, IT'S MINIKUNA ! ❞

✮₊‧⁺...content: heian era!sukuna x wife!reader, fluff, mentions of childbirth, sukuna is an overly proud father, sukuna is whipped for his wife

✮₊‧⁺...lunar's note: based of this little blurbie and this one too !! needed some fluff with kuna bc he would love having a baby girl idc what anyone says !!! also i did my best describing the birthing process in a time accurate period but it's definitely a bit inaccurate because...i have never had a baby LOL

no one has ever seen sukuna ryomen, king of curses, wince before.

not until today, at the wrath of his pregnant wife who somehow got a hold of his fingers instead of his hand.

one of the nurses did warn him to not give you his finger and to ensure you always hold his hand. but by the gods, he swears you almost ripped his finger off.

it's cute to him, however, when you attempt to curse him out.

'gods, sukuna, i despise your entire being!'

'i know, my wife.'

'i should've never let you get me pregnant, you animal!'

'you begged for it, my wife.'

'i am never letting you bed me again, use your hand for the rest of your existence!'

'you can't keep your hands off me, my wife, no need to lie.'

but the sigh of relief, the way you instantly look down and coo once the sound of wailing filled the air...it makes him melt just a little bit.

he can't deny, seeing you in pain made him heated. it took everything in him not to kill every midwife, nurse, and lady-in-waiting in your birth room for not being able to make this process completely painless.

except chiyo. he would have to reward your personal physician for preparing you so well for this...

what did the old hag like again? wines, meats, gifts for her grandchildren back at home?

hm, yes, that would be great for her. of course, he'll say it was from you. the king of curses shows gratitude for no one.

he's pulled out of his thoughts at the hushed whispers once the other women exam the baby before following your unspoken request to hold your child.

"d-do you think lord sukuna will harm our lady for this...?"

"i hope not, surely he can make an exception, t-they both are still young and can always try for more!"

"but he's the king of curses, t-there no way he won't have a reaction!"

before he can demand what they find so important to discuss in front of you, chiyo hushes the girls with a wave of her hand, ushering the girls to help wipe off your sweat, tears, and clean off the baby—gentle like it's the finest glass, she instructs—before turning to sukuna with a knowing smile.

"well, your greatness...congratulations on having a healthy and gorgeous little girl," she hums, wiping her hands with a clean cloth before going to rinse her hands to help stitch any rips and clean you up.

the room falls silent aside from your soft little coos and the wails of your daughter as you brush the wet, fluffy hair on her little head.

all the women in the room continue to work, but it's clear they are silently waiting for his outburst.

everyone knows that a proper heir to any throne is a boy...but now, sukuna's first born child is a girl.

but rather angry, yelling, and threats to your and your child's life, the room is filled with Suku's booming laughter, which practically shakes the entire room.

instead of an enraged expression, pure delight, and excitement are painted on his face as he sits next to you on the soft cushiony bedding on the floor, his hand caressing the rounded cheek of your newborn.

"so, you've given me a girl," he hums in delight, all four of his eyes narrowing. "this will be the one who takes over my throne once i decide to step down?"

this thing, this tiny, itty bitty baby...came from you both? it's almost laughable how small this baby is compared to his hand, that something so little could be related to him.

she's...nothing short of perfect. "absolutely divine...she will not just be beautiful like her mother, but as powerful as both of us."

he's so proud of you and your child. he would shower your daughter with riches, love, and anything she could ever want and ask for.

but, he couldn't lie.

she's a damned fat baby, big head and all.

"sukuna, watch your mouth!"

he can't help but laugh, not realizing his thoughts came out of his mouth. "what, it's a good thing! means she's healthy," he boasts with a grin, leaning down closer to see her better.

"she looks strong already. as soon as she is able, i will personally teach her how to be a truly malevolent little princess, how to properly slit the necks of her enemies, how to—!”

oh, he is so excited, it's adorable.

“sukuna, shush, i just gave birth to a child with a massive head like yours, give me a moment," you say with a light laugh, your smile still reaching your clearly tired eyes.

“…apologies, my wife.”

chiyo can't help but laugh with you she finishes applying the healing ointment on your lower body, using a bit of her cursed energy to speed up the healing process to help you skip any serious pain.

after all, nothing but the best physician for you in sukuna's palace.

"always such an excitable boy, my lord, ever since you were a young man," she hums, helping one of the midwives properly wrap your baby in the soft, clean cloth.

"be gentle with her," you instruct him, gently moving your arms toward him so he could take the little bundle. he's...nervous, but he hides it well.

you place your daughter in his arms and he looks down at her, suddenly conscious of how loud he's breathing. she's got his hair, still a bit wet but soft and fluffy. it's pink, just like his.

a pleased rumble vibrates his chest, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

but then...her eyes open.

both sets.

he almost didn't notice it at first, they're just so small, but they're there. the same color as yours, pretty and big, filled with so much life.

his eyes burn, vision getting blurry. no words come to his head, he can't think of anything to say. he's so caught up in his thought he doesn't even notice chiyo ushering the other girls in the room out and shutting the door before quietly tending to you with water or food.

she knows that look, you do as well. she's been around longer than uraume to know her master, knowing the king of curses since his young years as the unwanted child of the village, abandoned by his mother for his 'horrid' appearance.

she was lucky to have found him before the villagers got to him, torches, axes, pitchforks and daggers in hand to take care of the child who they believed to have brought misfortune to their home.

getting him to safety was one of the best decisions she'd ever made, king of curses or not. no child deserved to be abandoned like that. and now, he's seeing himself in that tiny little being in his arms right now...chiyo can only imagine what he's feeling.

so, out of respect, she keeps her gaze averted, pretending she does not see the misty gaze he gives your daughter. this is a moment for you and him, and she does her best to make all her movements as quiet as possible.

all sukuna can think about in this moment is how he used to be just as tiny as this. he was just as vulnerable in his mothers arms. he couldn't talk, couldn't speak, couldn't fend for himself.

yet, his parents looked down at him just like this and decided he was an abomination and didn't give him a chance.

but now?

sukuna knows he would never, ever let anything happen to this little bundle in his arms. he would rather destroy the entire planet before letting anything happen to his baby girl. no one would make his little one suffer and live to see another day.

he flinches just a little, feeling your soft hand rubbing his bicep. "it's okay, my love," you softly coo at him, reaching up to wipe a tear from his eye before it had a chance to drip down his cheek. "she's going to grow up feeling loved and cherished because she's got a great father."

"hmm..."

a smile crosses his features as he looks back down, looking at the squirming baby so makes a little noise before calming down when he strokes her little, chubby cheek again to keep her from crying again.

"and she's got a great mother. she'll be the most wonderful princess in all of history," he says with a toothy grin, chest rumbling with a laugh.

"aww, my love, that's so sweet..."

"seriously, though, how in hells did you squeeze this thing out of ya? thing's got the head of a watermelon."

"sukuna, give me back my baby, and chiyo? get this man some food to stuff in his mouth before he says something to warrent the rage of a new mother."

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