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lupinqs · 1 hour ago

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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."

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thattimdrakeguy · 2 days ago

Text

Yeah, Tim SHOULD still be Robin.

When it comes to the discussion of whether or not Tim should still be Robin, especially when I see so many comic book site articles about it--it bugs me. It's almost always written from the perspective of artificial rules, rather than the characters themselves.

And I won't lie to you.

That's sort of dumb.

I think if you write your characters based on superficial rules and not what they'd naturally do, you are almost definitely not a good character writer. You're instead kind of a hack.

If you wanna be convinced that Tim should be Robin still, you'll probably want to read this. We go through it all, from origins, to character development. To even bringing up Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, EDDIE BROCK, and even FLASH THOMPSON. To make the point as clear as it can be. So strap in, or strap on if you really have to do that while you read this. What ever floats your boat Time management is important and I hear that's been a lucrative industry for quite some time now.

Originally I was just going to be annoying and force this post to be super long on your dash and in the tags, but I don't have the heart to do that. But please, check out what's said down below.

Robin was never meant to be specifically a children's role, there was no reason to believe Dick would ever stop being Robin, until the 80s, when continuity was held in lot stronger regard, and they cared possibly way too much about the marketability of Batman and Robin as a duo.

Any time they showed an older Dick beforehand, if he wasn't already Batman to take the place of Bruce specifically, he was still Robin, because why would he not be? Seriously, why wouldn't he be? This is what was going to be expected from Robin.

So they made another Robin, in this case Jason, to be the Robin of Batman and Robin, and they honestly just got pretty lucky Dick at that point had been in a continuing character arc about getting out of Batman's shadow to begin with. So wanting a name less associated with Batman worked.

They got lucky that worked as well as it did.

And people still complained, because let's face it, it's kind of stupid to a degree. But there was enough logic that it stuck.

And then readers and writers didn't like Jason. Sure, maybe the vote was rigged. But there has been enough stated that would still greatly imply enough people didn't like Jason enough to motivate the idea to have the vote to kill him off to begin with. You simply don't normally do that with a beloved character.

So they made Tim Drake, a character who's entire existence, revolves around being Robin.

And allow me to explain what I mean by that, because given nearly every Robin was made with the intention to be Robin, that sounds like a pretty stupid statement.

For example.

Why is Dick Robin?

Because he is Robin. That was his crimefighter alias. What are you talking about?

Stupid question.

Why was Jason Robin?

Better question.

Because he was taken in, and depending on the continuity, was either gifted the title from Dick, or just plain freaking gave it by Batman, because, boy I don't know why they went with that. Certainly didn't help Jason's case when they were in the process of making him a rough around the edges character, people weren't gonna naturally like when his violent tendencies were revealed.

Why was Tim Robin?

Marv Wolfman basically had to make sure this character HAD to be Robin when making him. If they had another child die on Batman, Bruce may be seen as an f'n sadist for picking up more orphans almost as if he got enjoyment out of it.

Tim's life story was basically leading up to the point he became the third Robin.

He was there when the Grayson's fell, he figured out Batman and Robin's identity, he tracked down Dick to try and get him to be Robin again because he believed in Robin so much. He loved Robin over Batman.

And as even stated by Marv Wolfman himself, had no aspirations to be anything but Robin.

So do you now hopefully see the difference between a character that was made Robin, and a character that was made specifically to be the defacto Robin going forward, with his entire real world backstory entirely designed to be Robin, where as other characters were made to be themselves first and for most? (after post-crisis for Jason, but still.)

Robin was just who Dick was.

Robin was what Jason was given to try something new after Pre-Crisis Jason was a creative failure.

Robin was everything that motivated and powered who Tim is as a person and character.

You can take Robin away from Jason, and he'd still be who he is, just not Robin. A street kid, with bad mental health, but a heroic heart.

You take Robin away from Tim and what are you left with? Nobody really. Because so much of who Tim is, is specifically dictated by ROBIN.

Now obviously character development is a thing, but if you try to look at me straight in the eye and tried to convince me that DC handled everything amazingly in the transition from Tim to Damian, I'll laugh straight in your face.

Writers can write whatever they want. These characters aren't real people. I'm not gonna take what just any writer wrote as gospel, because this is a creative medium, and I can have my own opinions on rather or not I think an art piece achieved its goals. And I think having characters contradict past behaviors and beliefs to make something happen is some pretty awful character writing.

Seriously, I dare you to read Tim's entire Robin existence and act like you can give it a character analysis the same way you could a character like Jesse Pinkman or someone.

You'd be lying to yourself if you said you could because you couldn't. After a while they couldn't even keep consistency between series. Read Tim during One Year Later, both in Teen Titans, and his own Robin series, it's like two totally separate people. You'd have to do mental gymnastics to try and make it work.

We had mentally worn down, but still idealistic Boy Detective Tim going on the same time as--

Angsty, miserable, obsessive super genius scientist Tim--

Tim had never even been a scientist before, he's just a bit geeky. How the hell did he do this?

So let's not bother, shall we?

If we're gonna talk quality decisions, we have to deal with quality writing.

And I actually like Damian as Dick's Robin. It's the only time that character personally worked for me. But the way they handled it happening was absolutely terrible. This is not me hating on the character. You'll catch me shitting on a lot of Damian comics, nearly all of them even, but the character himself? I actually quite liked him when Grant Morrison was writing him, and I don't normally like their stuff.

Hell, I'd make the argument Damian should move on from Robin.

Maybe that sounds stupid to some. 'Oh but he's still a kid' some of you may say.

To which I say, okay cool, if that's still how you feel. But I'm gonna apply the same logic to him as I do Tim and say his character doesn't revolve around the role of Robin, if anything he was made to be the anti-Robin, which was the charm of the Dick-Bats Batman and Robin series.

Damian wanted to be Robin initially during his first appearance, because he thought it would get him closer to his father.

Then he found out that was a superficial belief he only believed because the League of Assassins taught him a superficial belief, and it was a cool moment that sparked the beginning of Damian's evolution as a person.

Damian only became an official Robin because marketing wise it looked better than 'Batman, and the Son of Batman, but not the Son of this Batman, the Son of That Other Batman, The Other Specifically Believed To Be Dead Batman That In Fact Isn't Actually Dead'.

And it would be less confusing why Robin, in this hypothetical, Tim, isn't with Batman, and this other guy is, because companies have to assume everyone isn't gonna spend the time to research it. They wanna coax you into an impulse purchase. That helps money be made. Making you have to think about what the title means it takes away the impulse part of the impulse purchase. Or even worse, confuses you enough if you take a gander inside to the point you back off entirely because it seems far too complicated. That's no way to do business.

Now, of course, all Robins are made with potential dollar signs in DC's eyes. We're not going to kid ourselves here either. It's just pretty obviously done to a whole different extent with Damian.

And to a degree that's fine, because that's how comics often work, because it's a floundering industry and people get desperate, so they throw something that's bound to get immediate attention in your face in hopes you'll get curious enough to purchase it.

But we're talking about the writing here.

Giving an entitled child what they want after nearly murdering a character is absolutely stupid logic though. Certainly when your writing characters that are meant to be very intelligent. Gets even worse when you realize within the universe's own timeline, they show Tim regularly calls Dick to discuss his mental health only weeks (months at best) prior.

And Dick was also there when Tim said he doesn't want to be anything but Robin.

So they end up making Dick look either apathetic, or like an idiot, or even worse, an apathetic idiot, who makes bad decisions.

Because given the context that Tim was very mentally ill (even if not, honestly, it'd still be crooked regardless), and barely recovered (or not at all recovered depending on the series you were reading) from his depression, and that's before Bruce was believed to be dead--How else is he supposed to take this beyond being kicked to the curb?

Grieving makes you care more about the ones you love, not do something that'll cause the low-key suicidal kid to maybe jump off a roof.

Why would an intelligent, and caring, downright protective person like Dick Grayson make a decision like this? Saying 'because Damian needed it' doesn't quite cut it when you look at more of the details, and is quite a narrow minded excuse that only looks at a minor percentage of it.

People make excuses for this, mostly because they love Dick and hate the idea of him looking bad, but let's take a moment to ground ourselves and be real. These are not real people, and they do not make their own decisions. Writers make their decisions. Characters are illusions of personalities and physical appearances created by consistency and expectations of what these characters look, do, and say.

This is how we have the term 'out of character'.

And hardly any character is safe from that fate forever.

At least in comics if they've lasted a while.

Dick can say he views Tim as an equal to do it, and the artist can randomly draw Tim to look more mature and adult despite that completely contradicting known things about the character (made all the worse when you have the same exact artist that drew Tim being called out for being baby faced and short drawing him to look like Season 4 Sam Winchester when only weeks passed by, by the end of the Robin series).

You don't even have to take a look that far back in the past and you can still see neither of those things were done because it was a natural development. It was only done because they wanted an excuse to shove Tim out of the role, or at the very least because they didn't care about the character.

Hence why this is considered out of character.

Does this help you see the logic of the issue now?

And that isn't me criticizing the character of Damian, because that's just who he is, and I like who Damian is. I hate comics that seem to hate having to write Damian for who he is actually. I'm criticizing the writer's decisions in the process of making this transition, and the aftermath, and effect it has to this very day with these characters.

Damian existing is fine.

Some might argue it's not, but oh well.

It's the writing quality and real world decision making that isn't fine, when it concerns our primarily topic.

But point being is Tim's entire motivation as a character revolves around being Robin, being there for Batman, the entire symbolism of the character Robin. It was him who defined the role out loud for readers who were starting to not understand why Robin should even be around still, to understand why Robin is still around.

I don't care how unimportant Tim's been in recent history, that's thanks to a lack of care, not the character himself--Tim is, as far as the role itself is concerned, possibly the second most important Robin in history after Dick.

Jason's death is clearly important, but for years more so do to the effect it had on Batman's personality, not the role of Robin and what it represents, given it was not that long before Tim became Robin. Understand me from that context. I don't know if people think there was a larger space between them, but there wasn't. So they went from murder of a kid to 'Batman Needs a Robin' pretty fast.

And I don't care if someone is a woman, or a blood son in the role. That furthers their own characters, but ultimately does nothing for the role itself outside of themselves. Once they're done being in that role, that aspect of the role is gone.

Tim's addition retroactively yet thankfully accurately and thoughtfully established important aspects of the role that gave people a whole new perspective and appreciation of the role, granting a new level of popularity to something that was beginning to grow tired. That's permanently seared into the character legacy now thanks to Tim. To the point bad writers have Dick to be the one to say it, either because their bad at their job, or they just assumed.

Being the character who was able to do that is huge.

That's how important Tim Drake is to Robin.

I can't think of anything that would be more important to the history of Robin past being created at all than that.

To be honest, thinking Tim shouldn't be Robin anymore, shows a lack of understanding of Tim as a character, what he wants, what makes him tick, what makes him feel successful.

He would become comparatively boring and generic without Robin. Think of all the aspects of his drama, thought processes, motivations that would be removed. I know he'd still have other aspects to him that'd remain, he isn't literally only Robin and nothing but...but he's going to suffer a whole lot worse than any other character taken away from Robin.

This doesn't make him a bad character like some may claim. I'd argue against the notion very much. All characters simply aren't created for the same purposes. Tim is a magnificent character when handled well, and works amazing when allowed to be in the role he was built to be in.

We're not gonna start pulling artificial standards of what makes a good character, like we aren't obviously all aware Luke Skywalker and Han Solo were made for totally different purposes, and are still both extraordinary characters in their own right.

Don't play dumb.

And I say that with respect, despite the harsh wording, because I understand not everyone is going to be familiar with these decade old comics, and interviews you have to search out to find. I'm not a crazy person. Well, I am a bit, for caring this much, but I have limits to my insanity.

And I used the word dumb to keep your attention, because this post is going on for an unusually long amount of time, but it's a subject I am passionate about. So please excuse me for that.

A lot of you will likely have came in during the time Tim wasn't Robin, and would have no reason to assume there's anything inherently odd with Tim not being Robin. We are humans, and aren't granted the ability of omni-knowledge of all things.

Think of it like Venom--yes, Venom is often not Eddie, but it always goes back to him, yeah? Because these detours can be fun, but ultimately Venom was meant to be with Eddie.

You can bring up Tim not being the original Robin. I can hear some of you thinking that right now.

(Yes, I can hear thoughts, it's my cross to bear. And for that person in particular, close that tab, you know that's morally wrong, don't try to excuse it.)

But also it was Peter Parker that first had Venom wasn't it?

(I know the symbiote by itself isn't supposed to be called Venom, and how that's a modern thing, but I'm not gonna talk about a completely irrelevant topic so I can make this point.)

And we didn't even know the 'suit' as it was known as at the time was even sentient.

It's an example of a thing growing and becoming more developed, with logic and great character work backing it up, to make it a good development that can be long lasting, because it was built with a good base to keep the structure up. Like building a long lasting house.

Not one of those Amazon build a houses, that would get blown over in a mildly harsh breeze.

And I don't mean that as an insult to Stephanie or Damian, but it is factual to my knowledge that these characters were made Robin to be killed. They were both literally killed, and we have to acknowledge this truth to their characters. These weren't even decisions made to last.

You can like them in that role, but it doesn't change the facts.

If anything I think both characters are blessed that they have enough to them, to be brought back, and they have lots of potential...if they'd let them actually be expanded. They aren't cemented to Robin in anyway the same way Tim is for better or worse, and they don't have to be Robin to work to their full ability like how it is for Tim.

Besides if the character is worth it, they stick around in a different way.

Agent Anti-Venom for Flash Thompson as an example. Agent Venom was great, but it was time for Venom to go back to Eddie. But we gave him a place to stay around and he's great there too.

This was sort of what Red Robin was going to be turned into for Tim when they realized having Tim go against everything he stood for was a really bizarre decision that likely wouldn't last with any lasting success, but it was just kind of weird to have the person that fills the role of Robin not just be Robin, while the other person is going around mostly doing their own thing.

Why should Tim Drake actually not be Robin really? He's not even as old as Dick was when he stopped being Robin if you wanna bring up the Robin is a kid's role thing.

And I do know Dick said Robin was a kid's thing after all, but you are aware that these Robins are individuals and not all the same person, right?

Tim isn't Dick, and clearly has a very different opinion of what Robin is to him. Otherwise why wouldn't Dick become Robin again himself? See what I'm saying?

Dick literally implied Robin was a kid's role to Tim's face, in Tim's origin story, and Tim continued to not give a shit, because Tim still believed what he believed despite that.

If you like Tim being something other than Robin, and you like those identities, and series, I am happy for you. Because more enjoyment in the world is a positive thing.

But ultimately even Red Robin was never anything more than a very-very modest success the more it went on. It made enough to stay afloat, yet not enough to carry it past the reboot (though Didio hating legacy characters he wasn't involved with may have to do with that) and the entire theme of the book was "What if we have Tim do things Tim would never do" to the point it's out right said in the book. Which sounds like a terrible model of what Tim should be to me.

If you wouldn't want that same fate with any major character like an Avenger or Justice Leaguer, or your own favorite character whoever that may be, why would you want that with Tim beyond you just not caring as much? And if you don't care that much, why are you so concerned with what Tim is or isn't?

I just want it to be understood from a more objective (if you can even call it that, because, I know, strong word to use here. i'm not ignorant of that, nor that arrogant) point of view, based on the simple idea that, hmm maybe the best character writing is just writing the characters being the characters--it makes the most sense for Tim to be the Robin that stays aboard as Robin.

An alias doesn't define a character's growth. What the character does is what makes them grow. Character growth should add to a character, not take away.

So, I say to you, humble reader, let Tim Drake remain Robin. It's what works best.

#Tim Drake #Robin #Dick Grayson #Nightwing #Batman #Batfamily #Bat-Family #DC Comics #i could tag those other characters i mentioned but boy would that be pretty freaking weird if a tim drake post showed up in those tag feeds

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kaileyrose28 · 2 days ago

Text

Popped Cherry (part 2)

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Good Girl is about an semi-established relationship between Jason and FMC. She's Roy's 18-year-old daughter, Jason is Roy's 38-year-old best friend, she's just the prettiest thing he's ever seen and it's hard to keep his mind when she's around. She's just such a good girl.

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Age kink, innocence, dom/sub variables, corruption, slight exhibitionism, dirty talking, experienced man/inexperienced girl, female virgin taking, perv Jason, gentle sex until the very end, big dick/little pussy, unprotected p in v but on birth control (wrap it anyway)

3,827 words. Female focused sex, female oriented pronouns when your talked about by others.

Read Part 1 before reading this, context is somewhat important.

By the time night rolls around you’re busying yourself in your room with preparing everything.

You’ve got candles lit on your desk and dresser, because yes you’re one of those people and it also means they can keep the light off to avoid suspicion. Your bed has a towel on the sheets so you don't stain or wet anything during... everything.

That poses too much risk tomorrow morning when you need to clean. How're you meant to explain away a large wet stain, or possibly off-colored stains on your sheets? You don't even want to try.

You lay down on your bed, bottom half on top of the towel, you’re wearing a nightgown with no panties on beneath, like he requested, and now all you have to do is wait.

Fiddling with the collar of your nightgown as you do, the little bows ribbon strings soft on your fingertips.

Meanwhile downstairs, Jason's nursing a beer, trying to act normal around Roy. He has no clue that Jason's about to defile his little girl upstairs—some part of him feels gross about it, and bad. But the other part, the perverted half, is thrilled about it.

He throws back the rest of his beer, his dick twitching in his pants. "Night." He calls out to Roy, receiving a 'night' in return from him. He makes his way up to your room, heart pounding in his chest.

When he reaches your door, which he only knows is yours because you painted shit on it—flowers, hearts, the like—raising his hand, he knocks softly on your door.

When you hear the soft knock at your door, you pause for a second, determining who it is knocking. Usually your dad would throw a goodnight right after for you, when it's silence you know it's Jason that's outside your bedroom door.

You shift around for a second, finding a good position on your bed, atop the towel beneath your hips, before trying to look casual.

"Come in." You say just loud enough to be heard but not any louder. You’re nervous but not as much as you thought you would be.

Jason twists the handle slowly, pushing the door open just enough to slide his big body through. He takes you in instantly—spread out on the bed like a damn buffet, tits pushing against your silk nightgown, hair spread out like a halo. His dick tents his pants.

"Jesus."

His first response to seeing you after slipping into your room makes your lips twitch with a smile, slightly amused. You didn't have many nightgowns that screamed 'hey I'm sexy' aside from this one, but even this one was a bit simple.

Nothing like some woman your age would wear to look sexy and hot, but whatever it works.

You shift slightly to sit up against your pillows more, making sure the towel beneath you doesn't shift. "Hi," you mutter softly, albeit a little nervously. Only just a little bit.

"You okay?" He asks softly, watching you carefully. You look nervous but not scared, your nightgown doing little to hide your body. "Do you still want this?" He adds, unbuttoning the top of his shirt slowly. He doesn't want to pressure you into anything.

His soft questions don't register at first, him slowly unbuttoning his shirt is quite distracting. You watch his fingers pull buttons free for a minute before looking up at his face when you register he's asked something.

His concern is sweet, and definitely appreciated.

You nod a little, lying back against your pillows slightly. "I'm okay and I still want this, I promise." You say softly, giving another small nod even if your words are enough.

You’re excited even if you're nervous, you want this.

You really want this.

He exhales slowly, relieved. Crossing the room in three long strides, he looms over your bed. "Fuck, you're cute." He grunts, reaching out to stroke your cheek. His other hand finishes unbuttoning his shirt fully, shrugging it off to bare his tattooed torso.

You lean into his stroking touch on your cheek, eyes dropping to his tattooed torso when his shirt's shrugged off. Some tattoos are cut through with old scars.

"Scoot back on the bed." He murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. "On your pillows."

Your eyes move back up to his when he murmurs directions for you, you plant your hands on your bed and scoot back more for him. You lift your hips to pull the towel beneath you up as well. Letting it sit beneath your hips again.

You don't want to be on your pillows because you'd rather keep things clean of bodily fluids as best you can. For obvious reasons.

He notices the towel but doesn't mention it, finding it actually kind of hot that you’ve thought this through. He kicks off his shoes, then unbuckles his belt slowly, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. "Comfortable?"

You watch him slowly get undressed in front of you, his hands undoing his belt with slow movements like he wants you to see everything. Whether it's so you don't get nervous or not, you’re not sure.

You look up at him again when he speaks, his question making you smile slightly. "Yeah." You murmur softly, nodding a little. You almost feel like you’re dreaming, that he's not actually here about to pop your cherry.

But he is and you’re excited and nervous.

It's risqué and maybe stupid, he's older by two decades and your dad's best friend, but you want him regardless.

He lets out a soft sigh, pleased that you’re comfortable. He stands up, letting his jeans and boxers drop to the floor before kicking them aside. His dick is already hard and straining, precum leaking from the tip. He crawls onto the bed, settling between your spread legs.

You inhale deeply when he's nude before you, eyes roaming down his body. His dick is big like you figured it would be, he's big so of course it would be, but holy shit.

That's supposed to go in you.

You’re not so sure it would fit.

You lean up slightly when he settles between your thighs, fluid leaking from his dicks head, you nervously pull your nightgown off. You’ve never actually been naked in front of anyone.

You lay back down after dropping it off the side of the bed, trying not to focus on it as you settle down flat.

Well, fuck him, you’re gorgeous. Every inch of your skin is dusted with those fucking adorable freckles, your tits are perfect, capped with rosy nipples that are hardening under his gaze.

He settles his hips between your thighs, his cock throbbing against your mound. "Christ,"

His roaming eyes on your body make you nervous, the way he's taking you in. You can see the dilation in his eyes, and it's all it takes for you to feel more comfortable—he's attracted to you.

When you feel his cock settle against your mound you jump a little, a bit startled because of you focusing on his face. You look down, his thick and long dick looks like it'd never fit but you’re the virgin here, he's older and experienced and probably knows what works.

But still, Jesus. The thing's a monster.

He reaches down, spreading your thighs further apart to give himself better access. "You're so fucking tiny." He mutters, staring at your virgin pussy. It's a dusky pink and smooth, with a tiny little slit. He rubs the head of his dick against your entrance, applying gentle pressure.

The way his rough hands spread your thighs apart for himself makes you tingle slightly, and his muttered words make your cheeks heat up. The way he's staring at your pussy, like it's mesmerizing, makes you nervous but you don't move away from it.

Your breath shudders when you feel him rub the head of his dick against you, applying that gentle pressure and it makes for a weird but not unpleasant sensation. It makes you want to clench up but manage to stay relaxed, open to him.

Watching him nervously but not at all unwanting of it all.

He pushes against your entrance, applying a bit more pressure. His dick is leaking precum, making it easier for him to slide inside you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He grunts, his eyes locked on where you’re about to connect. He pushes harder, his tip popping inside your tight little pussy.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips when you feel the burning stretch of him inside your pussy, however little it is. It's a sharp sudden pain you hadn't anticipated but you know it's normal.

You bring your hands down instinctively to his large hands holding your thighs open, fingers curling around the back of his hands tightly. Your head drops back against your pillows, eyes closing as you focus on breathing and adjusting to the sudden intrusion into your body.

Your breasts rise and fall with your heavy breaths, brushing against your arms.

"Just breathe, sweetheart." He whispers roughly, pushing in another inch. Fuck, you’re so tight around his head. He can feel you stretching around him, those virgin pussy trying to adjust to his size. He squeezes your thighs gently with his hands, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

His rough whisper accompanied by another inch of his dick pushing into you is met with a whimper—one of your hands drops down from his to cover your mouth. You don't want to be too loud and risk someone hearing.

Your eyes open and you look at him through your lashes, her brows drawn in a furrow. He's so big, which she anticipated but having it push into her pussy is a whole other thing.

It hurts, for sure, but her desire to have him takes priority. She tries to relax, taking deep breaths through her nose and exhaling out just the same.

Jason groans as he feels you tightening around him, those little gasps and whimpers going straight to his dick. Fuck, you’re doing so well taking him.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes in another inch. "Such a good girl."

Your eyes close when he leans down, forehead to yours as he pushes in another inch of his cock. It almost feels like too much when you know it's not, the foreign sensation of being invaded making it feel that way.

His praise makes you feel like you’re doing a lot more than what you are, that you’re doing so good. You relax slightly, despite the ache of the stretch, and try to loosen your muscles up. Your eyes open and meet his gaze, it's as intimate as anyone can get with his forehead to yours.

And to think this man's your dad's best friend.

"Fuck, I'm so deep in you." He mutters against your lips, his hips pressing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours. He's bottomed out in your tight little pussy, his dick throbbing and leaking inside you.

You grunt and your hips jerk slightly when he bottoms out in you, his hips pressing flush against yours. His words are dirty but they send a tingle up your spine nonetheless.

You exhale deeply, eyes dropping off him to look down where you’re flush together, albeit curious. You were almost a little surprised he fit entirely inside you with how he looked compared to you.

The pain slowly trickles away after a few minutes, something else replacing it that makes your skin feel sweaty. Your eyes flicker back up to his, a little unsure what the fuck your feeling in your belly right now.

He watches you carefully, seeing the slight change in your expression. Your body is less tense, those pretty tits rising and falling faster. "Do you still hurt?" He asks roughly, his hands sliding down to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks slightly. That delicious pussy contracts around his length, making him hiss.

When his hands, rough and calloused but gentle in a way, slid down to cup you and spread your cheeks slightly, you couldn't help your reaction. It made something inside you get brushed against and it felt like a frisson up your whole body.

Your breathing quickens slightly but at the sound of his hiss your focus recenters onto him, did you... hurt him somehow?

"No. Are you okay?" You answer his question and ask one of your own, your brows furrowed in concern.

"Fuck, yeah I'm okay." He growls, squeezing your ass cheeks. The feeling of that tight little pussy wrapping around him is incredible. Jason starts to rock his hips slowly, his dick sliding in and out of you just an inch or two.

You go to respond to his growled words, despite the squeeze his hands have on your ass, when his hips start to move and it's like a white sheet goes over your vision for a solid second.

The sensation is entirely new and mind blowing. And a bit painful too.

Your back arches just a little and you choke out a moan before quickly covering your mouth with your hand again—god forbid your dad comes to investigate a weird noise coming from your room.

Not when it just got good. Toe curling kind of good, a feeling you never knew could even exist before now.

"Fuck." He hisses, feeling your small hands muffling your noises again. He hooks his arms under your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist, opening you up even more. He starts to thrust shorter, deeper strokes, hitting deeper inside you.

The new position has you feeling like you’re teetering at some kind of edge, leaning precariously toward falling. Your back arches more and your hand muffles the moans gradually growing in consistency. Your thighs shake against him, your stomach sucking in with each stilted breath you take.

Whatever he's hitting deep inside you has you seeing stars and feeling like you’re a buzzing, live wire. Your breathing picks up pace as your hips jerk with each slow thrust of his hips.

Jason can feel you tightening around him with each deep thrust, those legs trembling against his waist. Fuck, you’re close already. "That's it, sweetheart." He groans, "Let it happen. Come on my cock." He grinds against you harder, hitting that sensitive spot inside you relentlessly.

His words are filthy and vulgar and make you feel hot all over. You whimper and moan against your hand, muffling it as much as you can. His hard grinding hitting something inside you with an almost abusive accuracy that has you gasping in air against your hand covering your mouth.

Your legs tremble and your toes curl as you tumble off that edge he had you teetering on. Your head drops back and your eyes roll as you gasp sharply against your hand, gushing all over his cock.

He feels you gushing around him, that pussy clenching down on his dick like a vice. "Fuck yes." He groans, burying his face in your neck as he continues to thrust through your orgasm. He can feel his own release building, his balls tightening.

You take your hand off your mouth, opting out for burying your face in the crook of his neck when he leans down to yours. You gasps against his sweaty skin, body jerking with his thrusts as he chases his own release.

You whimper against his skin, arms coming around his shoulders, nails digging into the skin on his back as he fucks you damn near too sensitive. Your pussy convulses around him in pulses, whether to suck him in or push him out is beyond your comprehension at the moment.

"I'm fucking close," he whispers, his voice ragged against your neck. His hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the flesh. Each thrust becomes less controlled, more desperate. "Are you on birth control?" He mutters, barely able to form coherent thoughts as he feels his orgasm building.

His question mixed with everything he's doing to you, the hard grip on your ass, the desperate thrusts into your overly sensitive pussy, has it hard to form a coherent thought.

Your nails dig into his skin, breath fast and heavy against his neck mixing with whimper-y moans. Having to really think is almost a goddamn feat in this state.

"Jesus— yeah, yes. On birth control." You manage to get out against his neck, followed by a whimper punched out of your lungs by his thrusts.

"Thank fuck." He groans, hearing your confirmation. His thrusts become erratic, chasing his impending release. He buries himself deep inside you, his cock throbbing intensely.

With a final low groan against your neck, he comes hard, pulsing streams of hot cum deep into your convulsing pussy.

Your head drops back slightly with a choked gasp when he pushes himself deep inside you, the searing heat of his cum filling your pussy and lower belly with warmth and a weird sensation of being full.

Your body tenses for a second before going lax, your legs sliding off from around his waist and your hands dropping low on his biceps instead of his back. You let your eyes close as you try to catch your breath, cunt pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You just lost your virginity to your dad's best friend, and damn was it phenomenal.

Jason holds you for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. Once he's sure you’re okay, he carefully pulls out of you, his softening dick making a wet sound as it leaves your pussy.

You shivers when he pulls out, the sudden emptiness feels strange after all of that work just to get him inside you.

He grabs a few tissues from the nightstand and gently wipes you clean before tossing them in the trash.

You exhale slowly, thighs twitching when you feel him wipe you clean, it was a sweet gesture though. You relax again, thinking about everything that just happened.

Your lips curve up into a little grin as you giggle a little bit, your hands—faintly shaky from your orgasm—coming up to cover your face and muffle the noise slightly.

The situation had a sense of surrealism to it.

"Shush... your dad will hear." He whispers, gently removing your hands from your face with a soft smile. "What's so funny?" He murmurs, studying your bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

Your innocence just got fucked away, and God help him, he loved every second of it.

He's not wrong so you bite your lip with a smile, letting him gently remove your hands from your face. You take in the soft smile on his, he looks relaxed that way.

It's a look that suits him, you think.

You just gave your innocence away to your dad's thirty-eight-year-old best friend, a man twenty years your senior. It's filthy in some way, but it was so good, and he was so sweet with you.

"Nothing, just happy." You mumble softly, tilting your head a little against your pillow to look at him better. Quite content with everything despite all the risks.

He chuckles softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Happy, huh?" He murmurs, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. "Well, that makes two of us. Though I have to say, corrupting my best friend's little girl..."

Your smile softens a little when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture sweet. His eyes softening when he looks down at you is like the cherry on top.

You snort quietly at the idea of him corrupting you, maybe defiling but he didn't ruin you. You’re still the same person, he just... opened a very pleasuring door.

"Please, corrupting?" You say with a humorous tone. Your hand sliding to one of his, fingers curling around three of his own. "Stay with me tonight?" You whisper questioningly.

He squeezes your fingers gently, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Your innocent request tugs at something deep inside him, a protectiveness he never knew he had for you. "You want me to stay?" He murmurs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What if your dad finds out?"

Your dad is probably sleeping downstairs, oblivious to the fact that you just lost your virginity to his best friend.

He's got a right to be concerned, if he is, about your dad finding out about what he did. It's not you he'd be mad at in the end. But your dad and him have been friends for decades, he probably knows that man's schedule like his own.

Plus, he literally sneaks around for a living.

You give the fingers you have in your grasp a small squeeze with a soft smile. "I'm sure. And you probably know when he wakes up, just sneak out to the guest room before that." You say quietly with a small shrug of one shoulder.

He nods slowly, considering your words. You’re right, he does know Roy’s routine like the back of his hand. And the guest room is right next to your bedroom, making it easy for him to sneak out before Roy wakes up. "Alright, deal."

You grin when he agrees to stay, happy as can be. And if he thinks you'll be letting go of him after tonight, he's dead wrong. But you'll be careful, you’re not stupid.

You won't risk whatever you’ve got by being reckless because you want things.

You shuffle to give him room on the bed, tossing the towel you set down before you did anything—now slightly wet with prior activities—off the bed before pulling the blanket down. "Come on, mister." You beckon, patting the spot next to you.

Jason smirks slightly as he slips under the covers beside you, the heat from your bodies mingling comfortably. Despite the gravity of what you’ve done, there's an easy, almost innocent feeling to curling up next to you. He pulls you close, tucking your head beneath his chin.

You sigh in contentment when he pulls you close and tucks you beneath his chin, relaxing immediately into his warmth. He's like a big furnace; you could curl around him and be warm forever.

You settle for a leg over his torso, snuggling close. Your eyes close and you settle down, letting the exhaustion of everything settle into you and lull you into a quiet calm and drifting slowly off to sleep. His warmth and the comfort of having him there helps speed things along.

He smiles softly as you throw your leg over his body possessively. His mind registers this action—it's territorial. Like a damn cat.

He pulls you closer, one hand slipping down to cup your bare backside. His mind races with thoughts, most of them centered around you and what you both just did.

It's not long until he let himself follow you and drift off to sleep.

#dc comics #dc imagine #dc smut #oneshot #dc jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd smut #female reader #smut #dbf!jasontodd #age difference #older man younger girl #Jason Todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader

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coraline-piange · 9 hours ago

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fine-grinding a conversation

a birthday present for the lovely @icarusalchemist

Edwin blinked down at his phone. Did — did this Charles person seriously message him to gather information about queer people? On Grindr, of all places?

Maybe it really was an earnest attempt at reaching out to a queer person who'd be willing and patient enough to explain. Edwin could have used someone who explained it to him a couple of years ago, too. He could provide that guidance for someone else. He had the opportunity to give advice and maybe shed some light on the more confusing matters of sexuality — was it not his duty to at least attempt to do so?

Plus — and Edwin was absolutely aware that this had no logical sense and was nothing but a gut feeling — the young man in the picture looked kind. There was a softness in his big brown eyes, and openness to the corners of his lips.

What would be the harm?

When a cute guy called Charles dms Edwin on Grindr to ask questions about the queer community to try and become a better ally, what is Edwin supposed to do except indulge him? Especially when Charles is so sweet and funny... and really handsome.

read on ao3

#dbda #payneland #dead boy detectives #dead boy detective agency #edwin payne #edwin paine #charles rowland #painland #edwin x charles #edwin payne x charles rowland #cosmo creates

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mozawesterburg · 2 days ago

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the light and hope had died in his eyes

And then he bunked it. Just like Edward used to.

(Edward, who had been so good at swallowing his hurt and being considerate to everyone... until he'd finally found the limit of his endurance…

The light and the hope had died in his eyes, that first day she rolled onto the turntable. Thomas had been right there. He had seen it.)

" — call her her name," he finished, lamely. Gift for @mean-scarlet-deceiver

Too much emotion and nowhere to dump it, so to tumblr we go! I got inspired (the idea, and the basic understanding of how to format something like this, haha) after looking back at THIS lovely art from Ed and Tom’s scene from Ch. 2. Seriously late to react to both the fic and this fanart, but... amazing. Props to @edwards-exploit

Let me (over)explain:

Oliver was tricky. No 11.’s got a lot of little details going on for an engine that hahaha doesn’t exist. o.o

It might be apparent the last two panels are where I dumped most of the effort, lol. It’s important that Edward's eyes start with the top of her funnel, because there’s an envy-able amount of smoke coming from it. (edit: only after drawing this do I learn that apparently smoke from the funnel may be more of a US thing, which I guess is why the funnels never really give off a significant amount of smoke in the show. ahh shit well...)

Edward, seeing this new, young engine, pretty, shiny, steaming and smoking with a fire, while he sits dirty, mangled, old and with a firebox that hasn’t been lit in years. Among too many other things this AU plays with, it's fascinating to think of a timeline where a character, (one of the Steam Team no less) would become a rival just by circumstance of her being there. It’s not said whether or not Edward knew a new engine was coming at all, but it’s more potent to think that seeing her was the point at which he realized he’s fucked.

There he sits in the shadows of the shed (he’s pulled out near the doors when actually he might still be sitting way back in the engine berth. But for the sake of impact, let's pretend his buffers are in line with the doorway). It’s autumn. The leaves are falling. The season of death is rapidly approaching. The sun is setting on another day of limbo for poor Eddie. And with the last glimmer of sunlight sparkling on her brand new livery, here comes IT. All IT can do is offer an awkward smile in regards to ITS move there and no inherent intent to harm, but it won’t matter. They’ve already decided IT is an enemy. A threat to the originals who worked and built the main railway from the ground up. She couldn’t be any more hated if she was the first diesel in a wave of them coming for all their heads. She is the mushroom cloud in Edward’s eye. BUT, this is all from Thomas’ memory of that moment. He can only read the expressions and interpret what’s going on in Edward’s mind via how well he knows him. I think it’s fair to say he didn’t completely imagine Edward reacting to Emily as the direct threat to himself. But the severity/apparentness of the expression could entirely be exaggerated in Thomas’s memory, based on his own strong feelings on the matter. >OH SHIT I forgot to account for the curvature of Edward’s eyes and Emily’s appearance in the reflection, hence the last minute edit there. >various shading to hide mistakes, as you do. >In order to lead into Thomas stumbling into his reverie I had to include at least Oliver’s line that refers to her as “the replica.” That said, I wasn’t sure how to depict his expression, so I defaulted to an eye roll. That’s not quite a ‘slight’ expression, per the contest around the dialog, but. The characters could have even deeper age lines around the eyes and cheeks considering how old they are, (and how rough they’ve had it in this universe). Had to include the bags under Thomas’s eyes because the LAD IS TIRED. >>which probably contributes to why he dropped into a cinematic sentence-breaking reverie Those who know the fanfic already know how good it is, but if you’re into angst and idea of these characters dropped into a grounded but gritty alt. reality, this fanfic is your fix. Jobey expanded on the universe presented by Future Rust's It's a Splendid Life in heartbreaking detail. Run to that story, then run to this!! (new to tumblr so please forgive/feel free to mention any format errors)

#scenes that will haunt me for years #ttte #thomas and friends #thomas the tank engine and friends #small world #small world chapter 10 #fanfic #jesus christ somebody save these guys

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inkpetrichor · 2 days ago

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Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

9.- Part nine

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. TW. dead dove: do not eat. sa/unwanted physical contact (non-consensual kissing). mentions of suicide and sh (past). dissociation (trauma response). emotionally intense arguments. cyberbullying. gossip. malicious photo sharing. violence. pls let me know if i missed anything. wc. 6k an. sooo i hesitated a lot on this one. this chapter is a little heavier. it contains intense and potentially triggering content, and while i worked hard to handle it with care and respect, please take the content warnings seriously. they're there for a reason. if you're not in the right headspace, if anything listed might hit too close—please don't push through just for the story. take care of yourself first. the chapter will always be here when and if you're ready. i trust you, my beloved readers, to approach it with the emotional maturity and self-awareness i know you have. i know you're not minors. i know you're thoughtful, empathetic people. and i appreciate you more than you know. so thank you—for being here, for reading, for caring. i love you. please be gentle with yourselves<3

Shibuya felt wrong that night.

Too quiet.

Or maybe it was just your panic, drowning out the chaos of the city.

Even the noise of cars and neon signs seemed muffled beneath the storm in your head.

When you got to the place, something in your gut twisted. Off. Rotten.

The streetlight above buzzed like a dying insect, casting sickly yellow light onto the damp concrete. The alley smelled of rust and old piss, and your shoes stuck slightly with every step, like even the ground itself didn't want you there.

Junpei leaned against the wall, hoodie up, his face half-sliced by shadow.

No Emi.

Just him. The orange streetlamp carved hard lines across his cheekbones, but his eyes stayed buried in the dark.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Every nerve in your body fired at once.

"Where is she?" you asked, voice sharp and cold.

He looked up slowly. "She's not here."

Your pulse stumbled, then picked up at 100 per hour.

"...What?"

"I lied."

His voice was almost casual. He gave a small, sheepish smile like this was some petty misunderstanding.

"I just... I needed to see you."

Silence. Then a breath that came out too shaken.

"You said she was going to hurt herself."

"I had to get you here," he said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "You wouldn't have come if I told the truth."

Your blood ran ice-cold. Something ancient and primal surged up your spine.

The good old fight and flight.

But before you could move, he kept talking.

"I think about you all the time. I see you with that guy and it—it drives me crazy. You're not supposed to be with him. You're mine. You always were."

You took a step back, throat dry.

"You're a fucking psycho."

He stepped forward—and his hand shot out, closing around your wrist.

"I love you," he said. Like that explained anything. Like it was some kind of blessing. Like it was a reason.

Then he yanked you toward him.

His mouth crashed into yours.

Sloppy. Forceful. Wrong.

You froze. Your mind shut down.

You weren't in your body anymore. It was like watching through fogged glass.

Then his other hand gripped your waist, then slid—lower, insistent.

And with that—the glass shattered, and your body was yours once again. Your knee came up in a second. Hard into his stomach.

He let out a choked grunt, doubling over—but you didn't stop.

You punched him once, then twice—fury guiding your fists before the pain even registered in your already injured hand. The sting only hit on the third swing, throbbing through your knuckles.

But that didn't matter.

And neither did his groans as he hit the pavement.

You stood over him, chest heaving and adrenaline shaking your limbs.

"Don't ever fucking touch me again," you spat, wiping the back of your hand across your lips like you could scrub him off.

He didn't move.

But that didn't matter.

You didn't remember the train ride home. Or if you even took it. Didn't remember the streets you cut through. Or unlocking the front door. Just the sound of your lungs burning. The numbness in your legs. The way your skin crawled like it was trying to peel itself off your bones.

It felt unreal. Like a nightmare.

Like maybe it didn't happen. Like maybe you imagined it.

But when you kneeled on the floor of the shower and let the scalding water pour over your back—when you scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin stung raw—you knew the truth:

You didn't imagine it. You couldn't erase it. You couldn't scrub him out. Burn him out. You couldn't speak it aloud.

You tried—you tried to call Kuroo.

But your thumb hovered over his name for too long—imagining his voice. Imagining the way he'd say your name—soft and scared—and something in you fractured.

You couldn't handle the way he'd ask if you were okay. Not when you weren't. You couldn't deal with his voice right now—not the concern, not the gentleness.

So you didn't call him.

Didn't answer the texts that kept piling up.

Didn't open the one that just said, "I'm worried about you. Please say something."

Instead, you curled into your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, and smoked until your lungs ached and your fingers trembled and the pack was empty.

It didn't help.

The ache behind your ribs didn't fade.

You sat in the haze until the air turned thick with smoke. Until the quiet became unbearable. Until the acid in your chest began whispering lies in your own voice.

Until the shame didn't just sink into your bones—

It became them.

You woke up to the smell of ash and the taste of old smoke in your mouth.

Your throat was dry. Your skin felt tight. Your limbs were too heavy to move like your bones had been replaced with concrete in the night.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like—yesterday. The morning before, when you woke up next to Kuroo and everything felt perfect. When you felt happy and full and finally safe.

His breath soft against your neck. His voice still sleep-heavy as he whispered your name.

That morning felt… warm.

Now the sheets were cold. The silence too.

No warmth pressed against your back. No lazy arm slung over your waist.

No heartbeat beneath your ear.

Just you.

Alone.

You showered again. Not because you thought it would help, but because your body needed something to do.

But the water didn't burn this time. You didn't scrub like before.

The weight inside your chest seemed quieter, but not gone.

You felt a little less shocked, a little stronger.

Still, the walk to school felt like something someone else was doing.

Your limbs moved, but you didn't remember telling them to. Your shoes struck the pavement in soft, disconnected thuds. The city was wide awake, but none of it felt real.

You didn't even register arriving at Nekoma's gates—until everything around you shifted.

It started subtle. A shift in the air pressure—stares, side-eyes, a sudden hush that trailed behind you like smoke—sticky, inescapable, impossible to ignore.

And then the whispers.

"Isn't that the girl from the pictures?" "Wasn't she dating the volleyball captain?" "Did she really hook up with Ookami Junpei?" "Apparently they used to be a thing."

Your heart dropped like a stone into a frozen lake.

Pictures?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Once. Twice. Again. A steady pulse of notifications—sharp, demanding, merciless.

You didn't check. Couldn't. Whatever waited on that screen would scrape you raw from the inside out, and there wasn't much left to cut through.

And then—

"Kuroo's looking for you."

The voice barely registered. Familiar, maybe. Yaku? Kenma? It didn't matter. It sounded far away, like someone was shouting through water.

Your limbs grew heavy. The spring air clung to you, too thick, too cold. You were still wearing yesterday's bruises, even if no one could see them.

Every second stretched, unbearable. Until you felt him. Not saw—felt. The unmistakable force of him—barreling toward you like a loaded gun with no safety.

Kuroo.

"Y/N."

Your head snapped up.

And there he was. A storm system making landfall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles ticking beneath his skin. His fists were balled at his sides, knuckles white.

And his eyes—God, his eyes— They burned. They weren't just angry. They were wrecked. A wildfire of betrayal and grief burning behind them with nowhere to go.

"Is it true?" he rasped.

His voice sounded raw, like he'd been screaming somewhere else already, somewhere you couldn't see, long before he found you.

It hit harder than any punch.

You felt everything all at once—

Kuroo. Tutoring. Class 5. The beach. Takoyakis your dad bought. Rumors. Emi. Shibuya. A mouth that didn't belong. Water too hot. Skin too raw.

The school gates yawned behind you like the maw of something ancient, waiting to swallow you whole.

"Is it?!"

His voice cracked across the courtyard, slicing it in half.

Some students flinched. Others stared. But most slipped past, sensing the detonation and giving it distance. Soon, it was just you and him.

You stood frozen in the eye of the storm.

"I saw the pictures." His voice was quieter this time, still hurt—but sharp. Like glass underfoot.

You looked away. Couldn't look at him. Not when he was looking at you like that.

"Please tell me you didn't fuck him," he whispered.

The world tilted.

"I didn't." Your voice barely existed. It came out like smoke from a dying flame. It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

"So you didn't do anything?" he pressed. His voice spiraled, unraveling at the seams. "Nothing?"

You shook your head.

"What about before?" he asked, lower now. "Before we met. Before the tutoring."

Your breath caught—then froze.

And you watched the moment it broke him.

His fingers dug into his hair, yanking like he could tear the thoughts from his skull. Your silence said more than anything you could've uttered.

"Fuck," he hissed, pacing back. Hands dragged down his face. "Fuck. I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. No wonder you weren't picking up last night."

"Tetsurou—" your voice trembled. "I didn't cheat on you."

"Then what the hell were you doing there?! With him?!"

He whipped around, the sound of his voice so sharp—so hurt—it left invisible gashes down your spine.

The images in his mind were killing him. Junpei's hands. Junpei's mouth. Your silence.

You saw the poison eating him alive. And you had no antidote. You wanted to tell him. God, you did.

But—

"I… I can't tell you."

His whole body stilled.

"What?"

"I can't tell you," you said again, firmer. "It's not my secret to tell. I want to explain—I do. But I can't. I'm asking you to trust me."

A beat of silence.

And then something in him… cooled. Not calmed. Hardened. Like steel cooling too fast.

"I can't."

You felt something crack under your ribs.

"What?"

"I can't," he said again. Quiet. And somehow, that hurt more than yelling. "I tried, Y/N. I really did. But there's just—there's too many holes. Too much evidence. Too many things you didn't say."

He rubbed his face, exhausted.

"You already broke my heart. The beach. Now this... I can't let you do it again—not a third time. I need to get away from you."

He didn't look angry anymore. He looked tired. Hollow.

"Tetsurou, I didn't fucking cheat on you," you choked out again, voice catching on splinters.

He flinched just slightly. Like your voice physically burned him.

He wanted to pull you in. To believe. But when he looked at you—all he saw were the fucking pictures.

His mouth twisted. For a second, you thought he was about to say something cruel, something meant to hurt. His expression wavered between rage and devastation.

But then he exhaled again, lower this time, trembling. And barely above a whisper—so quiet it cracked—he muttered:

"I need space. I can't even look at you right now."

The world stopped turning. The noise faded. The people. The school. Everything. Only him. Only you. And the crumbling space between you where everything good had lived and died.

He meant it as mercy. As a 'I don't want to say something I'll regret.'

But in the moment, that intention didn't really land.

You stared at him. At the boy who once kissed you like he saw your soul. Who held your hand like it meant something sacred.

Now he couldn't even look at you.

And you? You couldn't even cry. Not properly, at least. Your body was too used to swallowing it down.

The ache inside your chest curdled, hardened, and twisted itself into something sharper. Something easier to carry than grief. Hurt turned to fury. Anger calcified into armor.

"You know what?" you whispered, voice brittle. "Fuck you."

Kuroo's head snapped back to you, eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. Fuck you. Go ahead. Believe the pictures. Believe whatever you want." Your voice shook, but didn't falter. "I'm a cheater and slut. I'm too much work... I already broke your heart, didn't I? Then leave me."

Every word felt like a bleeding wound. You didn't mean them. You didn't like the knives you were throwing.

But they were the only weapons you had left.

"I have enough shit to deal with already. If you can't trust me... then fuck you."

Silence.

Not stunned. Not even angry.

Just... sad.

He didn't argue. Didn't fight back. He just stood there, breathing like it hurt, like every word you spoke made it worse—and yet still, somehow, he couldn't deny any of it.

The unfairness sat in your chest like a boulder, immovable and cold.

You wanted to punch something. Scream until your throat bled. But instead, you hid. You turned. Walked fast—past the gate, across the grounds, to the corner of the school that always felt safest.

Kuroo let out a breath and turned to leave—when he saw her.

Emi.

Leaning against the wall just out of sight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes were hollow—like the light behind them had been long gone.

She'd been there the whole time. Watching. Listening. Invisible.

She didn't look surprised. She didn't even look mad. Just tired.

Like this whole little dance between you two was boring her and hurting her at the same time.

Kuroo barely spared her a glance, a half-lidded look that slid past her like water. He kept walking.

And then—

"It's not true," she said, voice as calm as the smoke she was inhaling. She exhaled through her nose, the faint trail curling upward. Her eyes met his without hesitation.

He half-turned, jaw still tight. "Were you there?"

Her brow arched. She shook her head and took a slow drag.

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I know her," Emi said simply. "I thought you did, too."

That one hit deeper than he expected. His eyes narrowed, but something in his face twitched—like he'd been stabbed in the ribs but was too proud to flinch.

"Do you know what she was doing there, then?"

Emi squinted, tilting her head just slightly.

"I might."

He took a step forward, voice low. "Are you gonna tell me?"

She snorted. "Why do I always gotta do the dirty work for you two? I'm out here carrying the damn plot. How about you actually talk to each other for once?"

Kuroo huffed and turned again, footsteps sharp against the concrete.

And then—

"I tried to kill myself."

Sharp like a blade. Soft like a kiss.

He stopped in his tracks.

Emi stepped forward, already pulling out another cigarette like it was armor. She lit it with practiced ease, took a drag, held it in. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. No sass. No bite. Like she'd hollowed herself to get the words out.

"In junior high."

Kuroo turned back slowly.

Emi rolled up her sleeve.

No flourish. No drama. Just a quiet, deliberate motion.

And there it was.

A scar. One long, brutal line that etched down her forearm and curved around it like a memory too jagged to ever smooth over.

Kuroo winced when he saw it. It physically hurt to look at.

"We went to the same junior high. Y/N and me. Hebinuma too," she began, voice low, like it cost her something. "Y/N transferred in a little late. By then Hebinuma already had her little kingdom. Rumors, isolation, backstabbing—standard queen bee shit."

Emi's gaze drifted skyward, her expression distant, like she was searching the clouds for a version of herself that never made it out of those years.

"I never even knew what I did to deserve it. One day, I just had a target on my back."

Her voice cracked faintly. Not enough to break—but enough to show it still lived under her skin.

You knew she still asked herself that question in the dark.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is, one day, I broke a mirror and tried to end it."

She didn't flinch as she said it. Didn't rush. Just let it hang.

And then looked him dead in the eye.

"She has the pictures," she said, nodding faintly. Maybe to him. Maybe to herself. "Yeah. From the hospital. And whenever she remembers I exist, she comes back to remind me how easily she could spread them around. Just like she did with those photos of Y/N."

Kuroo's body locked up. Every part of him tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw ticking hard enough to ache.

"We've made her delete them a hundred times. But she keeps backups. Always. Like it turns her on—knowing she can ruin me whenever she wants. That's the kind of bitch she is."

Emi flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette with a hard snap.

"My theory? Junpei probably called Y/N last night and told her I was gonna do something stupid. So of course she ran. Didn't ask. Didn't think twice. Because that's the kind of hot-headed, loyal idiot she is."

A strange kind of fondness edged into a smirk. Something caught between exasperation and admiration. Grudging, protective. Almost proud.

"Then Junpei kissed her—probably just for a second. Long enough to throw her off. Long enough for Hebinuma to get the shot."

She glanced back at him, her gaze sharpening. Her voice dropped.

"And she's good with a camera, you know? Real good. She doesn't need truth. She just needs a good angle."

Her eyes narrowed, deadly calm.

"And people believe her. Always. She could ruin my family with those hospital pics. Just a few lies in the right place and—bam. CPS, scandal, cops. That's how much power she has," Emi muttered, jaw clenched. "Or I don't know. Maybe that's just how fucking terrified I am of her."

She rolled her sleeve back down, the motion careful. Like she was tucking away a confession too sharp to keep showing.

"There. That's the story. Y/N didn't say anything because she wouldn't throw me under the bus to clear her own name—'cause she's stupid like that. So yeah. Now you know. Straight from the source."

She took a long drag. Crushed the butt under her heel with finality.

"You do whatever you want with that information."

Kuroo didn't speak.

He just stood there—stone still, jaw slack, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Like every word she'd said had short-circuited him.

Then, finally, he breathed.

Ragged. Gutted.

He dragged both hands down his face, hard enough to leave red streaks, then shoved them into his hair and gripped hard—like he needed pain to focus.

"I… I need a second," he managed at last, voice wrecked and low. "I need to think."

Emi shrugged. "Yeah. You do that."

She didn't say it cruelly. Just tired.

"You talk to her or you don't," she added. "But this whole thing where you two run in circles and bleed for it? It's getting old tbh."

And then she stepped away from the wall, exhaling long and slow, and walked past him—past the gates to go find the gang.

You were sitting on the floor in your little hidden spot—knees to your chest, face buried in the soft fabric of your jacket. You weren't crying, not really. But every few seconds, a tremor ran down your spine like your body wanted to sob but your mind refused to let it.

You waited. Waited for the hurt to fade. For the anger to settle. Waited for Kuroo.

Because you knew he'd come.

But the hurt didn't fade. The anger didn't settle.

Instead, the silence swallowed you whole.

You sat there all day—back against the brick wall, eyes on nothing. The afternoon heat clung to your skin, but you didn't move. Didn't cry. Barely breathed.

At some point, our hands stopped trembling. The sting in your chest dulled to a bitter throb, then went cold.

And by the time the sun started to dip low, the version of you who had broken down the night before was long gone.

She'd been replaced by the one you knew how to be.

The angry one. The survivor.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel in front of you.

You didn't flinch. Didn't even look up.

"Took you long enough," you muttered flatly.

Kuroo's voice came out hoarse. Tight. "Had some shit to figure out."

"Yeah. Guess we both did."

Silence. Thin, barbed-wire silence.

Then—

"Emi told me of what happened in junior high."

Your head snapped up at him, eyes wide.

"She said you wouldn't tell me. Said that was the reason you were in Shibuya last night. Why didn't you just—"

"I was protecting Emi," you snapped. "Her secret."

Kuroo scoffed. Dry. Bitter. "Yeah? And where does protecting me fit into that? You know what it looks like? I look like a fool and a cuck to the entire school."

You surged to your feet, heat roaring in your chest.

"You think I wanted any of this?" Your voice rose and trembled, but you didn't back down. "You think I enjoyed getting fucking manhandled and photographed like some piece of meat?!"

His eyes met yours—dark and stormy. Pain flared behind them, not just his but yours too.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked again, quieter now, like he was begging. "Why didn't you trust me?"

You laughed. A dry, hollow sound.

"Please. Like you trusted me the second you saw those photos? You looked at me like I was poison. Like I was already guilty."

He flinched.

"Maybe I should've told you," you said. "But I was scared."

He opened his mouth, paused, then dragged a hand through his hair—rough, frustrated, the strands sticking out in every direction.

"Scared of what?" he asked finally. "Of me?"

"No, idiot!" you yelled, voice breaking. "Of losing you! Of you looking at me like I was broken! Like I was disgusting! Like I wasn't worth fighting for anymore."

You wiped your eyes furiously with the back of your hand, hard enough to sting.

"And congrats," you spat. "You made sure of that real quick."

"That's not fucking fair," he snapped. "You're acting like you didn't give me every reason to doubt you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you snarled, laughing darkly. "Was getting assaulted supposed to come with a fucking heads-up?"

Kuroo's eyes narrowed, stepping closer.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

You glared at him, daring him.

"You could've told me about him that night at my house. When I asked. Could've told me about Emi," he said. "You hid shit from me over and over. And now I'm the asshole because I hesitated for five seconds after someone handed me proof?"

Your fists curled so tight your nails bit into your palms.

"That wasn't proof. It was a setup. A fucking ambush."

Guilt twisted his face, but anger didn't leave either.

"You made it impossible to trust you!" he snapped. "You put walls around everything that mattered and then got pissed when I couldn't guess what was inside. Made it a goddamn puzzle I wasn't allowed to solve."

You stepped in close, face inches from his.

"Oh, poor you," you seethed. "Did I ruin your fantasy? Was I supposed to wrap myself up with a bow and hand you all the ugly pieces so you could decide if I was still worth it? Show you how fucking imperfect I was so you could come in and fix me? 'Bad girl fixed by the nice nerd guy,' Perfect fucking story, right?"

His jaw tightened, breath sharp. "I didn't want to fix you. I just wanted you to be honest."

"I was trying," you whispered. "I really was. But the second you had to choose to believe me, even if it was hard, the second it stopped being cute—you dipped."

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

"I didn't tell you about Emi because it wasn't my secret to tell. And because she nearly died, and I wasn't there. I couldn't protect her. And I still feel like shit for it."

His face flickered—guilt and shame crawling behind his eyes.

But you didn't stop.

"And you…" You inhaled sharply. "You're mad because of your reputation? Because people think you got cheated on? Is that what matters most to you?"

Kuroo's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. Didn't correct you.

"And you looked at me like that," you added, and your voice broke on the last word. "Like I was dirty."

You swallowed hard.

"And I feel dirty. I do. That fucker… he…" your breath hitched, the words came trembling, brittle. "All these punches—and for what? I couldn't even..."

Your eyes dropped to your hands like you resented them. Fists that had flown a hundred times in a hundred fights. That had drawn blood, broken noses.

All the fights. All that training with your dad.

Useless, when it mattered most.

You were the one who always hit first. Who protected everyone else.

But in the end—

You couldn't even protect yourself.

Kuroo's face collapsed. All the anger fell out of him in one breathless second. Guilt replacing it as it swept over him like a tidal wave.

Like he was only now, finally, realizing what those pictures actually meant. What had really happened.

And that he'd believed the camera instead of you.

You saw it hit him. Hard. His eyes widened slightly, like he was seeing it now—truly seeing it—for the first time.

Not the rumor. Not the picture.

You.

His girlfriend. The girl who was looking at her hands like they betrayed her.

"Y/N—" he rasped.

He reached for you, but when his fingers brushed your elbow you shoved it off, stepping back without looking at him.

"Don't." You pulled away. "It doesn't fucking matter anymore. It wasn't a big deal. I don't care."

"You do, though."

You glared at him, jaw tight. "You don't get to tell me how I feel."

"I'm not," Kuroo said, voice rough. "But I know very well what it looks like when you're trying not to feel."

You scoffed and turned away, arms crossed so tight they ached.

"And stop doing that too," he said sharply.

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"That," he snapped. "Pushing it down. Acting like it didn't fucking happen."

Your spine straightened.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

The silence that followed bristled with static.

He stepped closer again. Not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the weight of him.

"You're doing that thing," he continued, voice low, gentler. "Where you take something that should destroy you and just... shove it into some box and pretend it didn't hurt."

His tone wasn't accusing anymore. It was something softer. Something scared.

"And maybe that's how you survive, I get it. But it's not the same as healing. And if you keep doing it one day it's gonna eat you alive. One day you'll snap, and no one—including you—will understand why."

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, your guard slipped.

Just a crack.

"Then what the fuck do I do?!" You stared at him. Your breath was shaky. "I'm... I don't know how to talk about this shit! I'm so used to swallowing it I forget there's another fucking option!”

He blinked, startled by the admission.

"You cry! Stop locking it up like it doesn't deserve air! Just—fuck—scream if you have to! Just don't shut down like this..."

There was a moment of silence. You exhaled, shaky and slow.

"You know what? Worst part is you're acually right."

Kuroo's face softened. But you didn't let it stay that way.

"But don't think that means I forgive you," you added quickly. "Because I don't. Not yet."

He nodded slowly, voice low. "I don't expect you to."

You turned your face away, arms still crossed, chest still aching—but lighter somehow.

You didn't know how long you stood there, breathing hard in the silence between you two.

The words hung between you like smoke—raw, half-said, unsatisfying.

You could still feel the shape of his hands in the air where they'd almost held you. The anger hadn't gone. The hurt hadn't either.

But under it, something softer stirred. Not forgiveness—not yet.

But something closer to understanding. Or the ache of it.

"I should've told you earlier. As soon as it happened," you muttered. "I do bottle shit up. I always have."

Kuroo looked at you—eyes bloodshot, but steadier now.

"And I should've trusted you," he rasped.

A small, bitter smile tugged at your mouth. "Look at us. Actually communicating."

He huffed a weak breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"I think that whole conversation counts, honestly. It's not like we don't communicate we just... Need better methods I guess."

You let your gaze drift down the gravel path, blinking hard.

A sound broke the stillness—a sharp, broken whimper.

You both turned.

And then you saw her.

Emi was walking toward you, eyes dead, lips parted, her grip tight in Hebinuma's hair—fisted hard at the nape of her neck.

Her usually neatly styled, bleached hair was in disarray, her makeup smeared, and her eyes swollen. Blood ran fresh from a cut on her lower lip.

Her expression was hard as she shoved Hebinuma forward, letting go and making her stumble and fall to her knees in front of you.

"Speak! Tell 'em what you told me."

Hebinuma didn't look much better—her nose was swollen, her right eye barely open and already bruising. Her hair was a mess and nail marks raked down the sides of her face and down her neck.

She whimpered, shoulders hunched inward like she could fold herself out of sight. Her hands trembled. When she glanced up, it wasn't at you—it was at Kuroo. Like a cornered rat reaching for a predator's mercy.

"Kuroo-san..." she whimpered, barely audible.

"Speak up, bitch!" Emi screamed, her voice hoarse and shaking with unrestrained rage.

Hebinuma flinched, shrinking inward. But your eyes stayed locked on Emi.

Your best friend, your sweet Emi—who always hung back when fists flew—stood there, seething. You'd never seen her like this before. Blood on her mouth. Fury in her eyes. You'd always taken the hits for her. But now... now she was burning.

When it became clear Hebinuma wasn't going to speak, Emi scoffed, rolling her eyes like she'd stepped in something filthy.

"She did it. All of it," she said, voice clipped and shaking. "She convinced everyone to spread shit about you and Kuroo. She told Junpei to call you so she could take the pictures and spread even more bullshit. The guys are looking for him right now. That motherfucker must be hiding if he knows what's coming. They're gonna beat the shit out of him."

Her shoulders lifted, then sank with a trembling breath.

"I don't know if it'll help, but I made sure her little friends spread the word that it was all a lie."

"Emi..." You surged forward, cupping her face in both hands. She flinched in pain, and your stomach turned. Her skin was hot beneath your fingers, raw around the bruises.

"She landed a good one," Emi said, voice trembling, trying to joke. "Right on the cheek. Gotta give her that." She shot a venomous glance at Hebinuma. But when she looked back at you, something cracked. Her eyes were glossy, her voice small and soft like a kid waking from a nightmare.

"You think it'll bruise?"

"It better not—for her sake." You turned on Hebinuma, baring your teeth. "If you lay another finger on her, I'll fucking kill you. Got that?!"

Kuroo raised a hand like he meant to calm you—but his eyes were wide, locked on Hebinuma's battered face, flicking across it like he couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing.

"I think Emi already did enough," he muttered.

You sneered, snapping your head toward him. You weren't done with him—not even close—but Emi's gentle hand on your shoulder grounded you, fingers curling just enough to keep you tethered.

"I started it," she said quietly. "I heard her admitting everything to her friends, so I just... yeah. And the fact she'd spread pictures of you getting fucking assaulted is just disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with her?"

Her voice wavered, the end trailing off.

"But I didn't do it just for you. I had to get her at some point, right? I couldn't keep leaning on you for protection... You spoiled me too much..."

"Idiot," you said, voice thick with anger and love. "You can lean on me whenever the hell you want. And fighting on school grounds means suspension. You know that."

"But… you're doing so good now." Her eyes flicked away, guilt bleeding into her bruised expression. "If you fought her, you'd go back to your old class, right? And you'd lose Kuroo too, because he would've thought you cheated, and that you and Junpei were really a thing…"

You glanced at Kuroo. His gaze had softened.

Guilt curled up his spine like a noose. His jaw clenched.

And then—

"Yo, Y/N! Here's the traitor!"

You looked up.

Kenkiba had Junpei by the collar, dragging him across the gravel like trash to be taken out. His face was bloody, lip split and cheek swelling, eyes blinking in and out of consciousness.

The rest of the gang trailed behind, their steps heavy and filled with intent.

Kenkiba's steps slowed when he saw Emi's face. His eyes widened in horror, and he surged forward.

You stepped aside without thinking, letting him rush to her side.

"Emi! Did Hebinuma do this to you?"

"You should see her face," Emi muttered with a weak chuckle. "But I think I twisted my ankle kicking her. It hurts, Kiba~"

He wrapped his arms around her as she sagged into him, the adrenaline finally fading from her limbs.

Behind them, Taiga grabbed Junpei by the scruff, making him stand up, and turned to Kuroo with a grimace.

"It's a lie, man. Y/N would never do you like that."

You waited.

For Kuroo to speak. To agree. Something.

But he'd gone still.

Too still.

His entire body went tight—shoulders locking, chest rising with slow, heavy breaths. His gaze zeroed in on Junpei like a sniper finding his mark.

And then, in a heartbeat, he moved.

Taiga barely had time to step aside before Kuroo's fist obliterated Junpei's jaw with a sickening crack. Junpei hit the ground like a sack of bones, blood spraying across the gravel.

Taiga and Inuzuka lunged, grabbing Kuroo by the arms, but he broke through—rage-fueled, vicious—just enough to land a savage kick to Junpei's ribs.

"IF YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH HER AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!" Kuroo roared, his voice raw and shaking with fury.

He thrashed in the guy's grip, a storm given human shape. His face was twisted with a rage you'd never seen on him—feral, gut-deep, personal.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! TOUCH HER AGAIN, I FUCKING DARE YOU."

"Shit—volleyball nerd is strong, what the hell—" Taiga grunted, half in awe, half in alarm as he struggled to hold him back.

You stood motionless, frozen in place, trembling from the sheer heat of Kuroo's fury. He wasn't the composed, sarcastic genius you knew.

He was rage. Pure and unfiltered.

"Tetsurou-kun."

Inukai-sensei's voice cracked through the chaos like a gunshot.

Taiga flinched and muttered under his breath.

"Holy fuck."

He stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, expression grim.

"Tetsurou-kun, I think that's enough," he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of command. "No one here wants to see you walk down that path."

He nodded to the boys, and reluctantly, they let Kuroo go.

But he didn't move.

He just stood there—trembling, fists still balled at his sides, sweat dripping from his brow, breathing like he'd just survived a war.

His eyes stayed wide and crazed, locked on Junpei who lay coughing on the ground, like if he looked away for even a second, the bastard would vanish before he could finish the job.

"I think it's safe to say we all have a clear picture of what happened here," Inukai-sensei continued, voice like velvet pulled taut over steel. "But as Y/N said, fighting on school grounds does mean a suspension. I'll take Hebinuma and Shiromaru to the infirmary. Then we'll go to the principal's office."

His gaze softened a shade as it landed on the two of you.

"You two need to talk."

Still, Kuroo didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Just stood there, fury and grief barely leashed under his skin, jaw clenched like he was trying not to break.

Inukai-sensei kneeled to ease a sobbing Hebinuma to her feet and walked off. The gang trailed after him, dragging Junpei's limp body with them.

And just like that—

You and Kuroo were alone again.

Next chapter↪ (coming soon)

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi @talia-the-gemini

#haikyuu #hq fanfic #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #hq #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #nekoma #tetsurou kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsuro haikyuu

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s3ashellss · 1 day ago

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I haven’t uploaded in a while (sorry 💔) but I thought I’d make this post for anyone who actually gives a fuck:

Final Destination Deaths that will NOT EVER Happen To You

Because people either get paranoid watching the franchise (understandable) or are maybe just interested in reading about this??

Spoilers for movies 1, 2, 3, 5 and Bloodlines

1. Tod Wagner - Final Destination One

This is actually my favourite death in the first movie. It doesn’t need gore to be unsettling, and to me, is the perfect first death in the franchise. But it is also never ever going to happen to anyone ever 😭.

This death is very supernatural driven. Even if you did slip and get your neck tangled in a clothing wire, death was keeping that wire tight. In reality, death isn’t an overbearing sentient being. You would be able to quickly get out of that situation.

But what if it wasn’t getting looser? Well, it wouldn’t go tighter. If you slotted your fingers in between the wire and the front of your neck and pulled away, it would keep the pressure of the wire away from your airways.

Like I said, this is a very supernatural death and the chances of it happening are basically nonexistent.

2. Tim Carpenter - Final Destination Two

Let’s be so for real. Human bodies are not that weak. Glass is not strong enough to turn a human into tomato purée.

We have bones. 206 to be exact. Each of these bones are strong.

Glass is melted sand that is easily smashed.

Put these two together? Glass falls on your head and your skull causes it to smash. The worst you get is a lot of cuts. It is guaranteed and literally impossible for you to get turned into a strawberry slush puppie.

3. Ashley and Ashlyn - Final Destination Three

This is personally my favourite in the entire franchise. I get it’s basic as hell but it genuinely made me feel uneasy and is always a really tough watch.

Tanning beds are built safe. They usually have an opening you can open at any time and you’re only in there for as long as you set. And guys… don’t bring slushy drinks into a room with human air fryers 😭 it’s common sense I fear. There will always be a worker nearby too to not let any harm reach you.

The most harm you’ll ever get from a tanning bed is risks of skin cancer. But if you’re more concerned about turning into KFC, you’re safe.

4. Olivia Castle - Final Destination Five

Anything to do with medical procedures is a guaranteed inaccurate death. I love this franchise but they make things inaccurate on purpose to scare viewers.

Lasik eye surgery is just as safe as any other surgery. Your eye is numbed by anaesthetic. There is a surgeon at ALL TIMES. It’s too long to explain here but just know that this is the same as any other surgery - safe and literally done to help you.

5. Erik and Bobby Campbell - Final Destination Bloodlines

Going back to the medical related deaths. Ouch.

Erik first:

Piercings aren’t magnetic when they’re good quality. I mean, if you go to the darkest depths of temu to get your nipple piercings, sure, they could be somewhat magnetic. But piercings will never be magnetic enough to be forcefully ripped out by an MRI.

The wheelchair… yeah, no, I’ll admit, you are fucked. But they wouldn’t ever let a wheelchair in the room at the same time as a scan is happening.

And now Bobby:

Oh my god. This death is graphic and honestly gross as hell, but seriously? This is NOT happening 😭. Even if the spring was magnetic, why on earth would they let a vending machine in a room with an MRI??

MRIs will never go into research mode when there are people in the room that are not qualified to work with MRIs. Again, another sage medical procedure made unrealistic to shock audiences.

(Although I can’t be a hater because I really liked the MRI deaths…)

That is it for this. I know it’s not all of the deaths, but these are ones I’ve seen talked about a lot from people who feel that they could happen. Chances are SLIM. SLIMMMM.

Thank you for reading :3

#final destination #final destination 2 #final destination 3 #final destination 5 #final destination bloodlines #tod waggner #tim carpenter #Ashley and ashlyn #olivia castle #erik campbell #bobby campbell #final destiknation spoilers #rambles

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werezmastarbucks · 9 hours ago

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interlude: you and 7

U N7 masterlist

word count: 5504

warnings: alcoholism, self-destructive behaviour, Yoongi is in a bad place. time skips; it's a filler chapter for Yoongi's pov while you are in Busan

music: back to me by the rose

february 25th missed call, 12:00 missed call, 12:10 february 26th missed call, 10:20 missed call, 11:00 missed call, 17:41

february 26th, 22:00 no gym? what's going on

march 2nd, 18:35 y/n, can we talk? march 2nd, 19:00 if i did something wrong, please let me know. give me a call march 7th, 10:00 hey, it's weird not having English, i just got used to studying again

march 9, 12:09 i seriously am okay with dealing with whatever you're going through. i just want to understand what happened. it's not fair you speak with everybody but me march 15th, 21:39 how do you choose pears? why do i always buy the green ones

march 16th, 02:40 can i call you april 11th, 16:00 how are you? april 11th, 16:23 i just don't get it

may 24th, 04:50 i am really sorry

june 11th, 12:42 Seokjin is still complaining about the fruit. we miss you. but you probably know that

june 14th, 23:07 can you please text me back. please. i am sorry. we're leaving

2nd of March

Yoongi takes off his hat and ruffles his hair free.

"what do you mean?"

"you know how trains work?" Taehyung seems like he's about to bite him. it's all fine, the last week has gone under the flag of emergency. something snapped, maybe you had a mental breakdown, everybody was a little spooked. but it's a little rich that, of all the people, Taehyung is for some reason angry with him exclusively. the boy and his constant misplaced irritation. Yoongi is trying to find someone who will explain it to him. preferably, like he is dumb. what do they mean, y/n took the train to Busan and left. without even saying goodbye?

Yoongi never says goodbye because he hates goodbyes. because he never wants to part for good. he suspects your lack of goodbye was of different nature.

he goes home at the end of the day distraught, confused, with a headache. the doctor told him in the morning, you need to stop drinking. tough luck, buddy, he is dying soon it seems like. Yoongi picks a bottle out of the cupboard and drinks in silence, staring at the dark screen of his huge tv, his phone lying dead on the couch next to him. he is a little alarmed, flabbergasted, mute. the shadow twin in the reflection moves his arm up, bringing the glass to his mouth, as he is trying to pretend he doesn't have a clue.

well, disappointment is nothing new in his life. neither is anxiety. he could call you himself, but he sees his messages falling into nothing, not even a 'read' mark below, and he feels so fucking. tired of this. how many years has Riko tormented him? he would call her in moments like this, when she treated him to silence. toxic, capricious challenge. only to be cut off again. she would pick up, listen to him for a second, and hang up. no more. Yoongi isn't dramatic, he isn't desperate, he just wishes things were clearer. there's still something that keeps eluding him. every time he thinks about you, a feeling similar to gaping hunger hits the upper part of his stomach. like failing to catch something that's been flying straight to his face.

fine.

it's nothing. maybe you're sparing him of the crazy. you've always been kind of a wild card. happy one day, depressed the next one. it is intriguing as much as a warning. no, Yoongi thinks, he's had enough crazy. he hates himself for that, but Riko, whom he doesn't love anymore, thank god, keeps occupying his thoughts like an example he keeps coming back to. sometimes in our lives we meet such atrocious people that they become even more than a running anecdote we keep telling everybody. a life lesson. exhibit a. the bitch who shredded his heart, plucked all his nerves one by one and then cheated on him. now she keeps texting. everybody keeps texting him, except for you. he is overtly polite with her but barely responds anymore: it's becoming a burden. but she was a useful lesson in dealing with crazy. if you are that, maybe it's good that you're gone because he doesn't want to go through all that again.

deep down Yoongi knows you're not like Riko. where she was cold, you were always warm. even snapping your sharp teeth at him, protecting your boundaries, you were kinder about it. you never treated him like he was less than. no, no, you were not crazy, but something crazy has been happening to you, for sure. and everybody seems too fucking arrogant to talk to him about it. Yoongi feels like a complete idiot the whole March, feels like he is the only one who is kept in the dark. maybe he is imagining things.

the others start looking at him weird. half of them, with pity, the others, Jungkook and Taehyung, like he's done something wrong. has he? did he say something that would warrant you to get all your stuff and move to another city? was it the stalker, he panics for a moment? the word is, no. the stalker has been inactive lately.

the rehearsals get so intense as June approaches, that he barely has time to think, let alone have enlightening conversations with them. Hoba is irritated, but that is a norm when the deadline is close: he is always nervous, even if things go well. barks at them all the time, massaging his forearms that go numb when he practices for eleven hours straight. this year the training is hard for all of them, even Jungkook and Jimin. drippers are brought to the studio. age is age, there's nothing to do about it. their bones recall the pains of two thousand thirteen, when they would sleep on the floor of the dance studio because they'd get so exhausted that the idea of taking the bus to the dorm made them sob. now it's almost the same. minus the sleeping on the floor. this whole spring feels like a dark urge, like something bad is coming. like they will fail. all they speak about is how they need to fix the choreo; and then Jungkook loses his voice, a month before the tour. loses it to the point where he can't produce a sound for a whole week. the doctor tells them it's a combination of exhaustion, drinking and stress. they are all forbidden from drinking until June, strictly. and it gets even worse. fights. physical fights: Jimin's temper gets the best out of him when Jin can't memorize four simple steps. he lashes out because he has to repeat the same pirouette two hundred times, and is getting dizzy. Namjoon rushes in to shut him up, and Jimin lashes at him, too. Jungkook would get involved but he can't speak. Taehyung gets angry at everybody, but delegates all his rage onto Yoongi for some reason. they end up taking an hour long break and find out there's no place to go from the studio: there's either the kitchen or out the window. Yoongi contemplates the latter. they haven't had such explosive quarrels in many years. they all thought they were past that. but this has been the worst spring in years, as well. and for him, Yoongi knows why. he allowed himself to fall in love again, only to get screwed over, again. and he feels so dumb about it, and he definitely doesn't need Taehyung's attitude adding up to the whole pile of shit.

the boy is of other opinions. he chuckles without any smile in his mouth, looking directly at him. his hand squeezing a pear that's too unripe and green to eat. nobody cuts their fruit into cubes anymore. nobody does their dishes anymore; Jimin had to call Nari and beg her to come round and do it from time to time, call Yuna, they will pay money, because the dishes grow in the sink. nobody yanks them away once a day to relieve them of the stress and tell them how smart, and good, and superb they are.

23th of May

"...and it's somehow my fault?"

Taehyung keeps pulling his mouth to the sides. maybe he thinks Yoongi can't yell back? forgotten that he, also, has a temper? just because he is patient doesn't mean Yoongi is ready to deal with their fucking characters all the time.

"it is fully your fault".

Namjoon snaps his jaws in a warning, sighing, but doesn't say anything yet. he looks like a thought it cooking, but his stove is only half on.

"care to explain that?"

Taehyung taps the pear on the table like it's an egg that needs to be cracked.

"really? are you not done playing dumb, Yoongi?"

it's very rarely that they will omit the 'hyung'. it stings more than he is ready to admit. Yoongi likes to be loved. when maknaes "forget" to use the affectionate term, it's very mean.

"you", he points his finger at Taehyung, "always keep talking like i am supposed to be in on a secret, but i have no fucking idea. are you not tired of always pretending you're the smartest in the room?"

Jungkook is sitting at the kitchen table with his knees spread so wide that he takes up half of the room at once. Jimin is hiding behind the fridge door, his ass sticking out.

"Taehyung, it's not always so simple", he hoots from there. his soft comment is ignored completely.

"you have no idea. no, it's really epic", Taehyung exhales, his chest shaking, "you have no idea she loved you for seven years that you knew her? you'll tell me you had no idea? or you pretended not to notice?"

everything goes quiet. the spider nest erupts, and the nasty, black venom spreads everywhere. Jungkook's face goes pale, his eyes stare through space. he'd be screaming if he had voice. Jimin stands up, looking at Taehyung, and lets go of the fridge door.

"the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks quietly.

"huh?" Taehyung fences. he is slowly going livid, his neck is quite pink at this point, "we'll tiptoe around this forever? how long are we supposed to pretend nobody knows?"

Yoongi crosses his arms on his chest because he doesn't know what else to do. it looks more like he is trying to cover himself.

"what did you say?"

Taehyung finally leaves the pear alone, and it rolls across the table and stops at the edge.

"she's been in love with you", he says, clearly, cruelly. "i dare you to tell me you didn't know".

"i thought it was just a crush".

Jungkook's mouth twitches. he still avoids looking at anyone, chewing on his lip.

"not a lot going on in that head of yours", Taehyung concludes, "honestly it's pathetic with you two. movie classic. right person, wrong time, right?"

Yoongi slowly looks across the room, taking in the faces. Jungkook lifts his eyes and stares him down, and the things slowly start making sense. all of it. like the veil drops. like it's not elusive anymore. he's been copying a picture from memory, but was a few meters off. he thought you weren't ready, that there were other factors, that this job burned you out. he thought, he thought things. he was protecting himself.

"you all knew?" he asks quietly.

Jungkook and Jimin exchange glances and say nothing. Jiminie looks like he is trying really hard not to blame him, but does anyway. it's enraging. it's him against all the others: even Namjoon glances at him like he kicked a puppy.

"seriously?" he presses. "i am the bad guy?"

"nobody's the bad guy", Namjoon inserts quickly. he is pressing himself into the wall. "listen, it's nobody's fault. we're not sixteen".

"if we were sixteen", Taehyung puts his thumb straight into the bleeding cut and presses, "she would've been nine when it started. that's how long".

Jungkook tries to say something, and Jimin shushes him to protect the voice. but nothing comes out anyway; it's a purely psychological condition now. only air.

"this is a bit stupid, isn't it?" Yoongi utters, still observing them. the hatred he feels as of now, although it won't last, is refreshing. "coming from you. are you angry about y/n or yourself?"

Jungkook's face darts to him, unbelieving he just went there. Taehyung, however. is impressive. he smirks at the jab, it slides off him like water off a feather.

"look at me", V offers, "and tell me you never had any idea she was suffering".

that's the point. finally, the words that he needed to hear, that explain the mood. the suffering. Jimin grabs his elbows.

"i never had any idea", Yoongi confirms, his chest clutched for a second. "i thought she liked me, fine. it was never a problem".

what he means is, you were never a problem. Taehyung sniffs through his nose.

he was, in fact, so proud of himself. he was so happy he had all that space and gradually made his way to you. was thinking how neat it all was: you being always there, the friend that was never stingy with support. after the mistakes he made with Riko, it almost felt like fate; the love for you felt like an endless summer that's always waited for him. he had no idea how sorely he was mistaken. how far off he was. spectacular irony.

"we're not fighting about it", Namjoon hammers in his ordering voice. the voice that they usually don't argue with. "you two. shake hands. now".

only Namjoon can command them around like this. the fact alone that he needs to resort to it means the situation is drastic. Jungkook rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

"i will shake his hand when he stops being a coward and fixes it", Taehyung replies. Namjoon sucks the air through his teeth sharply, but Jimin suddenly chimes in:

"no. no fixing".

they are all startled by it. but Jimin knows what he's talking about. it hits Yoongi like a hammer: he would always race through Seoul to be with me and bring food when i was breaking down; he can hear your voice like it's saying the words right into his ear. he can see your face, in his mind, smiling with such affection, cheeks a little flushed after the workout. Jimin has been the one who consoled you when you suffered.

because of me.

the realization that he made you ache tastes like flowers dying. it's like winter clutch. it's weakening. there's no point being defensive about it. he fucked up, whether intentionally or not, it doesn't matter. wow, he fucked up so bad.

"what?" Taehyung asks, his eyes on Jimin. suddenly, they all start understanding Jungkook's silent language. maknae shakes his head up and down, and then his palm slaps the table. it's a question: why not?

"Yoongi does nothing, i forbid it", Jimin sounds like a father. like he is five feet tall. his stare is direct. it's protective.

"you leave her alone".

all of a sudden, Joon snaps. his hand grabs Taehyung's neck, making him ouch with surprise, and drags him forward like a kitten. before Yoongi can do anything, as if he can do anything, he sees his leader's cougar face, jaws pressed together, and feels the painful grab just below the back of his head.

his forehead crashes into Taehyung's nose, and the boy yelps with pain this time. Namjoon refuses to let go, pressing them together like sock puppets.

"get your shit together before i make you kiss on the mouth", he grunts, then abruptly releases their necks, and Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut.

they make up with effort. it's creaking at first, but the catharsis of the moment facilitates the onset of peace. in a week, Jungkook starts speaking again, and Hoba becomes a little more relaxed, and May ends. they come out on top: they always do. it's always hectic and unsure, but they are Bangtan Boys. they've been through much worse.

─────────────────────────────────────

August

the tour comes and goes, and they come back home to hot, moist, choking Seoul, polluted streets and feeble greenery framing the housing districts, the hills and salty heat of the asphalt.

Lee Nayoung contacts him with a song request. correction: attempts to contact him with a song request. Yoongi is drowning in alcoholism after the tour, while he has the holiday, soaking at home, cradling his sore limbs, sleeping off the mounted jetlag. the first week he ignores people's calls completely so that Vicky has to come over and bang her fist on the door with the force of a SWAT team. Yoongi reminds her through the small crack of the door that he is on hiatus. he has earned this vacation with his hard work. Vicky lets him know he has been overstaying it a week already. Yoongi has lost around eight extra days barricading at home, emptying bottles and torturing the piano. he checks the calendar and thinks she is lying, the clocks are lying, and the time is lying. it's been a year you've been gone, and he still checks his phone in case you called. the disgust he experiences for himself is so strong that Yoongi gets sober, cleans up and gets ready the next day. he cuts his hair, washes all his clothes and takes the trash out. the embarrassment. people have been waiting on him, and Vicky was the only one brave enough to shove his nose into his own shit. Yoongi contacts Lee Nayoung back and apologizes. she says she wants a song about broken love. so funny! she recently went through a tough breakup; left with the feeling of regret, she claims. Yoongi has just the song for her, he promises. shit, he has a full album. take your pick.

Nayoung picks him.

she picks him up when he falls asleep in his chair at the studio, and puts a small pillow under his head and turns off the light.

she picks up the takeout for him and brings the food when they work.

she picks up the empty soda cans he keeps leaving around, and throws them in the trash.

she picks up on his habits and comes a little bit later in the morning to always give him some time to start the engine in his brain. Yoongi can't seem to gather himself completely, and once she picks up on that, too. she never wears pants, her soft femininity assuring, calming, self-sustained. she simply tilts her head and narrows her misty-dark eyes, and Yoongi feels as if she's reading his mind.

"your writing has been erratic", she notes. he nods and scratches his elbow. his phone lights up, and the piercing habit zips his ribs, the reflex at this point. y/n? no... someone else, again.

"it hits raw when it's real", Nayoung continues. Yoongi's neck goes numb because he has been stooping again. he winces, massages his shoulders.

"yes, last year was strange".

"i don't need to know to empathize", she shrugs, simply. Yoongi gazes at her and all his insides go cold. he looks at her round shoulders, parted lips with masterfully injected filler looking natural and tasty.

"so, you mean good erratic?" he specifies. Nayoung nods and approaches, her gaze friendly. there's no deceipt to her demeanor. the girl is very down-to-earth. what she says is what she means. she moves the pieces of paper around.

"although we need to change some of the adjectives, or it's going to sound like i was in love with a girl who smelt like green tea".

they both stare at the empty sound booth where she's supposed to be. instead, her hand lies on his shoulder and squeezes lightly. i don't know, but i care. it's the same gesture he extended you, forever ago. and it's such a small thing, such a rare human favour, that Yoongi feels drained again. he gives in, drunk, irritated, disappointed. he knows what he is doing is terrible. but he allows Nayoung to love him. allows her to take care of him until he is capable of moving on his own at least. allows her to believe he feels the same. lets her onto his lap, making the old chair squeak, and lets her part his lips with hers, and closes his eyes.

he goes back to that January when you listened to the new album: same studio, same chair, he's even wearing the same t-shirt accidentally. that's what was supposed to happen; as Nayoung's mouth is licking his, he suddenly gets a hint of strawberries on his tongue. he pushes away gently, staring at her, and she reads his mind.

"lip balm".

fake fake fake fake fake fake

at least she is there. at least she isn't distant, or crazy, or unstable. she doesn't push him away - she pulls him in. Nayoung brings plants into his house and places them in the most random places, finishing the cosy look, and makes Yoongi water them on time and fertilize them. Nayoung accepts the songs he writes for her, making her corrections gently, with caution. she slices his fruits in cubes and carries her phone in a funny, clunky case that she swings around like a mini-bag. she is nice, perceptive, kind. she is too soft with him, like the opposite of Riko. whatever he asks for, she does, and she balances her life with his with the mastery of a gymnast. the summer and autumn they spend together are calm and nurturing like graveyard soil, rich in juices and worms. Yoongi is slowly thriving, sucking the life out of her like a vampire half-way out of the casket, and Nayoung resides in this delusion that if she tries hard enough, she will make him forget. she never catches him staring at her.

she catches him sending you a happy birthday message, though. it's not long, just one line, but she asks why Yoongi keeps apologizing. like she hadn't heard the fucking song. they are, all of them, a bunch of cretins living in their bubble labyrinths they've built themselves. Jungkook lying to himself he never loved you. Taehyung lying to himself he stopped loving Jungkook. Yoongi lying to himself he is going to move on, tomorrow, tomorrow, and Nayoung lying to herself she didn't propose to him out of fear. her sudden request was so rash, almost shocking. like she was in a hurry to settle him and lock him away. click the handcuffs closed. January saw Jimin and Nari's anniversary. and Yoongi and Nayoung's slow, unpleasant fallout. and Riko, again.

"i made a mistake. it has always been you".

Yoongi blinks. he is groggy, heavy, holding himself against the table with his arms. it's the last thing he wants to see so early in the morning. he hisses dismissively, amused, and Nayoung turns her head.

"what?"

"nothing".

he can feel her eyes touching his forearm, then climb up and settle on his face. Yoongi looks at her pretty lips and thinks of unrequited love. humanness is so dumb, he ponders. always with some bullshit holding him back. phone vibrates again, and his gaze drops.

"call me, Yoon"

he begged for the same thing, too, he recalls. you can't always get what you want. he blocks her number, finally after all this time, to spare himself of at least one of the interferances. he raises himself with an effort, breathing full lungs of air, and starts noticing how messy the living room is. clothes lying around, wrappings of packages, tools, furniture moved sideways. he wants a cleanse.

and a divorce. because Nayoung is a good person who's been trying to mount the wrong person. god knows why she chose him specifically in her soul purifying trip, but Yoongi doesn't question things anymore.

Jimin says you live surrounded by fruit trees and the strait, and Yoongi craves to be by your side, listening to the waves and looking at the yellow of Busan streets. the year that's passed was his karma, it's been the year of falling deeper into depression, into love. he is searching for your eyes in everybody he looks at but he never calls because he is horrified of making it worse.

Jimin had told him everything. he came round back in August, while they were reeling after the tour still, going back to work slowly, carefully and lazily. sitting on his couch with a bottle of strawberry beer, he had mercy on his hyung, telling him about what the slumber parties were about. what the karaoke was about. how you sometimes hugged him for too long, too tightly, clearly wishing he was Yoongi. Jimin sent him a link leading to a playlist that clearly meant something to you, but nobody knew exactly why. funny how Yoongi could read it like a poem. songs that reminded you of him. some of them you mentioned during lessons, some you listened to together, and some are of his own creation.

"SUGA's interlude", you'd always beam, "is my spring song. it sounds like riding a bike in new shoes through the park, nineteen all over again". you'd always get so shy every single time you spoke to him about his music. about him. he always took it as dismissal.

he always underestimated absolutely everything about you. in awe of how dumb he was. he never listened to you just closely enough, because if he had, he would've heard you. but at first, there was Riko, then there was the getting over Riko, and then there was the train to Busan. the boys aren't actually angry with him, not anymore. but, he is.

he takes Nayoung's heart that should never have been in his vicinity and squashes it dead. she takes nothing: not the house, not the car, not the plants, she just disappears. calls him names, of course. not harsh enough, in his opinion. if Yoongi were to dissect this short relationship, he'd say Nayoung's fault was being spectacularly stupid. even a complete idiot would see what she was getting into, that it was a case of doom. now, she is forever smeared with "prod. by SUGA" and can't shake it off. it's like shooting someone down and kicking them when they are on the ground. Yoongi is glad he never ended up making a whole album with her.

what he ends up doing, is getting himself into the hospital.

July

Taehyung is really mean at times, but everybody knows that he is a softie at heart. all his attitude is the result of the passionate desire to constantly keep everybody intact. Taehyung needs people that he loves, around him at all times. he is anxious. he hasn't been angry with Yoongi since that one fight at the studio. Taehyung's been uncharacteristically nice, maybe out of the guilty feeling, and enforced his own company more and more often when it was time for drinking. especially after the divorce: he's been there constantly, which reminded Yoongi sharpy of the earlier years. he couldn't believe he forgot it's Taehyung's finest trick. back then, years and years ago, when he couldn't live with the chronic pain anymore, and wanted to simply blow his brains out, Taehyung hung on his shoulders like an annoying monkey and kept screaming his lungs out until Yoongi got proper help.

Taehyung must feel the same way now, because he trails behind him after the studio, once he leaves the building, follows in his steps, expecting to catch him, to the point of being annoying again. but this time, instead of getting cross with him, Yoongi turns and actually pays attention. why now?

because you look like shit, hyung, Taehyung replies, because life has run you over at least twice and i am afraid if you keep drinking, you will die.

you will die.

Yoongi collapses on the ground right in front of Hybe; it's like a scene out of a movie. the whole upper chest is suddenly on fire, the heart clutched in a small ball, and the breathing gets stuck somewhere behind the top ribs. he stares at the tip of the building he, sorry, Hoseok, built, and at the sky, and thinks about the weather in Busan. because the consciousness is leaving him, his brain starts inducing memories and hallucinating smells to keep him awake. Taehyung's hand shakes his neck instead of calling an ambulance. Yoongi closes his eyes, thinking, at least i won't hurt anyone else, but it just sucks that you haven't replied to his messages. would've been neat to receive at least one word from you.

he wakes up in the hospital bed thinking he's had a heart attack, but the doctors yank his hope for early death away, saying it was the gallbladder attack. Yoongi thinks for a minute, trying to remember the placement of the organ.

"what'd i do?" he asks.

"it's a call for help", doctor clarifies, "alcohol and stress made your body blow the whistle on you. it's a warning".

"of what?"

he clicks his tongue, thinking.

"you need to go easier on yourself. and stop drinking. but you've been told the latter many times".

there's commotion outside the door, and Taehyung pulls into the room, with Jungkook in his arms. looks like either he was trying to stop the maknae, or the maknae collided into him on his way, and they stumbled inside together.

"hyung", Jungkook stretches nasally, like a child. Yoongi is a little embarrassed. he tries to look away, but doctor retreats and leaves them alone, him and two of the three loudest people he's ever met.

the third one is you.

he misses you so fucking much it's ridiculous. there's still mild pain in his upper stomach and he yells with it when Jungkook elbows him just in the spot, trying to hug. the boys probably don't even know he is hopeless. he's been keeping to himself, and they let it go. life goes on. but now, as he looks at them, he gradually realizes he's had enough, again. these last two... three... five... years have been exhausting. all he wants is rest, and he hasn't rested since you went away.

fuck what Jimin says, or forbids. he's not your father, or his manager. even if he was his manager, a manager is the last person Yoongi listens to.

he isn't dramatic. he isn't deadly desperate yet. he is heartbroken and sad. he is smart. he knows you might not love him anymore. because you haven't sent him a single text in two years, and he never hears that you ask about him. every time Jimin comes back from Busan, Yoongi knows you didn't ask about him. he knows if he does the dramatic run to the city of the sea and confesses his deeply rooted, highly neglected, monstrously underestimated love, you might simply punch him in the face.

he has to be smarter.

he has to be the person Taehyung thought he was: cunning and hypocritical, unbothered. he has to lure you in instead of getting rejected directly. you are guarded and snappy, and too prideful for your own good. he has to make up an excuse to see you regularly that won't look needy. that will seem realistic. he has to trick you into loving him again, an almost hopeless cause.

he has to try. that's what Yoongi does: fixes things. he has to fix this.

─────────────────────────────────────

October

one more year later, he finds you sitting in front of the big panoramic window and looking at the pear trees. living room is empty of the pretty carpets, and expensive couch, and colourful book cases. all packed, all travelling already.

the whole day you're looking like he is forcing you to move. like he put a gun to your head and said: gather your shit. we're going back to Seoul.

"i wish i could take them with me", you mutter. Yoongi approaches you, feeling his back slouch. the old instinct that he fights off. shit, he is traumatized, too. always expecting to be slapped away.

even when you're sad, you still reach out for him with your hand, like he magnetizes you.

finally, the balance. the pull is equally strong on both ends.

"you don't have to do it", he says carefully, looking at your hand tugging on the sleeve of his hoodie. the heating has been shut off already, it's quite late to say these words. the apartment has been sold. your independence, your freedom, have been sold.

"no, i want to", you reply. he almost got used to your quieter, melancholic expression that's been there already when he came to Busan with his unconventional offer to be more than ex-friends. he is methodical. he is unhurried, much calmer than he was when it began. he is sure he will find a way to stomp out this melancholy, as well. plus, when you smile, it's the same smile you used to have when you first met. open, drawing lines at the corners of your eyes.

"you sure?"

you shiver a little, your hands rub over your shoulders quickly, as you nod. Komangi is lying in a curl at your thigh, also trying to warm himself up. not packed yet, this one will travel by plane.

"whatever are you going to do without the sea?" he asks, like he is testing your resolve. trying to make sure you know what you are doing. like he isn't the sea, and the ocean, to you. like he isn't the one who will make you follow wherever. you stare at him with the expression in your eyes that he always took as cheekiness.

but now that he has seen your eyes directly enough, he knows he has been mistaken about that, too. it's love. that's what it looks like. not the cold, elusive stare from under the lashes, or wide-open, demanding gaze. it's this: cutting smile in the depth. straight to the brain.

"Seoul is still loud and dirty", he presses further, as if teasing, and your lips curve delicately.

"i... me, too".

Yoongi opens his mouth.

"you trying to make an innuendo?"

"yeah", you exhale roughly.

"it's so bad", he can't believe your joking your way out of conversations always works, as his head tilts, and keeps tilting until he falls onto your lap. your hand gets to his face immediately, then swipes into the hair. you laugh, and it's the only warm thing in the room. Komangi purrs, and Yoongi does, too.

"you make a better one if you're so smart".

"i'm not smart, i am extremely dumb".

your hand brushes over his forehead and he can't believe human touch can heal so fiercely.

he hates being the one to nag, but it still bothers him.

"you don't look too happy".

"i am worried about the pear trees".

"damn, i will uproot them if you want. we will say it's carry on luggage".

uprooting is what he's done with you, twice. first, squeezed you out of Seoul, now yanked there again. he can see the way his words travel to your brain, and the little goosebumps on your throat.

"i just want to be where you are", you say. you push it out slowly, in between breaths. you think it sounds pathetic. Yoongi's crescent eyes smile at you the way you never thought you'd see.

"sorry".

"if you say sorry one more time, i will break your nose".

he turns to his side and presses his face into your stomach to hide the target and his smile. silver earrings in his ear click against each other.

fixed it.

taglist: @ktownshizzle , @benyhime , @ryryvna , @amarawayne , @mar-lo-pap , @kiki-zb , @hanaohreally

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #bts x reader #yoongi angst

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