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cheapshrimpysheep · 1 day ago

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Dating in a Dream - Jamil Viper

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Jamil Viper x Reader 🐍🦐

TAGS: Fluff; a little angst; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda); Kiss

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7 and Jamil’s dream (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 6.220 words

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I would also like to say: I kept the endings "sama" and "bocchan" because I thought they would make more sense, and since "sama", from what I researched, is gender neutral it could be used with Yuu. I don't know if Jamil's shawl has a specific name. And I'm not good with color names.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy 🐍

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / Rook / Vil / Kalim / (Jamil) / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho announces. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

Kalim seemed to have enjoyed the dream-to-dream journey, and even compared it to his carpet rides. But Vil didn't look or feel very well. It seemed like some kind of motion sickness specific to those dream travels. Everyone agrees that Vil should rest. Silver and Ortho stayed with him in the shade, while you, Grim, Sebek, Kalim and Idia, or rather his tablet, went for a walk to analyze the world of that dream a little more.

After walking around for a while, Sebek comments that it is as hot as in Kalim's dream. Which is explained by the fact that both dreams take place in Scalding Sands. Kalim recognizes the Camel Bazaar and suggests that you all should buy Vil some coconut juice, it's cold and refreshing and might help him feel better. Grim agrees, but Idia and Sebek fear that this could cause problems because they don't have the local currency. However, Kalim assures that everything will be fine.

Kalim orders, to everyone's surprise (or almost everyone's), TEN coconut juices. The vendor gives him a heap of whole coconuts with an opening at the top and a straw each. Kalim encourages you all to try a sip and you do so. It really felt good in that heat. Kalim prepares to leave with the coconuts when the vendor calls his attention.

“Excuse me, sir! You need to pay.”

“Pay? Sorry, I don't have any cash on me.” Kalim responds too naturally and tells the vendor that he can just bill his house like usual.

But the vendor didn't know what Kalim was talking about. When Kalim told him his name the vendor recognized the name, however...

“Al-Asim, huh? If that's true, that's even less reason to put anything on a tab. You think you can dine and dash at MY stall? You've got some nerve, kiddo!”

“This is going south fast...” You say. “There's no returning the juice now that we've drunk it...” You approach Kalim to talk to him about that situation and that's when the vendor finally sees you well.

“OH! (Y/N)-sama!” The vendor practically stutters your name and completely changes his attitude. “I-I didn't see you were in this group. Are they your friends? I am so deeply sorry for my bad manners. If you don't have money with you either, I can just bill the Viper's house if you'd like.”

“The Viper's house?” Kalim wonders. “Why Jamil's house?”

“Hey! (Y/N)!” Grim whispers loudly at your feet. “Just say yes and get us out of this!”

You accept the vendor's offer and he lets you go with all those coconuts and a smile on his face. But a slightly scared smile. Returning to Vil, Silver and Ortho, you all discuss what happened.

“So, (Y/N) seems to have more power here than Kalim.” Ortho observes. “And apparently they are also somehow connected to Jamil Viper's house.”

“But how?” Sebek wonders. “And why?”

“Well, by the way the vendor reacted when he saw (Y/N)...” Idia says. “I have an idea... but let's analyze this place better first.”

Vil and Ortho exchange glances with each other, probably thinking the same thing as Idia.

“We can start by checking my place.” Kalim suggests. “Jamil's place is on our grounds.”

Arriving at the place where Kalim's house would be, it was deserted... Literally.

“Wh... This can't be right... MY HOUSE IS GONE! The main building, the annexes, Jamil's home, they're all gone! Where'd everybody go?!”

A local resident who was passing by asked if you were tourists and told you that the Asim Palace had a change in ownership years back. The new owner had it relocated to high ground on the outskirts of town. He didn't know who the new owners were, but he know that the Asims had to give up their house after their business failed.

You go look for the palace.

You all go to where the palace was now and Kalim is shocked to discover that it was true that his house really did get relocated to higher ground. And not only that, but it looked like the exterior's been repainted too. The roofs have gone from teal to red, and the walls from white to black.

“Hey!” A Guard suddenly approaches. “What are you kids doing here? This is a private－ ah! (Y/N)-sama! It's you, and Kalim. My apologies, I hadn't recognized you from afar. Jamil-bocchan has been looking for you to go to school together.”

“Jamil?” Kalim steps forward. “Jamil is here?!”

“What kind of question is that? This is where Jamil-bocchan lives... Viper Palace!”

You discover that the one who bought up Kalim's home was Jamil's father, the head of the Viper family. He bought that manor from the Asims when they were in sore need of money, and know the Vipers were the richest family in Silk City.

After the guard's explanation, you hear music coming from somewhere and an elephant emerging through the front gates at the head of a whole parade. You see that the guy riding the elephant was none other than Jamil, wearing a uniform just like the one the fake Jamil wore in Kalim's dream, but this one was red and black instead of turquoise and white.You also see the dreamer's silver bird around his head.

“Make way! Coming through!” Another guard announced. “Make way for Jamil-sama!”

You all step aside.

“Why are YOU making way, Kalim?” The guard who was with you questioned him. “Take this parasol and join the procession!”

Since you were distracted looking at that guard and Kalim, you got startled when you suddenly felt something grabbing you by the waist and lifting you into the air. When that thing finally lets go of you, you are in Jamil's arms and you realize that that thing was the elephant's trunk.

“Where were you, my desert bloom? You are quite late.” Jamil asks you and then looks at your clothes. “Have you been shopping? Hm... no offense, but I've seen you in better clothes.” He smirks.

Jamil lands you on the elephant's back, but you can't stand on your own and cling to Jamil. He laughs.

“You haven't gotten used to it yet, have you? But let me just change those clothes real quick. You can't go to school without a uniform.” He uses his magic pen to turn your NRC uniform into a uniform similar to the black and red clothes with gold jewelry he was wearing. “Much better~” he says in a lower, slightly seductive tone. “Black already looks good on you, but red looks even better.” He grabs you firmly by the waist to hold you, before turning to the people in the procession behind you. “Get marching, and don't break formation!”

“Jamil looks like he's having a ton of fun!” You hear Kalim say right behind the elephant.

“You there, quiet down! Less talking, more walking!” Jamil orders him.

You look back and see two lines, in front of one of them is Sebek, followed by Vil and lastly Silver, in front of the other is Kalim, followed by Ortho and lastly Grim, who you imagine would be complaining.

“So...” You try to chat with Jamil. “How long is the path to school again?”

“Is it just me, or are you more spacey than usual?” He looks at you slightly suspicious. “Unless... Oh, you're asking because you're tired from shopping, aren't you? Well, Jahar Sahir College is on the other side of the city, but the path is straight so you'll see we'll get there in no time. Enjoy the parade.” His watchful gaze returns to the people behind the elephant. “You there － your parasol is drooping. Hold it properly!”

“Whoops, sorry! I'll fix that right away.” You hear Kalim apologize.

Jamil is very suspicious and attentive. If you take too many risks, he might realize that you are not one of the NPCs from his dream. And it’s not a good idea to take that risk more than 2.5 meters above the ground.

Suddenly, in the midst of the euphoria of the moment, Jamil pulls you to lie on his other arm, making you lose your balance and scaring you. Even if you shouted in fright, it was just another scream in the middle of the cheers. Jamil laughs before pulling you back to your feet and grabbing you to hold you steady. If you hug him or cling to him, he will like it even more.

“What was that?!” You ask, it really looked like you were going to fall off the elephant.

“Ha ha ha!” He laughs in a way you don't remember ever seeing. “I just felt like surprising you.” He smirks. “Or maybe it was a little punishment for disappearing on me and arriving so late to the parade.”

And as another surprise he kisses your lips quite lovingly, but only for a couple of seconds. When he breaks the kiss, he laughs at your surprised face.

“I know, I don't usually do this with so much attention on us. But no one will dare tell us anything.” his smile had a hint of menace.

“All right, we're here.” Jamil finally announces. “Parasols closed, elephants to the stables!”

Jamil leads your elephant to a special platform for you to get off, and he helps you, giving you his hand to support you. You look around and see a school just like the school in Kalim's dream, but once again red and black instead of teal and white. And the statue in the fountain was also different. It wasn't the Ruler of the Oasis's, but you recognized this one, it was a statue of the Sorcerer of the Sands, the same man from the Scarabia Dorm.

“We should go look for Kalim.” Jamil bends his arm to invite you to intertwine yours with his. You do so and he starts walking towards the fountain. “Kalim! Where are you?!” He shouts displeased.

“Oh, I'm right here!” Kalim waves with a big smile. “Hello!”

“Don't give me that!” Jamil retorts. “How can you loaf around without looking after your boss...? Wait. What's with that outfit? Did you botch your color-changing magic again?”

It was as if all that joy of his had disappeared as soon as he approached Kalim. It was a little sad to see, both from Kalim and Jamil's side.

“Huh? I didn't botch this.” Kalim explains. “It's supposed to look like the Ruler of the Oasis. Cool, right?”

“The Jahar Sahir College uniform uses traditional red and black colors like what the illustrious Sorcerer of the Sands wore. What were you thinking, bleaching them to your whims? The nerve.” Jamil takes his magic pen and changes the colors of Kalim's clothes to the same as his.

“Ooh, the colors changed! These are pretty nice too, actually. Thanks, Jamil!”

“I think you mean to say, 'Thank you very much, Jamil-sama, sir.’” Jamil corrects with an offended expression. “Honestly... You'll never let go of that pampered rich boy demeanor, will you? Look. The Asim family owes the Viper family more money than you could pay off with a lifetime's worth of work. So you should try to make yourself at least a LITTLE useful to me.”

“Jamil!” You say, as if asking him to moderate his words.

“I know, you don't like it when I'm like this to Kalim, but he needs to know his place.” He looks at you strangely, almost sulking. “You always had a soft spot for him that I never understood.” he addresses the group again. “By the way, who are you people? Jahar Sahir College isn't open for the general public to just waltz in.”

Silver explains that they are from Night Raven College and Vil says that the reason they came to Scalding Sands was a Film Research Club project, but that they had heard so much about Jahar Sahir College that they had to visit it. He said they were looking for the reception and it was shortly after that Kalim spotted them and approached them. Jamil seems suspicious at first, but after thinking about it for a while he supposes there is nothing strange about it.

“Considering their shabby attire and vapid expressions, I'm sure they're simply students.” Jamil murmurs.

“Hey, I heard that!” Grim informs.

“Oh dear, I beg your pardon.” Jamil says smugly. “I let my inner voice slip out there...”

“Wait a minute...” Grim notices the way Jamil talks to him. “You don't recognize me?”

“Recognize you?” Jamil repeats, confused. “My apologies, but I don't remember ever meeting a little beast like you.”

“WHAT?! You know (Y/N) but you don't know me?!”

“What does one thing have to do with the other?” Jamil turns to you. “Do you know this strange cat?”

As Grim complains that he's not a cat, you think about what to say. But what should you say? That you don't know him? That you met him once? But when? And how? The more time you let pass, the more suspicious Jamil would become.

“We crossed paths with (Y/N) before the parade.” Vil saves you. “I think Grim developed a special liking for them after meeting them.”

You see Grim look surprised at that excuse and then lower his ears a little sad, reluctantly accepting his new role in Jamil's dream.

“I can see why.” Jamil smirks. “I've never met anyone who wasn't enchanted by (Y/N). Which is ironic coming from someone who is not a mage. Allegedly.” He looks at you with that mischievous smile and raised eyebrow.

“Forgive my indiscretion if so.” Ortho says. “But would I be correct in concluding that you two are a couple?”

“Yes, you would.” Jamil answers casually.

“However, you said that they are not mages, but they are students of Jahar Sahir College?”

“An exception was made due to personal circumstances.” Jamil said defensively. “Nothing you need to... worry about.” He finished in a slightly threatening tone despite the smile. “Returning to the subject of your visit. As the student council president, I would be a far more fitting person to show you around campus than Kalim.”

“Oh, truly?” Vil smiles. “How fortunate for us to receive hospitality straight from the student council president himself.”

“I wouldn't want Kalim giving them the impression that our students are subpar.” He mutters.

Jamil says that, personally, he is interested in hearing about Night Raven College. He knows about the Dark Mirror and says that Scalding Sands also has long been a flourishing producer of magical artifacts.

“There's the Magic Flying Carpet, the Great Serpent Staff, the Hourglass of Clairvoyance...” He looks at you for a split second with a smile on the corner of his mouth, when talking about the hourglass. “And the Magic Lamp.”

Jamil says that the Sorcerer of the Sands himself employed such artifacts in his great deeds, and that to this day many people in Scalding Sands, including students from Jahar Sahir College and Jamil himself, are interested in them. He also brags about his family's treasure being bursting with artifacts collected from all over the world.

“I'd love to hear more about the ones housed at your school.”

“Ooh, wow! You liked (Y/N)? I had no idea!” Kalim says. “I'm so happy for you two. And you're the student council president? That's great, Jamil!”

“Why are you acting like this is the first you've heard of it? Not only do you GO to this school, but you and (Y/N) are friends. Now stop standing around and prepare a proper reception for our guests”

“Whoops! Right, I'm supposed to work for Jamil. Okay, a proper reception means a party, right? I got this!”

Kalim starts by asking someone to prepare a party, until Jamil reminds him that this was HIS job. Then Kalim says that a party needs drinks, but instead of going to the kitchen to get some, he uses his signature spell, Oasis Maker, to make it rain.

“You fool!” Jamil says to Kalim as he uses his own shawl to cover you and try to keep you from getting too wet. “Who goes around spraying water without any warning?!”

“We'll need food, too.” Kalim continues, oblivious to what Jamil was saying. “I'll go grab some food from the kitchen! Be right back!” The rain dissipates as he runs away towards the interior of the main building.

“What's gotten into him?” Jamil mutters again. “He's never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's usually not THIS bad.”

“Maybe he's just too excited that we have guests from so far away?” You suggest.

“Trying to alleviate his incompetence as always.” he mutters to you, slightly disapprovingly, before turning back to the others. “Ahem... I'm sorry you all had to see that.”

“Please, don't worry about it at all.” Silves tells him.

“Here you are, Jamil - uh, I mean, Jamil-sama!” Kalim comes back. “I brought a bunch of your favorite foods. Look! I've got a whole pot of curry, some dates... Oh, and lots of silky melons! Where should I put them?”

“I had a bad feeling, but seriously... Who brings the food out before they even set out rugs and tables?! This is beyond bad. You're utterly useless!”

“Ah hah hah! Sorry about that! I've never done this sort of things before.” Kalim apologizes, good-humored as always. “Jamil-sama, could you hold the pot of curry? (Y/N), Grim, you hold the dates and melons.”

“Mrah! Don't plop a whole pile of melons on my head!” Grim appeals unsuccessfully. “Geez, this is heavy!”

“Okay, I'll get some rugs next!” Kalim announces excitedly and runs away again.

“Hey, wait! What kind of staff makes their bosses and guests do the work?!”

“I thought you hated dates.” You say, looking at the large basket full of them that Kalim passed into your hands.

“And I do.” Jamil confirms. “At least someone remembers. Ahem... I'm so sorry about this.” he apologizes to Grim too. “I'll keep the dishes levitated with magic. You don't have to hold them.”

“Ooh, it's all floatin' now.” Grim says relieved. “That's much better!”

“Ugh, that dimwit gets on my last nerve. Mom and Dad are far too lenient. And so are you.” Jamil tells you.

“I see you don't like that about me.” You concluded as the others spoke amongst themselves.

“It's not that I don't like that side of you and you know it. But there are people who don't deserve it.”

“Well, I think Kalim deserves it.” You defend him.

“How stubborn.” Jamil sighs. “But I'd be lying if I said I disliked it. Depending on the situation, it's quite attractive.” he smirks.

You didn't know, but while the two of you were talking about Kalim, the others were also talking among themselves about Jamil and you.

Grim wondered if Malleus's spell wasn't supposed to be giving people happy dreams, but Jamil was in a snit, he didn't seem all that happy to him. The Shroud brothers concluded that this dream followed the same pattern as Vil's dream. Kalim was a source of stress for him, just like Neige was to Vil. But Kalim exerts an outsized influence over Jamil's personality and capabilities in reality. Removing a figure that influential would make the dream more prone to major paradoxes. Unlike Grim, and maybe that's why Jamil didn't remember him.

“Nonetheless...” Ortho sees Jamil smiling at you, even after that silly little argument. “He seems pretty happy with (Y/N).”

“True, he seems more relaxed with them.” Silver agrees.

“We must not deviate from the main point!” Sebek reminds them. “We need to make Jamil realize this is a dream as quickly as possible!”

“Right.” Silver agrees. “Between this place and the bazaar, Jamil's definitely got a strong imagination. I don't think a simple shock would do the job. How do we approach this...?”

Kalim returns, saying he went to Zahab Market and got some nice pieces from the rug merchant. Vil comments that those "nice pieces" look like they'd cost an arm and a leg. Jamil finally seems satisfied with Kalim's work, taking the opportunity to boast again about his family being the richest and most influential in the city.

“Anyway, check this out! Doesn't this carpet take you back?” Kalim shows him a carpet almost identical to the flying carpet of his that you knew, but instead of red, this one was purple.

“Take me back? Why would it?”

It was a regular, unenchanted replica of the flying carpet. Kalim talks about a time when the two of them and his father went to a rug merchant, Kalim thought it was a real flying carpet, spread it out on the ground and walked right onto it. That got him a scolding.

“How could I forget? The look on that merchant's face when you stepped on a vintage silk carpet with your muddy shoes－HRK!” The dream world begins to distort. “Wait... I would never take someone as overeager as Kalim to a high-end store. Rgh... What's going on?! I suddenly feel dizzy...”

Seeing Jamil wavering, the others encourage Kalim to keep talking. Kalim remembers a time when they snuck out of the manor to visit the Camel Bazaar and drank coconut juice together, but Jamil says that Kalim was the one sneak out on his own and Jamil had to scramble after him. Then he remembers a time, just before they enrolled in Night Raven College, when Jamil used his signature spell to make the bad guys fight each other to get him and Kalim out of trouble. But this time Jamil insisted that he didn't know what he was talking about.

Kalim says that he was always the best and most dependable friend he could have, and that he trusted everything would work out just fine as long as he left it in Jamil's hands. But he was the only one of them who felt that way and now he know that Jamil hated it all along.

“That's why you used (Y/N), Grim, and the students in Scarabia to try and get me kicked out and sent home, right? Winter break sure threw me for a loop. I was super crushed when you betrayed me and told me you hated me.”

“Used (Y/N)?! How dare you... I would never... I... I did... What I did... That Winter break...? Betrayed? Augh! My... My head!”

The world distorts a little more.

Kalim says he doesn't know what Jamil is thinking, but he knows that the person he is right now isn't the person he really wanted do be. He wanted to be the best version of himself, but that isn't this.

“Remember who you truly are!” Kalim transforms his clothes into his Scarabia Housewarden uniform, which makes Jamil start to remember.

“What was that scene just now? It shouldn't be familiar to me, but... it is. The... The real me is...”

“JAMIL-SAMA!” You hear someone shout, and a second Kalim, wearing a Jahar Sahir College uniform, appears running.

“There are two Kalims!” Silver says. “That means...”

“Yes, it must be the darkness.” Vil completes.

“Jamil-sama, when I heard you went to school earlier than usual. I scrambled to catch up...” Fake Kalim says, worried. “Oh no, how could this be?! Please, hold on! I'll get you to a doctor! Guards! GUARDS!”

The ground was painted black and Jamil began to sink rapidly into darkness, surrounded by a dark fog that prevented him from seeing you all well. And guards of black goop formed to prevent you from approaching them.

“Kalim...?” Jamil says with some difficulty.

“Yes, that's right. I'm the real Kalim, your loyal retainer.”

“Huh? Jamil, look again! That's not me!” the real kalim tries to warn him.

“He's an assassin sent to end you.” the fake Kalim tries to convince him “Don't listen to a word he says.”

“Wait...” Jamil looks directly at you with heavy eyelids struggling to stay open. “(Y/N)... they...”

Black goop rises from the ground and forms a figure, a perfect copy of you, also wearing Jahar Sahir College's uniform.

“I'm right here, my love.” your copy tells him. “They had the nerve to impersonate your beloved as well. But I'm here now. The real me. The real (Y/N). Look in my eyes. As long as you stay here, you can be a ruler forever. Money, land, freedom, love... Everything is yours!”

“Yes... That's the truth...” Jamil gives in. “You're absolutely right, both of you...”

“Wait! Trust us, not them!” Kalim shouts again. “JAMIIIL!”

But none of that stopped the darkness from swallowing Jamil.

“Stop disturbing Jamil-sama's sweet dreams, you street rats!” The false Kalim commands you.

“As if we'd listen to you!” Sebek retorts. “Let's do this!”

You all change your clothes and fight the darkness. And after defeating it, Kalim jumps into the pool of black goop without hesitation behind Jamil, followed by all of you.

When you open your eyes again, you see that you’re in the Hallway of Scarabia Dorm. By the red light that dimly illuminated the place and the dark fog, you realized that it was the same scenario as when Jamil overbloated. Suddenly, you hear a creepy laugh you've heard before and you all go to the lounge.

“I did it... I finally got Kalim ousted from school and claimed the position of housewarden for myself!” Jamil is the center of attention in the room, wearing his drom uniform, and had that psychopathic smile on his face. “Bring on the food and drinks! This calls for a celebration. The foolish king is gone, and the true power behind the throne has risen in his place!”

While the Scarabia students follow his orders, you see Azul next to Jamil with that red glow in his eyes.

“Wait a minute, those eyes...”

“Hey, (Y/N). You put it together too, right?” Grim tells you in a whisper. “Looks like Azul ain't fakin' it like he did during winter break. He's really under Jamil's control.”

Most of the dorm's students, who were all actually the darkness in disguise, were gathered in the lounge. You were decidedly outnumbered. Idia says that the best thing would be to get into a more advantageous position and make a surprise attack, so you will quietly make your way behind the students and then launch a coordinated strike on cue. Silver says that Idia should give the signal and the others would carry out the attack.

“Ahh, I feel on top of the world. So this is freedom! How sweet it is.” Jamil keeps chattering. “The biggest thorn in my side, Kalim, is gone. Azul has fallen into my hands.” he looks to his right side to see Azul standing right there. “And (Y/N)...” He looks to his left side, but finds no one. “...is trying to escape again? *sigh* Bring them back to me!” he orders the Scarabia students.

Silver pulls you behind a pillar and you all hide.

“Mrah! What do we do now?!”

“Hand (Y/N) over.” Idia says to everyone's surprise.

“What?! Have you gone insane as well?” Sebek protests as quietly as he can. “What about the surprise attack?”

“Listen, if Jamil really likes (Y/N) he won't hurt them.” Idia explains. “And (Y/N) can help distract him and provide a more effective surprise attack.”

Sebek, Silver and Grim are reticent, but you are the one who takes the initiative and gives yourself to the Scarabia students while the others remain hidden. Two students hold you by the arms and take you to Jamil. And to your surprise, as soon as they let go of you the darkness forms shackles around both of your wrists.

“It pains me to see you reduce to this, (Y/N).” Jamil tells you and pulls you by the chains of the shackles to bring you closer to him. “But you insist on resisting me. Oh, and those clothes... Let's give you more suitable ones, shall we?” He uses his magic pen to turn your NRC uniform into a Scarabia Dorm uniform. He laughs with satisfaction. “A beautiful desert bloom such as yourself should be on the arm of the most powerful housewarden in Night Raven College. What do you say, my dear? Why refuse to be my new Vice Housewarden, and partner?”

“To be honest... I also have a crush on you, Jamil.” you admit and he smiles, too pleased. “But not this version of you. The real you. Or rather, the best version of you, that I know exists behind this senior psychopath.”

“The... real... Hrk!” his head hurts and the world distorts a little, but Jamil pushes you, making you stumble and fall to the ground.

“I'll teach you some respect... but until then...” he orders that the Scarabia students grab you by each arm and lift you up. “Let's just calm that rebelliousness of yours for a while.”

As the students hold you by the arms, he holds your chin to make you look at him. You knew what he wanted to do to you and struggled to keep him from using Snake Wisper on you. You are saved by Kalim, who attacked Jamil before the signal with a solid blow.

“Wh... Kalim?! What are you doing here?!”

Silver and Sebek attack the students who were holding you and free you from the shackles by breaking them.

“(Y/N), are you okay?” Silver asks you, holding you in his arms in case you need a little comfort.

“Huh? I don't understand...” Sebek says. “The students aren't attacking us...”

“YOU BIG DUMMY!” You hear Kalim say.

“D... Dummy?!” Jamil responds in disbelief.

“The biggest one there is!” Kalim punches him again. “How can you treat (Y/N) like that?! I may not have realized you liked them, but I know you would never do these things to them. You don't want to force them to like you. You want them to like you for who you are. That's why you started getting nervous whenever we met with (Y/N), right?

“Nervous? ... Hrk!”

The dream world begins to distort as he remembers the first time he felt good around you and then begins to worry if you secretly hated him for what he did to you and Grim on Winter break.

“You don't want to use them, you don't want to deceive them.” Kalim continues. “And the same applies to competing with others. What you wanted wasn't a prize earned through dirty trickery! And you know it! Wake up right this instant, Jamil!”

“What I wanted? ...Hrk!”

The world distorts again with another memory: Jamil telling Kalim to shut up! Telling him not to give him orders! That he was through following other's orders! That he was going to BE FREE!

“Argh, you keep trying to tell me my business...” Jamil says, annoyed. “What would someone as oblivious as you even know about me?!” he punches Kalim.

And the two of them begin to fight while insulting each other. Until the insults are reduced to one adjective at a time between punches. Cynic, Imbecile, Jerk, Airhead, Blockhead...

“Such childish bickering...” Sebek comments. “The other students and Azul are all pawns made from darkness, but they're just standing there staring.”

He suggests that you aid Kalim, but Silver stops him.

“Let them get it all out of their systems.” Silver says. “Sometimes a fist fueled by emotion is more effective than any words. ...It definitely was for me.” He gives a small smile.

After some time of fighting, Kalim starts laughing.

“Huh? What could you possibly have to laugh about right now?” Jamil questions.

“Y'know, Jamil... I think this is the first time in our 17 years together that we've ever fought like this!”

“What?! Well, obviously! If I beat you up in reality, it would spell disaster for... Ah?!” The world distorts again. “Gaaah! Augh! It hurts... My head! In reality...? Why did I say that? Rgh, augh...!”

“That's right. This is all just a dream! Please, Jamil, remember! Remember the real you!”

“Right... That day... What I did to you... What I did to... Ah, aaagh...” Jamil remembers what happened on winter break, the dream shatters and he wakes up. “Heh. Haha... Ahahaha... That's right. I failed to oust you that day.”

Kalim celebrates that you all managed to wake up Jamil, but after a little chit-chat the ground starts to shake and fissures began opening all over the place. The dream was starting to break down because Kalim wasn't supposed to exist in it.

Idia warns everyone to get out of the dream as quickly as possible, but then the floor started giving out beneath Kalim. Jamil dove in to save him and the darkness began to dragging him in. Kalim grabbed Jamil to try to get him out of there, but Jamil told him to leave him and punched him when Kalim refused to do so. If you had also tried to help Jamil, he would have just push you too. And Jamil was swallowed by darkness.

When you returned to the dream after the Shroud brothers informed you that it was safe, you landed in Jahar Sahir College. And when you see Jamil he is wearing his Scarabia uniform. Kalim ran to hug him but Jamil dodged successfully.

You and Silver say you're glad he made it back, and Jamil says that he owe all of you a great deal before asking if someone could please fill him in on what was going on.

After the Shrouds show him the explanatory video he says he gets the general gist, and admits that he wasn't entirely sure the rest of you weren't more illusions he subconsciously conjured up, but he never would have thought of the cheat tools idea that Idia came up with. And continued talking about the possibility that it was part of Malleus' spell but it didn't make sense to bring it up to him at all, if that were the case.

“So it's probably safe to accept that all of you aren't illusions created by me or Malleus.” Jamil finally concludes.

“Dude, you were questioning our whole premise...” Idia comments.

“Why wouldn't I, after having my mind, my memories, and my whole world rewritten? But... if you're all real that means...” Jamil looks at you and starts to get worried. “W-when exactly did you get here?”

“Some time before you appeared riding an elephant at the start of the parade.” Ortho answers.

“Yes, we were even part of it!” Kalim adds smilingly. “It was super fun!”

“S-s-so... those people at the parade...” Jamil stutters as the panic grows. “T-the person w-who was with m-me on top of the elephant...”

“Aaaall that until we lost you to that black goop after our fight.” Kalim adds, oblivious to the main point.

“So... that means... that (Y/N)... that whole time...”

“Jamil Viper, please breathe.” Ortho asks him. “I am detecting worrying imbalances in your aetheric structure.”

“Jamil looks like he's going to explode with embarrassment.” Idia says. “I don't even know if that's possible in a dream, but I'd rather not find out.”

You realize the best thing to do is to calm him down, he was unable to say a single word anymore. You take his hands, tell him everything is okay and ask him to breathe.

“I-I-I'm really sorry...!” He says still in panic and almost petrified. “I-I don't know why I did that... I-I didn't want to... I didn't...”

You hug him and feel how tense all the muscles in his body are.

“It's okay. I don't blame you.” You say in a whisper close to his ear. “We don't control our dreams. If you remember what happened, do you remember what I told you?”

“W-what did you tell me?”

You confess that you like him too and that you knew that wasn't the real him. Maybe you even say that you’re willing to forget all that and start over as it should be when you return to the real world.

You then feel Jamil’s muscles begin to slowly relax. Until he reciprocates your hug, is as gentle as it is strong.

“I'm sorry...” He apologizes in a whisper, probably the most sincere you have ever heard or will ever hear from him.

“Aww, GROUP HUG!” Kalim says excitedly.

“NOOO!” Everyone else grabs him and stops him from joining you.

“My goodness, Kalim!” Vil scolds him. “You really need to learn how to interpret social insights.”

When you break the hug, he still tries to look you in the eyes, but can't. You chuckle and cup his face to make him look at you.

“Ironic.” You say with a reassuring smile. “You being the one who doesn't want to look into another person's eyes.”

A small smile begins to form on his lips and he brings a hand to one of the ones you have on his face. He looks at your lips for a second and when he sees you smiling connivingly, he kisses you.

A kiss that lasts until Grim loudly clears his throat. As soon as Jamil breaks the kiss and looks at the others, remembering that they exist, he... isn't embarrassed. He smiles smugly at them, still holding you.

“Hey, last time I checked, it was still my dream.”

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

#Twisted Wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst fluff #Twisted Wonderland Fluff #Jamil Viper #Jamil Viper x Reader #Dating in a Dream #jamil x reader

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kbb306 · 16 hours ago

Text

1. No, but she would have liked one.

2. She has a little sister and first aid training. She'll be fine.

3. ".....tall."

4. Eh, maybe maroon?

5. She would absolutely give a speech defending her father. He's....not the brightest and they both know it, so she overcompensates.

6. She trusts her best friend Ellie Otten unconditionally. She doesn't have any hard "no" for this, except when it comes to asking her dad about romance.

7. Impulsive, yet stubborn./"Only three words? What kind of question is that?"

8. There's a whole thing about puzzles with her family. Best not to ask.

9. Depends what your definition of "non-sentient" is.

10. A few years ago, she'd have said "old enough for medical school." Now that she has a little sister, she's starting to miss childhood.

11. "I would pay for a medical scholarship."

12. Romance weirds her out (unless it's Jay)

13. "Never let a bully know they've gotten to you."

14. Jay Pinkerton (she's still struggling to accept she falls as fast and hard as her dad once did), singing.

15. Playing nice with people she doesn't like

16. Michigan is near constant sweater weather. Not a lot of concern for fashion in a small town like Eaden anyway.

17. She'll protect children with everything she has. It kills her that ABIGAIL actually wants to stay in That Place.

18. "Tongue? How would that even- ew!"

19. "It doesn't matter how much I study. Logarithms will never be a thing that people actually need, and they will never make any sense."

20. Jazz music (or at least, the town's reaction to jazz music)

21. If anyone actually knows her father and STILL thinks he could be dangerous, that's a deal breaker. I almost wrote a scene like that.

22. Not really a pet name, but her dad's nicknames for her are a treasured memory.

23. Yearns for novelty, knows they need stability. Her family has a big secret to keep.

24. Doesn't spare anyone's feelings but her family's (usually)

25. See #23

26. Effort, all the way. You think a five year old who just fell out of a tree has any real talent for medicine? Dr. Dillon patching her up back then is what *inspired* her, but the skill was all worked for ever since then.

27. Understanding. Forgiveness is earned.

28. If Wheatley's opinion of Jay counts, yes.

29. Aperture. More recently, that time she accidentally shut her own life support off.

30. If taking GLaDOS down wouldn't devastate the little girl She somehow adopted, Sophie would *destroy* Her on behalf of the whole family.

Read more about Sophie here:

https://archiveofourown.org/series/3192879

oc asks that reveal more than you think

Do they sleep with a stuffed animal? If they have multiple, who’s the favorite?

Can they take care of a plant? What about a pet? What about a child?

Ask them to describe their love interest.

Do they look good in red?

Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech! Will they give one, and what about?

Who will they take advice from, no matter what it is? Who won’t they take advice from, no matter what it is?

Describe them in three words. Now let them describe themself in three words.

Do complex puzzles intrigue or frustrate them?

Do they empathize with non-sentient things (dolls, plants, books…)?

What age do they most want to be right now?

They’ve won the lottery. Spend, or save?

Do they like romance in the books they read (or in the book they’re in)?

Name one thing their parents taught them.

Would they agree with the term ‘guilty pleasure’? Do they have any?

What would they consider a waste of time– other than school or work?

If money wasn’t a limit, what would they wear?

Do they like children?

Kissing: tongue or no tongue?

Do they study before tests? Practice before job interviews?

What do they like that nobody else does?

What would it take for them to break up with someone? What would be the last straw?

Do they like being called pet names? Do they call other people pet names? What’s their go-to?

Stability or novelty?

Honesty or charity?

Safety or possibility?

Talent or effort?

Forgiveness or vengeance (or…)?

Would they date a fixer-upper?

What recurring dreams do they have?

What would they do if they knew it would be forgiven?

#portal #portal au #sophie newell #oc #portal blue sky #the science of family #been a hot minute since I talked about her #but she's my only real oc #Sophie's little sister belongs to littleinkling64

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gyeomsweetgyeom · 3 days ago

Note

i’m such a sucker for sulky jealous jae, so can we get sweets tutoring new incoming brothers (jisung?) and he has a lil crush on her like haechan did, but it’s sweet and innocent, and she sees him as her baby, a sweet younger boy to help out, but to jaehyun he’s a jealous boy bc some little new kid is getting sweets attention

Sweets 🤝 You guys

causing Jae stress

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

[3:01 pm]

(cw: f!reader, threats of violence)

Fratboy!Jaehyun wouldn't have ever thought that he'd be jealous of a freshman. A pledge. A dumb one at that, yet here he was, jealous of Park Jisung. Some pledge that he was hoping would fail every test set before him. Recite every house on Greek Row? More like, recite the address of every school in the city. Recite the Greek Alphabet? Well, why stop at just Greek? Why not every other Mediterranean language while he's at it!

Jaehyun knew that Jisung failing wouldn't be the case though. Stupid Jisung who had been studying with you and stealing your attention for a while week now, so there was clearly no way he was going to fail. He could hear your gorgeous voice now, repeating all the Greek letters in the alphabet, pausing so Jisung's annoying, grating voice could repeat them.

He watches you from the kitchen where you sit cross legged on the nice rug the Nu Chi girlfriends had picked out with Jisung sitting adjacent to you. You smile, far too warmly Jaehyun thinks, at Jisung, "alright now you try."

Jisung blushes, ducking his head as he begins to repeat the alphabet. Even Jaehyun has to admit that he does pretty decent until this little dummy says, "kappa, lambda, M, nu..."

Your giggle rings through the air as you stop Jisung with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He can see Jisung's shoulders raise with bashfulness and his cheeks flush all over again, turning even brighter red as you tell him, "oh, you're just the cutest thing ever! Alright, I know it looks like an M, but its actually mu. You'll be fine though, you just have to recite the letters, not identify them."

Jaehyun can't help but zero in on where your hand touches Jisung, your words echoing in his head, 'cutest thing ever!' How is this scrawny freshman even cuter than your own boyfriend? If anything, it's your fault that he's smart now! He can go back to being dumb if that's what you think is cute! Fine! He'll fail his business classes that he needs to graduate. He'll lose all his muscle too, but you can't complain when the abs are gone or you have no more bicep muscle to bite! You've forced his hand!

Jisung ducks his head nervously, "ha, thank you, Sweets. I-I'm sorry, I know I'm just a pledge. Is it alright if I call you that? I can call you by your name if you'd like. Maybe Sweetheart, or um- I've heard Jaehyun call you Sweet Girl. I mean, that sounds a bit intimate, and you are very sweet. And a girl. I think you're one of the sweetest girls I've ever met and you're really pretty- um. I need to shut up now."

Your face falls into a pout as coo, hands reaching out to squeeze Jisung's cheeks. Jaehyun feels bitter envy bubbling in his stomach. You have only ever squeezed his cheeks like this like four times! That's not even a full hand's worth! And you've been together for like two years now! His body is just itching to move across the room and punch Jisung for flirting with you. He can at least flirt well, it's what you deserve at the very least...

However, as the mature senior that he is, Jaehyun doesn't resort to violence. He knows that you wouldn't choose Jisung over him. You've told him that you just think Jisung is cute like a child, and Jisung is shit at flirting anyway. There's no way his nerdy, awkward, bumbling rambling would ever convince you to leave your Adonis of a boyfriend.

Jaehyun sighs quietly, refocusing his thoughts as he listens to Jisung recite the alphabet slowly, his eyes staring at the ceiling as he tries to recall. As jealous as he feels, Jaehyun also feels a little proud. You're going to be such a great teacher. He knows it. You're doing such a great job helping Jisung, probably employing a bunch of methods from your classes that Jisung hasn't picked up on. Maybe not cooing at your students and squeezing their cheeks... but he knows you mean well.

Jaehyun nearly jumps out of his skin, when he hears, "want me to kill him?"

"Geez! No, Haechan! What the hell is your problem?!"

#kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct timestamps #nct x reader #nct drabbles #nct blurbs #fratboy!jaehyun #frat!jaehyun #frat!nct #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun timestamps #jaehyun drabbles

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whatsupsonnyboy · 3 days ago

Text

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head. They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option.

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need.

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus�� you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear.

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face.

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold. It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm.

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”.

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

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lazysoulwriter · 21 hours ago

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only you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, lots of love!

---

You knew this part of Pedro's job. You really did.

Late nights on set. Red carpets. Press tours where he had to smile and laugh with people he barely knew outside of the screen. You never thought you’d be the jealous type — not with Pedro. He was warm, and loyal, and yours in every way that mattered.

But lately... lately it was harder to ignore.

You sat curled up on the couch, the TV playing some mindless sitcom you weren’t even watching. Your phone buzzed constantly on the cushion next to you — notifications, articles, tweets. PEDRO PASCAL SPOTTED GETTING CLOSE TO CO-STAR! A NEW ROMANCE BLOSSOMING ON SET? WHERE'S HIS GIRLFRIEND IN ALL THIS?

You hated how easily the words cut through you.

There were even photos — staged or not, it didn't matter. His arm slung loosely around her shoulders, both of them laughing like they shared some secret world you weren't a part of. It was for the cameras, for the movie, for publicity, you reminded yourself. They needed to sell the chemistry. You knew that.

And yet... you couldn’t shake the feeling. That tiny, ugly voice whispering in the back of your mind: What if he realizes he could have someone easier? Someone just as charming, just as magnetic, who understands this life better than you ever could?

By the time Pedro got home, your heart was a tight knot in your chest.

The door clicked open, and you quickly wiped at your eyes, pretending to be engrossed in the TV. Pedro’s voice floated down the hall, soft and tired.

"Baby? I'm home."

You answered with a weak, "Hey."

He appeared in the doorway, still wearing the casual outfit he'd thrown on after interviews — jeans, a soft, worn t-shirt that clung to him unfairly well. His hair was messy, his eyes a little puffy with exhaustion.

And yet, the moment he saw your face, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head quickly. "Nothing. Just tired."

Pedro didn’t buy it for a second. He crossed the room, crouching in front of you so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. His hand found yours — warm, calloused, grounding.

"Talk to me, cariño."

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But it tumbled out of you anyway, raw and broken:

"I just... I know it's stupid. I know you’re just doing your job but—" Your voice cracked. "Everyone is saying things, Pedro. About you and her. About us. And I know you love me, but hearing it over and over... seeing it... it just messes with my head. It feels like maybe... maybe you deserve someone better."

Pedro’s face shifted, from confusion to heartbreak to something almost like anger — but not at you. Never at you. He squeezed your hand tightly.

"Baby. No. No. Don’t even—" He shook his head, looking almost panicked. "You’re the only person I want. The only one."

You sniffled, feeling stupid and small. "It’s just so loud, Pedro. It’s everywhere."

He took your face in his hands, gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

"Then let me be louder."

You blinked at him. "What?"

Pedro stood, tugging you up with him into a tight embrace. His heart pounded against your ear where you pressed into his chest.

"I should've seen it coming," he murmured into your hair. "Should’ve realized how this would feel for you. I’m so sorry, amor. I didn’t think— I didn’t think it would hurt you."

You clutched the back of his shirt, feeling the tension bleed out of you the longer he held you.

"I don’t care about the movie, about the press," Pedro said fiercely. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. "I care about you. I want everyone to know that. Everyone."

You didn’t even have time to ask what he meant before he was pulling out his phone. With one arm still around you, he opened Instagram, switched to his camera, and took a quick selfie — the two of you together, your puffy eyes and his tender smile.

He didn’t even hesitate before posting it with a caption that read:

"Coming home to my favorite person. Every day, every time. Always. ❤️"

Your mouth dropped open. "Pedro— you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he cut you off, setting the phone aside to kiss your forehead. "No more rumors. No more doubts. You're it for me, baby. Always have been."

You buried your face in his chest again, overwhelmed by the way he didn’t just comfort you — he chose you. Loudly. Proudly. Without hesitation.

Later, as you curled up together under the blankets, Pedro whispered against your temple:

"I don’t care what the world says. I only care about you knowing, deep down, that you’re my home. Always."

And somehow, finally, the noise faded away — leaving only the steady, unwavering beat of his love.

-----

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfics #pedro pascal blurb #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fics #pp #ficreq #fanfics

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thornescratch · 2 days ago

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Media: Logan, sorry to make you talk about the guy sitting next to you, but just how important is Tom to what you guys do and how, I guess, big was that hit and everything today?

Logan Thompson: Well, I don’t need to make his head any bigger, but (laughs). No, he’s been huge for us. You know, he’s the heart and soul of this organization, right? You know, when he’s making plays, big hits, we feed off that. Especially in our home rink, I think the whole building feeds off it. So, um, he’s a huge part of this team, and, yeah, no, we love him. (Does head inflation motion with sound effects at Tom and laughs)

Tom Wilson: (smiling) ...that's it?

Logan Thompson with the love-bullying on Tom Wilson.

#At first I thought LT was just really bad at making heart hands #A very fun and normal thing to do is search his name after a game and see what fun and normal things people have to say about Tom Wilson #Some of those people need. Like. Some kind of professional help.#Like some folks really need to log off and touch grass. Anyway. I just block swathes of folks at a go.#Tom Wilson #Logan Thompson #Washington Capitals

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ilkao3 · 2 days ago

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Walk with me:

The last thing Arthur hears is Merlin wailing, he’s fully prepared to finally meet his mother, slightly dreading ending up with his father instead, really hopes whatever afterlife he’s in lets him watch over his living family, the regular stuff a dying dude thinks about.

When he nexts opens his eyes, it’s to Will handing Lancelot coin and his mother tutting at them.

“Boy’s, need I remind you that we’re dead and you can’t actually do anything with your groat?” It’s deadpan, but her eyes show her mirth. She’s beautiful, entirely different from that blasted ghoul pretending to be her.

“It’s the principle, Your Majesty.” And then Arthur was scowling.

“Did you bet on my death?!” Will shrugs.

“No, we bet on you being an arse even in your final breath. Guess I was wrong.”

Arthur doesn’t know who ruled this realm but he wanted to punch them. He wanted to punch the stuffy old tutor who told him the afterlife would be full of peace even more.

#bbc merlin #crack prompt #if you question if lance really did end up in wtv vers of heaven this is then this is enemy territory #i hope i dont need to remind anyone that the shade wasnt him and he had more manners than the literal Prince and Royal servant combined #anyways crack #ygraine saw will and lance pop up and went ‘tell me every embarrassing thing abt my kid ever’

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neoheros · 17 hours ago

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there are very little things in this world that sakusa deems valuable enough to not risk – his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

he isn’t a gambler but he is an athlete and when you’re in his shoes, playing in the big leagues, thousands of people watching, looking, judging, there are a lot of risks you have to look out for.

he has to be quiet, polite, say the right thing, say it in the right tone, say it in the right time, otherwise, he risks his job and reputation.

he has to be focused, agile, ready for any change in the volleyball world the minute - the second - it happens, otherwise, he risks getting left behind, getting replaced by someone better, newer than him.

he has to be a lot of things and the risks of not being any of it puts him in a corner - cold and confining.

all of it, he hates with a passion, he hates with an effort. so he doesn’t take any risks at all. not when it comes to his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

but you – you are probably the riskiest person he has ever met.

i mean, you guys work together for god’s sake. it’s an HR crisis waiting to happen. it puts everything he’s worked hard for at risk — his game, his career, his reputation, his name.

but still.

you always know the right things to say to him, always know the right time he’s gonna be there or the right place to sit where he sees you so clearly even in the middle of the court.

everytime you talk to him, everytime you touch him, everytime you say his name or bring him coffee, everytime you watch him play or everytime he sees you outside of work — there is a feeling in his chest and he almost hates it.

“there’s a new ramen restaurant in miyagi that i’ve been wanting to try…” sakusa clears his throat, standing a few inches away from the lockers as everyone gets their shoes on.

it’s a little bit after 4pm, practice for the day had just ended, and well, meian always tells him he needed to socialize more with the rest of the group.

the locker room is stuffy and sweaty and to be honest, he’s never really been fond of the smell wafting in the air, so he always makes it a point to be the first one out the door after he’s done changing.

today though, he stays, hangs around everybody, and even if he hates it, he goes, “does anyone want to come with me tonight?”

hinata looks up at him from his shoes, “sorry omi, gotta take natsu to the dentist after practice, i dunno how long it’ll take us.”

he gives hinata a short nod — that’s fine.

“kaashi and i are seeing a movie around 7, but next time, man, i promise.” bokuto says, his hand on his neck, apologetic, almost.

another nod — that’s fine, too.

well, at least now, sakusa couldn’t say he didn’t try to socialize more. it’s the preferable outcome for him anyway, he’s better going off on it alone.

atsumu’s voice tears him away from his thoughts, loud and too cheerful for someone who just performed 4 diving laps, “i could go with ya, omi!”

and out of instinct, he replies “no, thank you.”

his blond teammate looks like he’s gonna say something after his response but you speak before he gets the chance to.

“well, i don’t mind coming, omi.” you say, and he blinks - how long have you been there?

there’s a knot in his stomach. “tonight?”

(he thinks, please say no, please say no, please say no.)

you nod at him, “it’s gonna be snowing so some ramen would be perfect.”

he nods at you - unable to say anything else, really - and he clears his throat, looking at atsumu, who he’s now just been really appreciative of for existing all of a sudden.

“then it will be you, me, and miya?” he asks, and he wants to keep his voice quiet now, untrusting of it.

(in the corner of his eye, he sees hinata step on atsumu’s foot and he goes “ow, whaddya do that for!” bokuto gives him a look, similar to the one hinata has, and atsumu catches on.)

sakusa gives the three of them a warning look, begging, actually begging, anyone who’d listen in that silly head of his for them not to do anything stupid.

“sorry man,” atsumu flashes him a grin, and he feels his knees go weak. “i forgot i had some plans tonight, i don’t think i’ll be able to go.”

lord, forgive sakusa kiyoomi for he’s gonna kill somebody.

he wants to say something, but before he could, you beat him to it.

“perfect.” you smile, “more for us then. right, omi?”

sakusa swallows the lump in his throat, and gives you a short nod, “yeah.”

you gather your things in your hand, “i’ll come over to your place, then?”

(words that make his knees feel even weaker.)

another nod. “yes, that’s fine.”

and he regains his composure, the worst of it over, but before you turn to leave, you flash him another one of your smiles, and he wishes you would just go so he can feel his pulse return to normal again.

“it’s a date.” you say, and you’re out the door.

sakusa’s face has a whisper of a light pinkishness to it and unable to think about it too much, he blames it on the open window letting the cold in.

the second the door closes, the locker room erupts in cheers, “way to go, omi!” “you’re going on a date!” and “it’s finally happening!”

there’s a knot in his stomach, and atsumu claps him on his back.

he rolls his eyes at the group, shaking his head as he whispers something along the lines of “whatever” or “its not a big deal.”

but his face feels hot and his pulse feels like its drumming against his skin, but, he can blame that on the cold too.

the sun goes down quicker than sakusa hoped it would, it’s 6:47pm now and you’ll be arriving in no later than 13 minutes.

he takes a good look at his apartment, ransacked and messy, the complete opposite of its usual state.

there’s a knock on his door and he feels his heart beat out of his chest at the sound.

he opens it with a fervor, “i asked you to come 30 minutes ago.”

“it’s a 30 minute walk.” behind the door is atsumu, sheepish smile on his face, hands shoved into his pockets as he pushes past the brunette and into the apartment.

“woah, this place is a mess.” atsumu says aloud, even him surprised at the disarray.

“i didn’t know what to wear.” sakusa admits, and he feels embarrassment course through his skin.

“i’ll say.” the blond replies, but he doesn’t tease. “you alright, omi?”

sakusa sighs – he really isn’t. his nerves are killing him and there’s an intense nervousness that pools in his belly. you make him nervous, did you know that?

“maybe i should cancel.” he says, and he looks at himself in the mirror again — coat, scarf, gloves, check, check, check.

“what? don’t do that.” atsumu shakes his head, “it’s five minutes ‘til 7.”

he’s probably right, sakusa thinks, you’re probably on your way by now, and even with the chilling weather outside, he feels way too hot for his own good.

he takes off his gloves to alleviate some of the warmth, placing it on his dresser as he paces.

“you’re an asshole, right?” sakusa says suddenly, “punch me in the face, take me to the ER, and i will reschedule whatever this night is to when i’m readier.”

(he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready, to be honest.)

“even if i do really want to punch you in the face right now, that is so not gonna happen.”

“being your friend is useless to me.”

“yet, i’m the one you called over here.”

the doorbell rings and the both of them freeze in their places, sakusa looks over to the clock and how is it 7 already? and must you be on time for everything?

you’re already here and his place is a mess and atsumu freaking miya is standing in the middle of his apartment.

he says the first thing he can think of, “hide.”

atsumu looks at him, “what?”

he insists, “hide now.”

“are ya nuts? your apartment is a shoebox, where the hell am i hiding in here?” atsumu shakes his head, and he follows sakusa’s eyes in response as he tilts his body to look over to the bed.

“no fuckin way, nuh uh.” he backs away, “i am not hiding under there.”

the doorbell rings again and atsumu feels the nerves getting to him too.

“please. i’ll owe you.”

and atsumu wants to say no - really, he does - he’s not some teenager caught with his pants down and has to be stashed away under a bed, but sakusa looks at him in a way that makes him unrecognizable.

sakusa may not know it, but everyone can tell, every single one of them on the team knows, just how much this means to him.

(after all, the only people in msby black jackals who don’t know that sakusa likes you are sakusa and you.)

so he relents, and he gets on his knees near the bed before he scurries off under it. “you so owe me for this.”

sakusa feels embarassed – ashamed, really. he’s actually invested in this - in this date, and he wishes he was kidding, but he’s not, and he hates it.

he opens the door, and you’re there, and it’s always nice to see you outside of work.

“hi.” he says, and he doesn’t know what else to say.

“hi.” you say back, and for a second, it’s quiet.

another second passes, “can i come in?”

and he wants to kick himself, “yes. of course.”

“it’s freezing tonight.” you make polite small talk, “good thing i wore my coat.”

“it looks nice.” he nods, and he is grateful you don’t say anything about the mess of his apartment. it takes him another beat to realize what he said, and he feels embarrassed, although he doesn’t know why, so he follows up, “the coat.”

he wants to hit himself. he sounds like he’s just talking about the coat.

“you as well.” he says again. “not just the coat, i meant to say. you and the coat are nice looking. both of you.” he wants to stop talking – why is he still talking?

he looks at you, “where’d you - uh - buy it?”

great, now he sounds like he wants to take the fucking coat.

there’s a sound almost like snickering coming from under the bed but before you could look over to it sakusa clears his throat again.

“i’m ready to go,” he says suddenly, “are you?”

you haven’t been able to get a word in all night it seems, but it makes you smile - amused, and you nod, “yes.”

the night starts off okay, it’s quiet though, and he thinks, are dates supposed to be quiet?

“you okay there, omi?” you break the silence, and he wonders if you can tell what he’s been thinking.

“yeah.” a short reply, “just cold.”

you nod, “ah.”

in an effort to keep the conversation going, and the sudden realization that he may be the reason why it’s such a quiet evening, he looks to the side, and tells you, as the two of you walk the pavement to the train station:

“i forgot my gloves.”

there’s a pink hue on his ears, and he’s grateful you don’t tease him about it.

you stop walking for a moment, so he stops too.

he watches you as you work, taking the left glove on your hand off and he says nothing when you ask him to give you his left hand.

“here.” you slip on your left glove on his left hand, and it’s a snug fit, but it is warm.

then you say, “do you mind?”

and he doesn’t know what you’re talking about until you put your - now, ungloved - left hand to his -also, ungloved - right hand. fingers interlacing.

“this way, it’ll stay warm, don’t you think?”

he doesn’t trust his voice and he’s more grateful for the snow now as he finds it being his excuse for how red his ears are getting. he can only nod his head, keeping his nose tucked in under his scarf.

his lips tremble and he’s not so sure if it’s from the cold or from you.

sakusa doesn’t gamble. he doesn’t like the risks of it all. he always feels there’s always gonna be too much to lose rather than gaining anything beneficial for him.

so no – there are very little things in the world he cares enough about for him to risk anything for.

“better?” you say, and he tries harder to focus on your voice rather than your warm hand.

“yes.”

you smile and he thinks it’s really nice. “so, why was atsumu under your bed?”

his face feels hot now, his first instinct to deny that there ever was any man named atsumu under his bed, but he knows that look you’re giving him, and he knows it would be pointless to lie.

still, he doesn’t know what to say to you.

“omi?”

but then again, he never knows what to say to you.

“… i asked him to come help me get ready.”

you tilt your head, “get ready for?”

the silence becomes your answer and sakusa feels his face burn. it feels like embarrassment – but it also feels like something else.

“oh.”

and unexpectedly, you laugh, and when he hears it, for the first time all evening, his nerves finally cool on him, and he laughs too.

you bump your shoulders with his, playful, “if it helps to know, i was nervous too.”

“because of me?” he doesn’t really believe you, he doesn’t think anything can make someone like you nervous, but you, on the other hand, make him nervous all the time.

“well, you don’t really talk to me at work,” you shrug, your voice sounding teasing, “i didn’t think you liked me all that much, to be honest.”

“sorry.” he says in quiet laughter, and he can’t bring himself to look at you.

you look at him though, and he wishes that you wouldn’t. he can hear the smile in your voice still, “for what?”

“for this shitty date.”

that makes you laugh even more and he feels like it’s gonna make him fall over.

“well, we haven’t even gotten to the restaurant yet so jury’s still out on whether it’s shitty or not.” you squeeze his hand, teasing.

(and he rolls his eyes, nerves gone, and feeling much better now that he’s talking to you.)

you are probably the riskiest person he’s ever met. you put everything on the line.

by all things considered, he should stay far, far away from you — you jeopardize it all, you could take all he’s ever worked for away.

but everytime you talk to him, everytime you touch him, everytime you say his name or bring him coffee — there is a feeling in his stomach that envelops his entire body and the corner he’s been backed into doesn’t feel as cold or as confining.

you smile at him and he wants it all: he wants to wake up next to you, he wants to fall asleep and you’re the last person he sees, he wants to drive you to work and he wants you to come home with him after the day is over.

“besides,” you say, and the snow may be cold, but his face feels warm.

your voice is soft, “you can just keep taking me on them until we get it right.”

the risk is you could take everything he’s ever worked for, his game, his career, his reputation, his name. but you smile at him and your hand is warm against his and your laugh feels like it’s gonna make him fall over, and he thinks, okay — take it all, it’s already yours anyway.

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kuntprodukt · 22 hours ago

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I NEED YOU (I BREATHE YOU)

Dante Sparda x reader | 18+ MDNI. SMUT, female reader, sugar baby&sugar mommy dynamics, age gap(reader is in her 20s), vaginal sex, unsafe sex, creampie, teasing, blowjob, nipple play, tits sucking, cowgirl position, light feminization.

Summary: Dante isn't the best in the financial field. Too many debts, every cent he gained at missions they slipped through his fingers simply trying to finally close those damn debts - so a good question emerged in his mind; can a man be a sugar baby? At his age? Turns out the only woman that wants him is younger than him.

notes: this is unplanned and a quick fic, wrote it without too much thought and i didnt even proofread it so if you see mistakes then you are wrong and ignore them, english isnt my first language anyway. reblogs, asks or comments and any kind of interractions are really appreciated!

Dante isn't the best in the financial field, doesn’t mean he is dumb - last time he opened a dictionary the definition of smart didn’t include the ability to manage one's money well. Too many debts, every cent he gained at missions they slipped through his fingers like sand by paying too much stuff and trying to finally close those damn debts - any good bank would tell him to fuck off and ban him from even thinking about setting the foot there.

So a good question emerged in his mind; can a man be a sugar baby? At his age? Only sugar babies he heard of were young women in awful financial need or just with daddy issues. Jackpot! Hit the bullseye - he is both, with an additional bonus of mommy issues, if not worse. There shouldn't be a sex discrimination, men can work for those money not worse than women, surely there would be a woman of his age - in need of a good dick and waste her money.

Turns out the only woman that wants him is younger than him. By 20 years. Where the fuck do you get money? Daddy’s money, probably. He wishes that's not true cause at his 43 the less drama from strangers the better it is. And he just wants to throw those debts in the bin finally. Perhaps there is some kind of sugar baby chain he isn't aware of? Patience and silence, Dante, money doesn't like shit talking - and you are too perfect for him, so fucking eager to feel his hands on your pretty body. This is weird, unusual even - companionship for such a pretty tight piece while you could find any other better man than whatever the mess he is.

And you like him too much for a sugar mommy. God, can he even call you like that? Mommy. Sugar. Sweet like one, but not a mom. Yet. His coat collection became richer than before, some stuff he'd never wear, but it is a nice thing to have - just to watch or give it to Nero, boy clearly doesn't believe Dante found someone finally. Maybe some devils were just too much into fashion.

“Did you rob a bank? What the fuck, Dante?” Nero frowns at the sight of another new coat on Dante, leather one - not those used and already patched leather, like rings of cut tree showing their age. No-no, this one hugs his shoulders nicely and if he even bothered to button it then the curve of his waist would be hugged nicely. “Since when is there a big demand for you?”

“Or maybe someone learnt how to settle down“ Trish would poke at him, ambiguously raising her eyebrow. Damn her.

“Ehhh… who knows,” Dante shrugs. She eyes his face, probably already caught his uncertainty. Uncertain if he even should tell his sugar mommy to them - you. Young, god, they’d think he is a creep - like raunchy magazines weren't already enough.

Too many doubts, Dante, one should be grateful for money in exchange his dick would get wet so easily, of course, little to complain. Rent gets paid with debts, other additional stuff is just a nice dessert.

Maybe Dante likes this too much than he is supposed to.

His heart melts everytime your head lays in his lap, while he is on the couch, doing jack shit - “watching” some crappy movies (no raunchy magazine with you, he isn't sure if you would have approved those) and drinking beer - not the cheapest, the best one. The curves of your hair in his laps, luring him to rest his hand on you, brush away the curls from your face to see your half lidded gaze settled on him and feel the warmth of your silk skin. Curling like a cat, trying to draw out of his warmth before returning it back by sucking him dry.

“What are you watching?” your voice pulls him out of the trance you've given him just with your presence. Somehow he doesn't even know himself, his eyes dart to the screen that has been illuminating your bodies for a good hour. A cheap movie with a bimbo with over exaggerated curves and some cliche muscular hero - it’d be a miracle if those actors didn't end up washed up after two years of their career.

“Whatever on the TV” He shrugs, not wanting to admit he just put some crap. It is good food for your brains after a hard day. You hum mindlessly, as your fingers creep up under his shirt to feel his skin better. And he shivers, going straight to his cock with the image of you kissing his happy trail just to take his dick in your mouth. Sweet, better than magazines - they dont suck him off as you do, nor do they get wet his dick.

“Doesn't sound fun” Dante raises his eyebrow at your words, taking a quick sip of his beer.

“What’s fun for you?” His finger pokes on your forehead “I believe I’m fun enough”

“Not shitty movie with bimbos and beer clearly”

Dante stays silent, purses his lip thoughtfully,- more like a disapproval. He can't really voice it. But you are right.

“Baby” your hand raises his shirt, his abs tense after getting exposed to the air and your gaze. Your fingers brush on the hard surface, squared shapes on his stomach are so pleasant to trace your finger tip on - lower and lower to his white happy trail like a sign guiding your eyes to the zipper of his jeans. Unzip me! Like a present.

“Mmm?” Baby… Baby, b-a-b-y… Baby, - god he likes this so much, how it rolls on your tongue like a candy melting slowly just to leave a cavity - the one he wouldn’t get rid off. His cock throbs beneath the fabric.

“I have a present for yoouuu” And you have all his attention now, even more than before. He hopes it is something expensive or just cash - not that he doesn't like gifts, it’d be sad to sell them and unlikely he will anyway.

You sit up, pulling out a long little dark object, he has seen it multiple times - lipstick, Trish uses identical one. It makes him feel weird.

“What's that for?” Dante raises his eyebrow. Pop! It opens and slides out a sharp tip with the pretty cold red color. He isn't the expert here, but looks like a new buy - smells nice too.

You don't answer. Your fingers grip his cheeks, squeezing them to purse his lips with a glee smile on your own.

The curve of the lipstick presses on his lip, slowly sliding side to side and covering his slightly dry skin with a new color - your eyes lit up, like he has never seen before in you, getting off of the sight of lipstick on him and he can’t even say anything. Another pop! And something next to his eyes - trying not to blink too much, but he will be judged tonight cause it feels impossible. His eyelashes and eyes aren't used to the mascara.

“You look gorgeous,” your eyes scan his face, finally finishing your job. “Maybe we should go to some places too..” You slip lower. “Some expensive restaurant,” On your knees in front of him now. “Maybe with a dress too, like a pretty girl.”

Dante’s eyes are set on you in between his spread legs, caressing his hardening cock under the jeans before they free it. Unzip, unbutton and tug on his boxers - easy, simple. And he groans just from the anticipation. His cock bobs up to his hip, hard flesh with trimmed pubes - he isn’t a teenager to even care about his or someone’s body hair. And you don't seem to mind. Your gaze traces his cock, the red tip with an already formed bead of pre-cum on the slit, flinching under your gaze as a plea for your mouth to wrap and taste the light bitterness on your tongue. To trace his tip and underneath it with your tongue, slowly moving to the base and to feel the prominent vein of his cock pulse before cumming in your mouth.

Your palm curls on his cock, gripping it steady and Dante can see a new manicure - pretty, dark red with a sharp kitty-like shape slowly stroking his dick.

“Pretty nails..” He lets out and you sparkle up like a Christmas tree - a subtle detail can easily excite you, reminding him how young you are. Confirming his theory too - you may have daddy issues too.

Your lips press against his tip, slowly kissing around it. What a tease for him, your tongue peeks out to lick away precum his tip leaks before sinking your mouth on his cock. The warm and wet heat of your mouth envelops it, your tongue flicks along the shaft. Dante can feel himself getting harder and his hips buck back in response, letting quiet groans.

Briefly his tip brushes at the back of your throat, forcing another buck of his hips into your mouth before it pulls away from his cock. You cough slightly, having a hard time to take him entirely in your mouth - deepthroating isn't the born talent, more like an acquired skill. Dante pats your cheek with a cocky smirk.

“Don't bite off more than you can chew, doll” His hand creeps in your hair to push you up. Your lips are puffier than before, glistening with the saliva and the sight makes his cock throb painfully. His cock twitches in the air.

“Fuck, come on” Dante grunts, too impatient, pulling you up and his fingers dip in your plush thighs, the skin squeezes softly in between free space of them. “Your gorgeous girl needs to feel your pussy” He smirks, leaning back on the couch. “You wouldn’t deny me, right?”

You straddle him, your pussy hovers over his wet cock, as his arms snake around your waist - slowly pushing your hips lower: his tip nudges your hole, slipping inside and burying himself deep inside you. Warmer, wetter and so much better than your mouth, your walls stretch around him so right, gripping his hard skin tightly - surely you will feel every little curve of his cock inside you. Pressing and hitting your g-spot is so good too, like you were born to have him inside your pussy - or vice versa, he was born to be used by you. Your hips roll together with your body, it arches into him, his cock sinks deeper into your pussy and your clit grinds against his pubic bone - coaxing more moans out of you, as his arm slowly coils around your waist to pull you closer.

Your tits bounce so well in front of his face - in the sea of pleasure he leans in to bury his face in them. Slowly kissing and biting on the plush surface, coaxing more moans with a sweet perfect arch of your back. His hand creeps up to knead your boob, while sucking on the nipple of the other. Hard bud against his tongue, slowly sucking on it. Light bite, while his eyes are set on your expression twisted in pleasure. He could die here and now - but satisfied and fulfilled as a man.

He can feel his balls tighten easily, slapping against your ass as you keep riding him. So close, you are too, after all his playing with your tits didnt go to waste. Your pussy clenches tighter his cock, signaling your own orgasm is approaching too. His hips bucked up to meet yours in a messy pace as everything became more and more overwhelming. With a final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, giving last and soft kisses to your tits. Your body shudders eventually too, your walls spasm harder around him as the crushing wave of orgasm hits you, pleasant shockwaves dumb every bad thought in the head. His cock throbbed, finally spurting ropes of cum into you. You rest on him. Your heavy breathings feel the room, no more flesh-hitting and wet sounds, just you and the forgotten movie rolling on the tv - some crap dialogues in the background you both don't care about.

Dante was last to get hold of himself, you leaning back brought him back to you. Your hair sticks to your skin, forming wavy forms and giving a much cuter look he has never seen you having before. Something is missing.

“No kissing for your best girl?” Dante teases again, a toothy smile on his face flashed from sex and you notice his lipstick got smeared and messy without your ministrations. A sparkle of jealousy, or whatever it is. Not sure why and from where. Your hand runs through his white strands just to grip and crush your lips into his. Smearing even more the lipstick on his mouth, but this time tainting yours too with that pretty red. His mouth opens to deepen the kiss, tongue brushes at the seam of your lips just to end up denied and pulled away from you just to meet your own toothy grin dirtied with lipstick.

Huh, seems like he ended up kissblocked. Not cockblocked, at this point uncertain what's better end for him.

#dante sparda x reader #dante sparda x you #dante sparda #dmc 5 dante #dmc x reader #dmc x you #dante x reader #dante x you #dante sparda smut #dante smut #dmc smut #devil may cry smut #devil may cry x reader #devil may cry x you #devil may cry #dante x y/n

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geminiwritten · 18 hours ago

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perfect storm ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers)

notes: okay, i'm starting to think that i really should work at work instead of write... like, is it unethical? anyways, idc!!! have some enemies to lovers! i'm not feeling as strong about this, despite the fact that i've chosen writing over sleep and work for the past few days... but i really hope y'all like it and i hope it lives up! please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, angst, miscommunication, jake is an asshole, allusions to sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), bad weather / storm descriptions, a written plane crash, and frequent mention of plane crashes! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 12439

your callsign is angel

“Alright, listen up.” Maverick stands at the front of the room, his trademark leather jacket draped over his shoulders and his hands firmly planted on his hips. “You received your official briefing this morning, but we’re going to go over a few things now.”

The chatter that had filled the room falls to an abrupt silence as the aviators, now fully attentive, settle into their chairs—every eye on their captain.

“Let’s start with the basics. Just like the last operation, this mission is classified. You’ve all been reassigned from your standard duties to continue training as part of this special operations detachment. Not all of you will deploy, but everyone will undergo training and remain in reserve if you’re not selected. We’ve got a bit more time to prepare this go-around, but don’t mistake that for leniency. This mission is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, with brand new challenges ahead.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mickey and then Bob. “Our weapons systems officers will be key to our success.”

Natasha raises her hand, waiting for Maverick to acknowledge her before speaking. “Will the same pilots from the last mission be prioritised?”

Maverick shakes his head firmly. “No. There’s no favouritism or preference. Selection will be based on performance during training. We’ll see who excels in the specific skills needed for this mission.”

Bob leans forward. “Will Omaha and Halo be returning to the detachment?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Maverick replies. “As you’re all aware, Omaha and Halo were urgently recalled to their original squadrons and will not be returning. But rest assured, arrangements have been made to bring in a top-tier replacement.”

Jake tilts his head, a frown forming as confusion plays across his face. “Replacement, sir? Singular? If this mission hinges on WSOs, shouldn’t we be getting a pair to replace Omaha and Halo?”

What Jake is really asking—without being blatantly obvious—is why they’d bring in another pilot to compete with him for mission lead.

Maverick’s signature smirk, the one that gets him both in and out of trouble, curls at the corners of his lips. “You’re not wrong, Hangman," he says, voice steady. “Which is why I’ve decided that Coyote”—he glances at the man sitting beside Jake—“will no longer be flying solo.”

Javy’s eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise as a grin tugs at his lips. “I get a WSO?”

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge.

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.”

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.”

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.”

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you.

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.”

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning.

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign.

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.”

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.”

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.”

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room.

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.”

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.”

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.”

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls.

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly.

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.”

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes.

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?”

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask one of them?”

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.”

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.”

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going.

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.”

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown.

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.”

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?”

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.”

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed.

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.”

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?”

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.”

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?”

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.”

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?”

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.”

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?”

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.”

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable.

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.”

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.”

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.”

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps.

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed.

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone.

“Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.”

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.”

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.”

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot.

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.”

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.”

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.”

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?”

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.”

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-”

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.”

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you.

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar.

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him.

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance.

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker.

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.”

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest.

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin.

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day.

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to.

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.”

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.”

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare.

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.”

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next.

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration.

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.”

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.”

And with that, he turns and walks away.

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut.

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock.

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch.

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake.

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over.

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it.

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker.

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing.

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open.

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.”

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut.

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams.

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?”

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending.

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar.

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?”

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved.

“Yup.”

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Jizz,” he says gleefully.

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime.

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both.

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat.

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.”

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.”

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly.

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.”

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.”

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear.

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.”

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off.

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit.

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.”

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face.

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.”

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-”

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.”

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.”

He cocks his head. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.”

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe.

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.”

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.”

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that.

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did.

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help.

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons.

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat.

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God.

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up.

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor.

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass.

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself.

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising.

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite.

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler.

It’s now or never.

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile.

But then you see him.

And you stop dead in your tracks.

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion.

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer.

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind:

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now.

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago.

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy.

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband.

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming.

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid.

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating.

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before.

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out.

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone.

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest.

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into.

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.”

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.”

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-”

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops.

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts.

No. Fucking. Way.

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?”

Yes. A cat in heat.

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.”

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit.

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat.

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin.

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest.

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude.

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you.

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.”

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood.

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.”

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.”

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you.

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.”

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.”

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart.

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say.

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.”

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap.

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.”

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb.

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him?

You blink back the sting of tears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net.

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early.

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner.

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules.

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens.

Jake takes off his fucking shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet.

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you.

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices!

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?”

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.”

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.”

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic.

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail.

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up.

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right?

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil.

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity.

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off.

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match.

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.”

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?”

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you.

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake.

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!”

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!”

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now.

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush.

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net.

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated.

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably.

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point.

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy.

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it.

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy.

Wow, he really does not like losing.

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance.

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots.

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan.

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore.

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs.

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.”

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face.

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him.

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out.

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.”

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.”

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.”

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt.

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-”

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing.

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin.

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks.

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.”

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.”

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.”

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you.

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real.

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-”

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final.

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater.

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.”

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine.

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway.

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs.

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask.

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.”

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision.

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?”

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down.

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say.

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him.

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.”

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn.

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap.

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.”

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort.

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late.

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully.

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can.

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.”

Jake finally hesitates.

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark.

And this time—he listens.

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs.

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic.

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…”

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins.

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout.

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit.

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.”

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing.

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world.

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be.

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying.

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update.

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.”

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.”

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.”

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.”

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.”

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-”

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you.

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him.

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked.

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?”

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late.

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes.

“Jake, I-”

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment.

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word.

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not.

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist.

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart.

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes.

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely.

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon.

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train.

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit.

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?”

“Do you see Mav?”

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you.

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.”

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm.

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight.

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course.

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid.

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now.

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe.

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.”

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore.

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance.

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.”

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.”

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you.

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll.

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane.

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin.

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!”

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late.

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!”

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!”

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake.

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject.

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air.

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all.

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky.

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude.

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors.

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!”

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace.

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room.

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.”

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin.

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence.

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?”

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.”

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought.

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air.

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash.

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin.

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?”

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.”

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.”

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.”

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare.

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle.

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-”

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?”

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?”

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why.

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.”

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?”

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.”

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor.

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up.

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail.

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-”

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you.

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him.

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.”

A flash of anger sparks in your chest.

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?”

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?”

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it.

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You can barely breathe.

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice.

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.”

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters.

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away.

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his.

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again.

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart.

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare.

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.”

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.”

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.”

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—”

“Now.”

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat:

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing.

END.

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azzibueckers5 · 2 days ago

Text

i wanna know peace again (wanna sing a different song) (ao3 link) (chapter 1 link)

chapter 2: in which azzi is a drama queen and mentally calls herself the word stupid so many times that it loses its meaning (wc: ~8.5k) (gasp)

AN: ummmm hiiiiii i'm back. please enjoy! i wanted to make it angstier but i didn't want to actually write that? so here you go. umm. any and all mistakes re: basketball and the wnba (and anything else) are mine and mine only! i'm learning slowly and I googled a lot of things but who knows. i think that's it? idk have fun freaks <3

azzi wakes to a pounding headache, a crick in her neck from sleeping on the couch, and an overwhelming sense of dread at everything in the world ever.

hanxiety doesn’t even begin to capture the feeling that curdles in her stomach when she goes to confirm that last night wasn’t a hyper-realistic dream, the words outgoing call, 1:47 reflecting back at her bleary eyes underneath paige’s contact. she’d called her at two in the fucking morning. good god.

she’s not sure if the wine or the hours of crying is the cause of the absolute knife between her temples, but it doesn’t matter because she needs three advils, like, now, before she begins processing the nightmare that the previous night really was.

she drags herself off the couch, wincing at the ache in her muscles, and heads to her bedroom to change out of last night's pjs and try and dig up the pain killers that she knows are somewhere in her bedside table.

briefly, humorously, she contemplates the tub of miscellaneous, much stronger drugs that she’s accumulated over her years of surgeries and injuries. maybe if she overdoses on the opioids she’d been given but never taken after her acl tear she won’t have to deal with this whole L-word realization that is sure to ruin the current stability of her life.

as she mentally picks through the haze of wine over her memories from the night before, the pit in her stomach grows. she had been a lot of things the prior night- stupid, emotional, drunk, but wrong about the truth of her complex web of emotion surrounding paige?

she wasn’t so sure. (she was actually kind of sure she hadn’t been wrong. which. fuck.)

after swallowing her pills (advil, not the oxycodone), she picks up her phone and fires off three texts to aaliyah in quick succession, needing her to know how much her line of questioning had caused azzi to spiral.

azzi: u suck btw.

azzi: the all-star break isn't the time to make me over analyze my friendships

azzi: or my sexuality for that matter

the older girl responds in a matter of seconds.

lili: BRUH I THOUGHT U KNEW

lili: come shoot before practice w me and we can talk it out

lili: but jsyk uve been moping for A YEAR my bad for thinking it was cause yall broke up

azzi: brooooo everyone always says friendship breakups r worse anyways

she releases a long suffering sigh to the mirror above her dresser. she looks a little bit like shit, eyes puffy and cheek creased, posture slumped over looking at her phone. the picture of i don’t want to have this crisis right now but i fear it’s too late.

screw everything. she looks back down at the buzz of her phone in her palm:

aaliyah: that’s only for straight girls dumbass

azzi: ok well i thought i WAS a straight girl

lili: [screenshotted image of her profile photo for azzi: her, sitting on the ground in the uconn facilities, propped up against the base of her locker, legs spread comfortably. her head is tilted up at the camera, a smirk lopsided on her face, and one hand is throwing up a four, the other splayed out across the top of her trucker hat. she’s wearing a huskies sports bra and sweatpants, slung low enough on her hips to exhibit the the thick band of her basketball shorts and the v of her lower abs]

lili: does this look like a straight girl to u

it's almost funny how obvious the answer is. azzi types out a succinct kill youself and throws her phone across her bed.

she feels like she should be concerned with how easily the knowledge that she’s into women (or at least one specific woman) settles into her skin. but somehow it feels more like something she’d known about herself and simply buried, waiting for the right time to fully process. and this doesn’t necessarily feel like the right time, but it's happening whether azzi likes it or not, and she supposes that accepting that you’re gay is a lot easier when every single person in your life already knew and thought you knew before you actually did.

the only person she really has to solidly come out to is herself (she ignores the voice in her head telling her that she will also maybe have to come out to paige at some point. if they talk and y’know. things go the way azzi is somehow already desperately hoping they will), and she’d always kind of known, in an abstract sense anyway, that she was attracted to women, but she’d never really had a crush on one or had the inclination to actually do anything about that thought so it had sat on the backburner, something she only really thought about when she was drunk, or lonely, or some combination of the two.

she figures she can work out whether she’s ever even been into men at all at a later date. all she can think about right now is paige anyways, and it's childish, but she’s almost annoyed at how cliche she feels for having her gay realization be the blonde, like she’s just another fangirl in paige’s tik tok comment section writing some variation of ‘i'm straight, but its paige bueckers!’

and it’s stupid, but it feels like she’s feeding into paige's ego by just acknowledging this space that’s been carved out in her chest. paige had always been droning on and on about how much rizz she had, how everybody wanted her, and azzi had loved nothing more than humbling her, calling her conceited and egotistical and stupid, and well. it seems azzi had been the stupid one all along.

she knows, though, that this feeling, this thing in her chest that has somehow ballooned inside of her overnight, runs much, much deeper than the silly, surface level attraction that most people attributed to paige. and she also reasons that she knows paige, both her flaws and her insecurities and the parts that make her so wonderful, in a way that none of the teenage girls on tiktok could ever begin to even dream of.

being in love with paige (and she guesses she’s really acknowledging it now, so that's. cool.) didn’t feel like a fluke, but rather something that was simply innate inside of her, ever humming under her skin.

she curses the universe for giving her this mid-life crisis eight days before she has to hop on the flight that will take her directly to paige’s city, but there's an underlying feeling of hope, too, that she tries to squash. she firmly ignores the thought that it feels a little bit like a cosmic sign.

paige having a woman she was almost certainly sleeping with, minimum, in the background of her phone at 1am also kinda felt like a cosmic sign. a sign that meant it's too late.

and. oh god. she needs to text paige about dallas.

and what the fuck to you say to your ex best friend who you hypothetically were (are?) in love with and drunkenly called crying after a year of not speaking one-on-one to try and plan a hangout? your ex best homoerotic friend who maybe has a new girl?

but paige had insinuated that she wasn’t expecting azzi to actually reach out, which, aside from the fact that azzi did want to, also made it somewhat of a competition, and azzi didn’t lose competitions. especially against paige.

it's already nearing 10 am, and even though paige is an hour behind, she wants to make it clear that she’s true to her word. paige had seemed like she’d wanted her to text, too, and. she’d said she missed her. a lot.

she types out the first thing she thinks of, u gonna show me your cowboy boots collection or what, and sends it before she can talk herself out of it.

the anger at paige from the night before is still simmering in her blood, a little bit, because what the fuck? they haven't talked in a year and it was paige’s fault. but also. azzi knows paige, even after all this time, and. she has a growing hunch that instead of the callous disregard for azzi and their friendship that paige had tried so hard to portray, azzi is starting to think that it had been hurt, not indifference, that had caused paige to distance them.

when paige doesn’t immediately respond to azzi’s text and profess her undying love for azzi and azzi only, she tries to convince her immune system that she did not, in fact, just drink poison and she was not, in fact, having a heart attack.

and god, was it normal to feel like she was dying after sending a text? yesterday-azzi was lucky as fuck that she thought she hadn’t been in love because this fucking sucked.

she makes breakfast with her anxiety at an all time high, checking her phone every sixty seconds and nearly burning her omelette. as the minutes tick by, azzi tries to resign herself to the reality that maybe paige had told her to text because she didn’t believe azzi would, not in spite of it.

but then, as azzi is throwing things in her bag to leave for the facilities and bombard aaliyah with questions and a borderline mental breakdown, she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. she drops her water bottle on her foot in her haste to check what it says, and it hurts like a bitch, but paige responds with ‘unfortunately only one pair of boots. but im sure my hat collection will impress u’ and well.

azzi’s foot could be broken for all she cares, because paige responded and she’s texting like old paige, and maybe it's flirting, maybe it's not, azzi clearly has no idea, but it's a million times better than the one-word messages she received throughout last year, and.

hope blooms, slow and steady, in azzi’s heart, despite her attempts to squash it.

…

azzi: please tell me you don’t actually wear any of them outside the house

paige: u have to wear one here at all times or they’ll kill u

paige: texas is no joke

azzi: so i guess i’ll need to borrow one when im down there then

paige: when do u fly in

paige: ill give u the pick of the litter

…

(azzi does not shriek when she sees that text after practice. she does not.)

…

three days before azzi flies to dallas (and potentially lights herself on fire), she has a moment of weakness. after a particularly tiring lift and a day without more than a few new texts from paige, she settles into bed freshly showered with her laptop propped open on a pillow. she means to put on the rest of the abbot elementary episode she’d been watching earlier, but her fingers apparently aren’t connected to the rest of her body because they type in “paige bueckers and azzi fudd” into the youtube search bar instead.

a couple nonsense videos pop up before her eyes catch on to the SLAM interview they’d done together right before azzi’s freshman year season. she clicks the link before she can chicken out.

it's a behind the scenes, with interview anecdotes thrown in between clips of them messing around, and they look so young. and jesus the way paige is looking at her. like she hangs the moon in the sky. and eighteen year old azzi isn’t much better, and she can’t keep her eyes off the blonde for more than five milliseconds, and they’re, well, they’re flirting right in front of current azzi’s face, and good god. no wonder everyone had thought something was going on.

if azzi hadn’t lived through it, known the way they’d only ever tiptoed the line, never crossing, she would’ve thought so too.

she makes it six minutes into the video before she slams her laptop shut, rolls over, and screams bloody murder into her pillowcase.

…

the mystics don’t fly down until the night before, and their game is in the afternoon, so she and paige make tentative plans to hang out after azzi ‘find[s] out what happens when you mess with texas.’

paige is a dork, and an unfunny one at that. she hearts the message when azzi tells her as much, and azzi has to hide her smile in the hood of her sweatshirt so georgia doesn’t ask any pestering questions when paige adds ‘unfunny maybe but a loser? never.’

azzi really, really hopes that this text-flirting or whatever they’re doing means that paige doesn’t have a girlfriend. she doesn’t think her heart could take it if she did, and she doesn’t understand how paige (maybe? she’s being optimistic. sue her.) lived with these feelings for so long and didn’t act on them because it's been a singular week of occasional texting and only that has azzi feeling like she’s going to tear her hair out.

the flight to dallas and subsequent restless night of sleep in a mediocre hotel room crawls by so slowly that azzi feels like she’s been physically transported to a planet in which every minute that goes by is actually an hour. or something. she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar but she feels like messy time travel and space stuff like that was part of it. maybe it's happening to her. stranger things have occurred.

(like not knowing you were in love with your best friend for eight years)

(she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar because the uconn team had watched it one slow off-season afternoon, and azzi had let paige coax her into taking an edible, gotten ridiculously high and scared, and had spent the entire movie with her face tucked into paige’s shoulder, letting the hands rubbing her back and stupid commentary in her ear lull her into safety)

(fuck everything)

…

and then the most dreaded and anticipated day of azzi’s short, miserable life so far is upon her. thank god it’s a saturday game, so tipoff is at 2:00, and she doesn’t have to drown in anxiety for a whole day beforehand, because breakfast and the pregame meeting in the hotel is tortuous enough as is.

kiki has to forcefully put her hand on azzi’s leg on the bus to get it to stop jumping up and down, and everyone knows not to bring up anything related to paige in front azzi, and she hasn’t said anything to anyone other the aaliyah about how they’re speaking again, but she can feel the sideways glances her teammates are sharing behind her back and her brain itches.

they warm up on the court after the wings are done with their shooting drills, meaning azzi only gets a glance of paige disappearing back into the tunnel when they head out to stretch, but it's enough to transform her anxiety from a level 6 on the richter scale to a solid, nauseating 8.

there’s signs of paige everywhere: posters with her face all over the walls, her number plastered on the sides of the hallway they have to walk down to get to the arena, and, worst of all, fans milling about, decked out completely in #5 jerseys and paige paraphernalia. several have carefully drawn out posters and clever slogans, clamoring in the stands to get as close as possible in an attempt to gain the one and only paige bueckers’ attention. and azzi can’t even fucking blame them, as pitiful as it is, because she wants paige’s attention on her, too. probably more than any of these fans combined.

a twisted, irrational seed of jealousy takes root in her heart when she thinks about how these fans have gotten to see paige grow and blossom over the last year and a half, how paige had left connecticut and the team and azzi and come here and immediately charmed the hearts of this entire stupid city, not caring what, or rather, who she left behind.

and fuck texas and their stupid cowboy boots and hot weather and their ability to win over really pretty blonde girls and entrap them in their clutches.

her shots are off during warmups, and it takes everything in her not to turn around and look for a familiar blonde head when they announce the starting lineup and paige’s name is called, but then that effort is entirely futile because paige’s face is suddenly plastered on every single god-forsaken screen in the entire arena as she runs back out through tunnel. and she looks so cool and confident and definitely not like she’s having a tweak-fest about her ex best friend being in such close proximity. and life isn’t fair.

and azzi loses her breath for a second at how stunningly beautiful paige is. she’s always been gorgeous, even self-proclaimed-straight-azzi had known that, but something about paige in the center of the basketball court, completely in her element, has always made her look more magnetic than usual.

paige’s eyes flit across the visiting team’s bench for a second, like she’s looking for someone, looking for azzi, and she wants to jump up and wave her arms or do something equally as ridiculous to get her attention, but it turns out she doesn’t need to because then blue eyes find azzi’s without any help, like a magnet, and, wow, azzi had thought that she’d mentally prepared herself for this as much as possible, but she’d been horribly, terribly wrong.

paige seems almost bashful when her face tilts into a lopsided grin, and azzi’s heart is doing this weird little flipping thing inside of her chest, which, it's never done that before, or maybe it had and she’d just never noticed because she’s an idiot, but regardless, azzi grins back, eyes probably all squinty and everything, and she really hopes no one is paying attention to them right now because she knows she looks absolutely sick in the head.

she feels bolder than usual all of a sudden, adrenaline coursing through her and the high of having paige’s attention on her after all these months must be messing with her brain to mouth filter, because then she’s mouthing “you ready to lose?” to the blonde girl across the arena.

paige’s smile drops in exaggerated offense and she’s getting nudged by her teammates to pay attention to something else but she smirks lazily, and flips azzi off before her attention is dragged into their huddle.

and azzi feels woozy- like a fucking cartoon character with little birds circling her head. lord give her strength. paige flips her off and suddenly she’s acting like the blonde girl came over and proposed or something. this whole thing is so. stupid.

the anthem and pre-game huddle is a blur of nerves and trying not to get caught staring at the back of paige’s head. and then it’s tip off, and blessedly, graciously, they’re not guarding each other, and azzi tries valiantly to focus on the ball and her teammates’ positioning and not on the blonde in her peripheral vision.

she’s off balance though, only making one of her first four shots, and she knows exactly why that is and it's so frustrating because paige already has seven points and seems entirely unaffected.

and then, six minutes into the game, paige knocks the ball away from kiki in a breakaway, and azzi is the only one who has a chance at stopping her from a simple, uncontested layup. they run up the court together, paige just out of azzi’s reach until they get to the paint. and azzi knows exactly the move paige is going to pull, could draw it up in her sleep, and the only real way to stop it is to throw her hip out and jump up at the exact second she knows paige will release the ball and pray that her hand makes contact with rubber and not skin.

and she does knock the ball away, fuck you, paige blockers, but her hip also makes contact with paige’s side and she goes sprawling, sliding across the linoleum. azzi has a split second of panic that she’s actually hurt paige, but paige is grinning up at her, the drama queen, and azzi groans when she hears the familiar whistle of a foul call somewhere behind her.

azzi’s hand grips paige’s to pull her up, other hand going out to steady her hip, and the first real skin on skin contact in a year shocks her to her core. her fingers are tingling, and how on earth was she able to ignore the feeling that arises in her whenever paige is close to her for so long because it feels like the world has stopped spinning on its axis for a second.

nothing had ever been able to pry azzi’s attention away from basketball before, except for paige, (which. add that to the list of things that probably should have clued her in years ago) and it’s even worse now that azzi understands why that was the case.

and they are in the middle of a basketball court on live television with thousands of people watching their every move and azzi is still gripping paige’s hand. and someone needs to put her in a psychiatric hospital or something.

she regrettably pulls her fingers away from the taller girl’s grasp and immediately misses the contact.

“you playin’ dirty cause you don’t think you can win?” paige taunts, but she’s grinning at azzi like she knows it was an accident, and her face is flushed from the first few minutes of running and she looks positively edible and. how azzi thought of herself as immune to paige’s charm for so long is well beyond her now because she wants to do. a lot of things, actually, but she needs to focus on basketball right now. because again. middle of the basketball court.

“shut up, cheater. you’re the one flopping around trying to get a call,” is her very mature and reasonable retort.

and oh. azzi realizes again, in real time, what everyone was talking about when they used to say that her and paige were constantly flirting. because her hand is still on the taller girl's hip (just to steady her. yeah right.) and paige is smirking down at her and azzi is teasing her and- oh my god she’s been so stupid.

the familiar spark of competition (and probably some other things. like attraction. whatever.) lights up between them like no time has passed since they were staying late after practices and running shooting drills just the two of them, and azzi feels herself settle for the first time since she caught sight of paige warming up.

she’d been worried that she’d be too distracted by paige’s presence to play well, but the feeling of blue eyes on the back of her neck whenever she has the ball, and even when she doesn’t, fuels her like nothing else.

by halftime, she has 19 points.

and when the mystics finally edge out an unexpected, much needed win, there’s a 34 next to azzi’s name in the box score. she only misses two shots after her exchange with paige in the first quarter.

and it's merely an out of conference win, but it's a close one because paige had played well too, and she can feel the satisfaction of a well-fought game settling in her bones, and the added bonus of beating paige, specifically, is making her feel like she's on cloud nine.

they keep their post game hug short and cordial (or. as cordial as a paige burying her face in azzi’s neck and azzi gripping her shoulders as tight as possible can be) (azzi might be delusional but she swears the crowd gets louder when they hug)

she kind of never wants it to end, and misses her instantly when paige pulls away, but then paige stays close when they separate, and looks nothing but proud when she congratulates azzi, asking “you tryna outdo my rookie of the year performance?”

azzi is grateful for the flush on her cheeks from the game, so it masks how hot her blood gets at the question. “maybe, we’ll see,” is the only thing she can come up with in response, and it sounds coy even to her own ears.

“i know we will” is paige’s fond response, and there’s cameras surrounding them and azzi’s not stupid enough to bring up their post-game plans right now but she wants to so she just hums and stands there, probably looking like a fucking adoring idiot.

paige smiles, big this time, despite their loss, and tugs azzi back into a much briefer hug. it’s friendly for the cameras, and quick, but paige manages to tuck an “i'll text you” into azzi's shoulder before she’s pulling away and leaving azzi to watch helplessly after her as she’s immediately swarmed by teammates and media.

and winning the game was fun and great and awesome or whatever, but the mile-wide smile on azzi’s face has a lot more to do with residual tingling of paige’s hugs than anything else. she is so stupendously screwed.

…

the press conference goes by torturously slow because azzi doesn’t have time to check her phone beforehand, but they only ask her one question about paige so she counts it as another win.

(they ask azzi if this victory is sweeter because paige is on the other team and azzi answers with a really eloquent “yes,” and doesn’t elaborate when asked. her teammates nearly wet themselves with laughter)

azzi almost falls out of her chair in her attempt to get up as fast as possible when they’re released from press, and it takes everything in her not to sprint back to the locker room to check her phone. aaliyah doesn’t even try to hide her laughter.

three texts from paige from 10 minutes prior are waiting for her when she finally gets back to her locker.

paige: about to hop in shower

paige: wanna j do something straight from here

paige: or we can do something later if u wanna go back to hotel first idc

the three separate texts means that paige is nervous, and some satisfaction settles in azzi’s stomach, but it’s overshadowed by the fact that she’s left the decision making to azzi.

she debates it for two seconds before deciding she might run into oncoming traffic or something equally as gruesome if left to her own thoughts for more than 5 minutes. she hearts the second text.

azzi: if u wait for me to shower i can be ready in 20

and then she’s only 20 minutes away from being one-on-one with paige for the first time in a year. her shower goes by in a haze and she hopes she remembered to like. use body wash but she can’t really recall because her mind is an abyss of nausea and stress and the little glimmer of hope that she keeps trying to make shut up.

paige’s ‘kk call me when ur ready and ill tell u where to go’ is waiting for her when she gets out, and she curses herself for only packing a pair of old sweats and a tank top. whatever. it’s not like she needs to impress paige anyway- she’d seen her in every state of dress from black tie evening gowns to pajamas- but still. she’s stressed.

and then she’s slipping out of the locker room (she’s not doing anything wrong, but she still feels a little bit like she’s sneaking around, trying to avoid questions on where she’s going from her teammates), and calling paige, and letting her voice guide through a hallway and out a couple doors and into the parking lot.

she hangs up when she sees paige’s recognizable grey jeep ahead of her, and something settles in her stomach at the familiar sight. she’d been in the passenger seat of this car a million and one times.

but then she’s opening the door and, wow, she feels the furthest thing from settled because there is paige, sitting in the driver's seat and looking clean and nervous and adorably small in an oversized hoodie and shorts. her hair is down and still damp, and she’s wearing glasses, and her hands are fidgeting with her phone in her lap, partially covered by the cuffs of her sweatshirt, and azzi feels something crack in her chest. because how had she not realized that this was exactly what she’d wanted all along?

“hi” paige greets her, voice small and a little shy.

azzi’s answering “hey, loser” sounds just as bashful and wow, what have they become?

but then azzi climbs into the passenger seat as paige groans and says “i knew that would be the first thing you’d bring up” and they fall into the ease of bickering about the game and the music paige is playing, and as they pull out of the garage and into the bright afternoon dallas sun, azzi relaxes a bit into her seat.

they decide to drop their stuff off at paige’s apartment before potentially heading out to find some dinner, and it’s weird- how normal it feels, even though they haven’t done this in forever. azzi still has an undercurrent of panic coursing through her, and she knows she’s looking at paige a little weirdly because the blonde keeps glancing at her funny, like she’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite place what’s changed, but despite that, they fall right back into the simplicity and comfort that each others company has always held.

until paige decides to ruin the ease of their conversation by glancing across the car at a red light and asking “you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me funny?”

azzi squirms. debates jumping out, ladybird style. decides against it only because the risk/reward ratio is particularly low. she could deny it, call paige crazy, but that seems useless when she plans on bringing it up when they get inside in 10 minutes anyways. she was planning on waiting until after dinner, but the thrill of having paige within arms reach is making her antsy and she knows she won’t be able to wait that long.

“no,” she replies. at paige’s sideways glare, she relents, “when we get inside.”

paige hums, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, and the relaxed environment turns tense in seconds. the remainder of the drive is silent, and it's not awkward, necessarily, but anticipatory, tension clogging azzi’s lungs.

she fiddles with the ac vents and tries to stop herself from thinking at all. she fails, obviously, and her mind is a mess of paige and random moments from their time at uconn and, the girl in the back of the phone call, and. somehow her hands are shaking. perfect.

she is somehow both thankful and miserable they’re almost there.

they finally pull into paige’s complex, and the mostly silent walk through the garage and elevator ride only further serves to heighten her anxiety. and then paige is pulling out her keys and opening the door and.

they barely get inside before azzi is rounding on her, dropping her bag on the floor and backing up to lean against the opposing wall. she’d planned this part out in her mind a hundred times, dissecting all the possible pros and cons of asking in different ways, figuring out how to slowly work up to the question that’s been eating her alive since the the all star break, but one look at paige’s confused face and the adrenaline that's been coursing through her veins throughout the whole car ride has her sidestepping logic and reason entirely and blurting out a strangled “were we in love?”

she’s pretty confident she knows the answer, but the ensuing silence is agonizing anyway.

azzi can see the second paige processes her question, her face dropping in utter disbelief, and something like heartbreak splinters in her eyes at azzi’s words. paige’s arms go limp at her sides, her keys slipping to the ground beside her, and the jangle of metal against the hardwood floor is deafening in the silence of her entryway.

“azzi,” paige chokes on her name, like it causes her physical pain. she looks shell-shocked, like she can’t breathe, and azzi can’t breathe either, but she needs to know anyway.

“were we in love, paige? were you in love with me?” she asks again, more desperate this time, the words ripping out of her chest almost without her permission. she feels out of control. between the two of them, paige was always the one to push things too far, press and press until azzi was forced to answer her questions or shut down, and the whip-lash of that role reversal is clear on the older girl’s face.

still, paige is silent, gaping at her in shock.

just as azzi opens her mouth to ask a third time, paige closes the gap between them with two steps and seals their mouths together in a desperate, searing kiss.

azzi’s hands fly to paige's chest immediately, and the blonde’s hands find their place on the sides of her face, cupping her cheeks. azzi opens for her in seconds, and paige makes a wretched, helpless sound in the back of her throat as their tongues meet. she drags one hand down to azzi’s waist and pulls her closer, fingering the gap between her sweats and tank top, and azzi’s hands grip her shirt in return, needing her as close as possible.

and wow. okay. if there was any lingering doubt in azzi’s mind about whether or not she was into women, into paige, it evaporates into thin air, heat pooling immediately in her stomach.

and also. paige probably doesn’t have a girlfriend if she’s kissing azzi senseless in her foyer. the relief of that makes her needy, desperate.

she feels wild with it, with the sudden release of this desire for paige that's been hibernating just under her skin for years, and as paige presses her back into the wall, all azzi can think to do is tug her as close as possible. her hands move again, this time sliding up to the back of paige’s neck, everywhere they can reach, and when they separate from each other for a second to breathe, foreheads pressed together, azzi’s eyes flutter open to probably the prettiest version of paige she’s ever seen.

she looks absolutely ruined, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen, and azzi feels drunk on the look in her eyes, gazing at her like azzi is the sun and the moon and the whole fucking solar system too. and she’s struck with the thought that they probably could have been doing this for years, probably should have been doing this for years.

“did you- azzi- did you not know?” is the first thing paige gets out, voice sounding wrecked with emotion and something else, and if azzi had a nickel for every time someone had seemed incredulous that she hadn’t known about paige and her being in love, she’d have five fucking nickels. five nickels to place on the shelf next to her #1 stupidest person on earth trophy.

azzi can’t help but sound indignant when she sputters out “well no one told me!”

paige just looks at her for a second, like she’s trying to cement this as real, and then she smiles, small and beautiful and just for azzi.

“you’re stupid” is her only retort. and, well. yeah.

and she looks like she’s about to cry but in a good way azzi thinks, and then azzi can’t see her face anymore because they’re kissing again. she makes a sound in the back of her throat that she will not be recounting when paige slips a hand underneath her tank top, pressing her fingers to her ribs, and jesus, they’ve been making out for maybe a total of two minutes max and she already feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor.

paige kisses her like she means it, like she’s starving for it, and azzi didn’t know it until right now but it's exactly the way she likes to be kissed.

paige wedges a leg between azzi’s, somehow pressing closer, and this is really nice and azzi really doesn’t want to stop but also. they need to actually discuss this before she lets paige do something stupid like finger her in the hallway or drag her off to her bedroom. she might be jumping the gun but also. one of paige’s hands is sliding underneath the waistband of her sweats to caress the smooth skin of her hip, teasing. and, and. she really needs to stop this before her fingers dip any lower because she knows any coherent thought she has will crumble into nothingness.

she tugs her mouth away for a second, and murmurs out a breathless “paige” in between kisses. she receives a contented grunt in response.

“paige-” she tries again, except the older girl simply hums and moves lower, pressing open-mouthed kissed down her neck instead. azzi’s brain goes blank for a second, nothing but thoughts of paige’s mouth on her neck and her hands on her waist. but.

they do need to talk about this. regretfully.

“paige, we need to- to talk about this,” she stutters out, and when paige still seems undeterred, having moved down to attempt to suck a mark into azzi’s collarbone, she adds, “before we have sex.”

she tries to look away, so she doesn’t have to see the smug grin that she knows will spread across paige’s face at her words, but a consequence of furiously making out with the blonde is that their faces are still inches apart, so she still sees the sly smirk on paige’s stupid, self-satisfied face.

“who said anything about sex, hmm?” she crows, and azzi blushes, and then looks down pointedly at paige’s hand that is currently slipping under the waistband of her sweats.

“oh i’m sorry, was that not on your agenda?” she asks, teasing, and pushes herself out from underneath paige, walking down the hallway towards the living room, smiling to herself at the immediate feeling of paige’s hands back on her hips, grasping at her to keep her close.

“no, no, azzi, c’mon, i’m jus’ playing, come back here,” and she actually sounds a little bit worried, as if azzi will somehow change her mind or something ridiculous.

she spins back to face paige when she gets to the couch, and laughs at the look on her face, hopeful and kind of like a puppy dog. it's definitely a diversion tactic and it almost works, she almost says fuck it and drags paige further into the apartment in search of the bedroom, but she stays strong.

“talk first, and then you can give me a very thorough tour of the rest of your apartment,” she assures, and paige relents, but not before pressing a short, close-mouthed kiss to azzi’s lips, as if sealing the deal.

“‘kay. i’m holding you to that,” she adds, but she looks unsure of herself, and then they’re just standing there like idiots in the evening light of paige’s apartment, looking at each other.

azzi decides she wants to be sitting for this, so she kicks off her slides and drops onto the couch behind her.

for a second, paige looks like she doesn’t know what to do or where to sit, and she’s never been unsure of invading azzi’s personal space before, so azzi just rolls her eyes and tugs her down onto the couch next to her. paige flops down, sprawled out next to azzi, and they settle into the cushions, azzi curled underneath paige’s arm, facing her, legs crossed and socked feet tucking under paige’s thigh.

paige is quiet, waiting for azzi to formulate how she wants to start this, and she’s grateful for the silence as she mentally grapples with how to open this particular can of worms.

she settles on “can you tell me what happened the night of the championship?”

might as well start out with the big guns.

paige inhales sharply, and she looks like she really doesn’t want to recount that night, so azzi gently takes one of her hands in her own and tangles their fingers.

“you don’t remember?” she mumbles, and her voice sounds so small, not at all like the confident paige that had just been giving azzi shit and kissing the living daylights out of her.

“no, only. only that we kissed, but even that’s hazy. and i had a mark,” she reaches up with paige's hand still tangled in hers and presses at her collarbone, “right here.”

“yeah.” paige’s voice breaks on the acknowledgement, and she looks like she’s gonna cry at the reminder, eyes watery where they gaze at the spot that her fingers are pressing into. azzi’s heart squeezes in her chest. she looks a little relieved, though, that azzi can’t recall what happened.

“if i’d known you were that drunk i wouldn’t have…” she trails off, voice shaky, and azzi cuts in.

“you were drunk too paige, s’not your fault.”

paige hums. when azzi squeezes her fingers, she continues. “it was such a good night until then. we were so drunk, and you were so happy, and you were clinging onto me like it-” her voice breaks, and azzi leans further into her side to try and comfort her. they’re both already crying a little bit, and her heart squeezes, again, but she needs to hear this before they go any further.

“like it meant something. something more than usual. and then you wanted to go upstairs and i kept thinking finally. and. and i kissed you when we got to my room and you seemed so into it. and then i said-” she cuts off again, and azzi feels dread pool in her gut. she isn’t sure she actually wants to hear this story but she can’t stop listening.

“i told you i was in love with you, like an idiot, and you-” she inhales, through her tears, like she’s steeling herself, and azzi squeezes her eyes shut in preparation, gripping paige’s hand tighter.

“you asked me why i had to ruin it, why we couldn’t just kiss without it meaning anything.”

azzi makes a wounded sound, curling closer, and paige is sobbing now, and this is so, so much worse than she’d thought.

“paige.” is the only thing she can get out as comfort, and now she's sobbing too. god she’d been so, so stupid. “i didn’t know.” she shifts, and then climbs all the way into paige’s lap, trying to ease the hurt that her unconscious drunk mind had caused and pressing a messy kiss to her hairline. she tries to get as close as possible as a reminder that they're here now, not in a shitty hotel room in tampa.

god. no wonder paige had distanced herself. azzi doesn’t even know what she’d have done. probably run straight out of that hotel and thrown herself off a cliff

paige isn’t done, though, and azzi briefly wonders how it could possibly get worse, before regretting her curiosity instantly.

“and then you got mad when i wouldn’t. wouldn’t just keep going. and i asked if we could jus’ talk about it in the morning and you promised that we would.” paige presses the words into azzi shoulder, bring her arms up to wrap around the younger girl’s back. her tank top is wet from paige’s tears and. this whole thing has azzi sick to her stomach.

she presses a sob into paige’s hair, and she knows the next part but she lets her finish anyway.

“and then you didn’t say anything the next morning and i didn’t know if you didn’t remember or if you just didn’t want to talk about it, but either way i just. couldn’t do it anymore.” her voice is shot, and she’s still crying, but she looks relieved to have finished.

azzi lets the silence sit for a minute before responding. “i thought you regretted kissing me. or whatever happened, i couldn’t remember. and then you just. stopped, like, wanting to be friends, and i thought you’d decided you didn’t need me anymore,” azzi releases through tears, and her heart breaks for both of them at the stupidity of the last year.

a “no!” rips from paige’s chest, insulted, and she laughs humorlessly. “az, i’ll always need you. for god sake, i pretty much just moped for the entire year plus. arike banned your name ‘cause she got tired of listening to me whine about how much i missed you.” she looks up at azzi through her eyelashes, tears clumped together, and she looks so beautiful, despite them, that azzi’s heart breaks all over again.

“if it makes you feel better, i missed you just as bad, except i wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. the whole team knew not to bring you up around me cause i would just shut down.”

she knocks their foreheads together, gently, in affection before continuing, “one of the freshmen got your old room and i wouldn’t go anywhere near it.”

paige smiles, brokenly, at that. “bet she didn’t decorate it as well as me.”

it's not really funny, but azzi lets out a watery giggle anyways, pressing it into the curve of paige’s brow. “she probably didn’t have a blanket over the blinds though.”

paige hums in agreement, and motions for azzi to continue before starting to trace lines on azzi’s back.

azzi takes a deep breath before speaking. “over the break we went to dinner, me ‘n lili and a couple others. and somehow like dating and stuff got brought up and she asked me if i’d ever been in love. and i said no.”

paige tenses under her, but azzi squeezes their hands that are still tangled together and waits until she relaxes again to continue.

“and none of them believed me. they all thought we’d been dating in secret or whatever. and i couldn’t believe it but then i started thinking about it and. and then i got home and called my mom, and asked her if i’d been in love with you,” she pauses for a second, trying to get her words straight. paige’s hand on her back falters for a second, before continuing, slow and steady, and it grounds her.

“and she said if i was asking her than i already knew.”

paige laughs a little bit, commenting “‘course she did.”

“i know,” she agrees, “and then. well. i got really drunk and somehow thought it was a good idea to call you.”

paige smiles, a little crookedly. “wasn’t your worst idea, though.”

azzi hums in agreement. “no, it wasn’t”

paige opens her mouth to say something and then stops, reconsidering.

azzi narrows her eyes. “what,” she prods, needing to know everything.

paige hesitates again before continuing. “i thought god was punishing me when i saw who was calling. i’d just made the first step in so long to try and get over you, finally relented to all my teammates telling me to get laid for the first time in over a year and. here you were calling me for the first time in forever like you knew i’d just spent half an hour pretending the girl on top of me was you.” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “i left as soon as i hung up. cried all the way home.”

and azzi knows it’s fucked up, but satisfaction settels in her bones at the knowledge that paige hadn’t been sleeping her way through texas in azzi’s absence like she’d thought, even if the reminder of the girl on the phone kills her a little.

“i wanted to die when i heard her voice. almost hung up you,” she gets out, and paige presses a kiss to her shoulder in response.

“baby, i haven’t wanted anyone but you since i was like, sixteen.”

the word baby echoes inside azzi’s head and she smiles, ducking her head.

“maybe if you’d ever told me that-”

“-i did tell you-” paige protests, but azzi’s having none of it.

“sober- if you’d told me sober i probably would’ve figured out i was in love you a lot quicker.”

paige huffs. “azzi, the entire world knew i was in love with you. obviously i thought you knew, too, ” and then, when azzi’s words sink in a bit more, and she adds, a little in awe, “you’re in love with me? like, forreal?”

azzi doesn’t bother correcting her verb tense. it might seem stupid to already be saying i love you when they haven’t actually had a conversation in a year, but she knows with more certainty than anything ever that this is a past and a present and a future kind of thing.

“obviously.” is her only response, gesturing to where she’s sitting on paige’s lap, their fingers still curled together.

and paige’s smile is positively blinding as she leans up to press their mouths together, murmuring “s’ fire.”

honestly. you’d think she’d be a little more romantic.

and their faces are both damp from tears, but it doesn’t matter because paige is kissing her like her laugh is the best thing she’s ever tasted, and maybe it is.

and paige flips them somehow (azzi isn’t really paying attention to the logistics, too focused on the patch of skin she finds below paige’s ear that makes her keen) and they end up pressed into the couch, paige laying on top of her.

azzi finds paige’s mouth again, fingers tangling in her hair, and paige presses their hips together, swallowing the brunettes' moan at the contact.

and then paige pulls back above her and grins.

“so can we have sex now,” she questions, and azzi rolls her eyes, shoving at her shoulder.

“way to be a romantic, p,” she responds, but it just sounds fond instead of annoyed.

“excuse you, i am such a romantic,” she retorts, and at azzi’s unimpressed look, she tries again. “azzi jazlyn, i am very much in love with you, can i please make sweet, sweet love to you?”

azzi groans, but it’s kind of a futile attempt to seem like she’s not utterly charmed, because she lets paige tug her up off the couch anyways.

and there are still residual tear tracks on their faces, and more conversations to be had, but as she chases paige down the hallway to her bedroom, laughter flowing freely from them both, she figures they can figure that out later. right now, this is enough.

AN: ummmm thank you for reading? pleaseeee comment/send me asks it literally makes my whole entire day and I need all the love I can get over the next week of hell (finals). i know i said i was writing smut and i ammmm it just is taking me. a while. so i cut it off here. but maybe keep your eye out for more of these two being freaky? idk. also if you wanna like see any more from them pls let me know what that would be! i have a couple ideas for a paige pov but it would be really angsty. and also a few about like their friends and fam finding out and being like THANK FUCK. took u long enough. idk. again, only time will tell but I can confirm that comments and asks do wonders for my creativity soooo. please do that! ok bye now <3

#iwkpa #pazzi #pazzi fics #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #paige x azzi #like again do i need more tags? idfk #please tell me how you like this im BEGGING #ok back to my homework

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redhoodfucker69 · 2 days ago

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the most direct thing I can think of is the Sikh faith. they're some of the most chill and accepting people on the planet. it's just with their history they've attached special importance to always carrying a weapon, not because of a warmongering spirit, but bc of historical persecution that led them to emphasizing a culture of protecting themselves and others. nine times out of ten if a culture in the real world has weapons as a main component, it is because of centuries of persecution, and the identity is not tied to starting fights, but finishing them. they're not going to go out of their way to kill and steal and maim.

it's really this liberal thinking that has everyone convinced the only response you should have to oppression is to just lay down and take it and engage in a little moral kidnapping. that is not fucking realistic. at all. moral kidnapping predicates on your oppressor having fucking morals. these same people tell bullied kids in school to go to the adults to fix the situation when the adults themselves know about the situation and are turning a blind eye. like. no. this passive obsession with not fighting doesn't actually help anyone. sometimes people need to get their fucking shit rocked, and sometimes the most important thing a child can learn is not "rely on people in charge to resolve things" but "don't let people walk all over you". when I was in school my mother, who actively worked at the school, tried to intervene multiple times on my behalf when I was getting bullied in middle school, but lazy parents being unwilling to discipline their kids and even approved of the bullying bc me and my bullied friends were "freaks" only resulted in the bullies being suspended and coming back even more recklessly after a free vacation. the bullying only stopped once I got in an actual fistfight and went a little crazy and then me and my friends were left alone finally.

anyways. erase the liberal in your mind from your media analysis. sorry I went on a tangent there lol.

Ok I’m being so brave about it but a couple of days ago I saw this post claiming that the Jedi saying ‘this weapon [your lightsaber] is your life’ is emblematic of ‘the Jedi’s failure as peacekeepers’ (not an exact quote but pretty close) because why would a weapon be the life of a peacekeeper?

And like. The Jedi are a culture. They’re a religion.

You know that, right? You know that many cultures, including generally peaceful ones, have sacred weapons, right? You know that the bond between a Jedi and their crystal(s) is an extremely sacred thing that requires the consent of both parties and is integral to their way of life, right?

You know that lightsabers are not intended to be only for killing, right? That the first thing Luke learns to do with his lightsaber is to shield and defend? You know that a culture having sacred weapons doesn’t mean that they view killing as sacred, right?

Not trying to start shit, I don’t even remember who said it, but ugh

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vicorices · 2 days ago

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OLDER RICH DIVORCED ELLIE AND STRIPPER READER BUT ELLIE WANTS READER TO BE HER SUGAR BABY INSTEAD BECAUSE SHES GETTING POSSESSIVE OF YOU AFTER COMING TO THE CLUB MORE OFTEN AND YOU MAKE HER BEG YOU TO SAY YES TO BEING HER SUGAR BABY WHILE GIVING HER A LAP DANCE I HAVE SUCH A VISION IM ENTRUSTING IT WITH YOU | -🐛 (caterpillar anon)

. ݁₊⊹.ᐟ 976—CUFFED.

cw # 18+ mdni, even when it does not have smut — dry humping exists and ellie wants to fuck, stripper!reader + divorced!ellie getting all hot and bothered, not possessive ellie but she's really foldedddd, dirty talk, contains metaphors to addiction and vices. i'm sorry mutuals, i'm not usually like this but made this everything sean baker’s was dreaming of when he wrote anora with his dick.

as a note to my pillar nonnie, i was going to keep going with the cam!girl missdeath series but i cannot stop thinking about this,,, you planted a seed to the point i need to pause everything else in my life, i made some changes for the plot bb yk clit did the writing overall. really hope we share the same braincell and i made justice of your horny and amazing brain, thanks for the req!

boycott tlou // fic directory // reqs? // wc: 1.6k // thinking ab divorced!ellie (side b)

things would be different if you weren't blatantly pressing your ass against ellie's belt, cause those feelings she exhaustingly told herself not to have? — she suffering from all of them.

it may have to be with the outfit or the lack of it, the way your long, pointed nails scratch over her naked arms. but it's the perfect combination to make all this façade of having her life already sorted out fall apart to the ground when she recently signed up her divorce papers and she's there, getting a lap dance from this girl she really, really fucking likes, as if she wasn't slipping dollar bills beneath the thin strip of your underwear.

so she's been in a similar situation before, promising herself she wont ever step a fucking toe back in the club — she's not that kind of person anyway, the kind that salivates over strippers. the club's packed with men, and being the only girl there it's almost shameful as she has this need to go on and ask for a lap dance from you cause yeah she's greedy, greedy, spoiled, ravenous: she has turned into a junkie trying to get more of their vices.

and in the secluded room, ellie forgets about previous inhibitions cause you're leaning against her, dancing along the sound of the music already sitting in her lap and her mind bubbles around this stupid rule, the one that forbids her to touch you under any sense of the word if she wants to keep her hands attached to her arms, but she's temped, tempted even when the security camera is pointing right in front of you two.

"yeah? that's what you'd like huh?" the sound of your voice is almost normal, a huge contrast when ellie's feeling like drowning, when the bass on the speaker’s so low it resonates in her damn heart, pouring all over her like ocean waves in the sand "want me to be your little spoiled slut? you'd buy me expensive gifts and get me out of this hellhole?"

ellie's glasses rest on the lower part of her nose, almost slipping as she looks up to you, cheeks blushed cause she's hella ashamed of it, hellhole. when she's in the club you almost rejoice in bliss happiness cause she has money, a pretty face, nice hands and more important — she's not a pervert guy.

there's a huge difference between a perverted guy and a perverted girl in your brain — cause while 50-years-old trying to hit on you disgust you, she's in her 30's and in the best fucking moment of her life and you’re struggling to not ask her to touch you.

"i- fuck. i really don't know why i'm here" ellie admitted the first time after seeing your pole routine of a much shorter version of bauhaus's 'bela lugosi's death', conflicted as you're pushed to talk to her because of your boss: business, it's fucking business "don't know how this works."

"you should ask me for a private dance," you reply, of course you want to dance for her, feel her closer and she won’t say no, no when your index finger trail down her collarbone "maybe you can start finding out by that."

there's something insanely hot about the idea of taking a woman so put together completely apart. ellie knows that, you do. so when she comes back again two nights after, and every-single-time after that, she makes sure to ask for you, name loud and clear in her lips as she enters and you know, just know it's going to be a good night — please, fucking pay for me the rest of the night.

wrong. sets back feminism at least 30 years, but ellie's there anyway, seated like she is during various times the week, letting you take control of her cause it's just what she needs, comfortably seated on a velvet couch with you on top; it seems like the cure to all her ruins — how is she not going to be infatuated with you? how is she not going to suffer from withdrawal when she don't see you for days?

"you know i can," she replies, and your skin shivers against the serious tone in her voice, almost recovered from her sore throat as she takes a sip from the heavy glass of neat whiskey in the table next to the seat "i can afford your lifestyle if that's what you're asking. let me take care of you."

she don't know what's so funny, what entertains you so much as you giggle on top of her, but ellie's distracted as she stares at the tiny underwear you're wearing, the friction between you and her as her fingers ache to reach and touch you, make the triangle on your ass to the damn side.

the sound of your laugh catches her off-guard, and she don’t think when her hand gently pushes you down, making you rest your weight against her legs and let yourself rub your thin underwear in her jeans: sin feels good when you do it right cause shit if it's not the best thing in the world when you're taking her hands in between yours, polished and soft, they guide ellie into your sides, allowing her to trail down your body before giving a sly look to the camera, almost afraid you're going to be caught.

leaving her hands in your thighs seems an invitation cause your movements get slower. fuck the song, if someone's looking, let the lucky bastard live enough to see ellie's hand rub circles in the skin of your inner leg, close to the little outfit you're pulling and barely manages to cover your cunt.

your back presses against her chest, resting against her frame as you move your hips in slow circles, making ellie feel the scent of your perfume in her nose, the way it lingers in the air surrounding the private room.

"ask me again," you whisper, and her gaze lingers in the front part of your body as you lay on top of her: the curves on your skin, the silver and glittery fabric that cover your tits — nipples hard beneath as she has the damn need to use her right hand to do something much better than just sweetly touching your fucking leg "i'll be your good new wife, let you whine about your important job, fuck the stress out of you, all domestic and shit."

it's the way you say it, how you move on top of her, the sparkles splattered in your skin that makes you seem almost ethereal, however it makes ellie moan as she's nodding already on an invisible leash you tied around her neck from the very first time she came, intoxicating, her right hand moves from your leg to your hip, back to your navel and up to your very ribs.

"they are going to see that," you said, the camera always a fucking reminder of her ripping need to have a bit of decency, self-control as ellie's cheeks turn red — "you cannot touch me, love."

"to be fair at this point club 976's alive thanks to me" draining her money cent by fucking cent, she’s sure she keeps the place rolling during the week "so let them be pissed, m'snatching their best worker and takin' her away from this dump anyway."

it must be evil, should be if it isn't, cause just like you landed on her lap you're swiftly turning to face her as you dance, dragging your nails across her chest as from this angle, she becomes aware of your barely covered pussy that grinds against her legs; yeah, she has a much better view of your fingers slipping beneath her belt, of you basking in bliss almost unaware of how stupid ellie’s left when you're around.

"you really mean that?" you ask almost like it's a secret, and she’s smashed with this need of pulling you into a kiss, get lost in the threads of your hair “don’t fuck with me ellie.”

"i'll pay for your nails," her words are warm, her breathing now heavier as her fingers toy with the hem of your underwear: one little tug and it will surely let ellie see your soaked folds, sure you're wet when she see's the splotch in your underwear, the darker hue right between your legs "your clothes, fuck. i'll take you to fancy restaurants anything you want, just- just say you let me."

she can’t pay for interest, that reaction you got when moving on top of her, that almost silent moan you make as you dancing or grinding to seek for more friction? fuck, ellie really don’t know it at this point.

“that’s enough for fifteen minutes,” she’s not aware also of the other people in the room until you’re standing up and she’s going to whine about the lack of guards until screaming at the guard that’s yanking ellie outside the club — “respect the girls or don’t fucking show up here, got it?”

“outside,” she manages to says to you as she’s being pulled “i’ll wait for you outside!”

the biggest surprise of the night though? she was serious, dead fucking serious; so when you’re leaving the club at almost five in the morning, she’s smoking there, back against her black mercedes as she tilts her head satisfied you’re looking out for her.

yes, ellie williams’s leash is tied to this pretty stripper she has in her sheets, spreaded over her kitchen island, under the cascading water of her shower, wearing her shirt, eating her food, taking her life — hand-cuffed.

251 notes · View notes

wosospacegirl · 2 days ago

Text

Stuck with you - part 6

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Y/n's sulking in self-inflicted isolation, slow-burn grief over yelling at the girl you like, Alexia being distant and silent (which is worse than yelling), unexpected bedroom interruption and a dash of jealousy over a certain training partner.

Word count: 7.5k

a/n: Again, still angst! The pic of Jana and Kika is there for a reason :)

Masterlist here

Alexia’s grip on her arm was probably tighter than it needed to be.

Y/n wasn’t exactly resisting–hobbling along with the bulky brace on her leg, trying not to stumble over the smallest step–but it still felt like overkill.

She didn’t dare say anything, though. Not with the way Alexia was glaring straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line like she’d rather scream than speak.

The silence was suffocating. Not the kind that made things easier, but the kind that made Y/n’s insides twist with guilt. Every step toward the front door felt like marching toward her own execution.

Alexia opened the door without a word and guided her inside, her hand never leaving Y/n’s arm.

It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t gentle. It was steady and unrelenting, like everything Alexia had ever done. They stepped into the living room.

“Oh! Hey!” Olga’s voice came from the sofa, bright and warm. “You’re back–”

Then her eyes landed on Y/n’s leg.

The smile vanished.

Alexia didn’t even glance at her.

She helped Y/n sit down–well, “helped” was generous.

She more or less shoved her onto the sofa with a sharp exhale through her nose. Then she stood over her, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You’re going to tell everything to Olga,” Alexia said, voice low but steady. Dangerous.

Olga blinked, eyebrows raised. “Tell me what?”

Y/n’s mouth felt dry. Her shoulders curled in, like she could physically shrink away from the shame settling in her chest.

“I lied,” she said quietly. “My ankle wasn’t better. It was–is worse. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be benched.”

“Cariño…” Olga said softly, her voice a total contrast to the tension in the room.

Y/n didn’t look up. “I also asked Kika to lie for me,” she mumbled. “I told her not to say anything to you. And she didn’t. Not until the end. She told Alexia, and then I… yelled at her.”

The words felt heavier as they came out, like saying them made everything worse.

Her throat tightened, her eyes stung, and she could feel the heat building behind her lashes. Y/n looked down quickly, she didn’t want them to see her, not right now.

She waited.

Waited for the explosion. For Alexia’s voice to finally snap, for Olga to use the sharp tone she only ever used when Y/n really messed up. The one that always made her feel small, like a kid again.

But none of that came.

Instead, Olga moved closer.

She sat on the sofa beside her and pulled her into a hug without saying anything, gently resting her chin on Y/n’s shoulder. Her arms were warm. Steady.

Y/n didn’t move at first, too stunned to even breathe.

Then she leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Not enough to fall apart–but just enough to let herself be held.

Y/n stared down at her lap, fingers twisting together in a nervous knot. Her eyes were full, but she refused to let go. Not yet. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of them.

“I yelled at her,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “I yelled at Kika when she was just trying to help.”

The silence that followed made everything worse. It stretched too long, thick with disappointment and something even heavier.

But then she felt Olga sit beside her again, closer this time.

“Está bien, mi nena,[it’s ok, my girl]” Olga whispered gently.

That was all it took.

The tears came hot and fast, stinging her eyes before she could stop them.

Her face crumpled, and she let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it in–but it broke through her anyway, quiet and aching.

Olga didn’t say anything else. She just wrapped her arms around Y/n tighter, tucking her head against her chest and holding her like she used to when Y/n was smaller, when scraped knees at training were her biggest concern.

Across the room, Alexia's jaw tensed. She’d been standing the whole time, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But when she saw Y/n finally cry, her expression softened–just a little. Just enough.

She moved toward the sofa and sat down slowly beside them, not saying a word.

Her hand came to rest on Y/n’s back, warm and grounding, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her hoodie.

The boot sat heavy on Y/n’s leg, like a physical reminder of everything she didn’t want to think about. She hadn’t left her room in two days.

No physio, no crutches practice, nothing. Just her bed, the soft hum of the TV playing reruns in the background, and the dull ache in her ankle that medicine couldn’t quite kill.

Y/n could swear this was some kind of punishment from Alexia, making her stay in the house all day–but la reina said it was doctor’s order…bullshit.

Olga was like an annoying mom.

Y/n told her she wanted to be left alone, but Olga always pretended she didn’t hear her.

Like clockwork, around lunchtime every day, she knocked twice and let herself in. No pity in her voice. No questions she didn’t want to answer.

Just her usual: some snacks, juice, and whatever weird story she listened to on the news.

Today was no different.

Y/n heard the door creak open.

“I’m coming in–don’t throw anything," Olga said, voice casual.

“I’ve only thrown a cushion at you when I was fifteen. When are you letting this go?” Y/n said, from under the blanket.

Y/n huffed but sat up slightly, reaching for the glass. “I love you.”

They sat in silence after that. Y/n sipped her juice, pretending not to feel Olga’s gaze locked onto her.

“So,” Olga said eventually, “I think we need to talk about it… You know? Eventually?”

They hadn’t spoken about the whole lying-about-the-injury thing. Not properly.

After Y/n had a meltdown like a two-year-old in the living room, Olga had just helped her to bed without asking for an explanation.

Since then, Y/n hadn’t left her room.

Whenever Olga tried to bring it up, Y/n changed the subject.

When Salma, Vicky, and Jana texted, she ignored them.

She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see anyone. Because now she knew what happened when she got close–she hurt people. She yelled. Like she did with Kika.

“I don’t wanna talk about anything,” Y/n muttered.

“But I do,” Olga said, more firmly this time, using a tone she normally left for important conversations.

Y/n shot her a look, but there wasn’t much fire behind it. “You gonna yell at me too?”

“No,” Olga said. “That’s Alexia’s job.”

Y/n turned away at the name, jaw tightening. “She’s doing a great job at ignoring me instead.”

“She’s furious,” Olga said simply. “But not just because you hid the injury. It’s because you didn’t trust her. Or me. Or anyone.”

Y/n blinked hard. Her throat tightened, and she looked down at her hands gripping the glass.

“I know,” she whispered. “I just…” Her voice faltered. “It’s like she hates me now.”

Olga tilted her head, concern etched in every line of her face.

“She doesn’t hate you, cariño.”

“She won’t even look at me,” Y/n said, her voice smaller now. “She’s been ignoring me for days. And I get it. I lied, I made everything worse, I yelled at Kika, and now…” Her words trailed off, her breath catching.

“She took me in when I was still a kid,” she added, voice shaking. “But I’m nineteen now. I’m not her responsibility anymore. What if this was it? What if I pushed her too far and now she’s just… done with me?”

Olga’s face softened even more.

“My parents didn’t want me either,” Y/n said quietly. “They left. They didn’t care. What if Alexia’s the same?”

Olga reached out immediately, wrapping her arms around Y/n and pulling her close.

“No es verdad, nena,” she murmured, holding her tighter. “ Eso nunca va a pasar.” [It’s not true, babe/That will never happen.]

And that was it.

Y/n’s tears fell fast, hot, and silent as she buried her face in Olga’s shoulder.

Again, she was crying again.

Olga didn’t say anything else–just held her, firm and steady, like she wasn’t going anywhere.

Y/n sniffled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “Okay, ew, I’ve cried more in the last two days than I have in like… five years. Disgusting. Never again.”

Olga let out a soft laugh, brushing her hand over Y/n’s hair. “Liar.”

Y/n groaned. “Shut up. Don’t ruin my reputation.”

Later that day, Y/n heard the front door close.

Alexia was home.

Like usual.

She didn’t even look up from the book she was reading. For the past few days, Alexia’s routine had been the same–come home, move around quietly, and never once step into Y/n’s room.

It was a silence that screamed, and Y/n had learned not to expect anything else.

So when her door creaked open, Y/n’s heart jumped. She looked up, startled. Alexia stood in the doorway, holding a small bowl in both hands.

“Here,” she said, stepping in.

Y/n blinked. “…What is this?”

“Fruit salad,” Alexia replied, voice clipped but not cold.

Y/n frowned. “...Why?”

“Fibre is good for healing,” Alexia said simply.

Y/n squinted at her, suspicious. “Did Olga make it?”

“No.” Alexia exhaled through her nose. “I did.”

Y/n stared at the bowl, then back up at Alexia. “…Thank you, Ale.”

Alexia didn’t smile. She didn’t soften. But she gave a small nod, eyes scanning the room before turning to leave.

At the door, she paused.

“You need anything else?” she asked, still not looking back.

Y/n opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then tried again. “No,” she said quietly. “Just… thanks.”

“Jana, Vicky, and Salma are coming tomorrow,” Alexia said, not asking, just stating.

“I don’t wanna talk to anyone,” Y/n mumbled.

“You can’t only talk to Olga for the rest of your recovery,” Alexia said.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to only talk to Olga if you would stop pretending I didn’t exist,” Y/n snapped, her voice low but sharp.

Alexia’s jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, Y/n thought she was going to snap back. She opened her mouth, ready to unleash every reprimand she had been holding in.

Instead, Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled sharply.

“I’m not talking to you because I don’t want to say things I’ll regret,” she said, voice low. “I’m still very mad.”

Y/n’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced down at the fruit salad in her lap, unable to meet Alexia’s eyes. She dipped her head once, a small, silent nod.

Alexia’s gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m sure you know what that feels like,” she added quietly.

Y/n stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the glossy strawberries and melon cubes. The room settled into heavy stillness, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Y/n blinked, convinced Alexia had already turned and left the doorway. But then, so softly she almost thought it was her imagination–she felt warm lips press against the top of her head.

And then Alexia’s hand settled gently on Y/n’s shoulder. No words followed. No more anger. Just the faintest promise that she wasn’t gone.

Then she slipped out of the room without another word.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t closure. But it was something.

And that night, Y/n ate the entire bowl of fruit salad.

The next morning, Y/n knew she needed to eat something real–breakfast with Olga and Alexia, the kind of meal that felt normal.

She didn’t want to stay cooped up in her room any longer.

She made her way downstairs, every step sent a dull throb through her leg, but she didn’t care–she couldn’t stay in her room for another second.

Alexia looked up first from the kitchen table, mid-bite of her toast. Her chair scraped back with a harsh sound.

“Stop,” she said sharply, already crossing the space between them. “Why didn’t you call one of us?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Y/n muttered, trying to wave her off.

Alexia didn’t answer. She just slipped an arm around Y/n’s waist, the other steadying her under the arm as she helped her over to the table. Y/n didn’t fight her.

“I just… couldn’t look at the walls of my room anymore,” Y/n mumbled as Alexia settled her into the chair.

“Next time, call me,” Alexia said, her tone curt, almost annoyed. “I mean it.”

Olga looked up from the counter, brow lifting in mock exasperation. “About time you left the dungeon, cariño—breakfast’s getting cold.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Olga offered a soft smile from her seat as she pushed a mug of coffee toward her.

“Black. No sugar,” Olga said.

Y/n cracked a small smile, accepting the mug. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the kitchen wrapping around them.

Then Alexia spoke again, her voice low but direct. “Have you talked to Kika?”

Y/n stiffened. She didn’t look up. “No.”

Olga glanced down at her plate, suddenly very interested in her eggs.

Alexia didn’t let up. “You should.”

Y/n kept her eyes on the coffee. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”

“Figure it out,” Alexia said. “She looked upset yesterday at training. And don’t pretend like you don’t care, because I know you.”

Y/n blinked, jaw tightening. Then, quieter: “How do you know?”

Alexia stilled.

Y/n finally looked up, her voice cracking. “You keep saying I care, like that’s obvious. But it’s not. Not to me. I lied, I dragged Kika into it, and when she tried to help, I lashed out. I hurt her. So how am I supposed to believe I’m the kind of person who cares, when all I’ve done is prove otherwise?”

The silence was thick.

Alexia didn’t look away. Her voice was softer now, but firm.

“Because people who don’t care don’t sit at the kitchen table looking like their whole chest is caving in. You’re guilty, you��re scared, and you’re hurting. That’s not nothing. That’s not someone who doesn’t care.”

Y/n didn’t respond. Her eyes dropped back to the coffee, jaw clenched, like she was holding something in with everything she had.

Then Olga spoke, her voice quiet but sure. “You’re not a bad person, Y/n.”

Y/n’s head tilted slightly, like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“You did something wrong,” Olga said, setting her fork down. “But that doesn’t erase who you are. It just means you’ve got something to fix. And I think you want to.”

“I messed up pretty badly,” Y/n muttered, the guilt settling deep in her chest.

“Yeah, you did,” Alexia replied, matter-of-fact. “Dragging someone into your mess, then acting like they betrayed you for telling the truth? That’s bad, Y/n.”

Y/n’s stomach twisted. The coffee didn’t taste so good anymore.

“Alexia!” Olga said, her voice a little sharper. “Maybe tone down the tough love for a second?”

“I didn’t mean to yell at her like that,” Y/n started, then stopped herself, unsure of how to explain.

“I know,” Alexia said, the words simple. The truth.

The rest of the breakfast passed in silence, save for the clink of forks and the weight of everything unspoken between them.

Later that day, the girls arrived.

Y/n collapsed onto the couch, booted foot propped on a cushion, and grabbed a controller. Jana flopped in next to her, grinning, while Salma and Vicky claimed the other seats. The TV displayed a bright start line for their favourite kart‑racing game.

3… 2… 1… Go!

Their digital engines roared to life, sparkles flying as each racer shot forward.

Y/n swerved one way, trying to dodge a banana peel. “So,” she grumbled, keeping her eyes on the screen, “how’s training been without me?”

Salma clipped past Y/n on the left. Calm as ever, she didn’t even glance back. “Kinda boring, actually. We keep looking for you to complain about something random at eight am, and you’re not there.”

Jana, who’d already taken the lead, laughed and flicked her kart’s boost. “Well, we can’t deny it’s… peaceful without one of your moods floating around the pitch, you know?”

Vicky slammed her kart into a wall. “Hey! You can’t say that to someone who’s literally bedridden.”

Y/n veers around a corner and takes the lead, barely missing a barrier. “Okay, Vicky, I don’t know if you’re defending me or insulting me,” she said.

Salma drifted beside Y/n’s kart. “You’re doing great.” Her tone was soft but encouraging. “Really—no one’s as clumsy with a controller as you.”

Y/n shot Salma a grumpy look. “I’m not clumsy. The game is rigged.”

Jana zipped past both of them and shouted, “Rigged in my favour!”

Y/n’s kart spun out of control on a hairpin turn. She slammed her controller down. “Okay, that’s it–no more talking. Focus on the race.”

They kept playing, but Y/n’s mind kept drifting to one person.

Her gaze kept flickering toward her phone, her fingers itching to check for any update on Kika.

The few times she’d asked Alexia about how Kika was doing, Alexia would just shrug and tell her, “Ask her yourself.”

But that wasn’t helpful at all. Y/n wanted to know how Kika was really doing–not just the surface-level stuff, the stuff Alexia wouldn’t tell her.

She knew she needed to talk to Kika, but the guilt from their last conversation made that feel harder.

“Okay, so… more training updates, please,” Y/n huffed, leaning back into the sofa, trying to distract herself from her thoughts. She crossed her arms and shot a glare at the TV. “Before I lose my mind.”

Salma, her kart cruising calmly in the lead, slowed down. She glanced over at Y/n with a raised eyebrow.

“Honestly, it’s fine. We’ve been doing drills, working on our passing. Nothing too exciting.”

“And how’s, like…everybody?” Y/n asked casually, swerving her kart past Salma’s, bumping Jana out of the lead as she did.

Jana grumbled, throwing a playful glare in Y/n's direction, but her eyes stayed glued to the screen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Y/n shrugged, her gaze flicking to Salma. “You know, just like... everybody. How’s everyone doing?”

“Fine,” the three girls answered in unison, focused on their race, not missing a beat.

“Just fine? Nothing more happened?” Y/n asked, her eyes narrowing as she passed Jana’s kart again, earning another growl from her friend.

“What would you expect to happen?” Vicky asked. “You’ve been out for what, four days?”

Y/n huffed and raised an eyebrow, sitting up straighter, still trying to get a rise out of them. “I don’t know, maybe... You know, someone getting a little too close for comfort? A fight breaking out? Some drama? I’m just asking.”

“Kika asked about you,” Salma said, super casually–like it was no big deal. Maybe for her, it wasn’t. But for Y/n? Yeah, kind of a big deal.

Her chest even did a weird little skip.

“Oh, she did?” Y/n asked, trying not to sound too eager. “What did she say?”

“She asked if you were getting better,” Jana replied before Salma could. “We told her we didn’t know, because it’d be easier to contact you via smoke signal than get a text back.”

Y/n groaned, blushing. Great. Add that to her imaginary list of how Kika saw her:

A rude teammate who yelled at her.

An emotionally reclusive hermit who ghosts her friends.

A dishonest player who hid an injury.

She didn’t even notice she’d zoned out until Vicky casually said, “Oh, Jana’s gonna hang out with Kika this weekend too.”

Y/n blinked, her foot twitched beneath the blanket, and nerves suddenly lit up. “Wait–what?”

Salma tilted her head, still playing. “Yeah, she’s showing her around the city or something.”

“It’s not a date,” Jana said quickly, barely glancing over. “She just asked for recommendations.”

Y/n sat up a little too fast. “So you’re, like, spending the whole day with her?”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “I mean, not the whole day. We’re getting food, maybe walking around. Why, you want to come?”

“No,” Y/n said immediately, too sharp, too fast. She cleared her throat and leaned back. “Why would I want that?”

Vicky, still completely oblivious, added, “Yeah, it’s actually nice. Kika’s been kind of quiet since you two…fight? Was that considered fighting? Anyway, she probably needs a break.”

“Right,” Y/n muttered, staring at the screen even though she wasn’t really seeing it anymore. “Makes sense.”

Salma didn’t say anything, but glanced sideways at Y/n, like she was starting to notice something off.

Jana leaned forward, tapping buttons furiously. “I was thinking about that new restaurant, the one you told me about?

“That one would be cool,” Y/n said flatly. She nudged her joystick a little harder, keeping her eyes on the screen. “She asked you, or you asked her?”

Jana shrugged. “I offered. Thought she’d like a change of pace.”

Y/n nodded, lips pressed together like it meant nothing. “Right. That’s nice of you.”

“Oh, and I’ve been partnered with Kika at training,” Jana added, still focused on the game. “Since you’re not there to partner with me and those two can’t seem to share with me.”

Y/n glanced over, raising a brow. “Really?”

“Yes, but I kinda miss training with you, you’re fast. Kika’s nice, though, really nice actually. She doesn’t talk much. But she’s funny when she does.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, just nodded a little and pressed her lips together, pretending she was laser-focused on not crashing her kart again.

Hours later, the girls said goodbye and headed out the front door. Y/n barely looked up, barely mumbled a goodbye, and then–slowly–got to her feet.

Brace squeaking slightly with every step, she made her way upstairs.

Alexia and Olga were curled up on Alexia’s bed, finally getting a moment alone. Olga had just leaned in–eyes soft, fingers brushing against Alexia’s jaw–when…

BANG.

Their bedroom door flew open without warning.

Y/n stood in the doorway. Her big black ankle brace practically took up half the hallway, her sock slipping slightly off her good foot, eyes stormy.

Alexia flinched and Olga yelped, scrambling apart like guilty teenagers.

“Qué coño—Y/n!” Alexia hissed, face pink. “You can’t just barge in!”

“Dios mío!” Olga gasped, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to her chest like a shield.

Y/n barely blinked. “Alexia,” she said, voice dark. “I have a serious question.”

“Are you blind?!” Alexia asked. “Out!”

Olga was flailing silently in the background, still clutching the pillow. “Can you knock?! We always knock on your door!”

Y/n blinked slowly. “You left the door open.”

“We did not–!” Olga protested, then paused. “Okay, maybe it didn’t latch, but still!”

Alexia dragged a hand down her face, shoulders tensed, clearly trying to switch from horny to responsible in five seconds flat. “This better be good.”

“It is,” Y/n said, limping. “It’s serious.”

“Did something happen to your ankle? Are you okay?” Olga asked, concerned.

“I’m just–” Y/n began, but it looked like it was hard for her to say the right words.

Alexia sat up straighter. “Wait, wait. What happened, nena?”

Y/n took a deep breath like she was about to ask the most important question of her life.

“Can you…” she paused. “…as captain… forbid two players from partnering up in training?”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“…What?” Olga asked.

“Like, can you… Make a rule?” Y/n insisted. “To stop people from… pairing with people they shouldn’t pair with?”

“Shouldn’t pair with? Alexia blinked, clearly confused. “What players are you talking about? Who can’t pair with whom?”

Y/n looked at her, deadpan. “Doesn’t matter.”

Olga looked like she was about to combust from embarrassment, but Alexia, still not sure what was happening, frowned.

“You barged in here at 11 pm to ask me this question... and you don’t even tell me who the players are?”

Y/n nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

Alexia stared at her in disbelief. “You’re serious right now?”

“Yes,” Y/n said, crossing her arms and pouting like the world was against her. “It’s important, okay?”

Olga, now slightly calmer but still shaking her head at the whole situation, looked at Y/n. “You know, you could’ve just asked her in the morning, right?”

Y/n shot her a look that said, ‘I don’t have time for logic’, and turned back to Alexia. “Look, I just need to know if you can do it or not.”

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temples. “Y/n, you’re unbelievable. But sure, I can. I’ll talk to Romeu. But next time… knock?”

There was a pause.

Y/n opened her mouth like she was about to fire back, but then her eyes flicked to Olga–still curled up in bed, still hugging a pillow to her chest–and then to Alexia, who looked mildly traumatised and thoroughly unimpressed.

Her expression faltered.

“Oh,” Y/n said, blinking. “Shit. You were like… I interrupted–” She winced. “Oh my god”

Olga gave her a wide-eyed, slow nod.

Y/n’s face went a little red. She reached up and scratched the back of her neck, avoiding eye contact. “Okay. Yeah. That was maybe not my best entrance.”

“You think?” Alexia deadpanned.

“I panicked, alright?” Y/n mumbled. “I didn’t think it through. It felt urgent.”

Alexia raised a brow.

“…It wasn’t urgent,” Y/n admitted, shoulders slumping. “I’m gonna go. And like. Sleep. And pretend this never happened.”

She turned toward the door, then stopped and glanced back, still flushed. “Also, I did knock. Just, like… in my head.”

“Goodnight, Y/n,” Olga said gently, smiling despite herself.

Y/n nodded quickly, then shut the door behind her with a little more care this time.

Alexia stared at the door for a moment before flopping back into the bed with a groan. “Unbelievable.”

Olga laughed, settling beside her again. “You love her.”

“I do not,” Alexia muttered, but she didn’t sound convincing..

Alexia sank down on the edge of the bed, cross‑armed and still flushed from Y/n’s dramatic entrance.

“She really ruined my mood,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty doorway.

Behind her, Olga slipped in quietly, hands settling on Alexia’s shoulders. She pressed soft kisses along Alexia’s neck. “Amor,” she whispered, voice gentle. “She didn’t mean to.”

“She barged in at eleven o'clock,” Alexia grumbled, her voice still thick with frustration. “And demanded I make a rule about training pairs. She didn’t even say who. Just showed up like that, like–” She waved her hand in exasperation. “I get it, she’s serious, but really?”

Olga chuckled, brushing Alexia’s hair back. “She trusts you. That’s why she came to you.”

Alexia rolled her head, finally meeting Olga’s eyes. “She’s impossible.”

“But she’s our impossible,” Olga said, pulling Alexia into a tender hug. “Now, forget her for a second.”

Alexia gave in to a small smile, but it quickly faded as Olga’s lips pressed lightly against hers, the kiss slow and deliberate, almost teasing.

Olga’s hands slid to the back of Alexia’s neck, guiding her deeper into the kiss, her breath warm against Alexia’s lips.

When they finally broke apart, Olga’s voice was low and sultry. “You’ve had a rough night, amor. Let me help you relax.”

Alexia let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding, her body responding to the softness of Olga’s touch.

“I think you might be the only one who can,” she murmured, her hands gripping the edge of the bed as Olga’s lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Olga’s hands moved lower, sliding under the hem of Alexia’s shirt, caressing her skin with the same tenderness that made Alexia melt every time. “Relax, love. I’ve got you.”

Alexia’s breath hitched as Olga’s fingers teased along the waistband of her shorts, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Olga whispered, her lips brushing against Alexia’s neck.

Alexia’s head fell back slightly, a quiet moan escaping her lips. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered, hands trembling as they slid into Olga’s hair. “But yes... help me.”

Olga’s smile was mischievous as she kissed Alexia deeply again, her hands sliding lower. “I plan to,” she breathed against Alexia’s mouth before their lips met once more, a promise of passion and tension waiting to be released.

The kitchen was quiet, morning light filtering through the windows in soft, golden streaks.

Y/n sat at the table, lazily stirring her cereal around, the spoon clinking against the bowl. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t even tired anymore.

Mostly, she just felt... unsettled.

It was too early — way earlier than she needed to be up — but sleep had refused to come, her brain trapped in a loop of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

Today was her first day back at the training centre. Not for real training, not yet.

Just physio. Just recovery.

But somehow, it felt even scarier.

The soft thud of footsteps snapped her out of her spiralling thoughts. She stiffened automatically, already knowing who it was without looking up.

Alexia and Olga shuffled into the kitchen, both of them still half-asleep, still wrapped in their morning routine.

Alexia was rubbing her eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. Olga followed, yawning into her sleeve, the hem of her oversized Barça sweatshirt hanging halfway down her thighs.

“You look ridiculous when you wake up,” Olga teased, grabbing the coffee pot with practised ease.

Alexia snorted, not missing a beat. “I always look good, even half-dead.”

Without thinking, she reached out, wrapping her arms around Olga's waist and pressing a lazy kiss to her temple. "Don't forget it."

Y/n stared down into her cereal like it had personally offended her.

Her face burned.

God, why did they have to be so... so normal about it? So affectionate, like it was just a part of breathing?

It made something twist in her chest.

Desperate to break the moment, Y/n coughed — loud enough to get their attention.

Both Alexia and Olga froze like they had been caught stealing cookies, and then slowly turned to face her.

“Y/n?” Alexia blinked, clearly surprised. “You’re up? This early?”

Y/n shrugged, awkward, defensive. “Couldn’t sleep.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with everything unspoken — the nerves, the anxiety, the way Y/n kept wringing her hands under the table.

Olga softened first, stepping away from the coffee machine and leaning on the counter casually. “Nervous about physio?” she asked, her voice warm and calm.

Y/n nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the swirling milk in her bowl. “Yeah. I mean... It's just physio. It’s not even real training yet. But...”

She trailed off, not sure how to explain the weight pressing down on her chest.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s nothing," Alexia said, squeezing her shoulder as she walked past. “You’re allowed to be nervous. It's normal.”

Y/n gave her a tiny, half-hearted smile, appreciating the gesture even if she didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Olga grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and started pouring coffee, glancing over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you,” she said casually. “Alexia’s leaving with the team for the away game, but I’ll take you. We can grab lunch after, if you want.”

Y/n looked up, startled by the offer.

“You don't have to,” Y/n said quickly, panicking a little at the thought of being a burden. “I can take an Uber.”

Olga smiled, soft and patient. “Don’t be silly, I want to.”

“And,” Alexia added with a teasing grin, already pouring protein powder into a bottle, “if you don't take her offer, she’ll just go anyway–she’s been craving some weird sandwich she saw on Instagram.”

Olga shrugged, not denying it.

Y/n ducked her head to hide the stupid, small smile that tugged at her mouth.

“Alright, you drive me and we’ll have lunch after.”

The training centre was quiet.

Too quiet.

Y/n limped through the hallways, her boot thudding softly against the floor, the distant echo of her steps the only thing filling the silence.

The rest of the team was away for an away game, and for once, she was grateful. No stares. No whispers. No conversation of ‘I know you’re gonna be back soon.’

She thought she would be more upset about missing games.

But the truth was that pain didn’t even compare to the heavier guilt dragging at her.

Disappointing Alexia, lying to Olga, hurting the team’s trust... hurting Kika — that stung far worse than missing a few matches.

Games could be won again. Trophies could be earned later. But the damage she had done to people who trusted her? That wasn’t so easy to fix.

The thought of facing Kika again made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Y/n was a coward.

And she still didn’t know how she was supposed to look Kika in the eye — or what she was going to say when she finally did.

Unfortunately, the thought of not seeing Kika was also uncomfortable too.

So for now, it was good, just her. And the physiotherapist.

The physio room was bright with natural light pouring through the windows, a soft breeze drifting in from the open ones.

It smelled faintly like antiseptic and eucalyptus cream. Familiar and sterile and oddly calming.

“Morning,” the physio greeted her with a warm smile. He helped her settle onto the padded table and gently removed the boot.

“First day back,” Y/n muttered, leaning back on her elbows. “Can’t wait.”

He chuckled, running practised hands over her ankle and calf, checking the swelling, the tension, the way her skin twitched when he pressed certain points.

“You’ve still got a bit of inflammation,” he said after a beat, frowning slightly as he moved her foot gently. “I know the scan looked decent, but your muscle’s a little more aggravated than I’d like.”

Y/n’s brows pulled together. “So…?”

He paused before responding, professional but honest. “We’ll take it day by day, but don’t be surprised if this goes a little longer than two weeks. Maybe closer to three. A week and some change, at least.”

Y/n blinked at him, then stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck.”

“It’s not a setback,” he added quickly. “It’s just… your body asking for more time. You pushed through pain longer than you should’ve, so now it needs more care.”

Y/n let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They didn’t say much after that. He walked her through some gentle range-of-motion exercises, icing, and light stim. It was boring. Repetitive. But it kept her mind from spiralling too far.

Still, as she sat back and watched the ice wrap tighten around her ankle, all she could think was: another game I’ll miss. Another day watching from the sidelines. And even worse, Alexia was right.

She didn't know why that stung so much.

Maybe because it meant she’d messed up even more than she thought.

Maybe because she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The next day, the girls were back at training, following their usual routine while Y/n sulked into the physio room.

Y/n sat on the edge of the physio table, ankle freshly iced, her leg propped up, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of her shorts.

The window in front of her gave her the perfect view of the training pitch. She hadn’t meant to look. But she couldn’t stop once she saw her.

Kika.

Out there in her bright training kit, laughing at something Jana said, her ponytail bouncing behind her as she jogged toward the rondo circle.

She looked light. Relaxed. Like everything was normal.

Y/n stared longer than she should’ve. Long enough to realise she was looking for any signs that Kika was hurt, that Kika was mad at her.

When she had yelled at Kika, Kika hadn’t yelled back; she stood composed, and just let Y/n say whatever she wanted.

Alexia and Jana had both said Kika was quiet after it happened. Sad, maybe. Withdrawn. But now? Kika was out there with Jana, playing, moving, laughing.

Like she didn’t miss her at all.

And why would she? Y/n wouldn’t miss someone who screamed in her face for trying to help or for, well, caring.

Y/n sighed, leaning back slightly on her hands. Her ankle throbbed, but not half as much as her pride. Because in the end… she’d stormed into Alexia and Olga’s room for nothing.

When they all sat down for breakfast this morning, pretending, Alexia looked at her sideways. They hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about that, since Alexia had left quickly yesterday.

“So… which two girls did you not want training together?” She asked, trying to sound casual as she passed the toast to Olga.

And that’s when it hit her.

How stupid she must have looked. How ridiculous the whole thing sounded once it was out in the open.

So Y/n just mumbled that it didn’t matter anymore and asked Alexia to drop it.

Which she did… eventually. But not before Alexia took a long, dramatic pause, scanned every expression Y/n made like she was solving a case, and promised herself she’d figure it out on her own.

Y/n, however, didn’t budge.

And now here she was.

Stuck in the physio room.

Still kind of mad.

Still kind of heartbroken.

And Kika just kept training.

Y/n shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with her ankle. Her stomach twisted. Her chest, too.

Was it guilt? Jealousy? Something in between?

Y/n didn’t know. She just knew it didn’t feel good. Y/n needed to apologise. That much was clear. But not yet. Not like this.

She was still too wound up, too raw, too snappy. And Kika didn’t deserve another version of her that couldn't get her emotions in check. She deserved someone steady. Honest. Calm.

Someone that Y/n didn’t feel like right now.

Besides, there was another match in two days. The team needed to focus.

Kika needed to focus. And the last thing Y/n wanted to do was drag her into more drama right before a game.

She would give it time. She would let her own head settle first.

Then maybe, when her voice wasn’t edged with guilt or deflection, when her heart wasn’t beating weird in her chest just from seeing Kika smile at someone else, then she’d figure out the right words.

For now, all she could do was watch.

And hope Kika was doing okay.

After physio, Y/n trudged toward the locker room to grab her things, her brace thudding heavily against the floor.

Her body ached, her headache, and all she wanted was to disappear into her room and sleep for a week.

She had managed to avoid Kika the entire day — hiding behind corners, ducking into empty hallways like a criminal.

Not her proudest strategy, but it had worked. So far.

She pushed the locker room door open and froze.

Jana was sitting inside, tying her shoes slowly, looking up with a small smile, when she spotted her.

Y/n nodded back, cautious. She knew Jana. Knew her too well. Since they were fourteen, Y/n could always tell when Jana had something to say — and right now, the way Jana’s knee bounced nervously gave it away immediately.

Y/n stuffed her water bottle into her bag, pretending she didn’t notice.

“Hey,” Jana said casually. “How’s physio going?”

Y/n shrugged, zipping up her bag. “Bad. They pushed my rehab from two weeks to three.”

Jana winced. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said shortly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She was two seconds away from bolting when she caught Jana fidgeting again.

She sighed. “Just spill it, Jana.”

Jana blinked. “Wow. You sound like Alexia now.”

Y/n stiffened, narrowing her eyes. “What do you want?”

Jana laughed a little, but there was still something hesitant about her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then said, “Just be honest with me... does it bother you that I’m pairing up with Kika?”

Y/n nearly dropped her bag.

Her face went up in flames instantly. “What? No! Of course not!” she said way too fast, way too loud.

Jana just raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“It’s just…” Jana continued carefully, “Alexia’s been weird lately. Super intense about who pairs with whom during drills. And then after I told you that Kika and I were training together... You kind of got quiet?”

Y/n stared at her, frozen, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“I mean, it’s fine if it does,’ Jana added quickly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, I can partner with Esmee or–”

Y/n forced a laugh, waving a hand. “It’s not—it’s nothing, really. You’re reading too much into it.”

Jana gave her a knowing look.

Not pushing.

But not buying it, either.

“Okay,” she said simply, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.

Y/n stood there for a second, heart hammering, cheeks still burning, feeling like she had barely survived an ambush.

When Y/n finally made it outside, she spotted Alexia’s car parked near the entrance, engine running. Alexia was in the driver’s seat, tapping her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel.

Y/n hobbled faster, threw her bag into the backseat, and climbed into the passenger seat with a grunt.

The moment the door shut, Alexia sighed dramatically. “Ay, qué demora!” [You took too long,] she muttered under her breath.

Y/n turned to her, glaring. “Have you ever been subtle for a single day in your life?”

Alexia blinked, confused. “Qué?”

“You!” Y/n said, flailing a little. “Are you going around during training, staring at who pairs up with whom?”

Alexia looked at her like she was the crazy one.

“You asked me to!”

“I know!” Y/n said, throwing her hands up. “But I thought you would be more subtle about it!”

Alexia scoffed, pulling out of the parking lot. “And how exactly am I supposed to be subtle if you don’t even tell me which players you’re worried about?”

Y/n groaned, sliding down in her seat. “Oh my god. Forget it. I’m not telling you anything anymore.”

“Good,” Alexia said immediately. “Maybe then I won't have a nineteen-year-old walking in on me and my wife at eleven pm.”

“Let it go, tio!” Y/n exclaimed, “I already said I was sorry!”

The drive was mostly silent.

Both of them were sitting there, arms crossed, matching stubborn frowns on their faces. The tension between them hung heavy in the air — not angry, exactly, but dense with unspoken words.

Y/n stared out the window, pretending not to care. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, pretending not to glance over every few minutes.

Finally, Alexia sighed quietly, soft enough that Y/n almost missed it.

“I didn’t mean it,” Alexia muttered.

Y/n blinked, turning to her. “What?”

“I didn’t mean…” Alexia shrugged, one hand loosening on the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to say that I’m glad you won’t tell me stuff anymore, I want you to, you can talk to me about anything.”

Y/n stayed quiet, fiddling with the strap of her bag.

Alexia cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Look, I’m captain. I know what happens in the team. Sí?”

Y/n nodded slowly. “Yeah... and?”

“And…” Alexia tapped her fingers on the wheel, searching for the right words. “I’ve known you since you were a little girl. Since you couldn’t even tie your own boots properly.”

Y/n’s face flushed, but she didn’t argue.

“I’m just saying,” Alexia continued, voice a little gentler now, “that maybe... hypothetically... if you had feelings for someone—” she waved a hand, casually, like it meant nothing “—you could tell me. I wouldn’t be mad. Or weird. Even if they were from the team.”

Y/n’s entire body stiffened, heat rushing up her neck like a fire.

“I mean, you know,” Alexia added, half-smiling, “we already have a few couples. It’s not a big deal.”

Y/n whipped around, absolutely burning red.

“What made you think that?! I don’t— I don’t like anyone!”

Alexia bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile. “I didn’t say you did. I said if you did.”

"Well, good," Y/n huffed, crossing her arms tighter over her chest. "I'm glad you don’t think I do because I don’t!”

Alexia snorted quietly but didn’t push it further. She just drove, humming lightly under her breath.

Meanwhile, Y/n stared out the window again, jaw clenched, willing her heart to stop racing — and trying very hard not to think about a certain brunette that she still owed apologies to.

I had so much fun writing the scene where they're playing video games + yn walking in on Alexia and Olga haha!! Hope you guys enjoyed it!! <3

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #kika nazareth x yn #kika nazareth #kika nazareth x reader

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