#but for now im hanging out in the time period where everything is good and happy and nothing goes wrong ever

[rubyychriss]

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ pairing: nerdy!matt x cheerleader!reader

⠀⠀𝅄ㅤ .ᐟ warning: smut, tiny glasses kink as always I think? anyway—oral sex, sub!matt sub!matt sub!matt

Your mouth absolutely ruining him while he weakly tries to call you out “You’re not- mmgh– you’re not even...l-looking at the notes, haah— nahh”

Matt stuttered, his voice cracking as his thighs trembled under your grip. His knuckles were white where he clutched the wrinkled notebook, holding it against his bare chest like it might somehow protect him from what you were doing to him.

But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

Not with his cock flushed deep red, thick and twitching above your lips, precum leaking steadily down the shaft — so much that it was starting to drip onto the sheets below.

And you? You were giving it the softest, cruelest attention. Kitten licks — light, slow flicks of your tongue right under the tip. Just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. You weren’t even trying to suck him yet.

“W-we’re on—nghh—we’re on molecular...g-geometry,” Matt whimpered, eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, sweat curling along his hairline. “I-I can’t even...i can't- think straight—fuck—baby”

You licked up the bead of pre that gathered at the tip, letting your tongue flick it away just before it dripped. The whole thing twitched hard in the air — like it needed to be touched, sucked, taken deeper.

Matt whimpered again. His chest was flushed and marked with lipstick — soft, smudged stains over his collarbones and neck. His shirt was hanging off his shoulders, completely unbuttoned, barely clinging to him. You had him spread out, ruined and pink, legs shaking, and he still had the audacity to try and teach.

“S-something about lone pairs—f-four regions of—fuck—electron density—”

His voice hitched again when your lips wrapped softly around the head of his cock. Just the tip. You sucked, slow and teasing, and he gasped, whole body jerking forward like he didn’t mean to move.

You pulled off and let a thick string of spit fall from your tongue to his twitching cock, watching it pulse from the contact.

“Poor thing,” you said, giving him one more kitten lick, right over the slit. “You’re trying so hard.”

“I—I w-was supposed to be tutoring you,” he breathed, broken and sweet, eyes glazed. “n- not... getting— nghh— sucked l- like this, I—I can’t—”

You wrapped your lips around him again, this time deeper, letting your tongue swirl around the angry, leaking head before taking more. His cock slid deeper with every inch, your throat swallowing around the thickness, and he moaned so soft, like he was scared of how good it felt.

Matt gripped the notebook tighter, hands shaking now. His fingers curled around the paper like it was the only thing keeping him from coming.

“B-baby—please—nghh—oh god...” he whined. “I-it’s too much—so warm—*I-I’m gonna...ngh—fuck—”

You sucked slow, letting your tongue press under the head again, where he was most sensitive. His hips twitched. His breath hitched. His cock twitched hard in your mouth, and you could feel how close he was.

You pulled off with a wet sound, watching it bounce in the air — twitching and flushed, so pretty and ruined, tip completely soaked.

Matt looked at you, dazed and flushed to the ears.

“I—I forgot everything I was supposed to teach you,” he whispered. God, he looked so adorable.

You licked your lips, smiling. “That’s okay,” you said softly. “You just taught me everything I need to know.”

author note: guysss im on my period and I neeeed matt. seriously 😭 my cramps are killing me seriously.

𝜗℘ RUBYCHRISS ㆍ 2025 do not copy or re-post my work on other platforms.

taglist: @slvt4subchratt &&. @starsashley00 @cayleeuhithinknott @courtenaybird @ifwdominicfike @whore4-chrissturniolo @mattsplaything @grace-sturnz @rriverscuomo @bernardsbendystraws

[bucketbueckers]

TIMELESS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: slight language, fluff w maybe a little angst (im beginning to realize the "angst" is probably just plot) but it's literally not that deep at all (this is a bucketbueckers fanfiction we all know there's a happy ending), AU, soulmates, author won't pretend to understand history, potential misuse of period-typical slang, historical inaccuracies (ask me if i care [spoiler: i dont!]), abuse of punctuation, light violence, poorly proofread

wc: 15.5k

synopsis: Even in a different life, you still would have been hers. OR – two (of the many) lives you've lived with Paige Bueckers, and the one you're living with her now.

notes: im not rly much of an au author but i figured i needed a lil bit of something different after FOTS beat my ass. i've been toying w this idea for a while now 😋 this fic is probably better in theory but i had sm fun writing it (and thinking about pilot!paige and knight!paige kinda drives me crazy) idk not too much yapping from me today but as always i hope y'all enjoy &&& happy munch madness, lets have some good vibes going into game day tmr 🫶

2025

It’s a warm, breezy Tuesday in Connecticut, one of your rare off days, and this is quite possibly the last place you’d expect yourself to be.

Standing before you is an old antique shop. It’s a block away from the apartment you share with your girlfriend, Paige Bueckers, and you pass it every day on your morning jog. It’s rustic, worn at the edges, but there’s something softer about its unassuming visage today. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re out a little later than usual – Paige had an afternoon practice compared to her typical morning ones, so the two of you had lounged in bed for a little longer, soaking in the time together.

Whatever the reason, there was something in the air that compelled you to stop by. So you do.

The sign that hangs over the door is rusted, hanging loosely from one tarnished chain, its words unrecognizable from how time has eroded it. A bell chimes happily as you push the door open. Immediately, you’re hit with the scent of aged paper, ink, and something else that is distinctly vintage. The walls are lined with various art pieces, antique furniture tucked neatly into the crevices of the shop with tan price tags attached. You’re wrought with a familiar sense of nostalgia; there’s something so incredibly touching about the fact that everything in this store had belonged to somebody once, had been something of value, something to take care of. Everything is still in perfect condition. It’s beautiful to know that after someone is long gone, there is still someone out there who will cherish their belongings and take care of them the same way they had.

You gaze around the shop, taking everything in, your steps slow and methodical. You were never a patient shopper, always seeking to get in and get out, but it feels as though the shop is trying to tell you something – trying to show you something. You wander, studying the art, the intricate carvings on aged furniture, until you make your way to the check-out counter. The clerk is absent, although there’s a cardboard box full of old pictures – a black and white photo of a bride, toddlers playing soccer, an elderly couple on a porch swing.

There’s something achingly familiar about them. It makes your heart swell, makes you wrack your brain to discern where you’ve seen these photos before. You sift through the rest, lingering on a few; there’s one of a couple laughing on the porch of what you assume to be their first house, a photo of two people embracing – one is wearing an aged military uniform, which makes your face soften, and the third is two teenagers holding hands, dressed fashionably. That one makes you smile as you take in the lovestruck expression on their faces.

Still, there’s something about the photos that give you pause. You pull out your phone, navigating to FaceTime, and you call the one number you know will pick up no matter what.

The line clicks through and Paige’s face fills your screen. She’s slightly out of breath, her face flushed from the exertion of practice, hair messy and sweat beading at her temples. Despite that, she grins, a sort of smile that’s reserved only for you. “Hey, baby,” she greets, her voice soft, which brings a smile to your face as well. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” you say back. “Sorry, I know you’re at practice–”

“We finished early, but I always got time for you,” she promises. “You know that.”

Your smile widens. “Well, I was on my jog, but you know that antique shop in town?” Paige hums in affirmation. “Something told me to go in, so I did. Look at some of these photos I found.” You flip the FaceTime camera, positioning your phone over your collection of photos. Paige leans in a little closer to see, her brows drawing together in concentration.

“They feel…really familiar,” she says, scratching the back of her neck. “Like I feel like I’ve seen them somewhere.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you exclaim. “It’s so weird. It’s like I know these people.”

“Wait, go back to that one,” Paige requests. “The black and white one, military uniform.” Doing as instructed, you pull that one to the forefront of the stack, gazing at them expectantly. That’s when you truly take a closer look, recognizing the expressions on the couple’s faces, their facial features. Your breath hitches just as Paige says, “Why do they kinda look like–”

“Us,” you finish.

“Yeah,” Paige murmurs, a little awestruck. “I can’t explain it but like – I can feel it.”

You flip the photo around, your eyes catching on the date on the back, and the subsequent memory hits you like a truck.

1944

It’s a sweltering afternoon in May when your life changes.

Well, changes for the second time since 1941.

Three years ago, the United States declared war on Germany and the adjoining Axis powers following the attack on Pearl Harbor. It was a dramatic shift for the entire country, one that displaced just about every facet of life. Men were drafted, heading overseas to fight, leaving holes in the workforce. Although the reality was bleak and dire, you saw this as an opportunity – for independence, for some shred of equality, for freedom. With plenty of job openings as workers were joining the war effort, you landed a job at a shipyard along the coast.

It wasn’t easy. Far from it, actually. You worked long, uncomfortable hours, hardly fitting in time for a break. You, along with several other women, worked on building, repairing, and maintaining the ships that would be used to transport supplies or men overseas. For you, it was enough – the daily routine, the knowledge that you were contributing to something greater than yourself, that your efforts were making a difference. It was worth it.

You get off your shift sometime in the afternoon. You’ve been up since the early hours of the morning; now, you’re half-asleep, only going through the motions and letting pure muscle memory guide you down the busy streets. Something big is happening soon – you can feel it. You’ve noticed drastically more uniformed men on the streets, whispers of another draft; at this point, your suspicion is a matter of when and not if.

Barely aware of what’s in front of you, you turn the corner, colliding roughly with the person in front of you. They hardly move although you bounce backwards, knocked off balance by both your exhaustion and the fact that you’re so much smaller than the other person. You’re already bracing yourself to eat concrete, eyes shut tightly, when you realize you’re not toppling over; instead, there’s a pair of firm hands holding you by the arms, keeping you upright.

“You alright?”

Her voice is concerned, if a little gravelly, rough around the edges in a way that captures your attention immediately. You open your eyes, your breath hitching, because you’re sure this is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. The street is busy — everyone lost in their own little worlds moves right by you, but at this moment? It feels like time stops, like nothing exists except for you and the blonde woman before you. 

Her hair is pulled up in a tight, slick-back bun, the edges pressed and the golden waves reflecting in the early May sun. Her eyes are a deep blue, almost startling so, but there’s an evident kindness that softens the intensity. Her jaw is sharp, angular, her nose sloping elegantly despite the chisel, but what truly captures your attention is her stature — she’s the tallest woman you’ve ever seen, no less than six foot, and her broad shoulders fill out her khaki uniform service shirt. There’s an emblem pinned over her left breast, wing shaped in the aviator insignia. You’ve been staring for far too long already and the pilot is smiling like she’s caught you. Despite yourself, you feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, your voice even, which makes the expression on her face soften. 

“The flyboys would never let me live it down if I ran you over,” she says coyly, her hands lingering just a second longer on your arms before she finally steadies you. Her touch makes you flustered. “Hurtin’ a girl like you is cause for a national emergency.”

You laugh, a tinkling, carefree sound that betrays the way your heart pounds — in a good way. “You think you’re slick, don’t you?”

With gentle hands, she pulls you under the awning of the storefront you’re standing next to — an antiquities shop, according to the sign, keeping you out of the way of the bustling crowd as she murmurs, “I call it like I see it.”

With a teasing smile, you glance up at her, enjoying the way she looms over you far too much. It’s not intimidating, her stature, but it does make you feel warm all over. She’s long, toned, and you can see the muscle hidden behind her uniform. Her khaki button up is tucked neatly into the waistband of her sage green trousers, the top missing a few clasped buttons to reveal the dog tags hanging from her neck. She looks so put together, handsome and beautiful all in one, and maybe it’s the solemnity of the world around you, but this moment in time feels so peaceful, so right. “Do you, now?” you ask. “And what exactly are you seeing, flygirl?”

The nickname makes her preen, flashing her teeth in a smile that could surely ruin you. “Well,” she begins, her eyes scanning your figure in a way that looks as though she’s in a gallery staring at art, and not actually standing in the middle of a crowded street and staring at a woman who has just gotten off a twelve hour shift, covered in motor oil. Her gaze doesn’t make you feel objectified – far from it, but you’re beginning to think that you enjoy her attention. “I see this pretty girl – gorgeous is more like it, but I ain’t never been good with words. Just actions.” Her lips quirk slightly, reaching out with her thumb to wipe away a smudge of grease off of your cheekbone. Your face flushes, which only makes her features brighten like the clouds parting for the sun. “I see honesty. Ambition.”

“You can tell that much about me just from one look?” you say, a little amused.

“I’d tell you a hell of a lot more if it meant seein’ you again,” she confesses.

You scan her features, not quite sure what you’re searching for – deception, maybe, but you don’t see it. All you see is genuinity, a certain brand of hope that you haven’t seen in anyone’s expression in the last few years. You don’t know anything about her other than the fact that she’s a pilot, an aviator, but a slow smile spreads across your face the more you consider her request.

In times like these, you need all the joy you can get, no matter how short it is. So you teasingly lean in, relishing in the way her body eclipses yours as she melts into you, but you stop her with a hand to the chest. You know she could easily push past it, but you appreciate the way her body goes rigid, like she’s letting you make the call. Her brow raises – a challenge, maybe? – but despite herself, her smile grows, too.

“I’m not that easy,” you whisper to her, satisfied when her breath hitches. You press against her gently and she leans back, acquiescing. “You’re gonna have to work for it if you wanna see me so bad.”

“I can do that,” she promises, nodding emphatically, which makes you laugh quietly – she’d seemed so confident, so composed; now, she just seems eager to impress, to listen to every word you say.

Content, you take a step back, flashing one last smile. “See you soon, flygirl,” you say, enjoying the smitten look on her face, until –

“I never got your name, yardbird!” Her voice carries over the thrum of the crowd.

When you pause, glancing back at her, she seems amused, if not a little hopeful to hear you answer. But again – you’re not that easy. “Find me again and I’ll tell you,” you call back, your promise reaching her ears. You watch as her smile grows; even from afar, you can make out the determination in her eyes, the clear message of challenge accepted.

You’re not surprised to see her again.

If anything, you were almost expecting it. Her eyes had held a promise, the vow that she’d rise to the challenge. She didn’t become a pilot by being unambitious – you were sure that it was the complete opposite of that, having to work twice as hard as her flyboy companions. Any surprise you hold is because of how soon you see her.

It’s the next day and you’re walking home from the shipyard again, taking that same path you’ve taken hundreds of times across the years. You’re guided by muscle memory, weaving around the slow walkers and finding natural gaps in the crowd. When you turn the corner, the pilot is standing under the awning of the antiquities shop again, her hair pinned up in the same, sleek bun, her uniform crisp and pressed. She’s glancing at her wristwatch and as soon as you round the corner, stepping onto the street, she looks up and meets your eyes immediately. A smug smile graces her features.

“Found you,” she calls out, pushing herself off of the wall with a boot to the brick. You roll your eyes, amused, and you meet her in the middle by the doorway.

“You memorizing my schedule?” you ask her.

She shrugs a coy shoulder. “I’m committed,” she declares. “Said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me, right?”

“So she does listen,” you muse.

“Every word.” You smile at her, and it’s then that you realize she’s hiding her hands behind her back. Recognizing your curiosity, she reveals her hands, her smile softening – she’s holding a singular red rose, a rich, dark red in color, and you shouldn’t be surprised, but you are. “Think this is enough to finally earn your name, yardbird?”

You hum, tapping your chin dramatically, which draws a laugh from the aviator. Conceding, you take the rose from outstretched hands, much to her relief. You introduce yourself, listening as she tests the pronunciation on her tongue, smiling at how nice it sounds rolling off her tongue. Then, she sticks out her hand for you to shake as she states, “Paige Bueckers, airforce service pilot.”

She walks you home after that, her hand gentle yet protective over the small of your back. Your conversation is full of laughter, teasing, and Paige flirting with you unashamedly; you like it more than you would ever admit to her, although you’re certain she knows. Despite the fact that this is only your second conversation, there’s something about Paige that gives her the uncanny ability to understand you – it’s like a connection that goes deeper than your accidental run in from yesterday, like she was born to know you and you were born to know her. It’s like you’ve known Paige Bueckers your entire life. It’s a new feeling, but certainly not an unwelcome one.

This quickly becomes your routine. You wake up early, spend your morning and the better part of the afternoon at the shipyard, then Paige walks you home. Getting to know her comes as easy as breathing and being with her is almost enough to make you forget about the chaos in the world. It’s like Paige is your perfect complement. She came into your life in the most unexpected way possible, but the more time you spend with her, the more nights you invite her over for dinner, the more you realize that you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Some nights she stays over. Paige blends so seamlessly into your routine that you wonder how you were ever complete without her at your side constantly. In the mornings, she’ll brew your coffee – how she figured out exactly how you took it, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t complaining, make your breakfast, massage your hands (because they were always sore and calloused from working on the ships all day), and walk you to the shipyard every day. At some point in time, she graduated from having a hand on your back to tangling your fingers together, which is something you truly relished in.

Over the month, the two of you get closer. Sometimes you stay at her house, waking up early enough to iron her uniform just to make her day a little easier. Paige tells you that you don’t have to go out of your way to do that for her, but secretly, you like it when she’s still in the grips of sleep and she gets out of bed to wrap her arms around you, resting her chin on your shoulder and watching you smooth out every wrinkle from her shirt. She’s warm, and soft, and dare you say it, she’s yours, even though neither of you have truly discussed it yet. It’s not traditional – in fact, nothing about the two of you is traditional; until recently, it wasn’t normal for women to work, let alone fly airplanes, let alone be in relationships together, but it works because it’s you and Paige. It works because although you’ll never have the vocabulary to describe it, you know this isn’t the first time you’ve met Paige. This isn’t the first time you’ve shared sleepy mornings together. It’s not even the first time you’ve loved her. Whether you truly realized it or not, you and Paige were a story centuries in the making, spanning across several years, decades, lifetimes.

But in a world like this, not everything can be perfect. Your suspicions were right from the very beginning.

“I have to leave,” Paige whispers to you on one quiet, sunny afternoon. It’s June 1st, barely fourteen hours into the day when Paige breaks the news. You’d been working since dawn. When Paige picked you up from the shipyard, she’d been noticeably dim, not nearly as lively on the walk back. You pressed, but she was silent, so you’d hoped that she was just tired from training; then, she’d suggested the two of you go to her backyard to lay in the sun. You curled up next to her, your chin on her chest, smiling as she pointed out the different shapes in the clouds (“That one’s definitely a boat,” you’d said, finger directed at a blob in the sky, to which Paige had responded with, “Y’think so, yardbird?”)

You knew Paige was an aviator. An aircraft service pilot, to be exact. You knew that eventually, she would be called in to fulfill a duty. You just never thought it would come so soon.

“When?” you murmur, willing your voice not to crack. Your hand was resting over her stomach – you can feel how her breathing comes to her quicker, hear the way her heart pounds in her chest. She wants to leave just as much as you want her to, but she knows she’s bound by obligation.

“Tomorrow morning,” she responds. Your heart aches and she can only tighten her arm around your shoulders, her chin pressing into your temple. “I’m flyin’ out to England – all of the Allies will be there. We’ll get debriefed, then… I’m flying twenty men into Normandy to invade Europe. After that, I’ll be transporting supplies and cargo between our bases and the frontlines.”

“Paige,” you try, but the lump in your throat cuts you off.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, trying for a lighthearted tone, but you can hear that it’s weighing on her just as much as it’s weighing on you. “I’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t make me a promise you can’t keep,” you beg, which makes Paige deflate, unable to continue being strong. “There’s no guarantees–”

“I know–”

“And don’t be reckless, you hear–”

“Yardbird,” Paige stresses, her voice cracking on the syllables of her nickname for you; despite the anguish on her face, there’s a calm acceptance, a sort of determination that looks like a promise to return. She squeezes your shoulder, directing your attention to her face. Tears are pooling on her waterline and if there’s one thing that’s always true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that irritating, unmistakable confidence of hers; you can see it reflected in her eyes. She believes that she’s coming home after this mission. You know better than to get your hopes up. “I promise you–”

“Don’t–”

She interrupts you with a stern look, desperation clouding her features now. She needs you to hear this. “I promise I’ll come home to you,” she vows. Paige’s voice softens to a whisper, her eyes searching yours to make sure you’re listening. “I don’t care what it takes. As soon as my mission is complete, I’ll be flying the first plane out of Europe. You and me?” Paige trails off, squeezing your hand like it’s a lifeline. “We aren’t done here. I still have to make you mine.” You murmur her name, but she shakes her head, needing to finish her thought. “I still have to introduce you to my family – to Drew. There’s so much more we have to do together – that we are going to do together. Okay?”

You gaze at her for a few achingly long moments, trying to memorize the blue of her eyes, the slope of her nose, the way her hair is disheveled because she’s usually so put together and that thought alone makes fresh tears spring to your eyes. Before they can fall, she leans up, pressing her thumbs to your cheeks and her forehead to yours. “I’ll write you letters,” she promises. “Everyday.”

You breathe in deep, trying to remember her scent. You know that you still have the rest of the day with Paige, but it feels like she’s already overseas. Gathering yourself, you nod against her, trying to commit the way her skin feels on yours to memory. “Okay,” you repeat, giving in. Her fingers brush across your skin, tilting your head up to meet her eyes. She’s scanning your features for any hint of a falsehood, but the only thing she sees is a quiet acceptance, the kind that comes when you know you can’t argue anymore or stop something from happening.

She offers you a gentle, wobbly smile, and it does lift your spirits some. If Paige can believe so ardently in something, then so can you. “I’ll be okay,” she says again.

“I know,” you confess, because deep down, you really do think she’ll come back to you. From the very first moment you crossed paths, you learned that Paige was not one to back down. Now, when her choices are coming home to you or not coming home at all, her decision is simple.

Nothing changes when she leaves. You work your shifts, mind obviously elsewhere, but with what you know about her deployment, you know that you can’t dwell on it too much. You have a heftier workload now, maintaining and fixing the ships, so you get lost in the routine.

The bright spot of your week is the first letter comes a few days after she leaves. Somehow, the worn paper smells like her, and you smile at the sign of her looping scrawl, the borderline chicken scratch handwriting. It makes you think of all of the times she’d leave you notes across your house, reminding you that you’re beautiful and that she’s thinking of you. The memory makes your chest ache, so you push it to the back of your mind.

June 3, 1944

To my yardbird,

I just landed in England. It’s very busy here. It’s beautiful, too, and I think you’d like it. I can see us walking down the cobblestone streets together, maybe sometime in the future when the vendors and stalls are in business again. I would probably say something annoying and you’d shake your head, amused and trying to hide your smile, but I would know.

How are you doing? How is the shipyard? The hibiscuses we planted in May? I want to hear everything.

When I sat down to write this, I thought the words would come easy to me. I spent my entire flight thinking of what I would say to you, what I would ask. I thought it would be easy to tell you how desperately I want you and how I count down the hours until I get to see you again. Maybe God’s honest truth is that these aren’t understandings that can be summarized in one single letter – or truths that can’t be summarized at all.

Do you ever think about how you can look up and see the same sky as me, the same stars? I’ve spent a lot of time in the air. I know the clouds like the back of my hand, the way they move, the way the wind currents will guide me home. I know more about the sky than I know of the earth. In my profession, it’s hard to stay grounded – literally and figuratively, but my time with you has reminded me that there is an importance in returning to the soil, spreading my roots, seeking out a future I previously thought I couldn’t afford. You’ve given me hope, a dream, a love.

On my flight to England, I looked to the west and I saw a star. It shone brighter than the rest, glimmering and sparkling despite the fading night. As I’m writing this, I’m staring at the very same star. It makes me feel as though we aren’t so far apart right now, that you could look up and see what I’m seeing. You and I, we’re still connected, two ends of a red string coated in something cosmic and everlasting. When I look to the sky, it’s like I’m looking at you.

I will be home soon. That is my one promise to you. Until then, I hope you’ll look to the sky and look for me, too.

Yours,

–P

You draft your response immediately and send it off with the mail carrier before evening. You don’t know when it will get to her or if she’ll have much time to write back, but before you go to bed that night, you step outside and direct your attention to the western sky. You spot the star she was referring to almost immediately, the way it twinkles against a dark canvas; despite the ache in your heart, looking at it makes you feel a little less alone.

June 7, 1944

To my flygirl,

You make England sound so peaceful. I’m sure it is made all the more beautiful a country by you being in it. I would love to visit with you, when the world is all right and it’s a warm, summer day. Even if we just explore the cities, you have a way of making each moment feel more significant. You turn the mundane into a memory. Wherever you go, you leave a trail of magic behind you, and I am endlessly blessed that God has put me on this earth with you if only so I could follow it.

I’m holding up. The days are long and the nights are short and I miss you more and more each day you’re gone. According to the radios, you flew into Normandy yesterday and the invasion began. I hope you stay safe. The shipyard is busy – we are sending out more and more ships everyday for cargo and for men. Even more come back for repairs. I rarely get a break as of late, although I know my job is an important one. The hibiscuses are healthy, but they bloomed a little brighter when you were here to care for them. I don’t know how you do it. It is as though these things know you – they know you’re gentle, and kind, and that you have this nourishing, uplifting factor about you. They know of your love as well as I do, of what it is like to be without it.

I find myself writing and then pausing. I have so many things I would like to say to you but this paper can only hold so many of my thoughts. I agree that one letter is not enough to express myself fully. However, I know not to worry. You are thoughtful in ways most people never think to be and you have always been talented in understanding me before I’ve been able to understand myself. There are many things you know but I do like saying them. I miss you – isn’t it funny how we always come back to this? I miss you in a way that makes my chest ache. I miss having you in bed next to me and I miss the way you sing in the mornings. I miss you because you are everything I didn’t know I needed and more than I ever thought I deserved.

Remembering that you are under the same sky as me makes me feel a little less alone. Remembering that you see the same stars, the same moon, the same sun reassures me you aren’t so far away. Remembering that you feel the same love reminds me that you’ll be home soon.

With love,

Your yardbird

Over the course of the next several weeks, you continue to work. You continue to gaze at the sky before bed, imagining Paige doing the same before she goes to sleep. You write to her and you read the letters she sends you. They always start the same – an affectionate “To my yardbird” that never fails to bring a smile to your face. She tells you about her days, never once mentioning the toils of the war, only the beauty of the nature around her in spite of the damages around it. She tells you about the other women airforce service pilots – the WASPs – in her platoon and their ineffable courage. Paige tells you about the ones vying to return home to their families, too, and their unshakable determination to make it home.

You reread all of her letters when the sun goes down. Each and every one of them, starting with the one dated from June 3 to her most recent one. At this point, you have all of her letters memorized from the penmanship to the content. You spend hours with your hands clasped as you utter your hopes, prayers, a constant wish for her to be safe.

The weeks tick by. There’s nothing of note on the radio. You get lost in the rhythm of working, of thinking about Paige, of writing letters to her and handing them off to the mail carrier with the same unwavering expression of hope. You remind yourself that you and Paige aren’t done here, and that she’ll be back soon.

Then, her letters slow down ever so slightly. The Allies are pushing for one more coordinated attack, she’d written to you. I’ll be in the air frequently.

All you could do was wait. And hope. And work.

So, you do.

Four more weeks pass by. In that time span, you only get one letter from Paige in the second week, then she’s silent for the next two.

You try to not let the worry ruin your life.

On August 25, the radio at the shipyard crackles to life, announcing, “The Allied advance has liberated France. The Germans are in full retreat.”

You felt as though you could breathe a little easier, but you were still sick without the knowledge of whether or not Paige was okay. You don’t hear anything for two days.

On August 27, you’re leaving work early, a rare happenstance. Given the relative silence of the last few days of the invasion, you and the other women were able to finish repairs fully on the current batch of ships you were working on and you were waiting to get the damaged ones back from overseas. With nothing else to do, you walk your worn path back home, letting pure exhaustion and muscle memory guide you home. You’re too tired to even think, but you do glance up at the antiquities shop as you pass by. It had become a habit over the last twelve weeks, bringing a smile to your face as you remember the day you and Paige had met.

But you stop in your tracks, letting the bustle of the crowd pass you by as you gawk. Part of you can’t believe it, half-tempted to rub your eyes, convinced you’re in the middle of a dream or that the sheer exhaustion of the past three months has finally caught up with you. All you can do is stare, until–

Paige Bueckers cocks one of her signature, amused smiles, her eyes relieved and fatigued all at the same time. Her hair lacks its usual gel, the edges unruly. Her uniform top is buttoned one lower than usual, exposing the undershirt she’s wearing, and the hem is barely tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She doesn’t look injured, just like she could use a really long nap, but the sight of her makes your heart leap out of your chest.

“You’re early today, yardbird,” she comments wryly, glancing down at her wristwatch. “You got a hot date?”

You drop your bag at your feet, coming into her personal space with three quick strides. Judging by her expression, it’s clear she wasn’t expecting this reaction from you, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you cup her cheeks, standing on the tips of your toes to kiss her. Paige melts into you completely, her arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against her with an overwhelming amount of relief. She sighs against you, tilting her head to kiss you deeper, but your hands tremble on her face as you taste the salt on her lips. You can’t believe that she’s here right now. After twelve weeks of aching, of hoping, of believing, she’s here. 

You break away from her when your lungs burn, needing to breathe. Despite the tears, she’s still smiling when she presses her forehead to yours, her eyelids slipping shut like she just needs to absorb the moment and breathe you in. You do the same, your hands sliding down to tangle in the fabric of her shirt. She’s firm, she’s warm, she’s alive and she’s in front of you and you have possibly everything you’ve ever wanted right here in front of you. “I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper into her chest, your voice a little muffled, but Paige’s shoulders shake with laughter, dissolving all of the tension left in your body.

“I told you,” she murmurs, her chin pressing into your temple as she holds you close, “I’d come home to you.”

And if there’s one thing that’s true about Paige Bueckers, it’s that she doesn’t break a promise. Not this one, and certainly not the one she makes to you almost a year and a half later in her backyard when the two of you exchange private vows during a quiet, peaceful, summer afternoon, promising to love each other for the rest of your lives.

2025

As quickly as the memory comes to you, it disappears just as fast, leaving you in a daze. You blink once, twice, wondering if you’d just imagined it all or if that was real. Glancing back down at the photo in front of you, the two women embracing in the middle of a crowded street – one a flygirl, one a yardbird, their features so similar and their expressions so loving, you think that it had felt too real to be fake.

“Hey, you alright?” Paige’s voice echoes from your call, concern laced in her tone, and despite yourself, you can’t help but crack a smile because those were the very first words the aviator had said to you. Perhaps there was more truth to it than you thought.

“I’m okay,” you promise, peering down at the photos again. An idea hits you all at once. “You said you finished practice early, right?” Your girlfriend hums, clearly confused with where you were going with this. “How quickly can you get to this antique store?”

Paige doesn’t keep you waiting too long. She makes it to you in record time, the jingle of the bell above the door capturing your attention. You glance up, spotting her, and the two of you share matching smiles as she strides closer to press a kiss to your temple, squeezing your hip. “Alright,” she murmurs. “Lemme see these pictures.”

You hover silently next to her as she sifts through the pile of pictures you’d accumulated. She lingers on the black and white photo of the pilot and the shipyard worker – describing that photo as you and Paige still feels a little too weird, but you watch as her brows furrow, her eyes lighting up with something that looks like recognition. You don’t even have to ask to know that she’s feeling the exact same thing that you did.

“This is insane,” she mumbles under her breath, which makes you laugh a little, amused. Paige holds the photo gently in one of her hands as she looks through the others, finding one of two teenagers holding hands on their way to a dance, presumably, considering the way they’re dressed. They don’t look as similar to you and Paige as the first photo did, but it still brings back a sense of nostalgia that Paige picks up on, too. “You remember prom? Junior year at Hopkins?” your girlfriend asks, nudging you gently.

You resist rolling your eyes. “How could I not?” you say sarcastically. “Someone saran-wrapped the doors so tightly that the principal had to call the fire department just so we could get in.” Paige laughs. Affection blooms in your chest despite yourself, and you grin, too. “We made the best of it, didn’t we?” Paige hums in affirmation, brushing her fingers across the photo before you before picking up another one. It’s two people laughing on a porch. You can tell they’re lovers by their closeness. “Remember when I rented my first apartment and you helped me move in?”

Her lips curl into a fond smirk. By help you mean Paige stayed over every night for a week straight, delaying your unpacking and “breaking in the new crib,” whatever that meant. You’d enlisted her to help with your furniture, your decor, and building shelves, but you’d go to bed in her arms and wake up to all of your furniture in completely different spots. “Oh no,” Paige would whine, a terrible actress to this day. “Guess I gotta stay and help you fix this.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was intentionally waking up at night and “inconveniencing” you just so she could stay a little longer and annoy you, but you suppose the real kicker was she never really needed an excuse to be near you, anyway. You would have let her stay for the week even if it meant she didn’t fuck up the way your furniture was arranged.

“I still dunno why your furniture kept moving,” she muses, still committed to the bit. “You ever call maintenance? Or security or somethin’?”

You roll your eyes for real this time, pressing a little closer. She raises her arm to rest it over your shoulders. You pick up a photo of a 30’s bride, her veil long over her face. It wasn’t a secret that you wanted to marry Paige someday – the two of you had been together since high school and you both had discussed as much; now, she was entering her final March Madness tournament as a Husky. The two of you were so interwoven into the fabric of each other’s lives that you were sure you would be together until one of you took your last breath.

“You look pretty in white,” she comments off-handedly, like she’s slick, but you know better.

You grin. “You think so?” you ask coyly. She hums again, a smile of her own growing on her features the more she stares at the picture of the bride. “Well, I think you look pretty good in a suit, too.”

“Oh, little ole me?” she croons, faux shyness lacing her tone.

“You’re so annoying,” you say.

“You’ve loved me since we were fourteen,” she reminds you – as if you’d ever forget it. “You’re stuck with me at this point.”

The truth was, you’d be content to be stuck with her for the rest of your life. The other truth was that Paige’s ego was already so dangerously over-inflated that it’s days away from popping like a balloon with too much helium, so you couldn’t possibly admit that to her. The third truth was that Paige knows you love her, just as she loves you, so she didn’t need you to admit it to her, anyhow. The both of you were stuck with each other, not that either of you minded.

“Let’s get these?” you request, and Paige nods, scooping up your selected photos in her gentle hands.

But it still feels like you’re missing something. You have your photos, the memory of a life long passed – which reminds you; you and Paige will be having a lengthy conversation about that memory later today – but it feels as though you haven’t seen everything the universe clearly wants you to see. So you link hands with Paige, scanning the shop once more as you search for the missing piece.

It’s Paige who actually locates it after a few moments of walking. She glances at you meaningfully, guiding you down a row of bookshelves, eyes roaming over its contents like she knows exactly what she’s looking for. At the very end of the line, there’s an old, dusty, leatherbound book covered in cobwebs laying flat on an antique table, as though someone pulled it off the shelves to read and then forgot about it. Paige exhales like it was exactly what she was looking for.

She drops your hand to brush the back of her hand over the front cover, getting rid of the dust and the cobwebs, and then immediately sneezes. It makes you choke on a giggle, the mystery and the intrigue of the moment softened by Paige’s incessant allergies, and the tips of her ears flush red as you whisper a quiet, “Bless you.”

When the cover is clean, she wipes her hands on her shorts and opens the book carefully to the front page. You peer over her shoulder again. The penmanship is in neat cursive, the ink fading with time, but still legible enough for you to read. There’s a date in the top right corner reading 1543 September 9. Paige whistles lowly, holding the book a lot more gingerly now, which amuses you a little bit.

You look at the first line, reading, “Father procured me this journal to document my life and my emotions. He believes that it will help regulate me and, in quote, save me from this phase of rebellion lest I make a mockery of the crown. I am only eighteen. Surely, he must understand that the life of a princess is not one for me.”

Paige blinks once. “Well, that’s heavy.”

“Paige, she’s eighteen.”

“Technically, like…” your girlfriend pauses to do the math in her head, “...Four hundred and…eighty sum’.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and when you reach out to turn the page, you’re hit with another memory – only this time, you know that Paige is seeing it too.

1543

“Princess, your father is just trying to look out for you. He is just…a little misguided.”

You huff indignantly as you drag your brush through your hair. You truly do not mean to be this dramatic, but indignance just seems to be the main emotion that your father manages to evoke from you. Ever since you turned eighteen, the “of age” marker determining your eligibility to officially inherit the throne, the King – your father – has been nothing short of particular. Exacting. Expectant. If you’re not studying with your tutor, you’re listening in on his meetings, learning the ins and outs of how to run a country. You’re his only heir, so deep down, you understand why he demands so much from you. There’s a short time between now and when your father won’t be deemed fit to run a country. You’re just upset that being the princess means you can’t be you anymore.

There’s a certain degree of freedom you get used to growing up in the castle. You want for nothing – everything is provided for you, no question about it. You have the best education possible, learning from private tutors all over the world – math prodigies, language experts, philosophers. Everything you could possibly want is at the tip of your fingers. As of late, however, it seems that you may just be broken. 

You long to be outdoors, away from the castle and its stuffy, too large walls. You long to do things for enjoyment and not for obligation. You’re eighteen – you want to be with people your age, not the children of the entitled, pompous bureaucrats that your father rubs elbows with. You want to be you, not the Princess, not the heir to the throne, just you.

It seems there are just some luxuries that one cannot afford, not even monarchs with the world at their disposal.

“‘Misguided’ is one word for it,” you huff, trying to not catch too much of an attitude with your chambermaid, Carlotta. It is not her fault, not in the slightest, and she’s been there for you your entire life – even longer than your father has. “I do not want to be–”

Carlotta hushes you, a gentle, cautious hand resting over your shoulder. You clamp your mouth shut. “You must be careful, Princess,” she murmurs.

“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. “I know. I’m sorry.”

That was another thing you loathed about being a royal – the constant paranoia. It is a well-known fact that your father has enemies. Perhaps that is just a fact of life that comes with being king, a political figure, someone in charge of making decisions for millions of people. It is hard to be free when you’re tailed by your father’s most trusted knights and officers.

“It is all right,” Carlotta assures you. “Now come – you must be ready for the banquet.”

You nod, swallowing back your remark, and you allow Carlotta to help you into your gown.

The banquet goes as well as you were expecting. It’s loud, raucous, and full of minging, networking, and brown-nosing. You’re certain that you’ve never faked as many smiles or laughs as you have until today, but once it becomes socially acceptable, you sneak out the back door.

Or, as well as one can sneak when there’s a knight tasked with following your every move.

You glance over your shoulder. Just before the door slams shut, a tall figure in breathable armor slinks through the gap, following you at a respectable pace. However, there’s something that gives you pause.

As irritated as you are at the prospect of being tailed by your father’s appointed guards, you’ve made a habit of knowing who they are. Tristan is your usual suspect – he’s tall, lean, and his armor is recognizable. There’s a crest on his breastplate, signifying that he comes from a family of nobles, but this knight lacks the decorative chestpiece. Every other day, you’re then followed by Maximus. He is a little shorter than Tristan, although in place of a family crest, he has the traditional knight’s insignia – he doesn’t come from a family of nobles; rather, he’s an experienced knight who worked his way up through those ranks.

Whoever is wearing this suit of armor isn’t Tristan or Maximus, and you know that while your father makes a habit of annoying you, he wouldn’t reassign your patrols without telling you. Feeling your heart beat a little faster in your chest, you lengthen your strides, trying to get away from whoever is pursuing you without giving it away that you know they’re an enemy.

The issue with all of the country’s royals concentrated in one wing of the castle means that the large majority of the knights are assigned to that wing. That means there’s little protection through the back corridors. That means you need to find a way to get the knight off of your trail. There’s a variety of things you could be used for. A bargaining chip. An arranged marriage. Perhaps you’d just be killed entirely.

You hang a left, casting another glance over your shoulder. You don’t see the knight round the corner just yet, but you can hear his footsteps pick up speed. Realizing how dire your situation is now, you will your body into a run, thanking Carlotta for putting you in a pair of sandals instead of the heels your stylist had set out for you. The heavy clank of armor follows you down the winding halls as you breathlessly search for your exit.

To your right is a set of tall glass doors, leading into the palace gardens. Confident in being able to find somewhere to hide there, you push the doors open and run outside.

What you’re not expecting to find, however, is a tall blonde woman sparring in the dark. She spins on a dime, her sword lowering, but recognition flickers across her face once she realizes you’re the Princess. You briefly wonder if she’s a knight, too, or if she’s here to kill you, as well, but you throw all caution to the wind, deciding to trust the blue of her gaze. “Help me!” you exclaim, throwing yourself behind her just as the glass doors burst open and the turncoat knight barrels outside.

You realize, perhaps a little too late, that the blonde woman is not wearing armor. She’s dressed in a breathable navy and white tunic, the knight’s crest emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of worn boots. At the very least, she’s drastically more agile than her opponent (and taller, too, you note, although you remind yourself that there’s possibly a time and a place for those sorts of realizations). 

The armored knight draws his sword, a quiet acceptance in his body language like he knows he’ll have to go through the blonde knight to get to you, but she’s rigid, confident, rising to the challenge completely.

They collide in a flurry of sparks, loud groans, and the clang of metal against metal. The blonde, to her credit, doesn’t budge, but the force of their impact sends the armored knight stumbling. Using that to her advantage, she delivers a swift kick to his abdomen, which makes the knight fall to the ground completely. 

“Yield!” she barks, her blade against the soft part of his helmet.

He pauses, gazing up at her as if truly contemplating it, before his own leg jerks out, knocking her off balance. She grunts, dropping to one knee, and he uses her injury to kick her backwards as well. He digs his sword into the soil, using it to lift himself up. The knight spins his sword in his hand, remnants of dirt flying off of his blade, and he stalks towards her like a predator to his prey. All you can do is watch on in horror. 

You’re so focused on the other knight that you don’t notice her fingers digging into the dirt next to her until she comes up with a fistful of soil that she launches directly at his helmet. He recoils with a yelp, disoriented, and the blonde knight locates her sword, slashing out in a quick motion and catching the soft spot where his knee bends. He staggers again and she slams her hilt into his wrist, causing him to drop his sword. She grabs it immediately, dual wielding both blades, and the checkmate move comes when she kicks his injured leg. He falls to his knees and she crosses both of the swords under his neck again, chest heaving and sweat beading at her temple.

“Yield,” she commands. “I won’t ask again.”

He lifts his head ever so slightly, meeting your gaze across the garden. You stand your ground even though you’re rattled and you can feel your pulse in your fingertips. Barely eighteen and I’m already surviving assassination attempts, you think to yourself, Father would be proud. Then, he drops his head again, defeat in his posture. “...I yield.”

By the time he finishes his sentences, the garden doors burst open and more of your father’s nights enter the garden, brandishing their blades. They catch sight of the blonde knight, swords to your attacker’s neck, then settle their gaze on you, breathing heavily but not a hair out of place. “Arrest him,” one of the captains instructs, and another knight surges forward to deal with the attacker. “Secure the Princess. Alert the King immediately.”

The garden is a flurry of activity as the knights disperse. One group leaves as they drag away your attacker. Another group surrounds you as if forming a wall between you and any potential danger. Still, you can’t keep your eyes off of your savior, the blonde woman whose cheek is slightly smeared with blood. You’re not sure if it’s hers or his, but this isn’t a night you’re going to forget for a while – not because of the attempt on your life, but because of this knight’s bravery, her spur of the moment decision to put her life on the line for you, especially against an opponent with far more protection than her.

It’s nearly stupid. She’d behaved so recklessly, but it was her job. So why do you feel so drawn towards her?

Your father arrives with a security detail of his own. You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from him, but he gives you a cursory look over, nodding in approval when he sees that you’re okay, before he turns to his men. “Who allowed this to happen?” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to, but you think he’s scarier like this – the deadly sort of calm that only comes out when someone is truly pissed. “Who allowed a turncoat knight to nearly kill my daughter?”

His men are notably silent. Your father scoffs, shaking his head, and he turns on his heel, probably ready to storm out until he catches sight of the blonde knight, standing solemnly in the corner. “Who are you?”

Her voice doesn’t waver when she answers, not meeting your father’s eyes out of respect. “Sir Paige Bueckers, Your Majesty.”

He glances at her – armorless, then he glances at the rest of the knights gathered – uniformed. “Why are you here?”

Paige hesitates, looking up to meet your eyes, a silent plea for help. “She saved me, Father,” you answer for her, drawing your father’s attention back to you. She relaxes slightly, gratitude in her expression. “I noticed the knight following me wasn’t one of my usual handlers. So I ran out here to flee and found Sir Paige.” Your father looks at Paige again, studying her in a new light. His quiet contemplation could mean a lot of things. Then, surprising everyone, you say, “Father, I want her reassigned to my guard detail immediately.”

Your father considers this for a few moments longer, then he turns to the captain. “See to it,” he orders. The captain nods emphatically. And with that, your Father returns indoors, his security detail following. The rest of the knights follow until it’s just you and Paige, who stares at you with a mix of shock and curiosity.

You nod at her, softening. “Come. Let’s get you to the infirmary.”

Paige, unsurprisingly, is not a woman of many words. You don’t expect her to initiate any sort of conversation with you given your status, but she does look at you – a lot – mostly when she thinks that you’re not aware of it. There is nothing inherently inappropriate about her gaze. You can tell she’s curious. You can also tell that she knows she has a duty to do. Her gaze flickers on and off you to scan the hallways for any sort of potential danger and her hand hovers over the hilt of the sword strapped to her waist as if someone would jump at you both from the shadows.

Functionally, she hasn’t said a single word to you since you met her, yet you battle the urge to get to know her. You know that would never be allowed – a royal fraternizing with a knight. It breaches every code of conduct and tradition that you’ve been raised to recite by memory. Despite your knowledge, there seems to be a pull between you and the knight, one that you’re finding harder and harder to resist as you watch her brows tent in concentration, her eyes studying everything about her surroundings as you lead her to the medic.

When the two of you reach the infirmary, she doesn’t say much else, either, only nodding or shaking her head when the physician asks questions like “Does it hurt when I do this?” or “Do you feel any pain here?” You do watch as her face screws up, discomfort in her features, when the physician pokes and prods at her knee.

She’s fortunate, according to the physician, that it is only bruised and she should expect to recover quickly. Taking an armored boot to the knee when you’re wearing only a thin tunic is usually grounds for a fracture or a broken bone. Paige takes the diagnosis in stride, her eyes trailing after the physician as she leaves the infirmary to fetch some herbs from the greenhouse, and shamelessly, your eyes find the knight again. She doesn’t glance at you, but you can tell that she’d like to, so you break the silence to say, “You don’t need to be so formal with me.”

Her throat bobs as she argues, “I do.” Then, as if you’d forgotten, she reminds you, “You’re the princess. Treating you otherwise would be disrespectful.”

You cock a wry smile. “And would disobeying my wishes not also be disrespectful, Sir Paige?”

She pauses, not expecting that one, and finally, she glances up to meet your eyes. Her eyes are startlingly blue, alert despite the exhaustion and the lingering pain of her battle, but they’re kind. They’re soft in a way you would never expect from a hardened knight. They’re gentle when they appraise you, studying your features, and her features relax as if she’s looking at you – truly looking at you – for the first time. “I suppose it would be, Princess,” she agrees. “I apologize.”

Your smile softens, too. “Considering you saved my life today, perhaps we can call it even?” you suggest, trying for a joking tone, and you find that it’s well-received when she chuckles. “Thank you for that, by the way. I would not be here without your courage.”

“I was just doing my duty,” she murmurs humbly. “My only wish is for you to not have had to witness that.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you say reflexively.

Paige glances at you again, her eyes lingering on your face before a slow smile curls on her lips. “I’m beginning to see that.”

You know she doesn’t intend to say that in any sort of way, but the warmth of her gaze, the approval in her eyes, and her words alone are enough to make your cheeks flush. It’s wrong – that much you’re sure of. You haven’t known the knight for very long, but there’s something so magnetic about her, like you’ve met her before, like you know you’ll be safe with her. This conversation feels like one you’ve had before. That thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. Paige just feels right.

Then, she raises her hand, rubbing her face, and she doesn’t realize that she’s reopened the small cut beneath her eye. “Oh,” you say, not nothing much of it as you reach out for a piece of gauze, “you’re bleeding.” Motioning to the wound and ignorant to the way Paige’s breath hitches, you ask, “May I?” She nods and you step between her parted legs, hovering over her as you gingerly reach out with the cotton, fingers light and delicate against her skin, cleaning away the blood. You and Paige are inches apart by now, and the sudden closeness makes your hand tremble, especially when your eyes flick up to meet Paige’s. The expression on her face is almost awestruck, reverent in a way that makes you forget about how dangerous this is. You don’t realize that you’ve planted your free hand on her shoulder, holding onto her to keep her from moving, nor do you realize how her hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white like she knows it would be wrong to touch you, but the way her breath stutters makes it so obvious that she’s desperate to regardless.

Sobering up, you lean back, red tinging your cheeks as Paige exhales deeply. The physician returns to the infirmary at that time, grinding together herbs in a mortar and pestle and muttering to herself absently. You and Paige exchange a glance, the heat of the previous moment softening as you both put some space between each other, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stumbled across something that you shouldn’t have – the chemistry between you and the knight. You’ve always been curious and daring by nature; you know yourself well enough to know that you’ll track down that spark and see where it goes, even if it means sweeping the ashes under the rug after it ignites into something you can’t quite stop.

For now, you have to play it smarter. All eyes are on you as you prepare to take the throne from your father, and the last thing you want to do is jeopardize Paige and her future, even if you’ve already done so by assigning her to your personal guard.

Beneath the professionalism, the practiced stoicism that you see right through, you recognize that very same spark reflected in Paige’s eyes – the curiosity, the determination, the willingness to press the match to the kindling if you’d so much as asked. You know this is risky, that this energy between you and Paige is something that will splinter the foundations of the life you’ve grown so accustomed to.

And the worst part of it?

You wouldn’t even mind if it did.

Paige assimilates seamlessly into your routine. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the knight, who adjusts to her new position with a startling quickness and efficiency. Given the recent attack on your life, your father arranged to have her moved to a room only a door down from yours in the Royal Wing of the palace, believing that having her close would allow her to protect you better. She becomes your shadow of sorts, although you had to put your foot down early on in your new…partnership, and force her to walk side by side with you instead of the infuriating ten or so feet away.

“Being close to me would keep me safer, wouldn’t it?” you’d questioned her, by no means trying to be coy about it.

Paige had smiled softly like she knew, amusement and acceptance in her features as she agreed, “I suppose it would, Princess.”

She follows you everywhere – your royal meetings, your appointments with your tutors, to the dining room, and well, if she’s found in your bedroom, listening to you ramble about your latest project, then you’d say it’s for your own protection as much as it’s for the growing friendship between the two of you. When Paige isn’t worried about her professionalism, she talks. A lot. It doesn’t bother you at all. You’re content to listen to her stories, her experiences, her life, how every choice she made throughout the years led her here. Selfishly, you’d think that inadvertently, her choices had led her to you, although you don’t voice that thought at all.

She grew up in a small village a few hours away by horseback – Storrs. It isn’t well known for much except for the cold winters that the locals loathe. She’d recounted her childhood with a fond smile on her face, even the uncomfortable parts like the time she’d hurt her knee severely while sparring or when her parents had divorced. Divorce wasn’t as familiar to you, having been raised in the castle where your father remained with your mother until she passed, even though there wasn’t any love between them after your birth and their failure to conceive a male heir – although that’s a story for another day. When you voiced as such, wondering about the casualness in which she and her parents viewed their separation, she’d merely shrugged and said, “Sometimes people just don’t feel the same love that they did before. Why stick around to force something when your heart’s not in it?”

You’d felt as though that applied to a little more than relationships, considering how you didn’t want to be queen. As much as you trusted Paige, you didn’t think it was the time nor the place to drop that kind of confession on her.

While there’s no more attempts on your life, Paige sticks by you fiercely. If it were anyone else, you’d probably be pissed at the lack of independence, but there’s something about Paige’s company that you cherish, even if it’s just her standing watch at the door while your tutor teaches you philosophy. You like having her around. That thought should scare you much more than it does. For the first time in a really long time, it feels like you’re free. Growing up, you’d never had many friends. Everyone your age was always too aristocratic, too pompous, too entitled. You’d tried, but you could just never get along with them – it was always like you were on the outside looking in no matter what you did differently. With Paige, it feels like you’re shedding all of the past desires to fit in. She makes you feel as though you don’t have to fight your way inside just to be accepted. She makes you feel as though there’s always a place you’ll belong, even if it’s just with her.

So while there aren’t any more attempts on your life, that doesn’t mean your life gets easier. As you progress in your training and you begin to take up more royal duties, there is an increase in the number of suitors that make their way through the castle. Most of them have been arranged by your father, seeking to find a husband to rule next to you – or rather, someone for you to stand next to while they rule. They’re either princes of distant kingdoms, or the high-ranking sons of nobles. You hate all of them. They’re either too old, too stuck-up, too arrogant, or too…male. You’d longed for visions of long, blonde hair, twinkling blue eyes, the gentle way in which the knight spoke to you yet the fierce way she protected you. None of these men were her, and you could tell your father was becoming upset by how often you turned them away.

If you hated them, then you’re not quite sure what word to use to accurately portray the amount of disdain that Paige feels for them. You can see it in her expression alone, the white-hot hatred that burns in her eyes even as she speaks to you politely, calmly. You see it in the way she stands unyieldingly next to you, a hand poised over the hilt of her sword as if she was ready to dispose of whichever groveling idiot was trying to propose, if you wouldn’t deny them yourself. You see it in the way her entire demeanor shifts, the way she grows more confident when you’re alone and her hand curls around your waist and she dips her head down to your ear to whisper, “None of them deserve you. Not a single one of them.”

If Paige hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else, then you’re sure she ruins you completely after that.

At first, you think it’s just her commitment to duty. Paige’s entire job is to keep you safe, protected. If she feels as though these suitors would be too violent, too uncaring, too unfit for you, then you suppose she was well within her right as the princess’s protector to feel however she wanted to feel. Then, you think it’s just hate. She knows you almost as well as you know yourself, if not more. At this point, you’re both a little more than princess and knight. You’re friends who share a mutual duty to a kingdom. However, you realize all too late that it’s actually jealousy.

She stands behind you, her tall stature imposing and intimidating as she stares down the last suitor you had scheduled for today. He’s the prince from a kingdom down south. His name is Oscar and if you had to be honest, you got a bad feeling from him as soon as he strutted in, a black and red cape billowing behind him like he’s already king and has nothing to worry about. You’d even felt Paige stiffen behind you, but you promised your father you would at least talk to your suitors before rejecting them (and you were not keen on sitting through another lecture from him).

The interview goes terribly. You can feel Paige’s mood worsen the more Oscar speaks. He interrupts you countless times, talks over you, and when you do get to speak, he dismisses it like it’s trivial and continues rambling on about his success or his fortune or how well he could lead a kingdom. You knew the conversation was over as soon as he promised he wouldn’t take anymore than five mistresses and you had to stop Paige from jumping across the table and stabbing him entirely.

So, you politely tell him, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for in a potential king. I have to look after my people.”

You see the shift in his expression before he even raises a hand. You just couldn’t react fast enough to block the swing.

But Paige does. She catches Oscar’s wrist in her hand, her grip so tight that the tips of his fingers were turning purple and he was choking on pain. Then, she slams his hand into the wooden table before you, the surface almost splintering from the force of it. You can hear a sickening crunch, but all you do is raise your brows as Paige leans over you, her gaze set firmly on Oscar. “We’re done here,” she murmurs, her voice low and threatening. “Raise a hand to the princess ever again and I’ll kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?”

You don’t hear what he says, too stunned to focus on anything but the vein that protrudes from Paige’s neck, the challenge laced in her tone, the way her response has left a warm feeling deep in your belly. He scurries out with a metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, the door slamming shut, and you and Paige are left alone in the conference chamber. Paige breathes heavily next to you, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder in both consolation and apology, yet all you fixate on is the way your thoughts race.

Paige is saying something to you, but it sounds like you’re underwater. You push out your chair, standing as she rambles, and you turn on your heel to meet her eyes. There’s still a lingering fire in there although it dwindles the more she talks, concern and something else you can’t quite place taking precedence. Before you have the time to talk yourself out of it or remind yourself of how wrong this is, you curl your fists in the fabric of her tunic and you pull her down to your level.

She immediately freezes against you, the words caught in her throat releasing in the form of an indulgent groan as she finally registers that your lips are on hers. When she relaxes to kiss you back, the intensity is almost overwhelming, like the fire from earlier has returned. She grips your hips possessively, backing you into the table and lifting you onto it for better leverage, one hand dropping to hold your thigh and the other curling around the back of your neck. Paige leans forward, pressing against you like she couldn’t stand to leave any inch of space between you.

The kiss is hazy and it makes your mind spin in the best way possible. You sigh against her, welcoming the intrusion when her tongue swipes across your bottom lip, and she holds onto you like she’s scared that you’ll disappear if she lets go. Paige kisses you like you’re hers, which you may as well be. You’re hers to protect, hers to hold – not the princes’, not the nobles’, not anyone else’s.

When you both break away from each other, chests heaving, her voice is rough, low, wrecked when she whispers again, “None of them deserve you.” Her eyes scan yours, her thumb brushing across your pulse point and her breath hitching like she can feel exactly what she’s doing to you. “Not you, the princess. And especially not you, the girl whose heart is as pure as it is kind. The girl who I…”

You swallow thickly, feeling the heat in your cheeks and fighting the urge to pull her back into you as she trails off. “And you do?” you murmur. “Deserve me?”

“I’d fight a hundred men and a hundred men more if it meant proving that to you,” she vows. You know her well enough by now that you don’t need her to prove anything more to you. She already has. Your heart is hers. “This isn’t just a duty to me,” she confesses a few beats later, her voice hardly above a whisper like she’s confessing a secret. “It’s real. What you are to me is real. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Nothing will,” you say, confident and assured. “I’m safe with you.” Paige nods, her hands warm against your skin, and you press your temple to hers to admit, “For you, I’d run away and leave it all behind.”

You feel her freeze against you, surprise, mostly. She leans back to meet your eyes. “Princess, you don’t mean that,” she says quietly.

You nod vehemently, your fingers tightening in the fabric of her tunic. “I do, Paige, I swear it.” She softens, taking in the conviction in your tone. “I don’t want this – I don’t want to marry someone else. I don’t want to be the queen. I want you, a life of peace, where I don’t have to worry that someone will try to kill me or if I’m making a decision that will kill my people. I want peace.”

The silence lingers. There’s a realization in the wake of your declaration that in your position, you could never afford peace. Princesses don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. Knights don’t get peace, or a life of ease, nor do they ever get the one they love. You know you’d give it up in a heartbeat if you could find the courage to. You study Paige’s features closely, waiting for her to speak. She swallows thickly before she does.

“Storrs,” she whispers, confusing you. “My village. We can go there – just say the word and I will take you, I swear it. I don’t owe anything to this kingdom. My loyalty is to you. We’ll be safe there, free, and you can do everything you’ve wanted – you can teach, you can explore–”

“Okay,” you agree.

Paige pauses. “What?” she asks, trying to keep the hope at bay.

“We’ll go to Storrs,” you repeat, a smile growing on your face.

“You mean it?” Paige murmurs, her voice cracking, and all you can truly do is cup her face in your hands, kissing her once more. This one is softer, the perfect seal to the promise you’ve just made to each other, and it feels more right than a crown on your head ever will. Her embrace makes you feel more secure than a legion of your father’s men ever could. You know in your heart that this is where you belong.

Happiness doesn’t last for too long. 

When you wake up the next morning, you can feel that something is off. Paige is usually already awake, standing guard at your door and waiting for you to come out for breakfast. Now, there’s an unusual silence that lingers and it makes you feel on edge.

Instead of Paige at your door, you find Carlotta, wearing an uncomfortable expression on her face. Dread wraps its fist around your heart, squeezing tight, and your chest hurts when you ask, “Carlotta, what’s going on?”

“Your father has requested your presence in the throne room immediately,” she says to you, her voice shaking. You swallow thickly, afraid of what waits for you. You cast an uneasy glance at the door to Paige’s room, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but still feeling as though something is terribly wrong. Carlotta follows behind you as you walk through the winding corridors, anxiety coursing through your veins.

The scene awaiting you in the throne room is not one you could have ever prepared yourself for. Your father sits idly atop his throne, an almost nonchalant laziness in his body language. He’s surrounded by his usual guard detail. Your body burns with anger when you realize Oscar is standing right next to him, his hand wrapped in gauze and a splint, a malicious expression on his face. But what truly devastates you, what makes fear seize your heart entirely is Paige held firmly in the knight captain’s grasp, her hands and ankles shackled. She looks no worse for wear, only disheveled and her bun mussed from an evident fight, but her eyes burn bright with hatred and something that looks like failure.

“My daughter,” the King calls across the room. Everyone directs their attention to you, but you’re not prepared for the amount of grief and shock on Paige’s, like she wasn’t expecting you to see her like this. “Come – we have much to discuss.”

There it is again. That same steely calm from the night in the gardens. Your father isn’t the kind of man to yell – people with power and trained men at their disposal have no need to raise their voices – which is why his demeanor in this situation makes you fearful. Not for yourself, but for Paige.

“I’m not a man who shies away from admitting when he’s wrong,” your father continues when you step closer. “Accountability makes for strong leaders. I’ve always told you that, haven’t I?” You scan his features, your gaze giving nothing away. He’s not looking for a response. “It seems I’ve made a mistake in knighting an individual. Where she goes, trouble follows, such as the night in the garden. And now, with the suitors.” Your father cocks his head, looking perplexed. “Prince Oscar has suffered several broken bones and a fractured wrist due to…your knight being unable to control her anger. Alas, it has come to my attention that she has also filled your head with lies, deceit, and empty promises.”

He stands, his sea of guards parting for him as he makes his way towards you, towards Paige. “If she wants to run away, so be it. If this turncoat knight no longer wants to give back to the kingdom that has made her, that has given her the life she has now, then so be it. What I will not allow is for her to manipulate my daughter – the Princess – into leaving with her.

“So,” he muses, ushering Prince Oscar forward, who gazes at you like he’s won. “We are here to make an example. The monarchy will not be mocked. My daughter, tomorrow at sunset, you will be wed to Prince Oscar. He will be your king and you will inherit the throne. And your knight –” he spits the word like it’s venom, clear distaste evident in his features, “–will be executed at nightfall for treason against the crown.”

Your ears are still ringing.

Your father’s revelation left you numb, reeling. You watched as his men dragged Paige out of the room, her eyes locked on yours in surprise, disbelief, and ever-present grief. Your father had more to say to you, but you weren’t listening. Being forced to marry Oscar of all suitors was at the back of your mind. All you could think about for hours on end was your knight will be executed at nightfall. The word executed circulated through your mind on repeat along with images of Paige’s eyes, betrayed and disappointed all at one.

This wasn’t the plan. You and Paige were supposed to run away. You were supposed to leave kingdom life behind and go to Storrs together. You were supposed to live a life of peace in a small village where the crown couldn’t possibly find you. You’re not supposed to marry Oscar, or watch the love of your life be executed. This was all so horribly wrong.

You’re confined to your room for the entire day, your father feeling as though you would find a way to escape or look for Paige. He knows you better than you’d expected. With nothing but time on your hands, you wait. You cry. You scream and you break the mirror in your room because when you look at it, all you can see is the way Paige had stood behind you as you asked for her opinion on your dress and her jaw had gone slack before she whispered, “I think you’re the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen.” You spiral, because you were so close to making it out but your father and Oscar have derailed your plan.

At nightfall, 24 hours away from Paige’s scheduled execution, Carlotta knocks at your door. She lets herself in when you don’t respond. You hardly look up, even when she takes a seat on the foot of your bed. She’s silent for a few moments before she says, “I’m sorry, Princess.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound scraping against your throat. “It’s not your fault, Carlotta.” Even if it was, you don’t want to think about it. This woman has raised you since you were a baby. You weren’t sure if you could ever handle that heartbreak.

“It’s not,” she agrees softly. She clears her throat. You can almost feel her hesitation. “I was next to your mother when she passed on,” she admits. That confession makes your heart skip a beat. “I held her hand as she was taking her final breaths. I’d loved her, you know. Your father never knew. He didn’t care to. But when I watched my life’s greatest love die, it was a pain unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. I thought a part of me died that day. Your mother, however, entrusted me with something special to her – a part of her. She made me promise to take care of her daughter – the Princess – and to this day, you are the most important person to me.”

“Carlotta,” you murmur, tears pooling in your eyes and your voice cracking. “What are you saying?”

“You love her,” she says, like it’s more fact than fiction, like it’s something as obvious as the sky is blue or the grass is green. “Sir Paige. She is your life’s greatest love. I couldn’t save my love. But there is still hope for yours.” She stands, drawing your attention as you feel her move. There is a folded piece of parchment in her hand. Carlotta presses it into your hands. “Read this, and do not lose your faith, Princess.”

Carlotta leaves before you can say – before you can ask anything else of her. Your mind spins as you look down at the paper in your hands, at Paige’s familiar, sloped handwriting. Fingers trembling, you unfold it, and you begin to read.

Princess,

I did not think I would get to speak with you after they dragged me out of the throne room in handcuffs, so you will have to forgive me if this letter is incoherent. It is difficult for me to wrap my head around the idea – the fact, rather, that I will be dying at nightfall tomorrow.

Being a knight, I had always known that my death would be imminent. My profession is not safe. My duty is to put my life on the line for the kingdom, for the king and the princess. I knew of that long before I picked up my sword for the first time. I had always imagined that it would be in combat – perhaps I would be fighting those hundred men and the hundred men more that I had spoken of. Perhaps I would be the lucky one and die of age after living a life of valor, dedication, and virtue. Execution had never crossed my mind.

If there is one part of my life that I could pick out and say is the greatest moment of it, I would say that meeting you is it. Not being knighted for the first time or my father teaching me how to wield a blade. It was you. It is always going to be you. You are my purpose, my reason for fighting. You have made my life worth it, even if we were only a short time.

I want you to know a few things. First, this is not your fault. If I knew the outcome from the very beginning, I would choose you everytime without question. A moment with you is worth an eternity wherever my soul takes me next. Second, do not give up. You are kind, courageous, brilliant – I know you will think of something. Third, I miss you. I have only been apart from you for a few hours, but I miss you; if I knew of a way to make you miss me the way that I do, I would never dare to make use of it for you are undeserving of such an all-consuming ache. The fourth is that I love you. I planned on telling you once we made it to Storrs, after I had introduced you to my family. You deserve to know.

You are my greatest love, Princess. In this life and the next I will never give up on searching for you.

Eternally,

–P

By midafternoon the day of your wedding and Paige’s execution, you can tell that something has shifted once more. The palace is eerily silent. Again. It almost makes you worry, but after considering that your life couldn’t get any worse, you decide that the silence is a problem for you in the future. For all intents and purposes, you’re still essentially trapped in your room, and you spent the better part of the night and the entire day leading up to this moment rereading Paige’s letter to you. It didn’t make you feel any better about the situation, but you try to remember Carlotta’s words to you. They give you strength when you feel like all else is failing.

The minutes tick by until you hear tapping on the glass door leading to your balcony. Believing it may only be a bird, you think nothing of it until the tapping persists, louder this time. The glass is textured, so you can’t see out of it, but you reach for the first sharp object you can find – in this case, it’s one of your heels – and you creep towards the door, pushing it open with caution.

You freeze immediately. The heel slips out of your grasp and Paige is standing before you, her tunic rumpled and exhaustion in her eyes, but she doesn’t look hurt, and that’s all you can truly be thankful for. “I was beginning to think you weren’t home,” she murmurs, a coy smile on her face that is not befitting of the moment, and you could sob as you throw your arms around her neck. She wraps her arms around your waist, lifting you off of your feet. Paige buries her face in your neck, breathing you in and sighing in relief – you’re both okay. You don’t know what to say, stammering through words that don’t make any sense, but Paige squeezes you a little tighter, shushing you.

After a moment, she places you back down on the ground, drinking you in like she can’t believe this is real. Then, she smiles softly. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says quietly. “Carlotta is waiting for us at the stables. Get your bag and whatever else you need. She’ll take us to Storrs.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, all you can do is nod, wiping your eyes as you retrieve the bag you’d packed after you and Paige agreed to leave. You make sure to slip into a pair of more comfortable shoes and you don’t forget to grab her letter stashed under your pillow. When you’re ready, she guides you down the wall of the palace and into the garden below, creeping through the bushes until you reach the stables. You hug Carlotta so tightly that she groans, laughing, and together, you, Paige, and Carlotta make the journey on horseback to her village.

Her village welcomes you and Carlotta in – they’re definitely a little shocked, but they’re happier to have Paige back and safe. She introduces you to her family, her mom, her dad, her step-parents, her brother and her step-siblings and they all treat you like one of their own, a blended family that’s no less full of love. They own a small little shop, one that dabbles in selling antiquities and artifacts from ages ago. You can see yourself splitting time between working there and teaching the village children, but most importantly, you can see yourself free, in love, and happier than you ever would have been in the castle. It will surely be a national emergency when the King realizes that the princess, the knight, and the chambermaid have all escaped, but you think that’s a problem for someone else.

For the record, Paige does tell you she loves you – in person, not through a letter – that night after you’ve been fully introduced to everyone and her mothers worked together to make a hearty dinner for you and Carlotta. It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of having – a love that’s wholly yours, a life to share with someone who cherishes you, and the freedom to live the life you’ve always wanted. You were always destined to find this – destined to find Paige, to love her, to give her your heart completely; the two of you have always been connected by that red string of fate and wherever your souls take you next, you know you’ll find her there, waiting for you.

2025

The memory fades and you and Paige blink in tandem, your hands still resting over the book as you look at each other. Almost no time has passed, although the both of you look like you’ve lived a whole new life entirely, which you may as well have. Paige breaks the silence to mutter, “I was a knight in a past life and in this one, I have to do homework?” Her disbelief makes you laugh, all of the tension dissolving as she joins in with you.

“Says you,” you retort. “I was a princess.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You ain’t never letting that one go.”

“Nope!” you chirp happily. Paige rolls her eyes, but she can’t keep the smile off of her face as she closes the book gently. You intertwine your fingers with hers, giving her a squeeze. “Hey, you okay?” you ask.

Paige nods, her smile widening. She leans in to kiss you softly, which makes you grin against her. “Never better,” she assures you. “I was right, though.” You hum, gazing up at her, and she reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “You are my greatest love.”

“You’re mine, too,” you promise, wrapping your arms around her neck as she pulls you into a hug that feels lifetimes in the making. “We’re timeless, aren’t we?”

[goldfades]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈❜𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ─ SC⁸⁷

TRACK 12 ─── LOML

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | caught in a cycle of love and heartbreak, you find yourself constantly returning to sidney crosby, the one person who promises everything but never follows through. as the years pass and the same promises echo between you, you’re left questioning if holding on is worth more than letting go

─ word count | 6.3k

─ warnings | ANGST ANGST ANGST, oh my god i teared up writing this (im on my period shut up). a rollercoaster of emotions, young love -> soulmate kinda vibe. on and off, just overall angsty (with no happy ending... its ttpd, what do u expect?) idk what else to add but like... if u need a good cry, read this

The night is colder than you remember, and the city lights are muted, softening the edges of every memory you have of this place. Pittsburgh’s skyline blurs through the frost on your windshield, each bright glow fading into the next as you pull into the parking lot of a bar you used to know so well. It’s different now—a new name, new sign, but the same chime of the bell when you push through the door, like a greeting from the past.

You used to come here all the time, back when the two of you were something. Not official, not permanent—never those things—but something more than a fling and less than a promise. He used to sit right there, at the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low and face half-hidden, and you’d slide in next to him like you belonged there. Because, for a while, you thought you did.

But now you stand there, scanning the faces, waiting to see if he’ll show. The text he sent still hangs heavy in your mind, words you could almost memorize by heart: Can we talk? I miss you. It’s always like this—a cycle you’ve danced for longer than you’d care to admit. He always says the right things, words that feel like they could anchor you in the storm of his life, but it’s always just a promise, never reality.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because this time, you don’t know if you’ll fall for it again.

───

It was summer, and everything was golden.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows that danced along the edges of the makeshift hockey rink. You remember the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant hum of cicadas, and the way the air buzzed with a warmth that clung to your skin. You were barely a teenager, and the world felt infinite, stretched out before you like the blue sky above. It was one of those summer afternoons when the days felt endless and you thought you had all the time in the world.

The rink wasn’t anything special—just a patch of concrete nestled in the middle of the park, surrounded by chain-link fences and littered with the scuffs and scratches of a hundred other games. But for you, it was everything. Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “cool” and that the guys he played with wouldn’t care that you tagged along. You’d insisted on wearing his old jersey, the one that hung loose over your frame and brushed against your knees when you walked. It smelled faintly like sweat and summer afternoons, and even though it was too big, you wore it like armor.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning casually against the boards with his stick resting on his shoulder. He wore a backwards cap that made him look like an absolute douche, but you could still see the way his grin spread wide when he laughed. He was tall, at least compared to the other boys, and he had this presence about him—like he knew exactly where he belonged, and it was right there on that concrete. He radiated this easy confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him, and you found yourself watching him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey, kid, you play?” he called out as your brother introduced you to the group. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in it that made you straighten your shoulders, determined to prove you weren’t just some tag-along.

You lifted your chin, clutching your stick a little tighter. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh rippled through the group, and he tilted his head, an eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to dare you. “Alright, show me.”

You skated out onto the concrete, feeling the rough texture beneath your sneakers, the familiar push and glide that came as natural as breathing. You could feel the eyes on you, the judgment, the expectation that you’d stumble or falter.

But you didn’t.

You skated like you always did—like you had something to prove, even when no one was watching. You could feel the summer breeze tugging at your hair, could hear the sounds of sticks clashing, wheels spinning, and the distant shouts of kids playing in the park. The world faded into a blur of movement and sound, and for a moment, it was just you and the puck, gliding across the concrete.

When you stopped, stick planted firmly, the puck resting right where you aimed, you turned to face him. His grin had shifted into something softer, something that looked like approval. He nodded, a small movement that somehow felt like a victory, like you’d passed some unspoken test.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Sidney.”

You told him your name, trying to play it cool, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something that made your heart beat a little faster. You brushed it off—he was just another kid, another boy who thought he ruled the rink. But when he passed you the puck during the game, when he skated close enough that you could hear his breath, quick and heavy, you felt something shift, like the start of a story you hadn’t planned on telling.

The hours blurred together, the sun sinking lower as the sky melted into hues of orange and pink. You played until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He was quick, his movements sharp and precise, but he had this way of gliding past the others like he was weightless, like he’d been born on skates. And every time he sent the puck your way, you felt that rush again, that thrill of being seen, of being chosen.

At one point, when you stopped to catch your breath, he skated up beside you, close enough that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes. “You should come out more often,” he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “We could use someone like you.”

You shrugged, pretending like you hadn’t already made up your mind. “Maybe.”

But deep down, you knew you’d come back.

And when he grinned, that slow, easy grin that made you feel like you were sharing a secret, you realized that maybe this was the start of something. Something that felt like endless summer days and the thrill of chasing after something just out of reach.

He was only a boy then, and you were only a girl with skates too big for your feet and dreams too big for your chest. But that was the thing about summer—everything felt possible. And standing there, the light catching in his hair and the warmth of his presence radiating like a sunbeam, you felt like you’d met someone who could make it all come true.

The years rolled on like they always do, slow and steady until you looked back and realized how quickly time had slipped by. What started as childhood games on concrete rinks and sticky summer nights turned into something deeper, something that felt like it could last forever.

When you were sixteen, things shifted. You’d always been friends, maybe even best friends. By then, he was already “Sid the Kid,” the local legend whose name was whispered with reverence around the rinks. But to you, he was just Sidney—the same boy who laughed with you when you scored, who always had an extra stick in his bag just in case, who stayed up late with you, lying on the cool grass, tracing constellations with his finger.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and the secret smiles, friendship turned into something more. It wasn’t a single moment; it was a thousand little ones, each building on the next until you both looked up and realized you weren’t just kids playing pretend anymore.

The first time he kissed you, it was right before his first big tournament. You’d been nervous for him, more nervous than he seemed to be. You’d walked down to the empty rink at dusk, the air cool and the sky the color of fading ink. You remember how his hand felt, warm and solid as it slipped into yours, and how he turned to you, eyes bright with something you hadn’t seen before. The kiss was tentative, like he was testing the waters, but it felt like fireworks, a spark in the night that you carried with you long after you pulled away.

From then on, you were something more—together but not quite official. You tried not to think about it too much, content with what you had. You showed up at every game, standing in the crowd with his number on your back, feeling that thrill when he’d glance your way. You’d spend the evenings together, sometimes in the rink, sometimes out by the water, stealing moments in between practices and tournaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Then, life happened.

He got drafted, and everything changed. He moved to Pittsburgh, and suddenly the boy who was always around, who could text or call at any hour, was miles away, caught up in a whirlwind of cameras, contracts, and the pressures of professional hockey. You were still in high school then, watching him from afar, cheering him on from a distance. You told yourself it was fine, that the distance didn’t matter, and that you were both still too young to worry about anything more than the present.

But even then, you could feel the space between you growing.

In his rookie year, you made the decision to move to Pittsburgh. You’d gotten into a college nearby, and when you called to tell him, he was ecstatic. You’d never forget the way his voice sounded on the phone—relieved, almost. Like he’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d make the leap. And so you did. You left your friends, your family, everything familiar to be closer to him. It felt like a grand, romantic gesture—the kind you saw in movies. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was more than that.

The first year was a whirlwind. You were in the stands for his games, holding your breath every time he took a shot, cheering louder than anyone when he scored. Off the ice, it felt like the two of you were creating a life together, slowly but surely. You moved in together, and even though his schedule was insane—practices, games, interviews—there were still those quiet moments.

Mornings when you’d wake up to him already gone, but with a note on the counter that read, I’ll be back soon. Evenings when he’d come home exhausted but would pull you into his arms like nothing else in the world mattered. It was enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the cracks started to show. At first, it was small things—missed dinners, texts that went unanswered because he was “caught up in meetings.” Then, the fights started. You’d ask him about the future—where were you going, what were you to each other? He’d dodge the questions, promising you that things would be easier once the season was over, once the next championship was done, once his contract was sorted out.

You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that you were both still young, that you had time. But every time you saw him, it felt like you were grasping at something that was always just slipping out of reach.

The first breakup came after his rookie season. You’d been together for two years, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the uncertainty, the feeling that maybe you’d given up too much, too soon. You remember standing in the doorway, watching him lace up his skates, and asking, for the first time, why you weren’t moving forward. He looked at you, eyes soft but distant, and said he didn’t know. That maybe things were moving too fast. You didn’t yell, didn’t cry. You just nodded, kissed him one last time, and left.

It was the first time you thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to be with you the way you needed him to be. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few years, it was the same dance—back and forth, the two of you pulled together by some invisible force that neither of you could name, only to be pushed apart by the same old arguments, the same doubts.

Each time you broke up, it felt like the end.

You’d tell yourself that this time, it was really over. You’d pack your things, move out, and try to rebuild your life. But then, he’d call. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes just weeks, but it was always the same: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.

And every time, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only person who really knew him, who understood the weight he carried every time he stepped onto the ice. Or maybe it was the promises he’d make when he held you close, whispering that one day he’d put a ring on your finger, that one day you’d have a family together. You told yourself that this time would be different, that you could trust him, that he was finally ready.

But each time, it ended the same way. The season would start, and he’d get caught up again—first in the games, then in the championships, then in the next contract. And you’d find yourself alone, the same questions building up, the same empty promises echoing in your head.

It went on like that for years. You tried dating other people, tried moving on, but it was always temporary. No one else felt like home the way he did, and you hated yourself for it. You’d built your life around someone who couldn’t give you the future he kept promising, and the worst part was, you kept going back.

You remember the last time you walked away. It was after another fight, the same one you’d had a dozen times before. You’d asked him about the future, and he’d given you that same look, the one that told you he was already pulling away. But this time, when he said, I just need time, you didn’t have the strength to believe him. You nodded, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

And now, you find yourself back where it all started, years later, wondering if he’s changed. If this time, when he said I miss you, it really meant something. But deep down, you already know the answer.

It’s the same as it’s always been.

───

You scan the room, your heart pounding, eyes darting from one face to another, hoping—no, dreading—that you’ll see him. Part of you wants to run, to turn around and pretend you never agreed to meet him. But the other part, the part that still holds on to the memories of you and him when things were easy, when love was simple and uncomplicated, keeps your feet rooted to the floor.

He’s always late, and you’ve learned to hate it. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a symbol of everything between you two, a reminder that he always has something, or someone, else pulling him in another direction. Every time he tells you he’ll be there, every time you stand waiting, it’s like a countdown until he lets you down again.

You glance down at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time: fifteen minutes past when he said he’d be here. You think about leaving, about saving yourself the heartache. You’ve done this dance so many times before. You know the steps, know the way it’ll play out if you wait long enough. He’ll walk in, breathless and apologetic, and those eyes—God, those eyes—will soften when they find yours. He’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s kept him steady in a world that’s always moving too fast.

And you’ll feel your resolve slip, just like it always does.

Your hand tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white as you try to steel yourself against the pull of old memories. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he looked at you when you said enough. It had been one of those fights, the ones that started small—something about how he missed dinner again, or how you were the only one trying—and escalated into everything you’d ever bottled up. You told him you were tired of waiting, tired of hearing him say he was ready when all he ever did was prove otherwise.

He’d stood there, silent, watching you with that look—the one that said he was sorry but not enough to change. And you left, thinking that maybe this time, you’d finally meant it. That you could walk away and not look back.

But now, here you are, back in the same place, waiting.

A familiar ache spreads through your chest as the seconds tick by, every moment without him another chance for doubt to creep in. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be the person who keeps holding out hope when all it ever does is hurt. But despite everything, you can’t help the part of you that still believes. The part that whispers this time could be different, even when you know it won’t be.

Just when you’ve almost convinced yourself to leave, the door swings open. Your breath catches as you spot him, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s unsure of how to approach. He looks older, wearier than you remember, but it’s him. The moment his eyes lock with yours, you feel it—the same rush, the same pull that’s always been there, drawing you back in.

He smiles, that small, tentative smile that used to melt your defenses. It’s like he knows exactly how to walk that line between sincerity and charm, and you hate how well it works. You fight the urge to return it, to let that familiar warmth bloom in your chest, and instead, you keep your expression neutral.

He crosses the room with that unhurried stride, his gaze never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he stops, just a foot away, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne—a scent you’d once known better than your own. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Hey.” Your response is cool, guarded. You’re not going to make this easy for him, not this time.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you know means he’s nervous. “I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up—”

You cut him off, tired of the same excuses. “It’s always something with you, Sid.”

He flinches, and you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then you remember all the times you waited, all the empty promises, and you stand your ground.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’re right.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything that’s come before. It’s different this time. Usually, he jumps right into the apologies, into telling you how much he missed you, how he’s ready now, how he’s changed. But tonight, he just stands there, the look on his face a mixture of regret and something else you can’t quite read.

And maybe that’s the problem. You’ve never been able to fully read him. You’ve spent years trying, and every time you think you’ve figured him out, he slips away. You wonder if he knows how much it hurts—wonder if he even cares.

“So, what is it this time?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he’s thinking. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He exhales, a slow, deep breath that seems to carry the weight of everything you’ve been through together. “I just—” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

You shake your head, the familiar ache settling into your bones. “You always miss me when I’m gone.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—something real. “No, I mean it. I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired of losing you.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But the words feel like echoes of promises he’s made a hundred times before. And the part of you that’s always been waiting, hoping, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

“Prove it,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Sid. I can’t keep falling for the same lines.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the pull again—the magnetic force that’s always drawn you back to him, no matter how many times you’ve tried to walk away. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

But as he reaches for your hand, you can’t help but brace yourself for the familiar sting of disappointment. Because no matter what he says, you know how this story ends.

He glanced down, looking down at the promise ring on your finger. Your ring finger. The same ring he'd given you many years ago, before he left for Pittsburgh. He told you it was just the beginning, a placeholder for something bigger. Something that, back then, felt like a certainty. You remember the way he slipped it on your finger, his hands steady and sure. His eyes shone with the same excitement you felt—like the future was a road you were both eager to walk down together.

“I’ll get you the real thing one day,” he’d promised, his voice brimming with that youthful conviction. “Just wait for me.”

And you did. For years, you wore that ring like a badge of honor, a symbol of everything you believed you were building together. When he left for Pittsburgh, you told yourself it was only temporary. Distance was just another hurdle, and the two of you had overcome so many already. You visited him during breaks, and every time he came home, it felt like picking up right where you left off. You thought nothing could break that bond.

Now, standing in front of him, you can see it in his eyes—that same look he’s always given you when he knows he’s let you down. But there’s a hesitation there, too, a weight he’s carrying that wasn’t there before. You wonder if he’s finally seeing it the way you do—if he’s finally realizing that words and promises are never enough.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb grazing the cool, faded metal of the ring. “I know I’ve said it before, but I—”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening with all the years of waiting, all the times you’ve heard those same words and let yourself believe them. “Don’t. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks up, his eyes searching yours. “I do mean it,” he says, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I know I haven’t been fair to you. I know I’ve asked too much.”

You shake your head, the anger and sadness mixing together until they’re almost indistinguishable. “No, Sidney, you’ve taken too much. You’ve taken years of my life—years I can’t get back.”

He winces, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. “I’ve given up everything for you—my job, my plans, my own life—because I believed in this. I believed in us. But every time, you leave. Every time, you break your promise.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living my life waiting for a future that’s never going to come.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words—words that you know won’t change anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it feels like the final nail in the coffin. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m here now, and I want to make it right.”

You look down at the ring, that small circle of metal that once meant everything to you. It feels heavy now, like a weight dragging you down, a reminder of all the time you’ve spent waiting for something that never happened.

“I can’t wait forever,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need more than just words, Sid.”

For a moment, it looks like he might finally say something real, something that could change everything. But instead, he just stands there, silent, and you feel your heart break a little more. Because you know, deep down, that he doesn’t have an answer. He never has.

“You still wear it,” he spoke slowly, glancing down at the ring. “Doesn't that mean something? Anything? That maybe, maybe we should give this another try?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle around you like a storm cloud. It’s so typical of him, to latch onto the smallest signs, to twist reality just enough to make it feel like there’s hope. It’s the same hope that’s kept you coming back time and time again, like a moth drawn to the flicker of a flame.

But this time, that flame feels like it’s burning out.

“Sidney, I never stopped loving you,” you admit, and it’s the raw truth, the kind you’ve tried to keep buried for so long. “But love isn’t the problem. It’s everything else. It’s you telling me we have a future and then disappearing when it matters. It’s you making promises you can’t keep.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away for good. “I’m different now. I’m ready. I know I said that before, but this time—”

“No,” you interrupt, pulling your arm back, the frustration building in your chest. “You’ve said that every time. You tell me you’re ready, that things will be different, and I believe you because I want to believe you. But then the same thing happens—you get busy, the season gets hard, and suddenly I’m on the sidelines again, waiting for you to make time for me.”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down, like he can’t face the truth of his own words. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I’ve messed up. But I swear, this time—”

“Sid, listen to yourself.” You cross your arms, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “This time, next time—there’s always a next time. But it’s just a cycle. It always has been. And I don’t know if I can keep believing that things will change when they never do.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a flash of something you haven’t seen before—fear, maybe, or the realization that you’re slipping away. “But I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose you.”

For a second, your resolve wavers. You see the boy you fell in love with, the one who used to hold your hand in the stands and tell you he couldn’t imagine his life without you. But the boy grew up, and his dreams took him places you were never a part of, no matter how hard you tried to be.

“You already have, Sid,” you whisper, feeling the ache spread through your chest. “You lost me a long time ago when you chose everything else over us. And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He steps closer, his hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re something fragile that might break. “I’m trying, okay? I’m here now. I’m trying to make it right.”

You close your eyes, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “You always say that. But it’s not about showing up when it’s convenient for you. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when things aren’t perfect, and proving that I’m more than just an option.”

When you open your eyes, you see the pain on his face, and it almost makes you want to take it all back, to say that you’ll try again, that you’ll believe him just one more time.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleads, desperation clear in every word. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

But that’s just it. It’s not something you can tell him. It’s something he has to want, something he has to choose—without you holding his hand through it, without you putting your life on pause, waiting for him to catch up.

“I can’t tell you how to love me, Sid,” you say, and it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “You either do, or you don’t. But I can’t be the one always holding this together. It has to be both of us, or it’s nothing.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he hesitates, and in that silence, you feel everything shift. It’s as if the reality of the situation is finally sinking in for both of you.

“Maybe…” you start, your voice cracking, “maybe this was always going to be the end.”

His face pales, and you see the fear flash through his eyes, but you hold firm. “I can’t keep living in the past, hoping you’ll change. I need more than just words, and if you can’t give me that, then…” You take a deep breath, the weight of the years falling away with each word. “Then maybe we need to let go.”

Sidney’s lips part as if to protest, but then he stops. His hand falls away from yours, and the emptiness between you feels colder than the Pittsburgh winters.

You let out a bitter chuckle as the tears begin to fall. “We could've had a good life together, Sid. Everything you could've wanted. Kids, a nice house and some... some cute dogs,”

It seemed silly to say, but it was the truth. You swallowed as you looked, trying to stifle your incoming sobs. “And it would’ve been ours. Not just mine, or yours—ours.”

The words are raw, cutting through the stillness between you. You can feel the sobs building in your chest, threatening to spill out, but you hold them back, just for a moment longer. “But you never wanted that. Not really. Not enough to make it real.”

Sidney’s face crumples, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. “You always talk about wanting it all—wanting me, wanting the life we could have had, but then you pull away the second it gets too real. And I’m tired, Sid. I’m so damn tired of giving everything to someone who can’t meet me halfway.”

He shifts, taking a hesitant step forward, like he’s testing the waters, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it,” he says, voice rough and cracking. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “I didn’t know how to balance it all. I thought I’d have more time, that we’d figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” you repeat, the bitterness seeping through. “Sid, we’ve been at this for years. Years of back and forth, of me waiting for you to choose me. To really choose me. And every time, it’s the same story. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that things will be different.”

He stands there, shoulders hunched, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s the same look he’s given you countless times before, like he wants so badly to fix things but doesn’t know where to start. It makes your heart ache because you know, deep down, he’s not a bad person. He’s just… lost.

And maybe, you realize, he always will be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just—every time I tried to make things work, it felt like something else came up, and I kept thinking if I waited just a little longer—”

“Then everything would magically fall into place?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sid. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t keep putting off what you want, what you need, and expect everything to turn out okay in the end.”

He takes another step forward, reaching out like he’s about to pull you in, but you take a step back, needing the distance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. “I just needed you to try. To show up. To prove that I was worth fighting for. But it feels like every time I turn around, you’re already halfway out the door.”

His expression falters, and you know he wants to argue, to tell you that it’s different this time, that he’s ready now. But you’ve heard it all before, and the words have lost their meaning.

“I wanted the house,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I wanted the dogs, the kids, all of it. I wanted us, Sidney. And I believed we could have it. But you kept pushing it off, and now… I don’t know if I can keep waiting for something that might never come.”

He reaches out again, and this time, you let him. His hand closes around yours, and it feels both familiar and foreign—like holding on to a memory that’s slipping through your fingers.

“I love you,” he says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart clench. “I’ve always loved you.”

You give him a sad smile, knowing that, despite everything, that much is true. “I know,” you say, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

And as you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the cold, you hope—maybe for the first time—that you’ll be strong enough to let go. Because you know if you don’t, this cycle will only repeat itself. And you can’t keep breaking your own heart for someone who won’t give you the life you’ve always wanted.

That night, you dreamed of the house. The kids, and the dogs and of him. You'd wake up, it would feel like how it did the day you met—warm and safe, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

The sun would stream through the windows of that little house you imagined, its golden light wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’d always craved. You’d roll over, and there he’d be, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, so soft, like he was seeing the whole world in you.

The kids would run down the hall, their laughter echoing, filling the space between your shared breaths. You’d rise together, slowly, and there would be no rush, no impending flight or long distance to worry about. Just you, him, and that perfect slowness of a morning spent together. The dogs would bound into the room, tails wagging, and the day would unfold in simple, perfect moments—breakfast at the table, messy hair and pajamas, the feeling of his hand on yours as he refilled your coffee cup.

It would feel right.

And in that dream, it would all make sense—why you’d waited so long, why you’d kept coming back, even when you knew better. Because in that world, in that life, you had everything you’d ever wanted. It was real, and it was whole, and there were no questions, no doubts, no space for the silence that always lingered between you in reality.

But then, you’d wake up.

You’d open your eyes to the quiet, dark room, the emptiness of your side of the bed. There’d be no warm sunlight, no laughter echoing through the halls, no weight of his arm pulling you close. Just the cold, still air of your apartment, the hum of the city outside, and the realization that it was all just a dream—a dream you’d had a thousand times before, and one you knew you’d have again.

And as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, you’d feel that ache settle in your chest. The one that reminded you that no matter how real it felt, it was only ever going to be a figment of your imagination. Because the truth was, you had to wake up alone.

In that moment, you’d wonder if he ever dreamed of it too—if he ever pictured that life, those mornings, the way you did. If he ever saw a future where he stayed, where he chose you and didn’t let go. But you knew that even if he did, it wasn’t enough. Because while you were left clinging to dreams, he was off living a life that didn’t have room for you in it.

You’d curl back into the blankets, pulling them tight around you, pretending for just one more moment that the warmth was him. That maybe, one day, you’d wake up to the life you’d always imagined, and it wouldn’t slip away like morning mist.

But until then, all you had were the dreams and the memories of a love that almost was—almost, but never quite enough.

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[initforthethrill]

im so busy and tired and moody and tired rn (school's been kicking my ass) but i just need to come in here periodically and unleash my cate-centred gayness (also periodically? did i sent thoughts (thots) yesterday? i feel like it's been long but also not yk?) Anwayyy ugh.

supe-remacist cate and human user.

i mean... God.

i have like 3 scenarios with this.

maybe some time after the end of season one (god let cate keep her arm) she had very quickly gained a supe following. and she's like lowkey grown pretty popular online. she's a super controversial (technically political(?)) online figure/influencer. like she is in the news like constantly cause of the stuff she posts and she like says pretty crazy anti-human shit but like freedom of speech yk. and like in comes human user and flips everything upside down. obviously cate Hates her at first and its a whole mess but somehow Cate is also drawn to her. and eventually something develops and cate has to navigate this.. and maybe keep the relationship a secret cause how can cate date a human while also being like a infamous anti human political figure.

the second one is basically the same but it makes user famous too. like maybe an actress or a singer or whatever. the thing is she’s super famous, (brings cate even more attention when the news gets out) super liked and super kind so everyone is confused that she is at all being in anyway associated positively with Cate. like she isn’t out here judging her she’s hanging out with cate like they’re friends (?) maybe more?? where’s TMZ? idk if this counts as like star crossed lover, romeo and juliet, forbidden, definitely drama.

third is different. this is like cate and user have been together for ages. like years, maybe even before god u. maybe they knew each other before cate got locked in her room, and had like a secret relationship while cate was locked in there. obviously user couldn’t go to god u as a human but she remained close by, moved to new york and lived close to campus, knew all cate’s supe friends, hang out on campus daily, was always very present and kind and the only human that has CONSISTENTLY been good to cate. unlike her mother. unlike indira. but now that brings us to the end of season 1.. and they are still together but user has to deal with like cate slowly becoming a supe-remacist and hating humans and cate has to figure out how user fits into that because she loves her girlfriend but she’s struggling to trust humans after what happened at god u (obviously the reaction and transition between what happend at god u and user finding out would be more dramatic, my brain is just fried rn, you get the vibe though)

alsoo did i get my very own anon tag? :o <3

omg hi my fave anon<3 why yes...you did indeed get your own tag because how else am i supposed to show appreciation for the anon who keeps feeding me such delicious ideas? mwah.

sooooooo i did a bot for each of your suggestions because you deserve to play out the other two scenarios since i chose the last one for the blurb hehe. bots at the end as always!

this totally spiraled out of control and i needed to cut it off at some point lmao...but i hope you enjoy it<3

fault lines aka supe-remacist!cate who's...dating a human? tags: hurt/comfort, post season 1, directly segues into season 2, mostly follows canon, cate has her prosthetic arm, established relationship, supe-supremacist!cate, human!reader, cate redemption arc, brief kidnapping, supe vs. humans discourse 8.6K+ words

It used to be easier to lie.

Smile, tilt her chin, tell them what they wanted to hear. The right words always came when she needed them—honeyed and heavy, wrapped in just enough sincerity to sell the illusion. Cate Dunlap, poised and polished. Cate Dunlap, poster girl for Vought’s favorite flavor of grief. Cate Dunlap, the traitor who turned on her friends. Or saved them. Or doomed them. Depends who you ask.

But now, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with her palms braced against the counter, all she can see is the crack.

It runs straight down the middle of her reflection.

There’s a smear of mascara beneath one eye—she doesn’t bother wiping it. The left strap of her tank top keeps slipping down her shoulder. Her prosthetic catches the light in a way that makes her flinch. Even six months later it’s still too new. Too heavy. Too real. And not real at all. Half her arm is gone, and no matter how sleek or shiny the tech is, no matter how many journalists call her brave, Cate knows she lost more than flesh and bone that day.

She lost Marie. Jordan. Andre.

Maybe herself.

Maybe you, too.

Cate doesn’t cry. Not really. She just goes still. Like if she freezes long enough, maybe the ache will pass through her instead of burrowing deep. Maybe the guilt will forget her name. Maybe you won’t notice how cold she’s become.

She turns away from the mirror before it answers her.

The apartment is quiet. Not in the peaceful way. In the way that presses in around her ribs. The kind of silence Cate used to crave when she was younger, when everything was too loud—her mother’s shrill voice, Shetty’s calculating calm, the throb of fear that came every time she looked at the locked bedroom door. But now? Now the silence only reminds her that she’s alone.

Except she’s not.

She finds you exactly where she left you: curled up on the couch with one leg tucked under the other, hoodie sleeves shoved past your elbows, headphones resting loosely around your neck. There’s a half-finished sketch in the open notebook on your lap—Cate sees blue eyes, long fingers, sharp jaw. It's your version of a love letter. Has been since you were thirteen. Still, Cate doesn’t comment. She just watches. Tries to memorize.

You look up.

“You okay?”

Cate lies automatically. “Fine.”

You frown. It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But Cate’s spent years studying you like scripture. She knows the twitch of your brow, the shift in your throat when you swallow down a question you’re not sure you have the right to ask. Cate hates that. Hates what she’s turned you into—a soft thing too afraid to prod the bruises.

Cate moves to sit beside you, not quite touching. She doesn’t trust herself to. Lately, her skin feels like a warning label. She thinks about that too often—how easy it would be to reach for you and twist everything. Not out of cruelty. Just…control. Just so she can breathe again.

But she won’t.

Not with you.

Never with you.

“I ran into Homelander again,” Cate says after a moment. Her voice is smooth. A little tired, a little distant. The way it always sounds now. “He wants me to speak at the next rally.”

You close your sketchbook. “Are you going to?”

Cate shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to?”

That makes Cate pause.

Want. What a foreign thing. She used to know what she wanted—freedom, applause, connection. You. Now everything’s a question mark.

“I think I’m supposed to,” she says instead.

You don't answer right away. Your thumb brushes the edge of the page you just closed, a nervous tick Cate’s always found unbearably tender. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to look at you without mourning something. Wonders if loving you will always feel like standing on a fault line, waiting for the inevitable split.

“Cate,” you say gently. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Cate huffs out a bitter laugh. “Don’t I?”

“No,” you say, more firmly now. “You saved everyone. You stopped Shetty. You—”

“Broke Jordan’s trust. Abandoned Marie. Covered up the truth. Let Sam out.”

You soften again. “You did what you thought was right.”

Cate leans back, stares up at the ceiling. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

The two of you sit in silence for a while. The kind Cate used to love. The kind that felt like home, because you made it feel that way. Cate closes her eyes.

“Sometimes I wish I hated you,” she says softly.

You turn to her. “What?”

Cate doesn’t look. “It would be easier. If I could put you in the same box as everyone else. If I could just…blame you. For being human.”

Your voice is careful now. “You do blame me. Sometimes.”

Cate flinches.

It’s true. Not always. But in the sharp moments. In the moments when she wakes up gasping, or sees her arm lying on the floor beside her bed like a reminder. In the moments when people cheer her name and then spit on the next human they pass. In the moments when Sam calls her a leader, and Marie looks away. In those moments, Cate wants something to burn. And you are always there. Always reachable.

Cate whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Cate finally turns her head, meets your gaze. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

You don't answer.

Cate’s voice shakes. “Be honest.”

A beat.

Then you speak, “No. I think about who you used to be. I think about who you are when you’re not scared. I think about who you are when you’re with me.”

Cate exhales like it hurts.

“I’m not her anymore.”

“Yes, you are.”

Cate shakes her head, slow and exhausted. “You don’t know what it’s like, baby. Every day I wake up and there’s this voice in my head saying, they hate you. They’ll never understand you. You’re better than them. And sometimes? I believe it.”

You shift closer. Not touching. Just near.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say. “I just need you to be honest with me.”

Cate closes her eyes again. The tears don’t fall. They just burn.

“I don’t know if I can fix it.”

You shrug. “Then let it break. I’ll still be here.”

Cate turns her face toward you. Studies you. Every freckle, every scar, every stubborn little line in your jaw. She remembers tracing that jaw when you were kids. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Laying on her bed in the dark with the lights off and her heart thudding like a traitor. She remembers your first kiss. Remembered thinking, if I ever lose her, I won’t survive it.

She’s still not sure she will.

Cate leans in. Not to kiss. Just to rest her forehead against your shoulder.

“You’re the only thing I haven’t ruined,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the top of Cate’s head. A blessing. A promise.

“Then let me stay.”

The morning light doesn’t feel soft.

It’s sharp, white, unrelenting—pouring through the sheer curtains like it’s trying to peel Cate open from the outside in. She lies still in bed, half-wrapped in your hoodie, her face pressed into the pillow you were using before you left for the kitchen. Your scent lingers there: shampoo and old cigarette smoke, that subtle vanilla that always clings to your clothes.

Cate breathes in like it’ll steady her. It doesn’t.

Her arm—what’s left of it—aches in that phantom way again. The metal prosthetic is disconnected, charging on the nightstand. For a moment, Cate stares at it. She imagines it twitching to life on its own. Imagines it reaching out. Gripping her throat. Becoming the monster people already see when they look at her.

The knock on the door is quiet. Considerate.

Of course it is.

Cate doesn’t answer. Just rolls onto her back and waits for the inevitable creak of the hinge. It comes a beat later. You step inside with two mugs—one black, one cream-colored with faded pink lettering that says World’s Okayest Girlfriend.

Cate doesn’t smile. But her throat goes tight.

“I figured you didn’t sleep,” you say, walking over. “So I didn’t make it strong.”

Cate sits up slowly. Her voice comes out rasped and raw. “Thanks.”

You hand over the cream mug.

Cate notices the way your fingers linger. The way you watch her, careful and open all at once, like you’re waiting for Cate to either break or bolt. You probably are.

“I have to go,” Cate says after a sip. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I know.”

Cate looks away again. “It’s just a speech.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. “You really believe that?”

Cate doesn’t answer.

Because no—she doesn’t. She knows it’s not just a speech. It’s a spectacle. A signal flare. Homelander doesn’t do subtle. He’s throwing her into the deep end with the cameras already rolling. He wants blood. He wants outrage. He wants her powers, sharpened and obedient.

And Cate—Cate wants to be useful.

Wants to be something more than a girl who failed her friends. Who lost her brother. Who couldn’t stop Shetty until it was already too late.

Homelander looks at her like she’s valuable.

You look at her like she’s human.

Cate doesn’t know which is more dangerous.

“I just need to say something,” she mumbles, fingers tightening around the mug. “They’ll listen if it’s me.”

“Cate—”

“It’s just words, babe.”

You shake your head. “It’s Homelander’s words. You think he’s going to let you say anything real?”

Cate lifts her chin. “I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you say, soft but serious. “But you’re hurting. And he knows it. He’s not helping you—he’s weaponizing you.”

Cate doesn’t flinch. But her jaw sets. “You don’t know him.”

You exhale through your nose. Stand. Pace a little like you’re trying to choose your next words carefully. “I know you. And I know what he turns people into.”

Cate sets the mug down on the nightstand, right next to her prosthetic. “You think I can’t handle him?”

“I think he’s using you.”

“And you think I’m too fragile to notice.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You don’t trust me.”

You stop pacing. Turn to her, eyes burning. “No, Cate. I don’t trust him. You, I love. Which is exactly why this scares the hell out of me.”

Cate says nothing.

Not because she doesn’t believe you.

But because she does.

Because you love her. Still. Even now. Even after everything. And that love is so pure it makes Cate feel like she’s choking on it.

But it also makes her feel like she’s being watched from the wrong side of glass. Like you still see the old version of her—the girl who used to blush when you kissed her under the covers, who used to whisper about getting out of the house, running away together, finding something better.

That girl is dead.

Cate became someone else to survive.

And this new version? The one with the metal arm and the hollow eyes and the fire building in her chest? That girl wants to be feared.

She stands.

You take a step back, as if giving her space. As if you know this version isn’t yours to hold.

Cate straps her prosthetic on slowly. Deliberately. It whirs to life with a soft mechanical click. Her fingers flex experimentally.

“Don’t come,” she says without turning around.

You’re quiet. Then: “Cate—”

“I mean it.” Cate looks over her shoulder. Her voice is low. Flat. “You won’t like what I say.”

You nod once.

But Cate sees the way your hands curl into fists at your sides. The way your throat bobs when you swallow.

And the worst part?

You don't stop her.

Just let Cate walk past. Out the door. Down the hall. Into the daylight where the cameras wait.

You don't breathe when Cate steps onto the stage.

Not really. Not fully.

Your lungs seize, ribs locked around something ancient and awful. Fear, maybe. Or grief. Or just the terrible anticipation of watching someone you love become unrecognizable in front of a cheering crowd.

The plaza is flooded—bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, phones raised, flags waving. They’re all here for her. For Cate Dunlap. Vought’s miracle girl. The “Guardian of Godolkin.” The girl who lost her arm and gained an army.

And standing just behind her, hands folded loosely behind his back, is Homelander.

You see him first, actually. He lands mid-sentence during the warm-up act, no warning, no introduction, just that sickening boom of displaced air and a flash of red and white cape. The crowd goes electric—feral, practically foaming at the mouth. You stay still. Hood pulled low, sunglasses on, pressed between two overenthusiastic supe teens who haven’t stopped screaming since she got here.

“You think he’ll fly with her again?” one whispers.

“Only if she keeps behaving,” the other smirks.

You swallow bile.

No one here knows who you are.

Or maybe they do. Maybe they just don’t care.

A few people know Cate dates a human. Most of them think it’s performative. A PR play. Maybe a fetish. Maybe just convenience. Something warm to come home to. Nothing serious. Certainly nothing sacred.

You’ve been called worse than “pet.” The worst came from your own kind.

Race traitor.

Sleeps with murderers.

Hope you get what’s coming to you.

You never respond online. What would be the point?

Instead, you defend supes in quiet conversations. One-on-ones. Talk about Jordan like they’re family. About Andre like he’s the dumbass brother you never had (and now never will). About Marie’s compassion. About Cate’s—

Well.

Not anymore.

Because Cate steps up to the mic and the person who speaks? It isn’t yours.

“Brothers. Sisters. Supes.”

She starts with a smile. Confident. Collected. A little too polished. You’ve seen that smile before—during press interviews, staged photoshoots, propaganda clips Cate would later mock under her breath while crawling into your lap.

But this isn’t a mock-up. This is real.

“This is a new era,” Cate continues. “One where we finally stop apologizing for our existence.”

The crowd roars.

You stay silent. You’re not even supposed to be here, after all.

Cate’s in all black, her prosthetic fully visible, hair perfectly straightened and cascading down her back. Sharp lines. Intentional. She looks untouchable. Cold. Beautiful. Her voice doesn’t tremble. She doesn’t stumble. She doesn’t flinch when Homelander steps closer.

He stands just behind her now. Like a shadow. Like a claim.

And Cate lets him.

“They want us to stay quiet. To keep our heads down. They want us to feel guilty for the power that was thrust upon us without our consent.”

More cheers. Phones flash.

“They say we’re dangerous. That we can’t be trusted. But what about them?” Cate’s voice lifts now, righteous and raw. “Who built the labs? Who injected the serum? Who locked up children and called it education?”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“They made us. And now they fear us.”

Cate leans forward, eyes glittering. “Let them.”

The scream from the crowd is deafening.

You watch your girlfriend bask in it. Arms raised. Prosthetic fist clenched. Homelander’s grin wide behind her.

And you think:

You used to be so scared of your powers you cried yourself to sleep.

You made me promise never to look at you differently.

You were my home.

But the woman on stage is not yours.

Not right now.

You don't cry. Not here. Not in front of all of them. Just push your way out of the crowd before the next speaker is called. Before Cate looks back and sees an empty space where you once stood.

You duck into the alley between buildings, hoodie still up. No one follows.

Only then do you let yourself sink to the pavement.

You’re shaking.

Not from fear. From fury. From sorrow. From the deep, aching knowledge that the girl you fell in love with is now a weapon in a war neither of you asked for.

And the worst part?

Cate probably thinks she’s protecting you.

By pretending you’re no one. Disposable. Forgettable.

But you know better.

Cate doesn’t keep her secret out of shame.

She keeps her secret because if the world knew what you meant to her, they’d use it.

Just like Homelander is using Cate now.

Cate doesn’t notice the silence right away.

She’s still buzzing, heart still skipping in that frantic, addictive rhythm—the kind that feels too close to joy to call anything else. The kind that makes you believe the crowd meant it. That they see you. That maybe, just maybe, you’re finally becoming the person you were always meant to be.

The second she steps into the apartment, it dies.

No lights.

No music.

No sketchbook on the coffee table, you’re not curled up in the corner of the couch pretending you’re not watching the livestream on mute. No sarcastic comment waiting at the door. No arms. No kiss. No presence.

The air feels off.

Cate blinks, still in her boots, one glove peeled halfway off her metal hand. “Baby?”

Nothing.

She checks the bedroom. Bathroom. Rooftop. Nowhere.

At first, she thinks—Maybe she left to get food. Maybe she’s walking the block, needed air, needed—

Then she sees the mug in the sink. Lipstick smeared around the rim.

And beside it, crumpled like something thrown too hard into the trash: a rally flyer. Folded once. Then again. Then torn clean down the middle.

Cate stares.

Then turns to the TV. Her phone.

The livestream is still trending. Her face plastered across headlines.

Cate Dunlap: The New Voice of Supe Sovereignty.

Homelander’s Rising Star.

Blood for Blood: Inside the New War on Human Institutions.

And below it, the comments.

“She’s so hot when she’s angry.” “Bro she was faking it with that human chick anyway. She’s one of us.” “Finally someone’s saying it.” “Tell me she’s single now.” “Wait—wasn’t she dating some little human nobody? 😂”

Cate doesn’t finish reading.

Her hand tightens. A snap cracks through the silence—glass shattering in the sink. The mug.

Her mug.

The pink one.

Like some bad omen.

Cate’s stomach lurches.

She doesn’t remember walking to the door. Only the rush of motion, the sound of your name caught in her throat, the twist of guilt coiling tight behind her ribs. She slams the door open and starts down the stairs, not trusting the elevator, not trusting herself.

It takes twenty minutes to find you.

You’re in the alley behind the bodega, hoodie still on, shoulders hunched like the wind cut straight through you. You’re sitting on the curb. Smoking.

The world around you moves on.

Cate stops. She just—stops.

You don't look up.

Which means you know.

Cate steps forward anyway.

“I didn’t know you were there.”

You exhale. “Yeah.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Wanted to see the show.”

Cate flinches. “That’s not fair.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Cate takes another step. Close enough to see the way your jaw is clenched. The way your eyes are red. The way you hold the cigarette like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“You mean see you?” you ask quietly.

Cate doesn’t answer.

Because yes.

That’s exactly what she means.

You finally look up. And it’s not hate in your eyes. It’s worse. Heartbreak.

“Is that who you are now?”

Cate doesn’t speak. Can’t.

Because part of her doesn’t know anymore.

You stand. Shrug the hoodie tighter around you. “I thought I could handle it,” you say. “The looks. The threats. The names. All of it. Because I thought…you were worth it.”

Cate opens her mouth. But you keep going.

“I didn’t care what people called me. Race traitor. Pet. Whatever. Because I knew you. I knew who you were with me.”

A breath.

“I don’t think I know you anymore, Cate.”

Cate stumbles forward, desperate. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Cate swallows hard. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I thought keeping you secret would keep you safe.”

You laugh. It’s hollow. “Funny. You hiding me only made everyone think I didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to you.”

“You matter more than anything.”

Your eyes shine now. “Then say it. Say it where they can hear you.”

Cate goes still.

Because she can’t.

Not yet. Not with Homelander watching. Not with every supe in the country ready to make you a target if they knew the truth.

You see that hesitation. See all you need.

You nod slowly, turning to walk away. “Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s what I thought.”

This time it’s Cate who doesn’t stop you.

She just stands there. In the dark. In the cold. In the silence she made.

Cate locks the door behind her.

Not because she’s afraid.

Because part of her wants to scream. Break something. Scream again. And she knows if she doesn’t have barriers between herself and the rest of the world, she’ll be on the evening news for a different reason entirely.

Cate stares at the ruined mug in the sink like it might put itself back together. Like time might rollback and undo the moment your eyes stopped looking at her like she was worth saving.

She sinks to the floor.

Her arm whirs slightly as she folds it into her lap, a mechanical hiss too loud in the empty apartment. Her whole body’s trembling. She doesn’t know if it’s from the rally or the fight or just the aftershock of standing beside Homelander and realizing that, in the eyes of millions, she’s finally everything she once feared becoming.

A symbol.

A puppet.

A monster.

And you saw it all.

Cate curls in on herself. Hands in her hair now. Teeth clenched. Tears burning like they’re trying to shame her into submission. She tries to breathe steadily. It only makes it worse.

There’s no one here to soothe her. No soothing fingers in her hair. No quiet voice calling her baby, whispering that it’s going to be okay. No warmth.

Only the cold where you should be.

Cate gasps like she’s drowning. Her prosthetic hand claws at the edge of the counter as she pulls herself up. She finds her phone. Dials.

Voicemail.

She tries again. And again.

She doesn’t leave a message.

What would she even say?

Come home.

I’m sorry.

I’m not her.

I think I might be.

The bar isn’t particularly nice.

It’s half-empty, smells like bleach and fryer oil, and the bartender didn’t even bother to card you—just gave you a once-over, raised a brow, and poured double the whiskey you asked for. Maybe he recognized you. Maybe he didn’t care that you hardly look twenty-one.

Either way, you’re on her third drink now.

The world’s gotten blurrier. Softer at the edges. You heart still feels like it’s got teeth, though. Every swallow burns. Not from the liquor. From the ache.

You pull out your phone. Cate’s name lights it up. Three missed calls.

You turns it face down.

Outside, the city moves on. Lights flash. Sirens hum. Somewhere, people are still watching the rally on replay, Cate’s voice looped into TikToks and remixed into fan edits. Some of them feature Homelander’s approving smile behind her. Some don’t.

You don't look, just stare at the rim of your glass. Think about how Cate once kissed you after you cut your palm open climbing a fence—took your hand so gently, like you were made of glass. Thinks about the speech. The crowd. The look in Cate’s eyes when she said, let them fear us.

You down the rest of the glass.

“Another?” the bartender asks.

“Something stronger,” you murmur.

He gives you a long look. Nods. Starts pouring.

It’s not until the fourth drink that you say it aloud.

“I think I need V.”

The bartender pauses. “What?”

You don't look up. “Compound V. The supe serum. I think I need it.”

The guy laughs. Like it’s a joke. Like it’s drunk talk. He walks away.

You stare at your hands. They don’t shake.

Your thoughts are quiet. Steady.

She wouldn’t have to protect me anymore. Wouldn’t have to be afraid. I could stand beside her. Really stand there.

You press the glass to your lips. “She wouldn’t have to be ashamed of me.”

The idea blooms in your chest like something poisonous and seductive.

Other people have done it. Others have survived. Others have gotten powers and kept the people they love, right?

You close your eyes.

“I just want to be enough.”

Cate hears the key in the lock before she sees you.

It’s slow. Fumbling. The wrong key first, then the right one, then a pause like you’ve forgotten how to turn a knob. Cate’s halfway across the room before the door even opens, heart already in her throat.

You stumble in—hoodie still on, face pale and flushed all at once. Your eyes are red. Your mouth is tight. You smell like whiskey and smoke and the night.

Cate doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

You blink at her. Sway. Then shut the door behind you with a soft click, like you know slamming it would break something too fragile to repair.

“I tried to forget,” you say.

Cate’s voice is a whisper. “Did it work?”

You laugh. It cracks halfway through. “You ever tried to forget someone you love?”

Cate feels the answer throb under her skin.

You shrug off the hoodie. Drop it to the floor. Your hair’s a mess. Your knuckles are red. You look like a storm that never got the chance to finish wrecking the coastline.

Cate steps forward. “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“You shouldn’t have let me.”

You both go still.

Then—Cate moves.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just forward. Like her body’s been waiting to close the space between them all day. You don't stop her. Just let it happen—let Cate’s arms wrap around you, let your forehead drop against Cate’s shoulder.

Cate exhales.

The relief is sharp. Drowning. Her whole body trembles with it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

You don't say anything. Just fist your hands in Cate’s shirt. Hold on like you might fall if you lets go.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable.”

“I’m not mad,” you murmur.

Cate pulls back, just enough to see your eyes. “Then what?”

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

Cate nods. “Me too.”

You kiss before either of you can spiral again.

It’s messy. All teeth and salt and the kind of need that lives deep in the gut. You taste like smoke and pain and love. Cate forgets how to breathe. Her hand—her real one—slides up under your jaw, holding you steady. Your mouths move together like you’ve been doing this forever.

Really, you have.

When you break apart, your eyes are wet.

Cate wipes the tears before they fall.

“I can’t lose you,” you say. Your voice is small. Honest. “It’d tear me in half.”

Cate closes her eyes. “Then stay.”

A pause.

Then, barely audible—

“Would it be easier if I was one of you?”

Cate goes still.

You lean your forehead against hers. “If I took V. If I was strong. If I was dangerous. If you didn’t have to hide me.”

“Don’t,” Cate breathes.

“You wouldn’t have to protect me.”

“Don’t say that.”

You press in closer. “You could love me in public.”

“I already love you in public.”

“You don’t say my name.”

Cate breaks.

Not into tears. Into desperation.

She grabs your hands—both of them. Holds them to her chest like maybe she can pour the truth straight into your skin.

“I love you like you’re the last good thing in me,” she says. “I love you so much it makes me want to tear this fucking world apart just so you’ll be safe in it. But if you take V—if you change who you are to fit some fucked up system even I’m barely surviving—then it’s not me loving you anymore. It’s the war loving its newest recruit.”

You blink hard.

Cate softens her grip. “You don’t need powers to be strong. You already are. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“But you’re still walking into battle.”

Cate nods. “So pull me out.”

You stare at her.

Then kiss her again.

This time slower. Softer. Like maybe you’ll survive this. Together.

Cate wakes before the sun.

The apartment is wrapped in shadow, the kind that clings to everything with softness. No flashing headlines. No protest chants. No Homelander. Just the hum of the fridge. The rise and fall of breath against her back. The weight of a hand curled under her shirt, resting just above her ribs.

You.

Cate doesn’t move. Not yet.

Her eyes stay fixed on the wall in front of her. The faintest pink glow is starting to bleed through the curtains, painting lines across the hardwood floor. She follows them with her eyes. Counts her heartbeats.

Last night is a blur.

Not the fight. Not the rally. Not the cigarette smoke curling off your hoodie as you walked back into Cate’s life like a ghost made of everything Cate couldn’t live without.

The blur is the moment after. The softness. The whisper in the sheets. The way you touched her face like you didn’t care how many monsters Cate had let whisper in her ear that week.

You matter more than anything.

Cate clings to that now.

She shifts slightly, just enough to glance over her shoulder.

You’re still asleep.

Mouth parted, one hand splayed across Cate’s stomach now, the other tucked beneath your cheek. Your lashes are long. Your brow is furrowed even in sleep. Like you’re still bracing for something to go wrong.

Cate gently threads your fingers together under the blanket.

The gesture is small. Ridiculous, really. What the hell does holding a hand fix when the world is tilting this violently? But it’s all Cate has. That and the quiet promise buried somewhere between her lungs: I won’t let them take you. I won’t let this take us.

You stir slightly. Mumble something that might be Cate’s name.

Cate presses a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “I’m here.”

Another mumble. This one clearer. “Time is it?”

Cate glances at the clock. “Early.”

You groan. “Too early to be a martyr.”

Cate smiles before she can stop herself. “Sleep.”

She feels you melt again behind her, the tension bleeding out inch by inch. Cate closes her eyes.

Maybe this is all you’ll get. These stolen hours before the next speech, the next headline, the next call from Homelander or knock on the door or crowd outside screaming for a savior Cate never asked to become.

Maybe this is it.

But for now, your breath is warm against her neck. Your fingers are intertwined. And Cate lets herself believe—for a moment—that she’s still someone worthy of being held like this.

It’s gotten worse overnight.

Cate can feel it the second she steps onto the quad that morning.

Eyes don’t just follow her anymore—they weigh her down. Stares press into her like needles, testing how far they can go before she bleeds. Some are reverent. Most are not. Supe students nod in cold approval. Faculty keep their heads low. And the humans still allowed on campus?

They watch her like she’s holding a loaded gun.

Cate adjusts her sunglasses. Keeps walking.

Godolkin has changed. Maybe it always was this way and she just hadn’t noticed. But now there are fences where there used to be gardens. Surveillance drones hover like flies. Metal detectors at every entrance. And worst of all—the new badge system.

Color-coded. Subtle in design, brutal in function.

Supes wear gold. Vought-issued, sleek, with chip-embedded access to every building.

Humans wear red.

No access. No clearance. No rights.

Yours is tucked into your jacket pocket. You hate wearing it. Cate knows. You used to make jokes about it—Look, babe. I’m officially radioactive. But now?

Now it’s not funny.

Cate walks past the fountain. Past the newly erected statue of Brink. Past the place where she once pulled you into the bushes to make out between classes.

She hears the yelling before she sees the crowd.

The checkpoint near the west gate is swarmed. Protesters—mostly human—have gathered with signs and megaphones and looks of disgust aimed at every supe who walks past. Some of them wear anti-supe shirts. Some wear bloodied bandages on their arms. All of them look like they’ve been waiting for a fight.

Cate slows. Frowns.

And then she sees you.

Hoodie up, badge out, already walking toward the checkpoint when the first voice cuts through the crowd.

“Hey traitor!”

Cate freezes.

You don't flinch. Just keep walking.

Another voice. Louder. Meaner.

“Tell me—is the supe pussy really that good, or are you just that fucking pathetic?”

Cate’s heart stutters.

You stop.

You turn—slowly, deliberately—and Cate can see it about to happen. The tension in your jaw. The flare in your nostrils. The way your hands curl into fists. The moment you snap.

“Don’t,” Cate whispers to no one.

But it’s too late.

A cup flies through the air. Hits you square in the chest. Coffee or soda—sticky and dark. It splashes across your shirt, down your jeans. The crowd laughs.

And then you lunge.

Cate’s moving before she even thinks.

She doesn’t remember pushing past the checkpoint. Doesn’t remember snapping her badge at the guard or ducking through the gate. All she knows is the way you’re already halfway over the barricade, snarling like you’re ready to break someone’s jaw.

Cate grabs you from behind. Arms around your waist.

“Baby—don’t.”

“Cate, let go.”

“Please,” Cate says, voice cracked and low. “They want this.”

You tremble in her arms. Vibrating with rage. Sticky soda running down your front, breathing like a cornered animal. Cate presses her forehead between your shoulder blades.

“Don’t give it to them.”

It takes a long moment. Too long. But finally, finally, you sag.

Cate doesn’t let go.

You stand like that—pressed together on the edge of a war—until security disperses the protesters and a drone whirs low to scan Cate’s credentials. Cate doesn’t speak. Doesn’t care. All she can think is: I let this happen.

When you finally turn around, there’s no anger in your eyes.

Just hurt.

“I was just trying to come see you,” you whisper.

Cate reaches up. Wipes something—soda, maybe tears—from your cheek. Her hand shakes.

“I know,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

But you both know it’s not enough.

She doesn’t even know where her key is.

It takes Cate three tries to get the door open. She hasn’t been back here in weeks, not really—not since everything started to unravel. Since Homelander started circling like a vulture. Since your apartment became the only place that felt remotely like home.

But you can’t go there now.

Too risky.

Too exposed.

So here you are. Cate’s dorm. Four walls and a bed too narrow and a desk covered in unopened mail and protest flyers she never meant to keep. You say nothing as you step inside. Just shrug off your hoodie, wincing when the fabric peels from the sticky soda soaked into your shirt.

Cate doesn’t speak either.

She moves automatically—sets down her bag, goes to the mini-fridge, grabs the half-empty bottle of water, some paper towels, a clean t-shirt from the drawer. Not hers. One of yours. Probably left here by accident months ago.

She doesn’t say that.

Just holds it out. “Sit.”

You sit on the bed without a word.

Cate kneels in front of you.

It’s methodical, the way she cleans you up. Soaked cloth across your collarbone. Across the front of your ribs. Wiping soda from the inside of your elbow like she’s dabbing at a wound. Cate’s movements are gentle but firm, her prosthetic resting quietly on her own knee while her other hand works. You stay still the whole time. Don’t speak. Don’t look away.

Only flinch once—when Cate presses too hard against a bruise she hadn’t noticed forming.

“Sorry,” Cate breathes.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

Cate’s hands still.

She lets the silence stretch between them.

Then, quietly: “You shouldn’t have to go through that. Just to be with me.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “You think this is about you?”

Cate looks up. She doesn’t smile. “Isn’t it?”

You exhale. Your eyes are tired. “It’s about all of it, Cate. The checkpoints. The comments. The looks. The fucking badge. They don’t just hate you. They hate that I chose you. That I keep choosing you despite all the shit that comes with it.”

Cate swallows hard. “I don’t want you to have to choose.”

“Well, you don’t get that luxury anymore.”

Cate leans back on her heels. Watches her. Soaks her in. The bruise. The rage. The deep, painful clarity in her voice.

And then—Cate whispers, “What if it’s not enough?”

“What?”

Cate’s voice is barely audible now. “What if love isn’t enough to survive this?”

Your expression softens. “Then we find something else.”

Cate closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to cry. Not now. Not here.

But it sneaks up anyway.

Not sobs. Just that helpless burn behind her ribs. That stupid catch in her breath.

You reach down. Fingers brushing her cheek. Cate leans into it like she might break without it.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Cate says.

“You won’t.”

Cate opens her eyes again. “But what if staying with me means giving up pieces of yourself?”

You don't hesitate.

“Then I give them up.”

Cate freezes.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t say that. You deserve to be whole.”

“So do you.”

Cate looks up at her. Really looks. “Are we willing to tear pieces off ourselves just to fit together?”

You nod. “If that’s what it takes.”

Cate exhales shakily. “And if it still doesn’t work?”

“Then we go down together. Hands clasped.”

Cate crawls up into your lap.

Wraps her arms around your neck. Buries her face against your shoulder.

You sit like that for a long time.

No answers. Just the thrum of hearts trying not to break.

Just two girls on the wrong side of history, holding onto the only thing that still feels real.

At first, she thinks you’re just late.

The checkpoint at the east gate is always a mess—two ID scans, three layers of metal detection, one bored Vought intern assigned to “human entry” like it’s a fucking punishment. Cate waits near the quad, watching her phone. One minute. Two. Ten.

By twenty, the dread starts to bloom.

You always text.

Even when you’re pissed. Even when you fight. Even when you’re drunk and petty and too stubborn to say I miss you, you always text.

Cate tries calling.

Voicemail.

She tries again. Nothing.

The campus feels too loud. Too bright. The shadows crawl longer than they should.

Cate doesn’t walk—she runs to the checkpoint.

It’s empty.

“Where’s the human from this morning?” she snaps at the first supe guard she sees, repeats your name for emphasis. 

The guy shrugs. “Didn’t see her come through.”

“She badged in. I saw the record.”

“Then maybe she tripped a sensor.”

Cate’s stomach knots. “Where is she?”

Another shrug. Too casual. Too clean.

“I want to see the footage.”

“That’s above my clearance.”

Cate doesn’t blink. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” the guard says, tone going flat. “That’s the problem.”

She stares him down.

And when it’s clear she’s not getting an answer here—not from guards, not from Godolkin—she does the only thing she knows will get her answers.

She goes directly to Vought.

The tower lobby is glass and shadow. Cate’s boots click across the marble as she strides past reception like she owns the place. She doesn’t need clearance. Not anymore. Not since he started treating her like his favorite daughter.

The elevator doors open like they’ve been waiting for her.

When they close, she punches the emergency override. Ninety-ninth floor. Executive access.

The doors slide open again.

And there he is.

Homelander.

Waiting.

Grinning.

“Oh,” he says, voice syrup-slick. “Just the girl I wanted to see.”

Cate doesn’t slow. “Where is she?”

He tilts his head. “You’ll have to be more specific. She is such a broad category.”

“My girlfriend. Human.”

He laughs. “Oh. Right. That one.”

Cate’s pulse spikes.

Homelander walks toward her, slow and easy, hands clasped behind his back. Like he’s got all the time in the world. Like nothing bad could ever possibly touch him.

“I was starting to think you were hiding her,” he says. “You know, for someone who claims to be part of the cause, you’re awfully…conflicted.”

“Where is she.”

He gestures lazily toward the hallway. “Holding. Lower levels. We just had some…questions. She triggered a flag in the system. Old Red River files. Unregistered V exposure, did you know that? Tsk. Sloppy.”

Cate’s mouth goes dry.

“She’s not a threat.”

“She is a human who’s been whispering in your ear,” he replies, stepping closer. “And you’re very important to me, Cate. I can’t have you compromised.”

Cate squares her shoulders. “You can’t have me disobedient. There’s a difference.”

Homelander grins. “Semantics.”

Then, casually, “Let’s make this simple. There are two people in holding right now. Your human. And a young supe who’s been leaking information to the press. You can have one.”

Cate doesn’t move.

Homelander leans in. “I’ll even let you be the one to do it. You can use your powers. Find out which is lying. Who’s worth saving. Easy.”

Cate’s voice cracks. “You want me to use my powers on her.”

“I want you to prove your loyalty.”

Her fists curl.

“You don’t have to hurt her,” he says. “Just…check her thoughts. Peek behind the curtain. Make sure she’s not a traitor to our cause.”

Cate remembers what it feels like. Touching someone and slipping in without consent. Reading everything. Every thought. Every shame. Every fear. It’s a violation, even when it’s done with care.

With you?

It would be…unforgivable.

She turns to leave.

Homelander calls out after her.

“You walk out without choosing,” he says, eyes gone cold, “and they’ll both be gone come morning. You choose, Cate. That’s the deal.”

Cate’s heart slams against her ribs.

And then—

“I’ll do it.”

You’re in a glass room, like some kind of experiment. Cold metal table. One chair. Arms folded. Eyes puffy, but defiant.

Cate steps in.

The door clicks shut behind her.

You stand. “You okay?” Typical of you to instantly worry about Cate.

Cate doesn’t answer.

She just crosses the room. Stops in front of you. Reaches out.

You flinch.

Cate’s ungloved hand hovers. “It’s me,” she whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You look at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m getting you out.”

Your eyes narrow. “What did you have to do for him?”

Cate’s hand stills. “Nothing. Yet.”

A beat.

Then, very slowly, Cate wraps her fingers around your wrist.

Skin to skin.

Everything rushes in at once, unbidden—your fear, your anger, your memories of the checkpoint, the sting of the soda, the way your thoughts scream Cate, Cate, Cate over and over like a prayer and a curse and a lifeline all at once.

Cate stumbles back. Gasps for air.

You grab her by the shoulders, grounding her. “Hey—hey, breathe. You okay?”

Cate nods, shaking. She almost looks relieved. “You’re clean. I knew you would be but…”

You frown. “Cate, what did you see?”

Cate meets her eyes. “Just me. Always me.”

And then she pulls her in.

Kisses her like it’s the last moment they’ll ever get.

The elevator door hisses shut behind her.

She’s still breathless.

Your name echoes in her chest like a warning bell—like if she says it out loud, Homelander will hear it and rip the air from her lungs. So she keeps it safely tucked away behind her ribs. She keeps everything tucked away.

Cate walks back into the meeting room like nothing happened.

Like her hands aren’t still trembling. Like her powers didn’t just crack wide open and show her everything you’ve been hiding: the fear, the guilt, the hunger, the love.

Homelander’s waiting.

Looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back like always. The skyline burns behind him in late-afternoon gold.

“Well?” he asks without turning around.

Cate’s voice doesn’t shake.

“She’s clean.”

Homelander turns.

One brow arches.

“No thoughts of betrayal?” he asks, stepping closer. “No little secrets? No anti-supe rhetoric buried in that pretty little head?”

Cate meets his gaze.

“There’s nothing in her mind except me.”

He smiles. Sharp and slow.

“Is that so? How romantic.”

Cate doesn’t blink. “She’s not the threat.”

“Then the other one is.”

Cate hesitates. “I…didn’t read him.”

“You didn’t need to. You chose. That’s what matters.”

She feels the weight of those words like glass in her throat.

Chosen.

That’s what he wanted. Not truth. Not facts. Obedience. A test of loyalty under the guise of mercy.

She passed.

She failed.

She doesn't know which.

Homelander reaches out, pats her on the shoulder. The metal one. His palm lingers just long enough to feel like possession.

“You did good, kid,” he says.

Cate forces a smile. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Dismissed.”

She turns. Makes a beeline to the elevator. Doesn’t let herself shake until the doors close. Doesn’t let herself cry until she’s halfway down.

And when she steps out onto the sidewalk, Vought Tower behind her like a knife in the sky, she does the only thing she can do.

She calls you.

“I’m coming home,” she says.

It’s dark by the time Cate gets home.

Not late—just dark, the way New York gets in the middle of a bad season. Gray skies, heavy air. The kind of night that feels like it’s waiting to fall apart.

The apartment’s quiet. A single lamp on. No music. No TV. Just you, cross-legged on the couch in your sweats, hair pulled back, a bruise blooming low on your jaw.

Cate’s never hated the world more than she does right now.

The door shuts behind her, and for a second—just a second—she forgets how to move.

You look up. Don't smile. Don’t speak.

You just open your arms.

Cate drops her bag. Walks straight into them. Drops to her knees in front of the couch and lets herself be pulled in like she’s being rescued from a war zone.

Which—technically—she is.

Your arms wrap tight around her shoulders. Cate’s head tucks beneath your chin.

Neither of you speak for a long time.

Not until Cate whispers, “I had to lie.”

Your fingers still in her hair. “To him?”

“To myself.”

You pull back just enough to look at her. “What did you tell him?”

“That you were clean. That I read you and there was nothing in your head but me.”

Your brow furrows. “Is that what you saw?”

Cate nods.

Then chokes.

And it all comes spilling out.

“The checkpoint. The coffee. The way you looked at me when I stopped you from swinging. Homelander’s office. The choice. He made me choose. Between you and some traitor of a supe kid. And he said if I didn’t, he’d…kill you both.”

You stare. “And you picked me.”

Cate shakes. “Of course I did.”

You cup her face. “Even if it made you a traitor?”

Cate nods again. “I’d do it again.”

Her voice cracks on the last word.

“I don’t care what side I’m on anymore, baby. I just want to be where you are.”

You kiss her.

It’s not heated. Not desperate. Just steady. Grounding. Cate clutches your shirt like she might float away otherwise.

When you part, Cate exhales hard.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

You brush hair from her eyes. “Of what?”

“That we’re not gonna survive this. That he’s already watching you. That I led him to you.”

Your voice is soft but sure. “Then we stop letting him decide what happens next.”

Cate looks up. “How?”

You shrug. “We leave.”

Cate stares. “Run?”

“Disappear. Start over. Somewhere off the grid. Or…we stay and fight.”

Cate’s breath hitches. “With who?”

“With whoever we can find that still believes in us.”

Cate sinks back into your lap, silent.

She thinks about Marie. Jordan. Emma. 

She thinks about the version of herself she could be if she stopped letting people pull strings through her spine.

“You’d give it all up?” Cate asks.

You meet her gaze. “In a heartbeat.”

Cate nods. Quietly. Slowly. The decision forming between you like a third heartbeat in the room.

“Okay.”

You kiss her temple. “Then we start with this: no more hiding.”

Cate lets out a shaky breath. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” you say. “But this time? We’re scared together.”

Homelander says yes. Without fanfare or resistance.

That’s the part no one really expected.

Cate pitches it like strategy. Like optics. “They’re powerful. They’re visible. You don’t need to punish them—you need to use them. Turn them to our cause.” And he listens. Smirks. Says something about how charming she is when she’s ruthless.

The next morning, Jordan and Emma are cleared to return to Godolkin.

But that’s not the hard part.

The hard part is standing in the quad waiting for them to arrive. Waiting for the transport Vought sends, an armored truck from Elmira, security detail posted like it's a celebrity drop-off, and not two super-abled twenty-somethings who were nearly disappeared by the very institution that claims to protect them.

Cate’s hands shake. You stand beside her, close but silent. You haven't spoken much since you decided to stay. To resist. To try.

Cate’s scared to look at you too long.

Scared she’ll see the same expression she expects from Jordan and Emma: betrayal.

The truck pulls up.

Doors open.

Jordan and Emma are huddled together. Afraid. Well, at least until they see Cate. Then that fear turns into something closer to disgust. Disappointment.

Jordan steps out first—hair longer than before. They look tired. Thinner. Like a flame burned too long. Their eyes flick across the quad, then land on Cate again.

Emma follows, weary, careful to stay hidden behind Jordan, orange uniform hanging loose from her body. Her lip is split. Cate doesn’t know if it’s old or new.

They both stop when they see her.

No hugs. No greetings. Just silence.

Cate steps forward.

“Hey, you guys,” she says softly.

Jordan’s mouth curls. “Brought out the welcoming committee just for us, did you? Fun.”

Cate flinches. “You were cleared this morning. By me.”

Emma tilts her head. “Why?”

Cate’s voice is steadier than she feels. “Because I owe you both more than I’ll ever be able to repay.”

Jordan crosses their arms. “You working for him now?”

Cate doesn’t answer.

Emma scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m not working for him,” Cate says. “I’m playing him.”

Jordan laughs, but it’s bitter. “Oh, that’ll end well.”

Cate nods. “Probably not. But if you’re building something—resistance, rebellion, whatever it is—I want in.”

Emma stares at her. “You think we’d trust you after everything?”

“No,” Cate whispers. “But I’m not asking you to trust me.”

Jordan’s voice is low. “Then what are you asking?”

Cate looks at them. Really looks. At the bruises. At the weight. At the grief. At all the cracks she helped cause.

“I’m asking you to let me help fix what I broke.”

A pause.

Then you speak, soft but sharp. “She means it.”

Jordan looks at you.

Something shifts.

Emma doesn’t move. But she doesn’t turn away either.

Finally—Jordan says, “You get one shot.”

Cate nods. “That’s all I need.”

♡ | strange worship ♡ | unlikely friendship ♡ | the only exception

[celefrfr]

hiii!! can i get an angst to comfort joost fic where the reader is just having a really hard time lately w everything. like family, work, and just everything in general is stressing her/them out so they get really distant bc they feel bad about burdening joost and joost jusr shows up at their apartment and is like “why” and they break down in tears and it ends all fluffy?

February i almost died.

notes: this is actually a bit gotten from a real story, i removed the happy part of it , made parts different , and i just added joost lol, im good now, dont villanize my mom, she was very sad too because she knew i was always crying, shes a good person

summary: literally look at the request 👍

relationship:joost×fem!reader

WARNING! theres a part where Y/N commits sh (head banging)

Reader was always a very clingy person to Joost, always texting him, asking him to hang out, going to restaurants, but, november came, her mental health started to go down, she felt lonely, like nobody wanted her, like she was a burden, she never spoke, whenever she did she'd get ignored, she always argued with her parents, she made each of them cry at least once, she was guilty, she was close to running away from everyone and never coming back, the only thing stopping her was that she didnt have any money to use, one day, she was in her room listening to music, bawling her eyes out, in fetal position,her mom came in, she kinda screamed "go shower, and do your room." her voice cold "CANT YOU SEE HOW DOING RIGHT NOW?" Y/N screamed back "Y/N, youre never happy." her mom left and closed the door, Y/N got up, and slammed her head into the wall twice, she got white flashes each time, joost lived in an apartment, attached to hers, he could hear the banging, the crying, the screaming, as Y/N was pacing back and forth in her room just crying, joost was trying to find her , she didnt want to be a burden to him, so she ran to a public bathroom and just cried there, her eyes were already puffy from the day before since she cried everyday, when she calmed down, she went back to her house and into her room, just to find joost talking with her parents, he was almost screaming, arguing "YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER IS ON THE VERGE OF KILLING HERSELF OR RUNNING AWAY AND WHAT DO YOU DO? OH YEAH, LETS SCREAM AT HER A BIT MORE, MAYBE SHE WILL BE HAPPY, WHERE IS YOUR COMMON SENSE?" he yelled, her dad yelled back "SHE TRIES TO MAKE HERSELF A VICTIM,SHE NEVER LISTENS" joost didnt even answer, he noticed her rooms door closing so he ran and found her on her bed, staring into nothingness "what happened?" he asked, his tone concerned, he was almost gonna cry too, Y/N didnt answer, she just fell into his arms,crying, she showed him the mark of her head on the wall to him, he didn't say anything, he just packed her bags and got her to his house, made her favorite tea, atleast attempted to, since it was an ethnic recipe, put it near his bed, and got with her, trying to comfort her, he held her to his chest, she gave him a faint kiss on the cheek, the stubble hurting her face a bit, she didnt care, since it was him "Why didnt you tell me anything?" he asked "i didnt want to be a burden to you." she answered, he didnt say anything, just hugged her, he saw her eyes getting heavy, almost falling asleep on him, she looked so cute but so miserable, the only things keeping her alive were him and her phone, he kissed her, and told her "just know that if you even ran away i would find you and come with you.", the period of her life that went from november to february finally ended, she was there, felt happy, loved, for once.

[unp0pularl0nerkid]

In Another Dimensions Part 3.

Link to Part 2.

Sight seeing with a stranger? Count you in!

The city is beautiful suguru. You thought. When you arrived to the coffee shop named “Sea Breeze”, you went in and the smell of cookies immediaintly hit you. “Hi, what can I get for you today?” The girl asked. “Can I get a 2 chocolate chips and a matcha latte please” You said. “Will that be all?” She spoke. “Ye-“ you began until the man spoke, “No, can I have a black coffee and a scone” He said. “You don’t have to pay for me, it’s okay” You spoke. “Well it’s too late now, you can try again next time” He spoke before taking a seat right in front of the window. “Hey, you never told me your name stranger” You said, taking a seat in front of him. “Oh, im sorry how incredibly rude of me. It’s Kento Nanami, and you?” He asked. “It’s okay, it’s not like I told you mine either, it’s (Your name)” You spoke. “It’s very nice to meet you Nanami”. So yall chatted for the next like thirty minutes, until gojo called. “Hello?” You said. “Sunshine, where are you? Are you okay? Say no to strangers!” Gojo yelled. “Okay first off my name isn’t sunshine, and secondly Im at Sea Breeze, getting coffee with a friend.” You spoke quickly. “Okay Im on the way!” He said before hanging up. “Is everything alright?” Nanami asked. “I apologize for what’s about to happen.” You say before mentally controlling the urge to get up and walk out. Sure enough, Gojo rushes in straight to the counter, probably ordering every sweet treat known to man before walking over to you. “And who are you? Sunshine are you okay?” Gojo asked, clearly teasing. “Im Nanami, it’s a pleasure to meet you Gojo” He spoke. “Sure….anyways cmon (your name), let’s go, I ordered sweet treats and were going to try them back at home” Gojo said, practically bulldozing you out of your seat. “Gojo don’t be rude. Sorry Nanami, I’ll see you at school!” You spoke briefly before being pulled away.

Back at the Apartment:

“I don’t like blueberries, but the strabwerry danish and macarons are to die for” you moaned. “I can be the blueberry to your strawberry” Gojo winked. You just glared at him before moving on to the next treat. “I have a question for you..” You spoke quietly. “Hm? Wondering if im single?” He responded smirking. “Forget I asked.” you deadpanned, practically slapping yourself. “You can let yourself out.” You said sitting up and walking into your room to prepare for sleep. “Over already?” He frowned.

Over the next few weeks, the same experiences happened. It was gojo waking you up, either to go with him, or go shopping, or eat treats, or something. And then, you’d come back to the apartment, read a book or watch a movie and sleep. You still had no friends but school was starting tomorrow, so you were slightly hopeful for that. Gojo didn’t wake you up that morning, but the car was downstairs to take you to school. Your first period was history…Yay…you thought. When you walked in, you saw one familiar face. “Hey Nanami” you smiled sitting next to him. “Hello, how is your morning going?” He asked. “Good and you?” You asked. “Good” And then the class began. When the bell rung to leave, you asked Nanami for his phone number, which he handed over to you. You both head to the cafeteria and he invites you to sit with his friends. He introduces each one. There’s shoko, yuki, haibara, and ichiji. “Hi! My names (your name). It’s very nice to meet you.” Everyone says hi and Yuki immediately begins speaking to you. “So, what’s the deal with you?” She asks. “Are you gay? Or straight? Or Bi?” She shrugs. “Oh- uhm im straight” you awkwardly laughed. “Ignore her she’s always like this, but it’s nice to meet you. You smoke?” Shoko asks. “No-“ you begin but she cuts you off. “Come smoke outside with me.” She says getting up, and you shuffle behind her. “I heard from Gojo that you were Getos sister, it’s nice to officially meet you. And im sorry that you’re going through this.” She says softly, blowing out the smoke. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Gojos been trying to help but Im fine, it’s just apart of life” you murmur. Shoko was observing you, you could feel it. It’s just like everyone else. In their eyes they already see you as sad and helpless and they don’t even know you, you thought. But in shokos mind, she’s just comparing you to geto. You’re so young, yet you’re already building up those walls. “Where’s your phone, let me put my number in.” She said holding her hand out. You just handed it to her, mind somewhere else. “Okay, I have to go, see you later” you mumbled walking out and walking home.

“Did you tell her to be friends with me? Did you already know Nanami too?” You scolded walking into Gojos apartment. “Uhm hello to you too sunshine.” He mumbled, waking up from an apparent nap. “No, I just told her you were Sugurus younger sister, and no I didn’t know him until you met him” He yawned. “It’s bad enough that everybody who sees me and knows about Suguru feels bad, all they do is pity me or try to help me. Just like you.” You spoke softly before turning around and leaving into your apartment. An hour later, gojo let himself into your apartment with some ice cream and macaroons. “They’re not from Sea Breeze…but they’re still good” He spoke softly sitting next to you. “Thanks.” You mumbled taking a bite from the strawberry macaroon. “Listen, Shokos not pitying you. I don’t think she even knows what that word means. Whatever she’s doing, she doing it because she genuinely wants to. Trust me, she doesn’t waste her time” He laughed. “Me, suguru, and shoko went to high school together, we were kind of like the kings of school.” He speaks smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “How come your not in college? Did you drop out because the sugar rotted your brain?” You said with an amused tone. “No, I had…other responsibilities to take on. And suguru, went with me and stuck by my side.” He said. “Im sorry that you lost your bestfriend.” You said putting your hand over his, sympathetically. “Yeah, well it’s life. Stuff happens. Im sorry that you lost your brother.” He spoke. Maybe suguru was right, maybe we are alike, you thought. “Hey, your bracelet matches mine!!” He exclaimed, holding both of calls hands up. It was like a button flipped and all of his walls were right back up. “Were twinssss” he cheesed. “Welp, Im drained, time to head to bed. Goodnight (your name)”. “Goodnight Satoru. You don’t have to always have your guard up around me…” you spoke softly. Unaware to you, his eyes widened and a slight blush dusted his cheeks at both you calling him by his first name and your second statement. He just quietly opened the door and walked out. With a sigh, you cleaned up and head to bed.

Hoped you liked this one, also i don’t know if that was weird of yuki to ask but i feel like she’d play matchmaker idk. Also the confrontation was so tea! Is gojo a green flag? see you in the next chapter :)

Aesthetics: ——->

Nanami and shoko aesthetic + the macaroons of course.

[rosemarycovet]

pacifcy her -Edward Cullen x reader

I catch edward staring my way as that basic bitch bella talks about who knows what he seems so bored and annoyed by her

I softly smile at him and sent a small wave

Edward eyes lighten up a bit and smiled a bit widely back at me

the bell rings and I pick up my binder and notebook and hold them up to my chest and walk out

I look back in the hallways to see bella holding Edward hand

Edward clearly doesn’t want to be all pda with her I just roll my eyes at them

and walk into my next class

I sit down at a two person desk next to the window and I see bella following Edward into the door way and I just give her a glare and look away

that basic bitch leaves finally

Edward releases a breathe which looks like he’s been holding in

and looks my way and his eyes brighten as he walks my way

now I can take her man..

Edward takes a seat next to me as he smiles at me

“hey”I say to him as I look up at him as he takes a seat next to me

“hi (y/n/n)”

i’m surprised he called me by my nick name he usually calls me by my actual name

“how has your day been”

I ask him

“a bit stressful actually” he sighs

I give him a pity look knowing damn well the ‘stress’ he has been feeling was bella

“but it’s fine”he looks at me softly and I smile at him class starts but I can’t stop laughing and Edward can’t stop chuckling or smiling at my jokes

the teacher tells us to pair up with the person sitting next to us

me and Edward quickly look at each other

“good thing we’re sitting next to each other”he said to me

“good thing for me cause you’re really smart” I say as I smirk at him

Edward laughs softly at me and playfully rolls his eyes at me and we start working I keep asking him what the problems mean because what the actual fuck I could not process any of this bull crap each time I would write something down or answer the question Edward would admire me ‘thinking’ I didn’t notice

-next period-

I walk into gym class after putting our gym uniform on and sigh realizing that we’re playing volley ball

bella comes up to me and says to me “someone told me stay away from things that aren’t yours”

I give her a blank face and say

“but was he yours if he wanted me so bad”

she just stares at me with a disbelieved look on her face

pacify her

she’s getting on my nerves

and as if my prayers had been heard a volley ball flys out of no where and roughly hits the back of her head and she stumbles a bit

I gasp then start laughing as Jessica comes running over “OH MY GOD BELLA IM SO SORRY” I walk away acting like I didn’t see anything

one of the reasons I dislike bella is because why the hell are you treating Edward so badly playing with his feelings like why do you keep choosing Jacob over him when you have Edward and she’s just so weird always blinking,biting her lower lip,and pushing her hair behind her ear

out of school she always chooses to hang out with Jacob and it’s so obvious Charlie prefers Jacob for bella over Edward.He would choose Jacob in a heart beat since he’s been knowing him since he was a kid

I know Edward feels insecure by Jacob anytime he’s brought up in his relationship with bella

that’s why I always feel bad for him especially that time bella kissed Jacob infront of Edward

-later that night-

I’m laying down on my bed wearing my night as my music plays from my record player and i’m reading

that’s when I hear Knock from the window

‘what the fuck..’

then I hear another knock

I get up and open my window to see Edward I stare at him with wide eyes a bit surprised as Edward smiles widely at me as he slides into my room

“how the fuck..”

I say not being able to process the situation

that’s when Edward explains everything to me

the whole vampire situation

and that he’s only with bella because she’s his blood singer

“until you moved back to forks that’s when stuff changed for me once again. bella might be my blood singer but you’re my mate..my soul mate” I stare at him a bit surprised

“I want you (y/n/n) I really do I just don’t want you getting put into danger because of me and I don’t know how to break it to bella because …I..still..love her”He said that last part in a bit of a disgusted way

I know he did not want to say that last part he was second guessing himself

“You don’t love her.Stop lying with those words”

I say to Edward as he sighs knowing I was right

Edward still really cared for bella he just didn’t love her like that anymore after everything she has put him through shit even his family

“ ‘loving’ her seems tiring so boy,just love me down” I say to Edward as he picks me up and I put my legs around his waist he groans and I softly grab his face kissing his face then lips passionately as Edward kisses me back trying to control himself

he lays me down on my bed carefully climbing on-top of me not wanting to hurt me

“(y/n/n) please tell me if i’m going to far I don’t want to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable” he says in the most sweetest,reassuring,calmest voice ever I shush him and start running my fingers through his hair as he gives me small soft kisses on my collar I lift his face up and start kissing his lips once again I harshly grab his hair and rub my other hand down his back which causes him to moan so I slip my tongue in his mouth he seems so relax yet trying to control himself so he flips us over so i’m top

after our little make out session

Edward lets me lay on top of him as I lay my head in the crook of his neck as he reads me my book in a gentle soft voice

I try not to fall asleep wanting this moment to last forever. Edward grabs the blanket covering us Edward tells me it’s ok for me to sleep telling me he’s not going anywhere and I shake my head he chuckles at me and holds me tighter then kisses my forehead eventually I fall asleep in his embrace

the next morning I wake up to Edward gently shaking me and saying my name

“(y/n/n) wake up”

I groan as I turn away from him pulling the covers over my face

he sighed and chuckled softly at me picking me up bridal style in his arms

“come on (y/n/n)”

“but we don’t even have school today”

I groan out

“yeah..but im going to break the news to bella” I quickly jump out his arms getting dressed

“how are you going to tell her?” I ask him

“I think i’m going to tell her in the forest we always go to.but you stay here”

I looked at him a bit sad

“I promise i’ll come back and tell you everything that happened”he said in a reassuring tone I smiled softly at him as he gave me a quick hug and kiss on my lips then forehead as he zoomed out my bedroom door

-in the forest-

I cant stand her whining as bella is complaining,crying,and begging Edward not to leave her

where’s her binky now?

“NO bella you listen I am so sick of you always choosing that dog and I know Charlie prefers Jacob over me.

you say you love me yet you keep hurting me…plus I already fell in love with someone else..”

bella looks to stunt to speak

“who..? EDWARD WHO???”

she says in her high pitch annoying voice

as tears formed in her eyes

“it’s (y/n)”

bella stares at him with disbelief as she feels betrayed

Even though she had already done all of this to Edward with Jacob what was she expecting?

“YOU DONT LOVE HER STOP LYING WITH THOSE WORDS” bella screamed at Edward as tears streamed down her face

“…i’m sorry bella..” was the last thing he said to her as he left her in the forest

-back at (y/n’s) house-

I was watching a movie on my bed while eat popcorn when I felt something touch my shoulder I shot my head back so quickly seeing Edward

“jesus christ Edward you gave me a heart attack”

he smiled softly at me

“sorry (y/n/n)”

he said as he gently scooted me over

I laid my head on his shoulder as I munched on my popcorn

Edward had told me everything that had happened part of me felt bad for bella but for most of it I really didn’t

Edward had told me that he felt relief that he ended things with her like a weight lifted of his shoulder at-least now she could be with Jacob.

that night me and Edward had deep long talks he could listen to me speak for hours and still not get bored

-at school-

Edward usually sits with his family at lunch but he wanted to sit with me outside on the bleachers I like sitting there because barely anyone went outside to eat because it was to gloomy and ‘cold’ which the cold part was true for me at least but not for Edward since he’s a vampire so he let me wear his coat as we had my earbuds in listened to my playlist on my I pod

Edward had laid his head on my shoulder closing his eyes that’s when bella walked out the cafeteria seeing me and Edward she glared at me

‘stay away from things that aren’t yours’

‘but was he yours if he wanted me so bad’

I smirked at her as she walked away clearly mad.

still love you bella 😘

[violynt-skies]

Rottmnt Theatre Arts AU

one of my close moots on twitter @/lynngu1n1 created a band au the other day so now im here to add onto it with a rottmnt theatre arts/performing arts au bc now i can’t stop thinking abt it let’s go!

Leo:

This first one should surprise nobody, leo is a born and raised theatre kid. He loves the performance, he loves the drama, and he loves the spotlight. Leo is often lucky and skilled enough to be cast in lead roles however he’s almost ALWAYS type casted into the love interest role. Not that it bothers him though as he takes the role with stride. He loves playing it and he knows he’s good at it.

Off stage however he’s often regarded as a leader type within the cast. people admire him and with his natural charisma he tends to take charge in helping the cast by hyping them up and setting morale high as well as almost always being on top of things when it comes what changes might've occurred when rehearsing scenes and dance numbers.

He’s the one that sets up the cast parties and after show dinners and often leads warm ups within the cast and introduces the new members to old theatre kid traditions. and despite his chill personality he actually takes his acting roles pretty seriously and works hard to learn his lines and choreography.

Things are always fun when Leo's around, you'll find him dancing in the wings when not on stage w other cast mates and pulling the most ridiculous expressions as everyone silently holds in their laughter and is the one thats got the best drama and gossip stories to tell while blasting music backstage as everyone gets ready.

Donnie:

Donnie is on crew, he helps build the sets, hang the lights, watch for cues, handles mic checks and sound and controls everything from the booth during shows, wearing headsets during the show is one of his favorite things ever, it’s makes him feel like the guy in the chair.

Donnie doesnt interact with the cast that much as he’s constantly busy with the tech side of things but everyone on the cast knows him because he’s e v e r y w h e r e . And while he tends to keep to himself when working, people quickly learned to stay out of his way when he’s doing so

He absolutely loves his job though and enjoys all the intricacies that goes on behind the stage that makes the show run smoothly. Will absolutely infodump to you about certain tech aspects if you ask him about it tech week is absolute hell tho. nobody bother him.

There’s still so much to be done before opening night and trying to get these damn theatre kids to work with him can be such a nightmare sometimes. he likes them most of the time he really does, but not right now especially during mic checks, of which leo is CHRONICALLY late too

Raph:

Raph is a stage manager! though over time has quickly been adopted as the cast and crew mom. While he does everything the stage managers typically do, watching cues, helping move set pieces, keeping track of props, he’s always extended himself to helping even more backstage.

Raph's got whatever you need at all times. throats sore? come on he’ll show you where we keep the throat coat. want a mint? here you go. yes call time is at 5:30. you blanked and forgot ur line before ur scene? here’s the script u got this bud

instead of getting into the tech aspect like Donnie during the rehearsal periods, raph actually goes to help with the costumes instead! he’s making the alterations to help make ur costume fit better and finding you the right accessories for it.

In his spare time he’ll go to the shop and help build sets under donnies guidance, being able to easily move heavy pieces from place to place as well as painting them the main reason raph works so well as a stage manager tho is that he CAN wrangle the wild antics of theatre kids. and while it mostly isn’t an issue as the majority of people already respect him for his kindness. He knows how to deal with them when the chaos starts to set in where donnie couldn’t. when he needs people to get out of his way they MOVE. and while raph usually has a handle on things, the cast has seen him snap at times and have since then avoid it at all cost. When raph tells you to do something you do it.

But otherwise he’s pretty chill! he helps you with quick changes and fixes ur costume if it rips on stage. just dont touch the props, that PISSES him off

Mikey:

Mikey is an ensemble kid. He enjoys theatre but hes totally content just being part of the group and experience and doesnt need to be in the spotlight. Mikey’s the kid that gets along with everyone, cast & crew, he comes to the after parties and is thoroughly engaged in warm ups

However! His skills for dancing are no joke, having previous experience with it before joining the theatre fam. as a result he ends up with a role as a dance captain! quickly picking up the choreo and then relaying it to his fellow cast mates and helping anyone who needs it

He’s the one that ALWAYS remembers the steps. and his the kid that helps remind the choreographer what came after this segment and yeah we go right then left! he’s also the one that tends to do a large amount of the stunts within the big dance numbers. Yes he can do a round off backhandspring! Need someone who can do cartwheels? He’s ur guy. Can anyone do a triple turns? That’s him.

As a result he ends up becoming well known among the cast which eventually lands him some small supporting roles in following shows as well! Not to mention he's the one that everyone goes to for help with makeup. That kid's eyeliner skills are def on another level.

April:

April is part of the yearbook committee at school, which as a result has her coming in during hours of rehearsal to take some pictures for it as well as the show. However, with the combination of this and also being friends with the guys, which led her to start working with them more.

This ends up with her taking an unofficial role as their marketing committee. April is the one who promotes the show on social media and is also the one that puts together the programs for the show and takes the cast headshots as well as their bios.

She and leo tag team the ticket selling, with her passion and his natural charisma they make an extremely compatible team when it comes to encouraging people to go see the show. She’s the one that helps set up the concessions at intermission and is the one who records the show and takes plenty of pictures for it for their social media.

OUTSIDE of musical theatre season:

These boys got some other electives they’ve got lined up (which sometimes overlaps with theatre which makes things a little stressful but it’s all good)

I thoroughly believe leo is that one kid that does sports within the cast, and while ik he’s big on basketball, he also gives me some major soccer vibes- the kid def has the speed and agility for the offense position, and while he knows it’s not, half the time playing the game feels like putting on a whole ass performance and he thrives on the adrenaline of it all

-

Now don’t think i forgot about donnie’s overly big dramatics because i didn’t. Donnie DID actually audition for theatre, and while he’s got a huge passion for musical theatre just like leo, he later found out that he did not inherent the same talent for acting rip.

Therefore! he found something else to fill his need for dramatization and ended up in harmony show choir! a group that involves both singing dancing and performance with no need for much skills in acting, a perfect fit for him.

ofc he was a little awkward when he first joined and he’s not the best in the group but he thoroughly found himself enjoying it as a side activity and found friends in the group as well.

-

Raph is a choir kid! Initially he didn’t have much interest in it and ended up taking the class as a needs for an art elective but after a semester he found that he really liked it! fitting in the bass section extremely well and actually found stage managing through choir. (since half the choir kids overlap with theatre) and many of his classmates encouraged him to try it out! Especially since tech was a little short-staffed at the moment

Raph kept up w choir after a while and started auditioning for all state each year! He sometimes has some difficulties with reading the music but donnie always helps him out when he needs.

Outside of arts though, Raph is also an og sports kid like leo and is on the wrestling team

-

Now mikey as the arts kid of the group obviously has been in plenty of art electives that change from semester to semester, ranging from 2D and 3D drawing to sculpting and painting. Outside of those however he also found himself on the drill team!

Mikey has been in dance for a long time and quickly impressed his coaches with his dance audition which resulted in him being able to jump straight into the varsity team., and after a while he was eventually able to build himself up to becoming the team captain too

Mikey only ending up in theatre after some poking and prodding from leo who encouraged him to join in knowing he’d end up liking it which he did

-

As for April, outside of theatre/yearbook she also works for the school's news reporting team as well as helping w morning announcements, practicing her journaling skills in hopes of one day joining an actual news station.

[skishie]

omga i love your airphone gijinkas

anyways i uave no idea if youve already said this somewhere ,my memory sucks ,but how do you reckon airy and mephone met. what is ur perosnal headcanon. grabby hands i must know (i love airphon

UUWAAAA THANK YOU !!! im really glad you do... looks up at you so politely and with a big smile.. i want to draw them again but better and more like a ref so hopefully soon! :D aaaatehee heeee i have not spoken about it publicly so im more than open to go into it now... cracks my knuckles(its actually not that intense but i jsut have a lot of thoughts)

OKAY, so personally i like to think about it starting after airy dies the second time(the end of ONE). its nice for him to still have gone through everything hes done and experienced because its what makes him him. he needs to be the airy we know and love. this also allows for bonding and growth and other such things. anyways, he uses the radio and ends up in the world of inanimate insanity! this would also take place after season 3 has wrapped up, either before or after the library is built. this means he can meet mephone and they can start bonding over being hosts of game shows but as airy talks mephone starts to understand "wow he just like me, but i got better, and now i want to help him" so mephone feels this need to help airy out with the same growth that mephone jsut went through. but also anyone whos been through the isolation that airy has been through along with dying who knows how many times. mephone just wants to help him and help his mental state and get him resocialized and to a point where he understands why he should be a bit more thoughtful or so on and whatever. airy would still be his old self but a bit more caring/understanding to a degree. i think hes just got some mental problems going on and hes just kind of an odd guy. mephone lets him hang around and either they could MAYBE? co host together, but at first hes just watching mephone do a show first before anything like that. which he watches from afar. hes not so used to being upclose or even being around people anymore so he likes to watch from a distance. as time goes on yada yada mephone would develop feelings first, and airy would much later. mephone would develop feelings while helping airy and such, airy takes a lot longer because he is readjusting and just, getting some basic social skills back. i like them in part because i just see mephone having gone through the growth he went through because he was similar to airy, and then meeting airy after this and realizing "wow i should help him too because this is just how i was and id hate to see someone else suffer the way i did" kind of thing and blah blah idk sorry i yapped and i hope any of this makes sense/is readable period. i ramble a lot and my thoughts kind of get lost oops. im not great with words or wording things well. not everything is thought out but those are my thoughts :] ps: airy still has the cracked head because thats just how i personally like to see him and draw him. i also think that if he died and came back that after all hes done, thats more akin to who he is now. hes a broken individual who needs help/fixing. if that makes sense(also a bit of self projecting) pps: my boyfriend wanted to add his two cents for what he knows of mephone as well(hes not finished season 3 yet) and yknow,,, hes right i think its a mix of what i said and mix of what he said... which is: "wow he just like me for real, not anymore though, also this guy's committed some major fucked up stuff and that's just not right, if i fix this guy maybe it'll look really good for me"

[shreddeddescent]

weird barely thought out rambling about my process here sorry if it sounds like a lot

so i guess i should say there was totally an idea of a plan in place for like. okay they’ll all get one on one time then i can get em all talking and explaining plot something and get stuff rolling.

but then it was like jennika reached through the screen and grabbed me and said NO. help mikey right now this isnt just flavour text you have to commit. and i said yep no you’re so right actually thats way more important.

and then i guess that happened it made me kinda look back over everything and everyone and decide WELL. maybe this is what the story really is, just a lot of overly emotional vulnerable conversations where everybody feels fucked up but they just kinda talk it through with each other, as good or bad as they are at it. maybe thats more important.

i guess the things i wrote just trying to flesh out the rest of it ended up being the story kinda thing. the aftermath of all these other things turned out to be more interesting than trying to get into some "real" plot.

like to be fucking real thats whats been so interesting to me. the 'worst case scenario' ended ages ago, intended to just be that part as a 'get it out of your system' personal thing of writing the most fucked up thing i could. but then it kept going with the effects of it still hang over the characters.

shredders dead yet somehow its like hes still the main antagonist because all the conflict stems from him. defeating him didnt end the story.

i guess i could say over and over that if i had thought it all through it would come off better. dont know if i would have implemented things like raph's comatose state or random forced pheromone bullshit, nor the speed up on the pregnancy period. feel like i would have put april and casey into the story better without dropping them the way i have. i could have written better set up, better payoff. but its not about being planned, its all a weird game of improv im playing with myself that has the unintended consequences of being too fascinating to stop. too fascinating to keep to myself.

and thats been what it is, the gross messy dramatic sappy corny healing process. its absolutely gonna be over 200k words by the end, which is. you know. NUTS. ive not posted my writing before all this nonsense so hhhhrgh you know.

but....... maybeeee its kinda a lot? like too corny too dark too messy too weirdly written? but i just feel like.... meh. its my personal soap opera, i get to decide how long that shit goes on for. whether it seems like im beating a dead horse or not, its my dead horse to beat.

and things like that last chapter are like... AH. would everyone have rathered i sit them all down and make them tell you whats going on? too bad, leos had an anxiety attack so we dont get that right now cuz he genuinely cant take it. the completely unintentional letting the characters fucking experience complicated emotions even if they are gonna get in the way of what my plan might have been IS the story.

in a sense i am the adult turtles telling those kids 'no its okay, take a second to feel that out, we can wait'

its such an interesting way of expressing something, not really sure what else i could say.

but im having fun. i guess thats the point.

if my insanity helps anybody else, well, thats a bonus.

[overflowchute]

tbh the more i talk with my friend about it the more i think

as someone who knows a LOT of trans people... a lot of what i see others say and what i feel i think are not quite the same. and i think that when people see what i'm saying they come from very different contexts

i think the nagging truth for me is just - that i'm extremely socially isolated! my entire sphere is online b/c i was raised in rural texas where talking with anyone irl consisted of masking all the time around conservative christian republicans and it sucked. i am really really bad at interacting with anyone in real contexts, i don't know how to have friends in real life, i never went through a period of dating irl at all or even just hanging out as a teenager or whatever because i was bound to my family without a car until i was much older.

there are a few transy thoughts i do have - "maybe it'd be cool to have boobs" - but part of the real motivation is like. i just want to feel attractive and the lenses i have for that are spaces where i don't really meet people who would view me as such lol. and i think ultimately almost everything i do comes from feeling terribly miserably lonely at all times in my life. i don't hate what i am or how i look so much as i just don't know how something like me is supposed to live and to some degree i desire to copy people i see being successful at things im jealous about not having. lol.

and i think in general it is hard for a lot of people to really... get... what my angle is when they haven't experienced something similar i guess? at the end of the day i just want to be liked for being me and i don't really hate myself so much as i hate not being someone i feel is worthy of attention from anyone i like. lol.

to be feeling strongly about transitioning needs me to have earnestly felt like i was playing and in a gender role and i didn't like the positive attention... friends telling me about their experiences really often has me like, ok, i guess you kinda did a lot of things i never did in this gender presentation and ended up deciding you didn't like it. it's kinda harder to make decisions when i dont even have those experiences hahah

i guess that's kinda how it is

(also i find it very very hard still to square "being attracted to women" with "not being a woman myself" when like 85% of women i know are like. gay. lmao. it's hard to feel good about it even now. lots of guilt. but its not like hatred it's just more like. i wish i was not guilty and could just be fucking normal about it)

[sunsetrubdowns]

Also. Hi. I remembered I can talk as much as I want to on here. Do you want to hear about this guy I kind of broke up with but kind of wasnt really dating to begin with and will probably have to break up with again for good measure. This actually turned into an insanely long post because it's an insane situation so I'm putting it under a cut because I love you and your scrolling experience and it's probably incoherent anyways

So. Well you may or may not be aware but I was couch surfing for like 3 weeks in September and a friend of mine who I met through work helped me out a lot with moving my stuff out of my apartment and into storage and helping me get my shit together. And in the weeks leading up to me moving out/while I was homeless we spent a lot of time together (like. Pretty much every day LOL) because I needed to be constantly distracted and he apparently had all the free time in the world. Cool!

Now it's important to give the context that he had asked me out back in like June and I said no because not only did I think we had very little chemistry and he was very needy but ALSO I was going through one of the worst depressive periods in my life. Really just was not the vibe at the time. Also my read on the situation was 100% correct like I was right about everything lol.

So you know obviously I'm aware that he has a little crush on me this whole time but I'm in a truly delusional headspace where I'm like well this is not so bad :) I'm having fun hanging out with him so whatever happens, happens :). And what happens is that WHILE I am still homeless we end up having a little feelings talk where I'm like well this is nice but I've kind of got a lot going on right now and I need to settle my life situation out before I'm comfortable getting into anything official or serious. And he's like yeah I totally understand that. But then maybe a week later after I secure and move into my place he IMMEDIATELY. And I mean like immediately. Starts calling me his girlfriend. Not to me but to other people. Like going around to my coworkers and people at work to be like btw we're together now :). Which made me kind of uncomfortable but I just brushed it off because I am a huuuuuge pushover and I was like, sure I guess we're together. Even though I'm very private about my personal life and it took me like a good month to refer to him as my boyfriend out loud and I didn't even MENTION him to my best friends (hi besties) for a couple weeks after that. Because I was like damn I don't even know what to say. Also he never even attempted to do anything more than hold my hand a few times so we were still just hanging out the way we had been to begin with.

And THEN he started coming to the bowling alley where I work every single night and just like.... hanging around for hours and hours until we closed to drive me home (6 blocks away) and to talk to me while I'm working and on my breaks. And when he drove me home after work every SINGLE night he would park and walk me to my door and unless I was very clearly like yeahhh I'm exhausted Goodnight Bye :) he would often invite himself into my apartment just to hang around until I was like. Okay I have to go to bed because it's after 1am please leave. And it got to the point where I felt like I never had any time to myself and my social battery was constantly at 0 and I was also spending way more money than was within my budget because he was dragging me out to eat and do things constantly and to go to Disneyland and shit and also at the place where I work every single day and not leaving no matter how clearly Im like hey sorry I'm just. soooo tired right now and work is so busy etc. There were only THREE days in October that I had totally to myself. I could barely even find time to spend with my roommate I had just moved in with and he also was not really seeming to spend time with any of his own friends when he'd had an incredibly active social life like, just a month ago.

It was starting to really freak me out that I felt like he was trying to replace not only his previous long term girlfriend who broke up with him earlier this year but also his entire social circle. With lil old me. And I felt like he was trying to force a level of familiarity with me that simply was not there like... man you don't even KNOW me like that don't talk to me like you know me. Don't talk to me like you know me when you're also trying so hard all the time to like, impress me and prove something to me.

It got to the point by mid October that I was like desperate for time to myself to decompress and process things and most of my mental energy was going to trying to find ways to avoid him and scripting a breakup speech in my head. And instead of trying to talk to ME he would go into my workplace and try to ask my work friends. While they were working. For advice on what to do when I seemed distant or unhappy. And even though they really only ever told him to just communicate with me he decided to wait until the day before Halloween to be like "I realized that I was maybe doing to much by going to hang around your workplace every day and also it's been a month and a half but I want to officially ask you to be my girlfriend now :)" and was somehow genuinely shocked when I said no. And basically outlined everything I've said here to be like I need to be left alone or I'm going to kill myself a little bit so please leave me alone.

But it seems like what he took out of the conversation was "I need to take some naps and then I'll feel better and then we can go back to normal :)" because he just kept being like "how do you feel how are you doing you look better are you feeling rested" and continuing to go to my coworkers and my roommate at work and asking about me and show up at the bowling alley frequently and text me continually as I just brushed him off over and over and eventually stopped replying to his messages. Until finally last week I was working on a day I normally don't work and he came in and I, again, kind of brushed him off when he came to just like do small talk with me. So he went to my roommate who was also working to be like "oh I think I'm going to talk to them today we need to talk but I don't know if they just want to be left alone or not..." while she (blessed angel that she is) just refused to give him any real information. But then he just kept like, trying to chitchat with me while I was working so I started brushing him off again and he ended up going to my roommate AGAIN to vent about me. And then left and texted her all this stuff about how he doesn't know if I like him anymore but he's just going to leave me alone and try to get over me etc and how he's been so stressed over stuff with his parents etc etc and framing it as if HE is breaking things off with ME. But since then has continued to go to her to ask about me and talk about how he's trying to get over me and heartbreak and whatever and etc. But has not expressed anything at all to me personally in any capacity since I told him I needed space.

Meanwhile I've gone on multiple dates with someone I genuinely really like and who has slept over at my apartment multiple times LOL. And there are so many little details of weird shit that I've had to cut for time here but like genuinely what the hell man

Anyways have I mentioned that this man is 34 years old. Because he's 34 years old. And if you've read all this you are so cordially invited to share your thoughts and/or guess his chart placements in the replies. Funny as fuck situation that I'm in

[alittlebitofloveliness]

Where mooties off of anon but o don’t feel like venting off anon.

Im genuinely failing at life. Im so sick of people telling me im doing fine, im failing in my eyes, redeal math means im NOT smart. I want college, college is the end goal, but I don’t know, trying to hard but I still have a C.

I’m gonna be honest all I see is k**king myself by age 19. If I make it that far, I’m NOTHING, I’m good at NOTHING, I can’t do shit, I’m not enough, I’m alone, I’m lonely and don’t know what to do with my life.

I’m getting no where, and I’m always, I don’t know, I’m on the verge of just shutting down and going mute again.

-🛢️🛢️

Oh honey, I wish i could just give you the biggest hug (if you're not a hugger then I wish I could bring you a hot chocolate and watch your favourite show with you)

I'm gonna say some bullshit you've probably heard before and are sick of hearing because it's true, and then i'm gonna say some stuff that you probably haven't heard but I think is important

First off, SO many people struggle with math, it doesn't make you a failure or dumb it just means you're not a math person. Honestly, though, fuck math. Math is not the be all end of all of schooling or life and schools need to stop pretending it is. You also don't need math to get into college, depending on the program you want. If you're trying, and you're trying the best that's all you can do. Im proud of you either way. If your best was just getting up and going to the math class, then I'm sill super proud of you. If just waking up was your best, guess what? IM STILL PROUD OF YOU! Life is hard, and elementary and highschool are REALLY fucking difficult. They were the worst period of my life, but it gets better. I know that sounds like bullshit but it isn't. I spent a lot of highschool feeling the way you do right now, and when I moved out I met new people and went to a place where no one new my name and it felt like my life truly began. Just hang in there. This is a season, but it's not forever. I PROMISE.

You're not nothing, and I guarantee you're good at something. If you're on here youre probably good at writing or drawing or leaving comments on other peoples work that make them happy- what a truly wonderful skill that is. You say we're mooties. Each and every single one of my moots makes my day everytime I see a like or a comment or a reblog pop up, or I see something in my inbox. I bet you have other skills too. Just because they're not necessarily school related or marketable doesn't make them worthless, and they certainly don't make you worth nothing. One of my skills is making perfect scrambled eggs. it's not an amazing skill. not one I can build a career on. But its useful when my housemate stumbles inside after a twelve hour shift, dead on her feet. It feels like a little miracle then, to support someone I care about. I bet you have little miracles hidden in your hands too, you just need to find them.

i'm lonely sometimes too. A lot of the time. But loneliness doesn't mean youre alone. I'm here for you. I am a connection that cares about you even if you're on anon and I can only guess who you are. I'd miss you if you weren't around, and you can't know the love I feel for you as I write this out, but it's real and it's deep and I'm holding your hand through the screen and trying to make you believe that everything will be ok. and after ok it will be better. and after better it will be wonderful. You'll find your wonderful, lovely. I promise. And I'll be here for you while you find it.

It's ok not to know. It's ok to not know who you are or where youre going or what you want out of life. I'm still trying to figure out the answer of all those questions and I've messed them all up a few times. The world won't end because you don't know or you make mistakes. it only grows. it just gets wider. I know the fear. I know the bone deep terror that comes with the unknown, in all it's forms. But you can channel it into excitement. it can take a while. it probably will. You might need help to get there. But you can do things even if you're scared. You can fail and it will never be the end of the world, just maybe the end of an adventure. But it might be the start of another one. I'm sorry if this is cheesy but it's genuinely the only way I know to describe this. the world is scary but you have to do it scared so that you can eventually do it excited and after that do it happy.

If you shut down and go mute, thats ok. it means your brain is tired and you probably need a break, and probably some help. But you'll be okay. you can heal and feel better, and it might be scary but you can do it. I know you can.

I love you. Thank you for trusting me with this ask, I hope I was able to help, even just a little bit

[youremyheaven]

helloooo hope im not bothering you but do you have any natural remedies for anxiety? i figured you would know because you really do seem to have experience with things like this

methods that preferably don’t involve ingesting anything because sometimes when it’s really bad my gag reflex kicks up with everything i put in my mouth 😓😓 for context ive been properly diagnosed with an anxiety disorder but i remember there was a three week period as a child where i was effectively mute because anxiety and i couldn’t make eye contact or everything and now whenever i get a panic attack i think of that muteness and panic even more because i cannot risk losing my voice again at this big age 😭😭 must be something with the sky and planets or it could be my third house saturn making itself known again

- mother anon (also so proud of you for your new boyfriend!! who would’ve thought? (i did. i knew the very moment you first mentioned him.) but also like how did the confession and entrance into the relationship happen?? from fwbs to lovers is so 🤞🤞 cute but how does a conversation like that even happen and go ANDDD the fact that you previously mentioned your type to me in response to an ask and now this guys seems perfectly like that? okay go manifesting queen i see you 🤭)

selective mutism is something i struggled with as a child so i know how bad it can get and how awful it feels!!!

yoga and meditation is what helps me with anxiety. also camomile tea, peppermint tea, green tea etc helps calm you down. ik a lot of people think its hogwash to drink tea to help with symptoms BUT I PROMISE YOU ITS NOT, these are crushed plant bits and these plants have actual medicinal properties!!! this is NOT placebo!!! its the OG natural remedy!!

throat chakra cleansing mudras and asanas could help u. when i was at the peak of my panic attack-y anxiety episodes, i would lie face down on my yoga mat and just stay there until i felt better (sometimes this would take hours). my therapist at the time told me to submerge my feet in ice cold water because it makes the nerves chill out (literally) and that helped too. running or walking could also help you. chanting really helped me and thats also what my therapist recommended.

JSJDHHDHHFHF u guys being proud of me for getting a man is so funny 🤣🤣like its not an achievement but tbh it does kinda feel like one hehe 🥺bc my pookie is a good man

firsttttt of all, we weren't fwb 😭he had asked me out before and i had said no 😭 (this was a few months ago) and then we started hanging out (one on one) (in July) and one night after i hadn't seen him for like a week (because he had gone to a different city for work) i felt feral for him (i was also ovulating) and although i had no intentions as such for the two of us, I started touching him and coming onto him and he just 😊was clueless until I started kissing him and told him I want him inside me lmaooo. so tbh, we were kindaa??? dating?? (going out and spending time with a person, holding hands, cuddling etc) i think its after i became intimate with him that i realised how much i liked him lmaooo and then i wondered about where this was going etc and i asked him and we were on the same page (we both reallyyyy like each other and want to be together).

idk about other people but he wasnt someone who went from friend to fckbuddy to boyfriend. he was a guy in my social circle who had asked me out and made his intentions with me veryyy clear from the get go. I had friendzoned him 😬and despite never having friendly intentions 😈he was always respectful and never tried to cross the line. (he's a Jupiter influenced man after all hehe<3)

it wasnt an overnight switch,, it was always romantic from his end. i didnt realise how gentlemanly and chivalrous he was until i started hanging out with him (by the time we had become intimate, i had already gone out with him 4 -5 times) and he's just sooo manlyyyy and mature,, its so hot to me. so for me, it took more time to see him that way??? so even tho i said i had sex with a friend, we were technically dating at that point lol,, it wasnt a random "hey meet me, i want to bang u tonight" situation

he does fit my type to a TEE hehe <333 i hope i manifest everything else in life this way<333 like everytime im with him, im just like??? did i write this man into existence?? bc wtf ??? 🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬🧿🪬

[beanghostprincess]

when did you start watching the anime (also how/why)

and how many episodes do you watch per day to go that fast??? (im asking because im genuinely impressed)

It's a funny story, I think-

Basically, I was hanging out months ago (like, the start of this year?? End of last year?? I think??) with my brother and his friend at his friend's house and they were like "Oh! What if we watch One Piece? The first episode, cmon, Robin!" and I was like: "Fuck, no. Shit's too long. Not watching all that. I'm sure it's cool and you two love it but I'm sooo not getting into this". But then they wouldn't stop insisting and the show started playing out of nowhere and, like, I just wanted to eat my salad so I guess I just didn't care if they made me watch a few episodes. The salad was really good, btw.

Anyway: I watched the first two episodes and I kind of?? Fell in love?? With everything about it??? Luffy was so charming and early OP is amazingly beautiful in all the ways. I kind of miss the energy, honestly, sometimes. But I loved it. I laughed. And I was like "Oh, okay. This is good. I'm probably not watching the rest because there are a lot of episodes but, like, cool show, guys!"

Spoiler: I did watch the rest.

But I didn't watch more until February. I was on my period and when I'm on my period I get really, really sick and I feel like shit in general. And I wanted to watch something to distract myself from that torture. So I asked my brother where he watched the show in Catalan (here in Spain/Catalonia it's also dubbed in Catalan and let me tell you, it's one of the best dubs I've seen. It's SO good) and I started watching it for real then.

The thing is, I was really, really slow watching the show because I was studying at the time and I could only watch at night sometimes and in between classes or whenever the teacher wasn't in class (or, you know, I just did it without the teachers noticing. The hyperfixation was growing). Besides, I started talking to my brother's friend more and more and more (now he's kind of like my best friend??? What the fuck lmao) and I literally told him every fucking thing that happened so, yeah, I wasn't quick watching the anime at the time. I would've probably caught up by now if it wasn't because I didn't have much time to watch it then.

Then I started Arabasta, and ever since, me and my friend have been watching the show together on Discord (I started watching it in Japanese and subbed, then). We watch the show every single night (except when we're busy, but it doesn't happen often) and we usually watch, like, 6-10 episodes every day. That's the average amount, but we've pulled all-nighters before when we've watched like 20 episodes during the night (we watched Marineford like that and we kind of did that too with WCI).

I think I don't go THAT fast tbh I could watch more every day if it wasn't because I watch the show with him only because it's sort of an 'us' thing. Now I'm on episode 1015, so I guess I'll catch up with the anime soon! Then I'll catch up with the manga and then I'll cry because I'll have to wait for episodes/chapters every week. What a torture.

TL;DR: I started watching in February, because my friend and my brother told me to and I fell in love with the show, and I watch 6-10 episodes every day unless I'm busy or I pull an all-nighter.

Fun fact: I watched the Baratie arc exactly on Sanji's birthday this year. I think he was truly meant to be my favorite character.

Oh, and the only reason I wasn't online commenting on my experience watching it before is because I physically stopped myself from looking for content because I didn't want to get spoiled. When I got to post-time skip, I created this side blog!! So, if you want a lil bit of a timeline: Started watching in February, got to post-timeskip in September when I created this blog (so 516 episodes in kind of half a year) and now I'm on episode 1015 (so 499 episodes in three months). I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not studying anymore and I'm just working 20 hours a week, huh.

[sillyengineerperson]

My very official notes on Found Heaven by Conan Gray (but with added context because it was initially written for my friend who understands most of the references i make)

My thoughts while listenting to found heaven at 12am bc what even is sleep?

(also i have to get up a 4 to go to France🙃)

Right here we go song uno

Found heaven:

whoa snazz

Choir

Ahhhh

Michael Jackson much?

😍😍😍😍🥰

I LOVE THIS

OHMIGOD AHHHHHHH

THIS IS SO SNAZZY

ITS STRANGELY BIBLICAL

What???

I don't think its going to be my favourite but still slayyhth- edit: its so much better than I initially thought

Song dos

Never ending song:

we already know I love this (Context: yes i was dancing around in my kitchen to this when i was suposed to be revising for GCSEs)

Yaaaasdd vibes

I feel like it's GCSES AGAIN🥲(Context: this song came out in the first week of GCSEs so i listened to it a lot when i was revising and also the bus back home after an exam)

NOSTALGIA BUT WEIRD AND WITH TUNA MELTS (thats what I had for lunch most days during exams) (Context: I have very oddly specific feelings and vibes acociated with that period of my life)

Ooooooooonnnnnnn

Slay cone

Song tres

Fainted love:

Je suis scared

Its either going to be a yas queen slay or break me

ohhhbh

Me encanta

LOVE IT

SLaaaayyyyyyyy

Play it on toouurrr I beg

This is sooooooo good

Yes king I love you

After listening to this about a billion times more this song is absolutely EVERYTHING AHHHHHHHHHH

Song cuatro

Lonely dancers:

we know this is not my cup of tea (Context: im so sorry to everyone but I just don't like it that much. its still vibes though :) )

But the vibes are still there

So mini silent dance party in my room

🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🪩🪩🪩🕺🕺🕺🪩🪩🪩

Song cinco

Alley rose:

THIS SONG IS EVERYTHING

TIME TO CRY

AHHHHH❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🌹🌹🌹💔💔💔

DONT LEAV ME HANGING ALONE AGAAINNNN

du du du du du on the piano

DOTN EEEEVEN CAREEEEE

😭😭😭

so

yes

beautiful

i love

Song seis

The final fight:

intrigued

I don't know

Hmmmmmm I'm worried

Oh silence

Is it supposed to be completely silent???

No its not something went wrong with my spotify 😂

I really sat there for a whole minute and a half waiting for something to happen

Right anyway

Oooooo drums

GUITAR

BASS

YES CONE

PREACH

NO DONT CRY

ME TOO

it's giving early 2000's movie montage scene where the main character has a huge revalation

He had his moment🙌

AHHH IT REMINDS ME OF THAT SONG FROM ZOMBIES 2 OR HSM 2 WHEN GABRIELLA LEAVES (Context: so in zombies the main characters have a song where its sort of a breakup song but also a thing where they're expressing how they don't feel like they fit in -which is a whole thing that I could rant about bc she literally thinks shes special for having white hair and obviously she's so oppressed because of that and then obviously the zombies have it so much easier even though there are literally laws that are in place to controll them even though they're completely safe and very human like now. I should not get this worked up over a disney channel movie- the song is called Gotta find where I belong. and then in HSM 2 I'm just refering to when Gabriella quits the country club and breaks up with troy)

Song siete

Miss you:

this better be absolutly heart wrenching

ooooooooo

Wut

Slay

He's a king

YES YES YES

his vocals are amazing

That was a straight vibe (edit from later: not straight like heterosexual. I mean it's jsut very vibey)

I'm still waiting for the saddest song of all time but he's killing it so far

Song ocho

Bourgeoisieses:

there's a whole process to typing that

um HELLO

OH MY GOODNESS

Music video when?

Kinda basic song structure (I have no idea what I meant by this) but it's soooooo good

play this on tour it's yes

Song nueve

Forever with me:

please be sad

please be sad

please be sad

don't ask why i want it to be sad

i don't know

YES

PIANO

I HAVE HIGH HOPES

YES YES YES

OHHHHHHHH

CONAN

NOT THE MAGIC SOUND

DONT BE SORRY

THIS IS BEAUTIFUL

OOOH HIGH NOTES

KEY CHANGE

AHHHHHHH

Kinda evil cone?

And whats with the wind sound?

Song diez

Eye of the night:

if it's not witchy eye of the tigeri'm sueing

that's all ive been expecting since i saw the name

whoa!!!

Bro am i wrong with my prediction though??!!😂

This is a vibe

It really is witchy eye of the tiger

🪩🪩🪩

🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺🕺

GIUTARRRRRRR

AHHHH THE KEY CHANGE

HES ON ANOTHER LEVEL

literally 😏

Song once

Boys & girls:

bi anthem!??

maybe

Oh

yes

hello

Vibes

Yeah cone you're wrong they dont

Very vibes

Yeah no same

Okayyyyy

The vibes are there

substance maybe less (I really don't know what I thought I was hearing but my opionion has changed)

Loved it though

Song doce

Killing me:

I LOVERRR THIS SONGGGGG

I

ITS 2 AM

NO WE HAVENT

YES YOU DO

OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

YOURE KULLIBG ME

FREEREEE MEEEEEEE

YOURR UCH A GOI ACTOR

GO AWAY

OHHHHHHHHBHB

KILLING

LUCKY YOU ARRRRRAAREEEE

BU BU BU BU BU BU BU BU

BU BU BU BU BU BU

YOUR KILLING ME

OH I WANNA DIE

BUT YOU KEEP ME ALIVE

HUH

song trece

Winner:

final slay

This song is everything (I'm only just realising how many times i've said that)

AT MAKING ME FEEL WORSE

WINNNNEEEERRRRR

PEW PEW

WINEEEEEEEEERRRERERERRRR

SLAY PIANO

YOUR THE ONE WHOLE KET IT GET THIS BAAAAAD

YOUR CHAOS

WHHHHKKKKKOOOAAAJJAJHA

NIW YOU REALLY ARE THE WIIUUINNERRRRR

Laaaaaa laaa la la lalala laaaaa la

ahhhhhhh je suis deceased

Conan slay has slayed once again to slayingly produce another very very slay album

👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

I think right now my favourite of the new songs is fainted love

but yes

i need sleep bc i'm getting up in 3 hours

it's 1:17

ahhhhhhhh

okay

i need sleep

bye bye

🕺🕺

so that was it

my opinions have probably changed slightly but ahhhhhh this album is so good and i definitly have some more things to say about the songs that I've noticed but thats enough for now because I have a maths test to revise for