#but i think it turned out decent in the end

[elikajinnie]

Heyy, could you do 5 and 14 with Jake pls?

Love you work btw!!!

P: Roommate!Jake X Fem!Reader (NSFW 18+)

Warnings: Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Emotional Tension, Possessive Behavior, Unspoken Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Teasing, Sexual Tension, Dom/Sub, Wall Sex (kinda?), Touch-Starved!Jake, Overstimulation, Unprotected Sex (wrap it up folks,) Praise Kink, Dry Humping, Degrading, Needy!Reader, Dom!Jake, Rough Sex, Munch!Jake, Oral Sex (Fem!Receiving,) Dirty Talk.

Synopsis: The tension with Jake has been building for months. You try to ignore it, to play it safe. But when another ruined date ends in a heated confrontation, the truth slips out and so do his hands. One kiss, and suddenly, pretending you don’t want him isn’t an option anymore.

5. "You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?" 14. "Just one kiss? Or are you planning to leave me wanting more?"

a/n: surpriseee! I’m actually posting smut instead of letting it rot in my docs this time.. I’ve always been a little unsure about sharing smut here, especially with all the mixed opinions on enhablr… but honestly? Fuck it. I wrote it, I liked it, and maybe you will too. so yeah. enjoy! Reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

You weren’t expecting much from your first year of university, maybe some decent lectures, too many all-nighters, and a shoebox-sized dorm that smelled vaguely of instant noodles and poor life choices. What you definitely weren’t expecting was being assigned a roommate like Jake.

And, well... you didn’t mind it.

He was cute—like, actually cute. Tall, warm smile, hair that flopped into his eyes when he laughed, and a voice just raspy enough in the mornings to make brushing your teeth in silence feel slightly inappropriate. But more importantly, Jake was easy. Easy to talk to. Easy to live with.

He made dangerously good ramen at 2 a.m., always added an egg like a chef or something, and somehow never minded sharing. He watched movies with you on quiet nights, quoting dumb lines or laughing at scenes he clearly knew by heart. And he never, ever interrupted you while studying, just quietly slid a granola bar or bottle of water onto your desk when you were too deep into your work to notice how late it had gotten.

You’d look up and catch his retreating back, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair messy from his own unfinished assignment. And maybe your heart would thump once. Maybe twice.

But it was fine. Really. He was your roommate. And you were lucky to have one who didn’t suck.

Right?

Yeah, well—he sucked when it came to the topic of boys. Or more specifically, your hopeful hookups.

It was honestly kind of ridiculous how he always seemed to know.

You weren’t careless. You had his schedule memorized—well, sort of. You both kept a shared calendar on the wall, filled with messy scribbles and color-coded classes, so it wasn’t like you were stalking him. You just... planned accordingly. You knew when he’d be gone for hours, off to some late lab or a campus event, and you took those precious windows of alone time to invite over whatever cute guy had caught your attention that week.

The pattern was always the same: drinks, music low, a little harmless flirting on your tiny couch. Maybe things would get close, hands on knees, mouths hovering, but before anything remotely good could happen, you'd hear it.

The jingle of keys. The unmistakable sound of the door unlocking.

Cue the door swinging open and Jake stepping inside, always with the same casually surprised expression. “Oh,” he’d say, as if he wasn’t ruining your entire night. “Didn’t think you’d be home.”

Your date would tense. You’d force a tight smile. And within minutes, they’d be grabbing their jacket, muttering something about having an early morning. You’d stand there, still a little breathless, lips just barely swollen with possibility, watching Jake toss his bag onto the floor like it was any other night.

And when the door shut behind your date?

You’d turn to him, crossing your arms, annoyed but trying not to show it. “Weren’t you supposed to be out until, like, ten?”

Jake would blink at you, all innocent. “Yeah. But the event got canceled.” Or, “Lab ended early.” Or, “Wasn’t really feeling it.”

Every. Damn. Time.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. Coincidence. But after the fifth time—maybe sixth—you started wondering if it really was just that. Because Jake never seemed all that sorry. In fact, sometimes you could’ve sworn he looked almost... pleased.

So after the seventh fucking time it happened, you kind of gave up.

No more cute guys in your apartment. No more risky almosts on the couch or stealing kisses in the kitchen while Jake was supposedly gone. You adapted—started meeting people off campus or agreeing to go to their places instead.

It wasn’t ideal, but at least you would not hear the sound of Jake’s damn keys in the lock, his perfectly timed entrances sending everything crashing down.

But even then... it never stuck.

Because the guys you met? They never lasted. Maybe a few dates, maybe one night if you were lucky, but nothing ever felt solid. And it wasn’t just you being picky—it was Jake.

Somehow, without fail, they all brought him up.

“Your roommate’s kind of intense, huh?” “He stared at me the whole time like I’d killed his dog.” “Is he always that... territorial?”

Territorial.

That one stuck with you longer than it should’ve.

You always laughed it off. Said Jake was just protective, or weirdly good at making people uncomfortable without trying. But deep down, there was this annoying little voice in your head whispering things you didn’t want to hear.

Because yeah, Jake was protective. He made you ramen at 3 a.m. He knew your class schedule better than you did. He always walked on the outside of the sidewalk and handed you a jacket when you forgot yours. He never touched you in a way that crossed a line, but his presence was always there, just close enough to feel it. And now, without meaning to, you’d started adjusting your life around him.

You didn’t bring guys over anymore. Not because you didn’t want to. But because they never stood a chance. Because Jake was… someone else entirely.

Sweet in a way that wasn’t performative, he didn’t flirt with you for fun or toss compliments around just to get a reaction. He just was. Always thoughtful, always present. The kind of guy who remembered how you took your coffee without asking, who stayed up to watch your favorite comfort movie just because you’d had a bad day. He was cuddly, too, the kind of casually affectionate that ruined you. Throwing an arm around your shoulder on the couch, falling asleep too close during movie nights, letting his legs tangle with yours like it meant nothing. Like you were just that comfortable.

He was smart, too. Unfairly so. He didn’t even have to try—acing tests, explaining things to you with that patient tone that made you feel less stupid and more seen.

And, yeah. He was hot. So hot.

Stupidly hot, if you were being honest. Shirt half-ridden up while stretching, messy hair post-nap, low voice in the morning kind of hot. You used to think the attraction was harmless, just a surface-level thing. A little eye candy to make your living situation more bearable.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being funny.

Because unfortunately, Jake had managed to set your standards sky-high without even trying. The bar? Ruined. Crushed under the weight of every time he handed you a snack wordlessly, every lazy smile he threw your way, every casual brush of his fingers against yours that shouldn’t have made you feel anything—but did.

You tried to cheat around it. Tried going for guys who reminded you of him. Guys who were tall and kind and maybe wore the same kind of rings or had a similar laugh. But none of them made your heart skip the way Jake did. None of them made your skin flush just by saying your name. And eventually, you had to face the truth.

Somewhere in the mess of shared ramen, missed hookups, and one too many movie nights that ended with you biting your lip and pretending not to stare at his stupidly perfect jawline—

You’d developed a crush on Jake.

And worse? You didn’t know what to do about it.

It was supposed to be nothing. No strings, no messy feelings. Just a roommate. Just a guy.

Just a stupidly… hot guy.... Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You were mid-spiral, head buried in your laptop under the pretense of studying, when you blinked up—and instantly regretted it.

Jake had come back from his shower at some point without you noticing. Steam still clung faintly to his skin, hair wet and dripping as he towel-dried it lazily with one hand. His grey sweatpants hung loose and low around his hips, the waistband dipping just enough to make your brain short-circuit. The plain black T-shirt clung a little too well to his chest, still damp in spots, and seriously, who gave him the right?

Your mouth went dry. And the worst part? You weren’t even being dramatic. You could feel the heat bloom across your cheeks, creeping lower, settling somewhere in your stomach and spreading.

Dripping. That was the only word your brain could hold onto.

His hair was dripping.

You were dripping.

Fuck.

Jake looked up just then, catching your gaze before you could look away, and smirked faintly, like he knew exactly what was going through your head. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and crossed the room toward the kitchen, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t out here looking like a walking wet dream. “Want anything?” he asked, voice rough from the heat of the shower. “Gonna make tea.”

You blinked at him, nodded way too fast, and muttered something that vaguely resembled “Sure.”

You watched his back as he moved, broad and unfair, and tried very hard not to melt into your chair. This was fine. Everything was fine. You were not attracted to your roommate. Not at all.

Right?

…right?

You buried your face back in your textbook the moment Jake turned away, determined to focus—actually focus—on something other than the image of him shirtless and dripping wet.

Studying. You're studying. Not thirsting over your roommate.

You recited that to yourself like a mantra, highlighting a sentence you didn’t even read and pretending the words weren’t blurring on the page. You could hear him in the kitchen, casually rummaging around. The clink of a mug. The quiet hum he made when he found what he was looking for. It was so domestic it made your heart ache.

A few minutes later, you caught the familiar scent of chamomile and cinnamon before you even heard him approach.

“Here,” Jake murmured, placing a steaming mug on the desk beside you.

You looked up—and nearly forgot how to breathe.

He was close. Way too close.

One hand settled on the back of your chair, warm and solid behind your neck. The other landed on the desk right beside your arm, making the muscles in his forearm flex slightly, veins standing out beneath skin that was still flushed from the shower. His shirt stretched tight across his chest from the angle, and his damp hair hung just barely in his eyes, water still dripping occasionally onto his collarbone.

You could smell him. Clean soap, a hint of mint, and something unmistakably Jake. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he leaned in closer, voice dipping near your ear.

“What are you reading?”

You froze.

His breath brushed against your skin, hot and barely-there, and it sent a shiver straight down your spine. You swallowed, throat suddenly dry, fingers tightening slightly around your highlighter like it could anchor you to reality. “I—uh…” you started, blinking down at your page like you’d never seen words before. “Psych… something. Case study. Doesn’t matter.”

Jake hummed, low and lazy, like he was amused by your sudden brain short-circuit. He didn’t move away right away. Just lingered, casually caging you in without touching you, like he had no idea what he was doing to you. Or worse... like he did.

You refused to look at him. If you did, you weren’t sure you'd survive it.

“Your tea,” he said, finally pulling back, but not without letting his fingers brush your shoulder lightly. “Just how you like it.” And with that, he strolled back to the couch like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just turned your bones to jelly with one breath and a flex of his arm.

You stared down at your textbook, heat crawling up your neck, and wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from pure, helpless want.

This… was getting dangerous.

You were starting to think you were losing your mind.

Because lately, something had shifted. You didn’t know how or why, but Jake… Jake had started testing you. Not in obvious ways, he wasn’t throwing out dirty pickup lines or cornering you in the hallway like some walking cliché. No. That would’ve been too easy. Too manageable.

Instead, he was teasing you. Flirting—more than usual. And not the playful, harmless kind you were used to. This was different. Suggestive. Low voice, drawn-out words, that smug smile he wore when he caught you staring too long at his hands, his mouth, him.

And he knew.

You could see it in the way his eyes flicked to your lips mid-conversation, or how he leaned just a little too close when reaching for something behind you. He’d started using your name more, saying it like a secret, like it tasted good in his mouth. It sent a weird, warm shiver down your spine every single time.

What was worse? He was getting touchier, too.

At first, it was subtle—his thigh brushing yours on the couch and staying there. His hand finding the small of your back when you passed in the narrow hallway. Then it escalated. Light fingers trailing along your arm when he walked by. Pulling you into his side during movie nights like it was second nature. Fixing the hem of your shirt when it rode up, his knuckles grazing your stomach like it meant nothing.

You’d lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the exact tone of his voice when he whispered something stupidly innocent that somehow left your entire body buzzing.

And the he never acknowledged it. Never pushed past the edge. Never made a move that gave you permission to call it what it was. So you were stuck—trapped in this torturous middle ground where everything he did made your heart race and your thighs clench, but none of it could be labeled. You couldn’t confront him. Couldn’t risk misreading it and ruining everything.

But still... you couldn’t help but wonder:

Was he playing with you?

Or were you already too far gone to tell the difference? All you knew was that Jake kept leaving you high and dry.

Every time.

A brush of his hand here, a whispered comment there, lips inches from your skin, that stupid smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing to you—and then? Nothing. He’d walk off like it hadn’t happened. Like your pulse wasn’t still hammering in your throat and your thighs weren’t pressed tightly together under the desk.

It was maddening.

Your body would buzz for hours after. Skin hot. Mind racing. You’d sit in the quiet of your room, staring at the wall like it owed you an explanation, still breathless from nothing and everything.

So, naturally, you tried to smother the need. Drown it in distraction. You started saying yes to the flirty DMs, to late-night invites, to lingering touches from boys who looked nothing like Jake but felt safe—distant. You let them take you out, let them kiss you, sometimes more. You told yourself it helped. That maybe if someone else could make your heart race again, Jake would stop invading your head.

But they didn’t.

No matter how hard you tried, it was always the same. Their hands didn’t feel like his. Their voices didn’t curl around your name the same way. No one ever looked at you the way Jake did when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You’d leave their rooms unsatisfied, unsaid, untouched in the way that mattered. Worse—sometimes, you’d come home and find Jake sprawled across the couch in nothing but sweats and a shirt, hair messy, eyes tired, and mouth tilted into that crooked, lazy smile. He’d glance up and say, “Have fun?” like it didn’t matter at all. Like he wasn’t watching you come home flushed and frustrated and wishing he was the one undoing your buttons instead.

It felt like punishment.

Or maybe a game.

Either way, you were losing.

And Jake? He was still sitting there—unbothered, untouchable—and somehow still everywhere, all at once.

You weren’t proud of it.

You hadn’t planned to let it go that far, not in the library of all places, but the guy was cute, persistent, and more importantly, a distraction. His lips were soft, eager, and his hands were already roaming beneath your sweater as he backed you into the far corner of the third floor—dead quiet, barely anyone around. Just shelves, soft fluorescent light, and the illusion of privacy.

You let yourself melt into it. Let him kiss down your jaw, hands sliding along your waist, fingers pressing just a little too high under your shirt. You closed your eyes and tried to pretend.

Tried to pretend it was someone else.

You barely heard the cough over the blood rushing in your ears.

You both froze.

And then—his hands still on your waist—you looked up to see Jake standing just a few feet away. Expression unreadable. Lips pressed together. One brow slightly raised. His eyes flicked from you to the guy—and then, calmly, to a shelf just over your shoulder. “Sorry,” Jake said coolly. “Need that book behind you.”

The silence was deafening.

Your mouth opened—no words came out. The guy stepped back quickly, awkwardly wiping his mouth like a kid caught red-handed. You were still leaning against the shelf, heat crawling up your neck, heart pounding in your chest as Jake casually stepped forward, reached around you—around you—and pulled a book from the shelf like he hadn’t just caught you mid-makeout.

He didn’t even look at you. Just nodded once, muttered, “Enjoy your study session,” and turned on his heel.

Gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a moment, stunned, lips still tingling and whole body suddenly ice-cold, while the guy awkwardly asked if you wanted to keep going. You didn’t.

You mumbled some excuse and left a minute later, heart racing, Jake’s voice echoing in your ears. Enjoy your study session.

He hadn’t even sounded mad. But somehow, that made it worse, because something in his voice—low, clipped, polite—felt like punishment.

Like the slow tightening of a string that was about to snap.

And after that day in the library… Jake changed.

Not toward you, exactly. He still brought you tea. Still shared his ramen. Still dropped his hoodies in your lap when you complained about being cold. But something in him had gone quiet. Tense. Sharp around the edges.

It wasn’t until the next time you tried to talk to someone, just a casual conversation with a guy from your elective that you really noticed it. You were sitting on the quad, sunlight warm on your legs, smiling at something the guy had said, when Jake appeared behind you like a shadow. He didn’t say anything at first. Just hovered, arms crossed, eyes locked on the guy like he was measuring how fast he could take him down.

You introduced Jake, voice light, a little unsure. The guy offered his hand. Jake didn’t shake it. Just gave him that same polite, empty smile and said, “Didn’t know we were doing office hours out here.”

The guy left two minutes later with an awkward laugh and a mumbled excuse.

You turned to Jake, brow furrowed. “What was that?”

He just shrugged, all innocent. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

You laughed it off at the time, even though it sat heavy in your chest.

But then it kept happening.

Every time a guy so much as stood too close, Jake would show up—leaning into your space, slipping an arm around your shoulder like it was second nature, voice a little too casual as he interrupted. If someone tried texting you and he happened to see it on your screen, he'd make some offhand comment like “Another one already?” with a tilt of his head and a tone that made your stomach twist.

He was never mean. Not directly. He didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough to drive everyone else away. And you couldn’t decide what scared you more—the fact that Jake was acting like that… Or the fact that part of you liked it.

Did that make you a bad person?

No. You didn’t think so. Not after that day.

You’d been walking back from class, a little distracted, earbuds in and sun warm on your shoulders. You hadn’t even noticed the guy trailing a few steps behind you, some rando you vaguely recognized from a party weeks ago—until he caught up and said something under his breath.

At first, you didn’t catch it. Then he said it again, louder this time.

“You dress like that and expect people not to look? Come on. You’re clearly asking for attention.”

You froze, spine going rigid. Not out of fear—just disbelief. Because you were so tired of this shit. Of people thinking they could say whatever they wanted, get in your space, chip away at your confidence like it didn’t matter.

And then, like some twisted act of fate—Jake appeared.

He’d just been walking by, hands in his pockets, probably heading somewhere casual. But the second he picked up on the guy’s tone, his whole posture changed. His jaw tightened. His stride slowed, and before you could say anything, Jake was there, stepping between you and the guy with his body angled like a shield.

“The fuck did you just say?” he asked, voice calm but sharp enough to cut steel.

The guy blinked, stammered something that sounded like a backpedal. Jake didn’t flinch. Just stared him down, low and steady, as if daring him to try again. “I don’t know what kind of response you were hoping for,” Jake continued, voice dangerously smooth, “but here’s mine: don’t talk to her like that. Don’t talk to anyone like that.”

And that was it.

The guy didn’t fight back. Just scoffed, mumbled something bitter under his breath, and walked off with his pride dragging behind him.

You stood there, frozen in place, heart pounding as Jake turned back to you, the anger in his expression softening instantly. “You okay?”

You nodded, swallowing hard.

He looked at you for a second longer before exhaling. “Don’t listen to assholes like him,” he said, voice gentler now. “Wear whatever makes you feel good. Confident. You look—” he hesitated, his gaze flickering downward for a second too long, before dragging back up to your eyes. “—you look great.”

You didn’t call him out on it.

Didn’t say a word about the way his eyes dipped again, this time lingering a little too low, lingering like maybe he wasn’t just being protective. And you definitely didn’t mention the way you liked it. Because that would make this too real. And you were still clinging to the lie that Jake was just your roommate. Just a guy. Just someone who looked out for you.

Even if everything he did lately said otherwise.

Spring came fast.

One day it was hoodies and oversized jackets, and the next, the sun was out, the windows were open, and your tiny university apartment started feeling like a sauna by midday. Naturally, your wardrobe adjusted accordingly. Shorts. Tank tops. Loose-fitting tees that barely grazed the tops of your thighs.

Nothing dramatic—just comfortable.

But you noticed it.

The shift.

At first, it was in the way his conversations got shorter. Not cold—just distracted. He’d pause mid-sentence on a call with a friend when you walked into the room, eyes flickering over your legs before snapping back up to your face like he hadn’t just looked. Like he wasn’t still thinking about it.

He started pulling at the collar of his shirt more often, mumbling something about how hot it was. You caught him watching you from across the room, the tip of his tongue resting against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying very hard not to say something he’d regret.

He never said anything. Not really. But his eyes lingered now. Traced over your bare thighs, the curve of your waist, your chest. His jaw would tighten. His grip on his coffee mug would shift. Sometimes, he’d be mid-sentence and suddenly forget what he was saying.

And you noticed.

God, did you notice.

The silence would stretch just a little too long. His tongue would dart out to wet his lips when you bent over to grab something from the fridge. The air in the apartment felt heavier, like the tension had weight. Like every brush of your arm against his, every moment you shared the couch, every laugh that ended too close was leading somewhere neither of you wanted to name.

One night, you walked into the living room wearing a cropped tank and boyshorts, ready to call it a night, only to find Jake sprawled on the couch in just a pair of loose gym shorts, damp from a late workout. His skin glistened slightly under the dim light, and his hair stuck to his forehead.

He looked up at you—slowly. Quietly.

Didn’t say a word for a beat too long.

“You trying to kill me?”

You blinked. “What?”

Jake smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, arms stretching behind his head, the motion making his muscles flex and his abs pull taut. “You can’t just walk around looking like that and expect me to concentrate.”

Your heart did a full somersault.

“I live here,” you said, trying to sound unbothered, even though your voice had gone slightly breathless. “I’m comfortable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your legs, then dragging back up, slower this time. “I can see that.” He turned back to the TV like he hadn’t just sent a shockwave through your entire nervous system.

You swallowed hard, shifting your weight as you lowered yourself onto the far end of the couch—far, like that would somehow help. It didn’t. Not when the heat from his body practically reached you. Not when the soft sounds from the movie blurred into white noise, your attention caught on the way his chest rose and fell, the light sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin.

You were hyper-aware of everything. The way your thighs stuck slightly to the couch’s faux leather. The way the fabric of your shorts rode up when you crossed your legs. The way Jake’s eyes flicked over to you every few minutes, barely noticeable—except that it was every few minutes.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But then his foot brushed against yours.

It could’ve been accidental. Could’ve—if it didn’t linger just a second too long before pulling away.

You glanced at him.

He was still watching the screen. Calm. Blank-faced.

You leaned back, pretending to adjust your position, stretching your legs out until they rested next to his. You felt, more than saw, the way his jaw clenched.

Another scene passed. Quiet. Tense.

Then you felt it—his fingers, just the lightest brush, trailing over your ankle. Slow. Testing.

You looked at him again, and this time he was already looking at you, eyes darker, that playful glint nowhere to be found.

“You sure this is comfortable?” he asked, voice low. Rough around the edges.

You nodded. Slowly. “Yeah.”

Jake’s hand slid a little higher, up your shin, warm and deliberate. “Cause you’ve been squirming since you sat down.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively, and you hated how obvious it must’ve looked. But Jake didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. He just shifted closer.

You could feel the heat radiating from him now, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and something so Jake it made your head spin.

“You always wear stuff like this to bed?” he asked, fingers ghosting over the hem of your shorts.

“Only when it’s hot,” you whispered, not trusting your voice any louder.

He hummed, eyes dropping to your legs again, but slower now. Lazier. He reached over, fingers brushing your bare thigh—light, barely-there, but so charged it made your breath hitch. “You’re killing me,” he muttered, half to himself.

Your heart was pounding now, wild and loud in your chest. And when you didn’t pull away, didn’t say stop, Jake leaned in—his palm resting against your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles against your skin. “Say something,” he said quietly, voice at your ear. “Or I’m gonna keep touching you like this.”

You didn’t say a word. You just leaned into it. And his hand slid higher.

You didn’t remember what movie was playing anymore. Whatever it was, it faded completely into the background, muted voices and shifting colors on the screen, all irrelevant now compared to the slow, heavy thrum of heat building between you.

Jake’s hand stayed on your thigh, fingers moving in lazy, circling strokes. Teasing. Testing. He didn’t look at you when he spoke again, like the words weren’t really meant for you, just thoughts slipping from his lips.

“You know,” he said, thumb brushing just under the hem of your shorts, “it’s kind of unfair.”

You tilted your head, pulse racing. “What is?”

“That you walk around here looking like that and expect me to sit through a whole movie without getting distracted.”

You didn’t answer. Just gave a soft, amused hum, your legs shifting slightly beneath his hand, as if inviting him closer.

And he took the invitation.

Slowly, Jake leaned in, his body turning toward you until your knees bumped, his palm trailed further up your thigh, warm and sure, until he was cupping the curve just above your knee, thumb dragging across bare skin in rhythm with the pounding in your chest.

His other hand lifted and pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek as his eyes met yours—intense, unblinking, like he was trying to read you.

Still, you didn’t speak. You didn’t really need to. Your silence said enough. The way your breathing picked up. The way your fingers curled slightly against the couch cushion. The way your legs opened, just a little more, letting him settle between them.

Jake’s gaze dipped lower, and then he was moving again—leaning down, slower this time, the kind of slow that made your skin prickle in anticipation. His face hovered just above your chest, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath through your thin top.

“Comfortable still?” he murmured, lips ghosting the curve of your collarbone.

You swallowed, throat tight. “Mm-hm.”

Jake smiled against your skin, a slow, wicked thing. His hand slid higher up your thigh, palm firm now, possessive in a way that made your stomach flip. “You keep humming like that,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet yours again, “I might start thinking you like this.”

You didn’t break his gaze.You just let out another soft hum, sweet and quiet, but so full of meaning it made his eyes darken.

The room felt too hot. The air thick. Your body buzzing.

And still, neither of you moved to finish it.

It was a slow unraveling, like pulling at a thread, knowing eventually everything would come undone.

And you were letting it happen. Maybe even hoping for it.

Jake’s breath against your skin, the weight of his hand on your thigh, the way his eyes watched you like he was waiting for a green light, it was all so heavy, so close, you could barely think. His lips were just about to brush lower, his fingers tightening slightly, when—

Rrring. Rrring.

The shrill sound of your phone sliced through the tension like a knife.

You both froze.

Your body went rigid, Jake’s hand still warm against your skin, his face hovering so close to your chest you could feel the air shift as he let out a quiet, sharp breath.

“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, straightening up with a frustrated exhale as you reached for your phone with trembling fingers. You didn’t even check the name before answering, still breathless, your voice cracking slightly. “Hello?”

“WHERE ARE YOU?” your friend’s voice practically screamed through the speaker, making you wince. “You promised! We’re literally outside the club—do not bail on me again!”

You blinked, trying to reorient yourself. “Wait—what?”

“The club?” she repeated. “Short dress? Bad decisions? You swore you'd come tonight. Don’t make me come drag you out myself.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear for a second, glancing at the time—and then it hit you.

You had promised her.

The plan had been made days ago. A night out. Something about dancing off stress, drinking too much, maybe making out with a stranger in a dark corner, back when you were still desperately trying to exorcise your Jake problem. You glanced up, and Jake was already watching you, leaned back now, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking as he waited.

Your friend shouted your name through the phone again, snapping your attention back. “Okay, okay—I’m coming,” you muttered, rubbing your forehead, your skin still tingling from where Jake had touched it. “Give me twenty.”

“Ten!” she demanded. “You better be wearing something hot!” The call ended before you could respond.

Silence settled between you and Jake again, heavier this time. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at you, shoulders a little tense now, his hands clasped loosely between his knees.

You shifted, suddenly too aware of your barely-there clothes, your flushed skin, and how close you’d come to letting everything snap. “I, uh…” you stood slowly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I forgot I made plans.”

Jake’s gaze dragged over you—slow, unreadable. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I figured.” But his voice didn’t carry the same heat as before. It was quiet. Cool. Like something had shut behind his eyes. Like maybe he hated the reminder that you still had other places to be. Other people to see. Other guys who weren’t him.

You didn’t give Jake a chance to say anything.

Didn’t let yourself look at him for more than a second, because if he so much as breathed the wrong way, you already knew what would happen. You’d fold. Stay. Crawl right back onto that couch and into the dangerous gravity of his hands, his mouth, his everything.

So you bolted for your room, muttering a rushed “I’ll be quick,” before shutting the door behind you.

You moved fast. Thank God you’d already showered. No time to overthink. No time to wonder if he was still sitting on the couch with that same unreadable expression, or if he’d gotten up, pacing the room like he always did when he was trying not to say something.

You yanked open your dresser and grabbed the black dress you’d shoved in the back last week—short, slinky, barely-there. Something your friend had convinced you to buy during a “hot girl summer” phase you were now very thankful for. You slipped it on, the material hugging your skin like a second layer. It left your shoulders bare, dipped a little too low at the back, and hit mid-thigh like it had no business pretending to be modest. Next, you pulled on your comfiest heels—chunky, easy to dance in—and moved to the mirror. You did your foundation, brows, a little concealer. The rest could wait for the club bathroom. You were already running late.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you applied gloss to your lips, and not from nerves about going out. Because through the cracked door, you could feel it.

Jake’s gaze.

Heavy. Lingering. Burning into you with every shift of fabric, every bend of your body, every subtle adjustment of your dress. You didn’t even have to look to know he was still there. You could feel the tension in the air like static, the way it clung to your skin and made the hair on your arms stand up. And for a second, just a second, you almost slowed down. Almost turned around and walked back into the living room, let him pull you into his lap and finish what you’d started. But instead, you slipped in your earrings, grabbed your tiny bag, and pushed open the bedroom door like your heart wasn’t pounding in your chest.

Jake was standing by the kitchen now, hands braced against the counter, jaw tight. His eyes found you instantly.

And fuck.

He didn’t say anything, instead his gaze dragged over you like a physical touch, slow and anything but innocent. From the curve of your thighs to the way the dress clung to your waist, to the dip of your collarbone where the gloss on your lips caught the light.

You swallowed hard.

“Well?” you asked, keeping your voice light, like you weren’t moments away from completely combusting. “Do I pass the vibe check?”

Jake’s eyes didn’t move from you. “You look…” He paused, voice low and rough. “Yeah. You look dangerous.”

And God help you, you liked how that sounded coming from him way too much.

The word clung to your skin like heat, sitting heavy in your chest as Jake’s gaze burned through every layer of pretense you tried to wear with that dress. You couldn’t tell if he meant it as a compliment or a warning.

You didn’t ask, instead, you gave him a tight smile. “Don’t wait up.”

And then you were gone. Out the door, heels clicking down the hallway, pulse racing with every step like you’d just escaped something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

The air outside hit you like a shock, cooler than you expected, but it didn’t settle the warmth still simmering beneath your skin. Your phone buzzed as your friend texted again: “Hurry up, the line’s insane. I’m losing my mind.”

You typed back a quick “2 mins” and kept walking, trying to shake the feeling of Jake’s stare still clinging to your back, your hips, your thighs. You could still feel itm like his eyes had left fingerprints on your skin.

And God, how you wanted them there.

The club was loud, packed, the music pulsing through the floor and straight into your bloodstream. You were instantly swallowed by the energy of it all—colored lights flashing, bodies pressed together, the smell of sweat and perfume thick in the air.

Your friend dragged you to the dance floor with no time for drinks or second thoughts. She was glowing, already half-tipsy, and the kind of reckless that made her infectious. You let her spin you, pull you into the crowd, and for a moment, you let yourself forget.

But it didn’t last long.

Because every time someone put their hands on your waist, tried to dance close behind you, your mind flashed back to him. To Jake’s hands on your thigh. Jake’s voice in your ear. Jake’s breath against your chest.

You laughed it off. Danced harder. Drank faster.

But it was no use.

Every guy you danced with? They weren’t him.

And no amount of bass or neon lights or sweaty touches could replace the fire he left behind.

Back at the apartment, Jake hadn’t moved much.

He was still in the kitchen, still leaning against the counter, the room quiet now, save for the faint hum of the fridge. He hadn’t turned the movie back on. Hadn’t started his usual late-night routine.

He just stood there. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on the door you’d walked out of. Every part of him tense, coiled. Because the image of you in that dress was burned into his brain now. Seared. He could still see the way the fabric clung to your hips. Could still hear your voice when you said Don’t wait up—like that wasn’t the cruelest thing you could’ve said with your lips still wet from lip gloss. He didn’t know what he was more pissed about—that you looked that good, or that someone else was probably touching you by now.

Ugh. He knew he had no right to feel this way, but it didn’t stop the possessiveness curling in his gut. It didn’t stop his hands from clenching at the thought of you dancing for someone else. Letting someone else pull you close. Letting someone else taste what he hadn’t even dared ask for yet.

Not because he didn’t want to.

God, how he wanted to.

He just hadn’t let himself have you. Not fully. There was a line—an invisible one he drew the night you became his roommate, when you dropped your bags at the door and smiled at him like you didn’t have any idea what you were doing to him.

But now?

Now that line was starting to blur.

Because it wasn’t just a crush anymore. It wasn’t just stolen glances and casual touches and teasing flirtation that ended with him fisting the sheets in silence, replaying the sound of your laugh, the shape of your mouth.

No, now it was need.

And it hit harder than he expected. Hard enough that he was still pacing the kitchen floor an hour later, shirt discarded, drink untouched on the counter, your last words echoing in his head like a taunt.

Don’t wait up.

Like hell he wouldn’t.

His phone buzzed once—then again. A message from a friend about a party, another about a group meetup. He ignored them both. His attention was fixed on the clock, every minute ticking by like a warning.

Was it stupid to be this wound up? Probably. But that didn’t change the way his blood ran hotter every time he imagined someone else’s hands on your hips. Some guy’s mouth pressed against your neck, your back arching into a touch that didn’t belong to him.

You weren’t his. He knew that.

But if tonight proved anything… it was that he wanted you to be.

And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending otherwise.

The night air was warm, sticky against your skin as you made your way back to the apartment, heels clicking quietly on the pavement. You were tipsy, just enough for your limbs to feel light and your brain pleasantly fuzzy. The club had been fine. The drinks strong. The dancing easy. But your heart hadn’t been in it.

You’d spent the night smiling too politely at hands that wandered, swaying half-heartedly to songs you normally loved. Your mind had been miles away—here, in this apartment. With him.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unlocked the door, fumbling with the keys before finally twisting the knob and pushing inside. The lights were dim. Just the glow of the kitchen light spilling into the living room. And there he was. Jake. Sitting on the couch. Waiting.

One arm draped along the back of the couch, the other lazily holding a half-full glass of water. His hair was a little messy, his expression unreadablem but his eyes locked on you the second the door clicked shut.

You blinked, slightly startled. “You’re still up?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. His gaze dragged over you slowly, taking in the way your dress clung to your body, the way your makeup had smudged slightly, the faint sheen of sweat at your collarbone from dancing. His jaw tensed. “Wasn’t tired,” he said finally, voice low and smooth. Controlled. Too controlled.

You stepped further into the apartment, setting your keys down with a soft clink, suddenly all too aware of how quiet it was.

“How was the club?” he asked, voice still casual, but there was something in the way he asked it. A tension that didn’t quite match the words.

You shrugged, slipping off your shoes with a sigh. “Loud. Crowded.”

“Fun?”

You looked at him. Really looked at him.

His eyes didn’t leave you. Not once.

“Not really.”

He nodded once, slow. Took a sip of his water. Then, quietly: “Did you dance with anyone?”

Why did that question feel loaded?

“A few people,” you said carefully, watching him for a reaction.

Jake hummed. “Anyone worth remembering?” His tone was light. Teasing, almost. But his grip on the glass had tightened just enough for you to notice.

You let out a soft breath, walking toward him slowly, arms crossed under your chest, partly because you were cold, partly because your heart was beating too fast now. “Why?” you asked. “Gonna take notes?”

Jake’s eyes flicked up to meet yours again. “No,” he said, voice dropping just slightly. “Just wondering if I need to remind you what it feels like when someone actually knows how to touch you.”

Your breath hitched.

The room went quiet.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink.

And you—still tipsy, still buzzing from the way his voice dipped so low felt the air shift.

He set the glass down on the coffee table slowly, then leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze still locked on you like you were something he’d been starving for.

“Come here.”

Just two words.

But they hit like a match to gasoline.

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there in the soft light, your heels discarded by the door, skin warm with heat and sweat.

Jake didn’t repeat himself. He just watched you, elbows on his knees, jaw tense, like he was holding something in his mouth he didn’t dare say.

And maybe it was the drinks, or the way your body still buzzed from the club, or the fact that his voice wrapped around your spine like a hand. But you walked over. Slowly, each step louder than it should’ve been. You stopped just in front of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his bare chest.

He looked up at you like he wanted to say something. Or maybe do something. But he didn’t. His hands stayed on his knees, fingers twitching slightly like he was holding them back. “Had fun teasing me all week?” he asked softly, head tilting a little. His eyes dragged over your bare thighs, up to your collarbone, slow and purposeful. “Walking around in little shorts. Tight tops. Laughing like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

Your breath caught. “I wasn’t teasing.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

You shook your head. “You’re the one who started it.”

Jake let out a quiet breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second, then back up. And then his hand lifted slowly, barely brushing the side of your thigh with the backs of his fingers. So light, it was more suggestion than touch.

It sent a ripple through you all the same.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours again, searching. “You going to bed?”

You licked your lips. Nodded once. “Yeah.”

Jake’s hand dropped back to his knee, just like that. His face unreadable now, voice quiet when he spoke again. “Sleep well.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip.

You didn’t trust yourself to respond, so you turned and walked away, pulse racing with every step back to your room.

You didn’t look back.

And neither of you said what you were really thinking.

Okay, you were so over everything.

The tension between you and Jake had gotten unbearable—so bad that you’d started avoiding your own reflection at night, because even you could see how strung out you looked. How restless. How badly you needed something that you couldn’t have.

Nights were the worst.

You’d lay in bed, your skin flushed and hot, your body aching in ways that had nothing to do with the weather. Sheets tangled between your legs, your teeth sinking into your lip as your hand slipped beneath your waistband again, trying to quiet the frustration clawing at your chest.

It never helped.

You’d close your eyes and see him. Jake, shirtless in the kitchen. Jake, sweat-slicked and grinning post-run. Jake’s hands on your thigh, mouth ghosting against your skin, saying your name in that low, unreadable voice.

It drove you mad.

More than once, your fingers would still, your breath catching as you stared at your closed bedroom door—tempted. So tempted to just throw off the covers, march across the hall, and crawl into his bed to put an end to this sick little game once and for all.

But you didn’t.

And now it was harder than ever. Because Jake was busy. His schedule had shifted—more classes, more shifts, later nights. You barely saw him anymore. Passing each other like strangers in the hallway, awkward silences over takeout, faint smiles and tired eyes that said I’m thinking about it too, but neither of you said a damn word.

The heat between you hadn’t disappeared, it had just been buried under new routines, overbooked calendars, exhaustion. But it simmered. Lurking just under the surface, waiting for a moment alone. Waiting for one of you to finally break.

You hated how much you missed him. How often your eyes flicked to the door when you heard keys in the lock. How your heart jumped when he said your name, even casually, even half-asleep.

You were over it. Over the tension. Over the silence. Over pretending like you didn’t want to rip this thing wide open and find out what the hell it would feel like to have Jake finally touch you like you knew he wanted to.

But if Jake wasn’t going to start anything, then fine.

You’d just have to get creative.

You were done waiting. Done pacing your room like some love-struck idiot, breathless over fleeting glances and unfinished touches. So you went back to base one—teasing him.

You started small again. Soft shorts. Tank tops without a bra underneath. Bare legs propped up on the coffee table, shirts that slipped off your shoulder just right. Sometimes you’d walk past him fresh out of the shower, towel wrapped around your body, water glistening on your skin.

And you’d catch it.

The way his jaw clenched. How his eyes lingered a moment too long. How his hand would flex around whatever he was holding—his phone, a coffee mug, a pen—like he had to physically restrain himself.

There were moments, real ones, when you swore he was about to break.

Like the time he paused behind you at the sink, his breath brushing your neck as he reached around you to grab a glass. Or when you’d dropped your phone and bent over a little too slowly, feeling his eyes drag down your spine and lower.

You would’ve bet anything on it—he wanted you just as bad.

But he never made a move. Just smirked. Threw out a teasing comment. Something harmless and loaded all at once, like, “Careful. Keep walking around like that and you’ll drive someone crazy.”

And he would say it like he wasn’t already losing his mind.

So. Fine.

If he wasn’t going to crack, you’d push harder.

Jake had been home less and less lately. Long days, late nights, crashing in bed before you even got the chance to properly torment him. The apartment felt emptier—colder, despite the heat that still lingered in the walls.

And if Jake wasn’t around to see you, to touch you, to do something about the fire he started—

Then maybe someone else would.

So the next part of your plan was simple.

You started inviting guys over again. Not the sweet, awkward ones like before. No, these ones were confident. Forward. They didn’t hesitate to flirt, to touch your knee under the table, to compliment your lips or your dress or how good you looked that night.

You didn’t do much—at first.

A drink. A few laughs. A few almosts on the couch, just enough to remind yourself what it felt like to be wanted out loud. But with every guy who leaned in too close, every hand on your waist, every whispered compliment into your ear, there was always one thought in the back of your mind: This isn’t Jake.

And no matter how much you smiled, no matter how close you let them get... It was never enough. Because they weren’t him.

Their hands didn’t make your skin tingle. Their voices didn’t sink into your bones the way Jake’s did. You let them touch, let them talk, let them get close, but it was always a performance. A game you were playing for someone else, even if he wasn’t in the room.

Until one night, he was.

You were in the living room, low music playing from your speaker, the soft hum of city noise leaking in from the cracked window. The guy was cute—tall, smooth-talking, a little too confident for his own good, but he served his purpose. He made you laugh just enough. Said the right things. Touched your knee like he wanted more.

And at some point, you ended up straddling his lap on the couch. His hands resting on your thighs. Your arms lazily looped around his neck. His lips hovering just a breath from yours.

You weren’t even really listening to what he was saying. You were too focused on the phantom thrum beneath your skin. That part of you screaming that this wasn’t right. That it was too soft. Too staged.

That it wasn’t Jake.

And then—

Click.

The sound of the front door unlocking.

Your heart stopped.

The guy didn’t notice it at first, not until your body went a little too still in his lap, your fingers pausing mid-movement on his shoulder.

The door opened slowly. Jake stepped inside and froze.

His eyes landed on you in an instant. Then dropped to the guy’s hands on your thighs. The way your dress was bunched slightly around your hips. The angle of your body pressed against someone else’s. And for a second—just one second—he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. But his eyes… his eyes burned.

The guy beneath you tensed, sensing the shift in the air. “Uh… hey, man,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Jake didn’t respond. He just closed the door behind him, and then he turned his eyes to you. Not angry. Not confused. Just controlled—so tightly wound it sent a jolt straight through your chest. “Didn’t know we were having company,” he said, voice flat.

You swallowed. “You’re home early.”

Jake’s jaw flexed. “Clearly.” And then, without another word, he walked past you. Not a glance back. Not even a pause. But the air he left in his wake? Suffocating.

The guy under you cleared his throat awkwardly. “So… should I go?”

You didn’t answer right away, you just stared at the hallway Jake disappeared into, every nerve in your body lit like a fuse.

You couldn’t sleep—not that you really tried. Your thoughts were too loud, looping around the same moment again and again: Jake’s face when he walked in. The tension in his shoulders. The way he hadn’t even looked at you when he passed.

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, a bag of chips crinkled between your hands and a random video playing quietly on your phone. Something dumb. Pointless. Background noise to drown out the silence.

The light above the stove cast a soft yellow glow across the room, just enough to keep you grounded.

You were wearing nothing but a big, oversized t-shirt—Jake’s, actually. One you’d stolen weeks ago and never gave back. It hung just long enough to cover your thighs, but not by much.

And you didn’t hear him coming. Not until he was right there.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You looked up, startled, and there he was standing in the doorway, barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray sweatpants that hung just a little too low on his hips. His hair was messy, his voice hoarse with sleep, and there was something heavy in his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen.

You swallowed. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t turn my brain off.”

Jake nodded once, his eyes dragging over you slowly, the way the shirt barely covered your legs, the familiarsight of his own shirt stretched across your chest. His jaw tensed.

“Didn’t hear you come out,” you added, trying to sound normal. Trying to pretend like your body wasn’t humming just from the sight of him in low light, all muscle and shadows and tension.

“I saw the light.” He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Didn’t expect to see you still up.”

You gave a weak smile. “Guess I’m a little wound up.”

Jake tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “That why you had someone over earlier? To help you unwind?”

The words hit sharp and fast. Not loud. But laced with something bitter underneath. “Jake…”

He pushed off the counter slowly, stepping forward. “You can spare me the explanation,” he said, voice low, calm. “You don’t owe me one.”

“Then why bring it up?” you asked softly.

Jake stopped in front of you, close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted. His gaze dipped to your thighs, bare against the counter’s edge, then back up to your face. “Because,” he said, his voice quieter now, “you keep playing games.”

“I’m not,” you said, but it came out too fast. Too defensive.

“Aren’t you?” he asked, eyes locked on yours. “You walk around in barely anything. You touch me. You look at me like you’re begging me to do something about it—and then you invite some guy over and climb into his lap like none of it meant anything?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Jake stepped even closer, between your legs now, hands braced on either side of the counter beside your thighs. His body heat pressed into you, and suddenly you couldn’t hear your video anymore. Couldn’t feel anything except him.

He let out a short, breathless laugh, like he couldn’t believe any of this, like he was shocked at his own breaking point. His voice was rough, low, edged with something dangerous as he looked down at you. “You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll stop pretending like I don’t want it too.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, his eyes boring into yours like he already knew the answer. But he wouldn’t move. Not until you said it.

You stared at him, heart thudding hard against your ribs, mouth dry.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

“I didn’t…” Your voice faltered. “I didn’t bring him over because I wanted him.”

Jake didn’t move, but his jaw flexed like he was forcing himself to stay still.

You exhaled shakily. “I—I thought maybe if I let someone else touch me, I’d stop thinking about you every time I was alone.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth. His fingers curled against the counter.

You shifted slightly, knees brushing his thighs, and he stepped in closer like it was instinct, like he needed that space filled just as much as you did. You parted your legs without thinking, making room for him to stand between them.

The second he did, your breath caught.

He was so close now you could smell the warmth of his skin. See the tension in his shoulders. His hands stayed put, but his whole body was strung tight, like he was one word away from losing control.

You swallowed hard and pushed yourself to keep going. “I couldn’t sleep tonight because… I can’t stop thinking about you,” you whispered, eyes fluttering down to his chest before dragging back up to meet his gaze. “About how you look at me. About how you don’t touch me, even when I want you to.”

Jake leaned in just a little, breath brushing your cheek, his voice low and rough. “Then say it.”

You blinked up at him. “Say what?”

“What you want.” His stare never wavered. Unblinking. Unmoving. Like you were the only thing he could see in the world right now.

And you were trembling now—just slightly—but not from fear. From finally letting it crack. “I want you,” you breathed. “I want it to be you. It’s only ever been you.”

Jake exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. His hand lifted, slow, and brushed a thumb over your cheek, like he still wasn’t sure this was real. His other hand hovered at your thigh, not touching yet, but so close it made your whole body ache. “Say that again,” he whispered, like he needed to hear it.

You met his eyes—wild and dark and so full of something that made your knees weak. “It’s only ever been you, Jake.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. And then he moved. No hesitation this time. No teasing, no pulling back. Just heat—pure, crashing heat—as Jake surged forward and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, full of months of pent-up want and frustration and all the words neither of you had said. His mouth crashed against yours, open, greedy, like he’d been dying to do it and finally stopped giving a damn about holding back.

You gasped into it, breath catching as his hands gripped your hips—firm, grounding, possessive. He pulled you forward on the counter, bringing you flush against him, like he needed to feel all of you to believe this was happening.

Your arms flew up around his neck, hands diving into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. His lips parted yours deeper, tongue brushing yours, slow and hot, tasting you like he’d dreamed about this a thousand times.

You kissed him like you’d been starving. Because you had.

His thumbs dug into the sides of your hips as your legs wrapped loosely around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and his body slotted perfectly between yours like it was meant to be there.

The kiss didn’t slow. It just burned. Over and over again, like you were trying to memorize each other through touch alone. Like he didn’t know where to start.

Your breath stuttered as you pulled back just a fraction, foreheads touching, your lips still brushing against his, swollen and warm. “You’ve been driving me insane,” you whispered.

Jake laughed softly, breathless. “Yeah? Good.” And then he kissed you again.

Deeper this time. Slower. Like now that he had you, he was going to take his time.

He kissed you slower now, but no less deep. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of reverence, like he was trying to memorize the way you tasted, the way you sighed when his tongue slid over yours, the way you melted against him without hesitation.

Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer until your hips were pressed to his, the friction making your whole body thrum. He groaned into your mouth, fingers flexing against your skin before they slipped beneath the hem of his shirt you wore—his shirt—and pushed it up inch by inch.

“Take this off,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, raw.

You nodded, dazed, and raised your arms.

He pulled the fabric over your head in one swift motion, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking. His eyes dropped, lingering on your bare skin, the soft curve of your chest, the way you sat open for him on the counter, already breathless and flushed. “Fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself, brushing his thumb gently along your ribcage. “You’re so…”

He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

You reached for him again, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers brushing the skin just above it, and his breath hitched in response. His hands found your thighs again, sliding up, gripping tighter now, leaving heat in their wake, as he leaned in, kissing your jaw, then down your neck—slow, hot, dragging his mouth across your skin like he was trying to brand you.

You gasped when his teeth grazed just beneath your ear, one hand slipping up to cup your breast, thumb circling over your nipple until you arched into him. “Jake…” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark, wild, so full of something you’d never seen in him before—need, adoration, hunger. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admitted, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “I wanted you since the first night you walked out of your room in one of my shirts.”

You smiled, soft and shy despite everything, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Then take me.”

Jake didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, capturing your mouth in another deep, aching kiss—this one rougher, messier, full of tension. His hands were everywhere, sliding over your bare back, gripping your thighs as your legs locked tighter around his hips, when he suddenly pressed you back against the counter, mouth trailing down your throat as his hands slipped under your thighs, lifting you just enough to reposition you—right at the edge, legs parted around his waist. The cool counter beneath you clashed deliciously with the heat spreading through your skin.

Jake kissed down the slope of your chest, slow and lingering, and you gasped when his lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking just enough to make your back arch. His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as you rocked against him, the thin fabric of your panties doing nothing to hide how needy you’d become.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your skin, “how many times I’ve imagined this. Right here. Just like this.”

You whimpered, fingers tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. “Then stop imagining.”

that was all it took for Jake to pin you against the kitchen counter, his body pressing firmly against yours, the cool marble at your back a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. His hands roamed possessively over your curves, tracing the dip of your waist and the flare of your hips. You could feel his arousal, hard and insistent, against your thigh.

Jake's hands grew more urgent, his touch becoming almost desperate as he explored your body, his fingers digging into your flesh. He ground against you, his hard length pressing into your thigh, the thin fabric of his sweatpants doing little to hide his need. You could feel the heat of him, the throb of his arousal, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

His mouth crashed down on yours again, his lips hungry and demanding. You parted your lips for him, your tongue meeting his in a desperate dance. Jake moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, sending waves of desire crashing over you. You gripped his shoulders tighter, your nails digging into his flesh, holding him close, urging him on.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with lust. "Fuck, I need you," he groaned, his voice hoarse with desire. "I need to feel you, taste you, be inside you." His hands roamed lower, cupping your ass, squeezing and kneading, pulling you harder against him. You could feel his cock, hot and hard, pressing against your core, the friction of his movements sending sparks of pleasure through you. You rocked your hips against him, meeting his thrusts, your body aching with need.

Pulling back slightly, his eyes met yours, dark with desire that made your heart race. In that moment, you caught a glimpse of the wet spot on his sweatpants, a testament to his arousal, and it sent a thrill of anticipation through you.

Before you could even gasp, Jake's hands were on your waist, pulling you down from the kitchen counter with a swift, fluid motion. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your bodies pressing tightly together as he kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fervor that left you dizzy.

He guided you out of the kitchen, his lips never leaving yours, his hands roaming over your body possessively. You could feel the heat of his desire, the urgency in his touch, and it matched your own need, your own desperation for him.

The journey to the bedroom was cut short when Jake suddenly slammed you against the wall of the hallway, his body pressing firmly against yours. His kiss deepened, becoming more desperate. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. When he pulled back, a thin string of saliva stretched between your lips. "Fuck, I need to taste you now," he groaned, his voice hoarse with desire.

Before you could even form a question, Jake dropped to his knees, his hands hooking into the waistband of your panties. With a swift, fluid motion, he pulled them down, the fabric tearing slightly in his haste. He threw the panties over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours.

He then propped your leg over his shoulder, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady. And then, without hesitation, he dove in, his mouth finding your most intimate place, his tongue exploring, licking, devouring you like a man starved.

You cried out, your back arching, your hands fisting in his hair, holding him to you. Jake's tongue swirled and flicked, his movements urgent, desperate, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of you. He groaned against you, the vibration sending waves of pleasure crashing over you, your body trembling.

Jake's tongue kept swirling and licking, exploring every inch of you with a fervor that left you gasping for breath. He groaned into you, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body, each lick, each suck, each nip pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Jake!" you cried out, your voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. "Oh god, Jake, I'm coming!" Your body convulsed, waves of pleasure crashing over you, your inner muscles clenching and releasing. Jake groaned against you, the sound muffled but intense, as he continued to lick and suck, drawing out your orgasm, his tongue lapping up every drop of your release.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was glistening with your juices, a sight that sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through you.

You wobbled slightly, your legs trembling from the intensity of your release, but Jake was there, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. He guided you into his bedroom, his lips never leaving yours, his hands roaming over your body possessively.

As he laid you down on his bed, you could feel the cool sheets against your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. Jake crawled between your legs, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged with desire.

"Jake," you started, your voice breathless, "I need a minute—"

But he cut you off, his hands spreading your thighs wide, holding you open for him. "Sorry baby... I need another taste," he moaned, his voice hoarse with need.

And with that, he dove back in without hesitation, his nose bumping against your clit, his tongue exploring, licking, devouring you once more.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed, your hands fisting in the sheets. Jake's tongue was relentless, his movements urgent, desperate, as if he couldn't get enough of you. He groaned into you, the vibrations sending fresh waves of pleasure through your body, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Jake," you moaned, your voice breathless, your body trembling.

After a while, Jake added another finger, his movements slow and deliberate, opening you up, preparing you for more. You cried out, your body tensing, your nails digging into his scalp, your hips bucking against his hand, his mouth.

"Jake," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. "I'm so close... I'm so close..."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust, his mouth glistening with your wetness. "Come for me," he growled, his voice hoarse with need. "Let me feel you come all over my fingers, my tongue."

With that, he dove back in, his tongue finding your clit, rubbing and circling, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that sweet spot, pushing you over the edge.

"Jake!" you screamed, your body convulsing, your inner muscles clenching around his fingers, your juices gushing out, coating his hand, his mouth.

He groaned into you, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body, his fingers and tongue continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your orgasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from your body.

When you finally came down from your high, your body still trembling, gasps tumbling out of your mouth, Jake pulled back, his chin and fingers glistening with your juices. He brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You taste so fucking good," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "I could eat you out all day."

You lay there, your body slack and sated, your breath slowly returning to normal, your eyes locked on Jake's as he crawled up your body, his hands roaming over your curves, his mouth finding yours in a fierce, demanding kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, his tongue, and it only served to heighten your arousal, to push you further into the abyss of pleasure.

Jake slowly pulled off his sweatpants, revealing his hard cock, red and angry, precum dripping and soaking it. He gave himself a few jerks, his eyes never leaving yours. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and husky, his hand still moving slowly up and down his shaft. "So fucking beautiful, so fucking wet for me. You know, none of the other men you've been with could ever compete with me. I'm the only one who can make you feel this good, who can make you come this hard."

You whimpered, your body responding to his words, your inner muscles clenching with need. Jake leaned down, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"I'm going to fill you up so nicely, baby," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I'm going to stretch you out, shape your pussy to my cock. You're going to think about me every time you move, every time you sit down." With that, he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock rubbing against your lips, spreading your wetness, teasing you, driving you wild. You could feel the heat of him, the throb of his arousal. "Please," you whispered, your voice breathless, your body aching with need. "Please, Jake. I need you inside me. I need you to fill me up."

Jake paused, his cock poised at your entrance, his eyes dark with a mix of lust and something more intense. "I'm not fully convinced," he murmured, his voice low. "You've been acting like such a slut, going around with other guys, letting them touch you, fuck you. How do I know you're not just using me for my cock?"

His words stung, bringing tears to your eyes, but they also sent a thrill of dark pleasure through you. "Jake," you begged, your voice hoarse with emotion. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I need you. Only you. I love you. Please, fuck me. Show me I'm yours. Show me I'm yours alone."

Something in your words, in your tears, in your desperate plea, seemed to snap something in him. With a low groan, Jake thrust into you, filling you completely, stretching you out, shaping you to him. You cried out, your back arching, your nails scraping along his naked back, holding him close, urging him deeper.

He stayed inside you for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his presence, his heat. You could feel every inch of him, the throb of his arousal, the power of his body, and it sent waves of pleasure crashing over you. Slowly, you began to clench around him, your inner muscles milking him, drawing him deeper.

Jake choked, a low gutteral sound that vibrated through you, his body tensing, his grip on your waist tightening. You did it again, clenching and releasing, squeezing him, and he pulled back slightly, his hips thrusting forward, filling you once more.

You gasped, your back arching, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Again," you begged, your voice hoarse with desire. "Please, Jake. Do it again."

With a low moan, Jake complied, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, each thrust driving you higher and higher. Slowly, his pace picked up, his movements becoming rougher, more urgent, more desperate. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks, claiming you, marking you as his. The wet sounds of your connection filled the room, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your juices, the low moans, groans, and whines of pleasure.

Jake leaned down, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "You know, I had to hold myself back so many times," he grunted. "I wanted to bend you over right there in front of your dates, show them who you really belong to. I wanted to fuck you so hard, so deep, that you'd never forget who owns this pussy."

You whimpered, your body responding to his words, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. Jake's pace quickened, his hips thrusting in a steady, relentless rhythm, each stroke driving you higher and higher.

"Remember that time I walked in on you kissing that guy in the campus library?" he continued, his voice a low rumble. "I wanted to punish you so badly. I wanted to throw you over that table, hike up your skirt, and fuck you right there, make you scream my name so loud everyone in the library would hear. Wanted to make you beg... make you forget every other man but me."

You were too far gone to respond, overstimulated and hot, your body trembling with each thrust, each stroke. You looked up at Jake, your eyes glazed with pleasure, your lips parted, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Jake chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Aww, baby, already cock drunk?" he murmured, his voice low and husky. "You can't even form words, can you? You're so far gone, so lost in pleasure."

With that, he reached between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing and circling, pushing you over the edge. You cried out, your body convulsing, clenching around him as you came, coating his  his cock and his fingers.

You twitched slightly as he stilled, stopping his thrusts, instead opting to grind against you, his hips rolling, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you, sending aftershocks of pleasure crashing over you.

You whimpered, your body oversensitive, your mind a haze of pleasure and need. Jake only shushed you, his voice low and soothing, his hands gentle on your skin. "Shh, baby, I've got you." With that, he pulled out, leaving you feeling empty, your body aching with need. Before you could protest, he flipped you over, his hands grabbing your hips, positioning you on your hands and knees, your ass up, your pussy exposed and glistening.

The sudden feeling of Jake's mouth on your pussy again made you cry out, your body tensing with need. You tried to get out of his grip, your body too sensitive, your mind too far gone, but Jake only slapped your ass hard, the sound echoing in the room, the sting sending a fresh wave of pleasure through you. "Jake," you moaned, your voice breathless, your eyes glazed with desire. "Oh god, Jake, please."

But Jake only continued, his mouth driving you wild. You didn't know if you were coming anymore, the pleasure and pain mashed together in a beautiful, chaotic mess. Your body was his to command, his to use, his to devour, and you were powerless to stop him, not that you wanted to.

When you tried to pull away, your body too sensitive, your mind too far gone, Jake only whined, and pulled you back to his mouth, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as he feasted. "Fuck... Jake, I can't take anymore. It's too much. It's too intense."

As if in response to your plea, Jake's mouth suddenly shifted, his lips wrapping around your clit, his tongue flicking and swirling. With one big suck, he pulled your clit into his mouth, and you exploded. Your body shook violently, a scream tearing from your throat, as waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you breathless and boneless, collapsing onto the bed, your body trembled with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your mind a haze of pleasure and exhaustion. For a long moment, you lay there, your chest heaving, your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, you opened your eyes, your gaze drifting down to where Jake still sat and your eyes widened as you took in the sight of him. His eyes were fully focused on your pussy, his gaze hazy and hypnotized, as if he were in a trance, completely entranced by the sight and taste of you. His jaw, chin, and chest were dripping wet with your juices, glistening in the low light of the room. The realization hit you belatedly, and you gasped, your eyes widening in surprise. Jake had come, untouched, just from eating you out.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, your body still trembling. "Jake," you whispered, your voice hoarse with emotion, your eyes locked on his. "Oh my god, Jake. You... you came?"

Jake looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and something more intense, as a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "Mmm," he murmured, his voice low and husky, a note of pride in his tone. "You taste so fucking good, baby. I couldn't help myself. You made me lose control." With that, Jake flipped you over onto your back again, his movements swift and sure. He spread your legs, his cock already hardening again, ready for more. You looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mix of exhaustion and lingering desire, your body still tingling from your previous orgasms.

"Think you can you give me one more, baby?"

You shook your head, your voice breathless and hoarse. "I don't think I have any more, Jake. I'm spent..."

Jake only smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "Then I'll have to take one more, won't I?" he said, his voice a low rumble, a promise of pleasure and possession.

Before you could respond, Jake thrust into you, filling you completely, his body covering yours, his weight a welcome pressure. You gasped, your back arching. "Jake!" you cried out, your voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. "Oh god, it's too much!"

But Jake only growled, his hips moving in a fast rhythm, each stroke driving you higher and higher, pushing you closer and closer to the edge once more. "You can take it, baby," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "You're so strong. You're so fucking perfect. Give me one more. Give me everything." As he spoke, Jake's mouth trailed down your neck, his lips and tongue leaving a path of fire in their wake. He sucked and nipped at your collarbone, marking you, claiming you, his teeth grazing your skin, his tongue soothing the sting, leaving dark marks.

You were only grabbing on, your hands fisting in the sheets, your nails digging into the fabric, your moans filling the room.

"Fuck, you feel so good, baby," he mumbled, his voice low and hoarse, his words slurred with lust and need. "So tight. So wet. So fucking perfect. I never want to leave your pussy. I want to fuck you every moment of every day. I'll never be satiated. I'll always be here when you want someone to fuck. I'll block every guy on your phone so I'll be the only one. The only one who can make you feel this good. The only one who can make you come this hard."

You whined, your body oversensitive, your mind a haze of pleasure and need, your voice a breathless, hoarse whisper. "Jake," you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, a promise.

"Come for me, baby," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes locked on yours, a fierce intensity burning in their depths. "Let me feel you come all over my cock. Let me feel you milk me dry."

With a final, powerful thrust, Jake pushed you over the edge, your body convulsing weakly, your inner muscles clenching around him in a spasmodic, exhausted release. You cried out, your voice hoarse with pleasure, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm, but it was a weak, spent release, your body too far gone to give more.

Jake, luckily followed you over the edge, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing inside you as he found his own release. He moaned and whimpered, his eyes rolling up, his body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. You could feel him filling you up, his hot seed spilling deep inside you, marking you, claiming you.

For a long moment, you laid there, your bodies entwined, your breaths slowly returning to normal, the sounds of your pleasure still echoing in the room. Jake collapsed against you, his breath hot on your neck, his heart pounding in time with yours.

"You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his body still shaking with the aftershocks of his pleasure. "So beautiful. So mine."

a/n: yeah.. so if this goes good, ill write more smut.

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[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER SIX

content: the rare dallas wings w (i was supposed to write the game in this but this chapter was already long as shit), in which there is only one bed and cam and paige get parent trapped in a hotel room in uncasville, ct., the inherent homoeroticism of sharing a bed with someone you want but won't let yourself have and talking to her for hours about what makes you you and then waking up with your hand under her shirt, kk arnold (affectionate), azzi fudd went to the dijonai carrington school of standing on business, ending is rushed af 💔

wc: 10.1k

notes: me 🤝 long as fuck chapter 6's but uh... yeah! trying out alternating povs after a few anon requests so let me know if you guys like it 😛 this chapter was so challenging to write and had me in hell for a good few hours tbh. don't have too much to say besides i hate the fuck ass wings but as always i hope y'all enjoy and lmk what you think 🫶

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog @sillystarv @middyprincess @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers @user1269 @fivest4rbuecks @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @lilpaigeyherbo @simp4panos @perksofbeingatrex

CAM

The Lynx game should have been an indicator for how their next few games were going to go.

After a second half collapse that led to the Lynx taking an almost 15 point win, the Wings were hosting the Storm at home three days later. They were neck and neck in the first quarter, even with Arike picking up a technical foul about six minutes into the game. The Wings collapsed late in the second quarter, heading into halftime down by 15 despite Paige and Cam’s greater efforts to keep them in the game.

They made a push in the third quarter to come back and cut the lead down to 5, but they just couldn’t close the game out. They got sloppy in the fourth, taking terrible shots, forcing bad passes, and overall just playing too frantically. There was plenty of time to slow it down, make better reads, but too many people were playing hero ball, and Chris just wasn’t doing anything about it in the huddle. He’d stand on the sidelines with his arms crossed and face pinched, as if he was waiting for someone to step in and coach this team to a victory.

The Storm game was hard fought and incredibly frustrating. Paige, like the freak she is, had 19 points, 8 assists, 5 rebounds, and 3 stocks, and Cam nearly matched that with 15 points, 7 rebounds, 2 assists, and 2 blocks. Despite the both of them having great games, they were unable to stop the bleeding.

The Lynx were their first road game that season, two days after their loss to the Storm. They lost 85-81 and win differentials like that are so frustrating because it’s so easy to get caught up in the constant thoughts of, “If I’d made that shot,” or “If I didn’t foul them here.”

They’d played a decent first half, keeping the score within a few possessions. Paige’s shot wasn’t falling, but she was affecting the game in other ways. She notched her first career double double that night with 12 points and 10 assists. Cam was consistent with another 15 point game, 5 rebounds, and a few notable blocks.

The collapse was inevitable. They sent the Lynx to the line during the fourth quarter too many times. Whether or not it was sloppy playmaking, an unfair whistle, or the fact that the Wings just got out coached at every turn, they needed to be better. Between the Storm game and the road game against the Lynx, Cam and Paige had spent a few hours in the weight room together or on the court.

Paige’s name is first in every team’s scouting report. Cam knows that much for sure. If she’s not scoring effectively, then she’s going to find a teammate who can score or she’s going to find a way to get herself to the free throw line. At risk of sounding like a broken record, that’s probably one of Cam’s favorite things about Paige as a teammate. It doesn’t matter how down they are or how tense a game is, Paige doesn’t give up until the final buzzer rings.

But because Paige tends to be the central focus of the report, she gets doubled or tripled constantly. The pressure in the league is different than it is in college. Defenders are stronger, faster, smarter, so Cam and Paige tend to find themselves in the gym long after the end of practices with Cam simulating the best defense of her life and Paige either trying to make a shot for herself or get away from the pressure.

It’s helping – Cam can see the improvements in Paige’s confidence and the swiftness in her decision making. She would say it as often as she needed to: once Paige gets comfortable, like really comfortable, she would be one of the league’s biggest problems.

Three days after their second loss to the Lynx, they were hosting the Dream at home. Paige had another off shooting night, but Cam, selfishly, is incredibly proud of the fact that the idea of Paige’s “off nights” are anyone else’s “good nights.” She had 11 points with 5 assists and 4 boards, with Cam securing 14 points, 6 rebounds and a handful of stocks.

After the loss to Atlanta, they spent a little more time in the gym together. Paige was frustrated – she felt that her numbers should have been better, that she needed to do more and work harder. It took a miracle from God and for Cam to remind Paige that she doesn’t have to keep up appearances with her for Paige to even admit that she wasn’t happy with their recent showings.

Losing was hard. It’s hard when you’re a national champion, the first pick, when losing is the last thing you should be doing. It’s hard because even though Paige has had a rough few games, she’s leading both the Wings and the rookies in several main statistical categories as well as ranking in the top 5 of many league categories. It’s frustrating because Paige is doing everything on the court just short of sitting on the sidelines with a clipboard and the playbook.

And Cam gets it – she really, really does. She’s frustrated, too. The Wings don’t have a roster full of Olympians by any means, but they had so much talent that was being wasted. They’re only four games in and Cam is trying her best to be kind – to herself, to the coaching staff, to her teammates. There’s only so much she can handle when several of their teammates shoot up prayers in close games with a century left on the shot clock, when their coach keeps trying to force out-of-position changes that make no sense, when she’s having her best season yet and she’s in conversations for DPOY but all of that will be for nothing because, at this point, they couldn’t beat an elementary school rec league if they tried.

Either way, they were playing the Sun in Connecticut three days after the Atlanta loss, so Cam didn’t really have a whole lot of time to lose her mind over shit that already happened. She needed to focus her energy on losing her mind over much more important things, such as the fact that no matter how hard she beats her feelings down with a broom, they always spring right back up like a very determined fungus.

Any other day she would allow herself enough time to spiral over that, but this week is already shaping up to be the most emotionally challenging week of her life, and it’s only Monday. On Sunday, her usual cat sitter and elderly neighbor Mrs. Patrice informed her that she would be out of town with her husband for the week, which meant Cam had to scramble to find an alternative, trustworthy person to watch her sons while she was in Connecticut.

Fortunately, Coley’s volleyball season finished on May 11th (after claiming the Pro Volleyball Federation title, which Cam flew out to watch after their last preseason game), so she was kind enough to fly out to Dallas to watch her nephews.

Things didn’t get better after that slight crashout. She started her period on Monday morning, which was just fucking peachy, especially considering that Cam had enough personal awareness to know that her period made her moody and irritable but not enough personal awareness to not accidentally be a jerk about it. She tried her best not to, she really did; she just didn’t have any patience, and that was a recipe for disaster.

Between waking up entirely too early, saying goodbye to Bobby and Gatsby like she was heading off to war, and having to drive to the Wings facility to take the team bus to the airport, she was already having a terrible morning. It only worsened because her teammates seemed to have endless energy and laughed right up until they had to go through TSA. It took everything in her to choose peace and ignore them.

As if her morning couldn’t get any worse, all Cam wanted to do when she got on the plane was fall into the seat next to Paige, knowing that she was usually low energy on their early morning flights and would be quiet enough to let Cam nap on her shoulder. But when she boarded, Paige was already sitting next to Nola, their iPads open with film and notes. Cam briefly considered getting off the plane and letting it run her over before takeoff, but she reminded herself that she was 26 and this kind of behavior just wasn’t cute after elementary school.

Cam took the loss in stride, but dragged herself to the back of the plane where she promptly plugged her airpods into her ears, tugged her hoodie over her head, and sent out a prayer that no one would bother her for the entire flight.

Said prayer was answered, and she’s left in peace for the entire flight. She’s sure that her being unable to nap (Paige’s fault, she’s also sure) will lead to her being irritable once they land, but she was going to do her best to be kind.

They touch down in Connecticut with little issue and make their way through security once more. There’s a charter bus waiting for them outside, where Cam, again, drags herself to the back and settles in with her hoodie up. Her cramps had mostly calmed during the flight, but her body seems to recognize that they’re back on solid ground and is deciding to punish her – for what reason, she doesn’t know. Cam plans to get her moping in now while she can, not really wanting to deal with the media freaking out because she frowned on court or something.

She feels someone settle into the seat next to her. She bites back a sigh at first, but when a familiar cologne draws her attention, she lifts her head off the bus window to make eye contact with Paige, who smiles softly at her, seeming to pick up on her mood. “Hey,” she murmurs. “You good?”

Cam hums, nodding her head. She tries really hard to not feel betrayed by her body and how it relaxes just from Paige sitting next to her. “Just bleeding and moody,” she says.

“So…the world’s ending?” Paige jokes tentatively.

Cam is unable to hold back her laugh. “Just about,” she agrees, a smile quirking on her lips for the first time that morning. The bus starts moving, and Cam isn’t really thinking about much besides the way her body aches when she leans her head on Paige’s shoulder. Paige doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t need to, but she presses her cheek to the top of Cam’s head. “What about you? You excited to be back in Connecticut?”

“Yeah,” Paige agrees, her tone a little breathless. Cam can almost imagine the smile on her face. “It’s always gonna be home, you know? My UConn teammates are gonna be there, too. Gotta give them something good to watch.”

“You miss them?” Cam asks.

Paige is a little quieter when she responds. “Everyday,” she admits. “They’re my sisters.” She doesn’t say anything for a couple of heartbeats before shifting slightly. “We’re going to dinner after the game. You should come with us.”

Cam’s brows furrow at that, her pulse thrumming at the implication. “You’d want me there?” she asks, genuinely touched by the request. In a way, it feels like Paige letting her into a different part of her life. One that’s evidently incredibly important to her. That means more to Cam than she thinks Paige is even aware of.

Paige clears her throat, trying for a casual tone. “I mean, like, if you’re not too tired,” she clarifies quickly. Her sudden chalant-ness makes Cam smile. “It ain’t gonna be nothin’ crazy, but you don’t gotta go if you don’t–”

“Paige,” she laughs, which makes the blonde laugh too, her nerves fizzling out. “I’d love to meet your team.”

“Yeah?” she murmurs, a little bashfully.

Cam pokes her thigh, making Paige twitch and move away, evidently ticklish. The force of her smile almost makes her face hurt. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Hopefully they’ll have some funny, college P stories for me. Of the embarrassing kind, I mean.”

Paige sighs. “So, you’re not invited anymore,” she declares.

“Too late,” Cam chirps. “You’re stuck with me. You’re just gonna have to eat your chicken tenders and accept it.”

Paige’s tone is incredulous as she echoes, “Chicken tenders? Why do you assume I’m gonna order chicken tenders?” Cam can almost see the indignant wrinkle in her nose.

She giggles, suppressing an eyeroll. “Well, for starters, you don’t eat vegetables,” she states. “Or seafood. That’s like, picky eater 101.”

Paige huffs. “Potatoes are vegetables,” she says.

“Yeah, in the same way tomatoes are fruits.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“That’s not–”

Paige presses a finger to Cam’s lips, shushing her, and neither of them can suppress their giggles. A beat passes, then: “I’d probably get a burger,” Paige admits, and Cam beams with pride because that’s essentially the same thing. “Better macros.”

“I’m sure,” she says, amused. Cam can feel the smile Paige presses to the crown of her head.

“You feelin’ better?” she asks softly.

Cam nods, smiling gently, because she really does. Paige just has the innate ability to calm her down when everything’s too loud or distracting her with the dumb things she says. She’s appreciative of it, of how Paige just…completes her. She challenges her, annoys the ever loving shit out of her most of the time, but it all balances out when she does thoughtful things like letting Cam rest her head on her shoulder and invite her out for dinner with her family.

Her nod is enough for Paige. The both of them settle in for the remainder of the bus ride to the hotel, not needing to say anything else to each other.

Except Cam’s okay-ness only lasts a short amount of time. They make it to the hotel, where Kiara, their operations coordinator (a fancy way of saying “the really qualified woman who keeps their team running by booking hotel rooms, flights, and everything in between”) passes out keycards.

Everyone loads into the elevators in groups, squeezing in with their suitcases and carry-ons, going up to the fourth floor in batches. They split off. Cam slides her card against the sensor on her door and pushes it open, more than ready for a hot shower and a quick nap before someone inevitably texts the team group chat with requests of a team dinner.

But when she steps inside her hotel room, her slide squishes uncomfortably against the carpet. Already preparing for the worst, she flicks on the light by the door, and then she thinks about why she hadn’t let the plane run her over before takeoff.

The carpet is soaked. Like, rip it out of the floor, replace it, and try again soaked. She glances to her right, where the bathroom door is ajar, and the light in the main hallway is just enough to illuminate the water covering the bathroom floor and the way the toilet is overflowing.

Cam just sighs. She cuts off the light, closes the door, and presses her forehead against the cool wood to emotionally regulate herself before she does something embarrassing like cry in the middle of the hallway. Then, she pulls out her phone and dials Kiara’s number. She picks up almost immediately, and all Cam can muster is a, “Please come to my room.”

Kiara is there in record time. Cam hands her the keycard and the advice to turn on the light and not go inside. Kiara does just that, flicking on the light with hesitation, and taking in the soaked carpet and the evident pipe explosion in the bathroom with disbelief. At this point, a few of her nosy ass teammates have surrounded her – Paige, Maddy, Arike, and DiJonai, and they all peer over Kiara’s shoulder to get a closer look, too.

“This hotel sucks,” Arike says plainly, breaking everyone’s stupefied silence. “They ain’t even got a waffle maker.”

“Or a plumber,” Cam says flatly.

“We’ll just get a different room,” Kiara says placatingly. She turns the light off and closes the door, but she looks disgusted. “I swear they better discount me or God help them.”

With nothing better to do, Cam follows Kiara down to the main lobby, and clearly Paige, Arike, Maddy, and DiJonai have nothing better to do either, as they fall in line behind them. Cam feels strangely like a child at a restaurant whose mother is telling the waitstaff that “My daughter asked for no pickles” as Kiara kindly and politely informs the receptionist that Cam’s room is beyond saving and that they need a replacement.

And, well.

“Everything is booked for the entire night,” the receptionist tells Kiara. She looks genuinely remorseful, which is nice and all, but Cam still wants to walk into oncoming traffic. She just wants a shower. Who did she wrong in a past life to make her not deserve one? She’s sure that she sounds a little pathetic right now, but catastrophizing is the only thing keeping her from losing her mind completely. “I can process a refund for you immediately.”

Kiara sighs, but nods at the receptionist, who gets to work and prints a refund receipt for her. She apologizes again. “Maybe you could room with someone?” Kiara suggests. “Or I could get you a room at the Hyatt down the road?”

“I’d offer to share, but I snore really bad,” Maddy says quickly. Like, concerningly quickly. Everyone turns their eyes on her and she nods. “My fiance had to buy earplugs. I couldn’t do that to Cam.”

Maddy looks at Arike meaningfully, who blinks once at her before getting the memo. “I, uh, sorry, Cam. Lala says I move around too much in my sleep. I kicked her once. Not tryna break your knee before the game.” She frowns apologetically, but Cam rolls her eyes, knowing it’s complete bullshit.

They turn their gaze on DiJonai and Paige, and DiJonai looks at Paige. With the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, DiJonai aggressively elbows Paige, who yelps and clutches her side. “You can room with me if you want,” Paige says sheepishly. “No kicking or snoring here. I think.”

“You most definitely snore,” Cam gripes. Kiara’s look of pure confusion and Paige’s blush makes her backtrack immediately. “I mean, like – loud people always snore.”

Kiara doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t look like she cares, either. She just turns with a sigh and requests another room key for Cam, and the receptionist hands it over without issue. Kiara passes it off to Cam. “Y’all know the drill. Don’t lose these. Team breakfast at 8, then film.”

“Thanks, Kiara,” Cam says. Kiara squeezes her shoulder and walks away with Maddy, Arike, and DiJonai in tow – although DiJonai winks at the both of them from over her shoulder. Cam just sighs.

She would be fine.

PAIGE

Paige is not fine at all.

Yes, she tore her ACL and came back from it. She broke her foot and jammed her thumb and got surgery on it. She won a national championship after five years and got drafted and is currently living out her professional dreams.

All of that is to say that having to share a bed with the woman she’s hopelessly into is probably one of the hardest things she’s done in recent history.

Not hard in that predator way where she won’t be able to keep her hands to herself. Hard as in she wants Camille Roman so bad that it makes her feel stupid sometimes, and sharing a bed with her means that she’s going to by lying inches away from the very person she’s been thinking about nonstop since draft night.

It wasn’t necessarily infatuation at first sight. Paige knew of Cam the same way Cam knew of Paige. They’d crossed paths during the 2021 Final Four, where UConn unfortunately lost to Arizona. They were there until Sunday, though, so the Huskies watched as Stanford just barely edged out a win over Arizona.

Paige remembers Cam going to the locker room just before halftime and returning in the middle of the third. She had played like she had something to prove or like the national championship was her last opportunity at ever playing basketball. Knowing what she knows now about her injury makes Paige ache a little.

She remembers her getting drafted first overall, even if she didn’t really pay much attention to the WNBA season that year, although it didn’t shock her when Cam was named Rookie of the Year. Now, it’s still a little surreal to be on the same team as her.

It’s even more surreal when she thinks about the fact that she’s on the same team as someone she slept with the first night they’d been officially introduced to each other as teammates. The same team as someone who’d gone to the draft with the intention of meeting her and welcoming her to the Wings. The same team as someone who’d gone far and beyond to make sure that Paige was happy in Dallas, that she was adjusting, that she was taking care of her mind and body because Cam knew first hand what not doing that meant.

Paige didn’t mean for it to go this far. When she hugged Cam backstage at the draft, the last thing on her mind was getting drunk and taking her back to her hotel room, but she truthfully doesn’t regret it, either. She thought that any lingering feelings would remain physical – she and Cam were both responsible, mature players, so she was certain that it wouldn’t be awkward at all.

Except the fact that Paige did have lingering feelings and they most definitely weren’t only physical. She drove her to and from practices and team dinners despite Cam having a functioning car and the independence – Paige just really liked spending time with Cam and the way she looked in her passenger seat. She liked how easy it was to annoy her and how Cam would argue right back, anyways. She liked how Cam genuinely cared and how she protected her, which was a new feeling – being taken care of. Paige had only been on the receiving end of that a handful of times.

Cam made things quieter, manageable. She made it feel like the world wasn’t so overwhelming. She made Paige feel as though she didn’t need to keep everything to herself and that she could let people in. It wasn’t instant – Cam, honestly, still has to force her to open up, but Paige is making progress. Being vulnerable is terrifying. It’s not as daunting when it’s Cam on the other side asking how she’s doing.

Paige wasn’t the kind of person who was good at turning off how she felt, which is why this whole “keeping things clean” agreement was probably her personal hell. She knew that it was for the best, she’s been in the public eye for long enough. If any news outlet got ahold of the story that she, a Dallas Wings rookie, slept with Cam, her Dallas Wings veteran, on draft night, she’d never hear the end of it. People would smear both of their names. The media she could handle keeping things clean with.

But with Cam? She couldn’t do clean. Not a fucking chance in the world.

She couldn’t do clean when Cam was baking her congratulatory desserts to celebrate her first game in the W. She couldn’t do clean when Cam was wrapping her knee with compression tape and kissing her skin like it didn’t make her want to trash their entire agreement. She couldn’t do clean when all she wanted was to be needed by Cam.

Paige knows what she agreed to. She knows that Cam has agreed to it, too. But recently it feels more like the both of them are gradually pushing the line further and further back and claiming that they haven’t crossed it. She wants Cam, and maybe she’s hopeful or delusional or foolish enough to think that Cam wants her just as badly. 

They’re both just stuck. They have responsibilities. They’re celebrities who know well enough by now that they will never be afforded any sort of peace or privacy to try to figure out who they are without a microphone in their face asking how is this going to affect the team?

Cam has been through more with the media than she has. Cam has dealt with the league journalists and the press for a lot longer than she has. She is more aware of the stakes and the ramifications, so maybe it’s Paige’s own ignorance at play when she thinks about how little she cares about what anyone has to say about her and Cam. She just wants her, maybe desperately so, but Paige just doesn’t know how anyone can be near Cam Roman and not need her.

The need is beyond physical at this point. Paige wants to keep driving her around, making jokes about her playlist even though she gets home and adds Cam’s songs to a private one in hopes that she can get to know her a little better through the music she loves. Paige wants to keep surprising her with iced chais before shootaround, even if it becomes routine enough that it’s not a surprise because she really likes the way Cam smiles at her. Paige wants to keep showing up for her, wants to be someone that Cam can let her guard down with.

And maybe this is one of the reasons why they can’t let their relationship burn out of control. Cam is careful in many aspects of her life. Her career has made her that way. Usually Paige is, too, but there’s something about Cam that makes her a little reckless. Something about her that makes Paige want more. Never more than Cam can give, but enough to prove that whatever’s going on between the two of them isn’t a figment of her imagination.

Paige has always been good about keeping the main thing the main thing – basketball. That’s been her goal ever since she signed the offer papers to UConn. But with Cam? Her sole focus isn’t only on basketball, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It’s just dangerous. She and Cam are moving at incredible speeds and Paige isn’t always thinking about what’s in front of her when she knows who’s beside her. The thing about Paige is that she’s prideful enough to think that she can balance both.

Maybe she could. Cam would have to give her the chance to prove that, but at the rate she’s genuinely trying to keep their relationship friendly and professional, any hopes of them being anything more are dwindling fast.

Paige is stubborn to a fault. Loyal. And, foolishly, she’d wait around for Cam as long as she needed her to.

So, no. She’s not fine. Not when the only thing between her and the one thing she wants the most but can’t have is a cheap hotel blanket and five inches of restraint.

In the room, Cam didn’t bother unpacking, leaving her suitcase and duffle bag by the desk in the room. She’d asked if Paige needed to use the bathroom before she went for a shower. Paige had declined. She listened to the sound of water hitting tile, the hum of the AC, and briefly considered what happened the last time she and Cam were left alone in a hotel room that belonged to Paige.

That thought had made her swallow, mostly because it had flustered her. She determinedly kept the rest of her thoughts PG while Cam showered.

When she emerged wearing sweatpants and a Wings hoodie, her hair loose and damp, Paige tried really hard not to stare. She’s not sure how effective she was, but she gathered her clothes and made her way into the shower, too.

The hot water helped her gather her thoughts. Clean was the one word that was running through her mind on repeat. No matter how badly she wanted Cam, or how badly she wanted Cam to admit that she wanted Paige, too, she would have to keep things cordial. She was always respectful, but she was going to have to lie inches away from her and try her best to not think about how close she actually wanted to be with her.

Paige got out of the shower. Dried off. Dressed in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants that shamelessly showed off the waistband of her boxers and a loose college t-shirt. She stepped back into her – or rather, their shared room to find that the team group chat was already alive with various requests and restaurant ideas for dinner because there wasn’t a day that went by without her teammates thinking about food.

They went to dinner – a place that Paige has been to more times than she could count. Cam smiled at her over the menu as she listened to Paige order a burger, just as they’d talked about on the bus. Cam ordered some salmon dish that Paige wasn’t fully listening to because she was more invested in the way Cam’s necklace sparkled in the restaurant’s lighting and how bright her laughter was when DiJonai made a joke that wasn’t funny at all. Or maybe it was – Paige hadn’t heard it.

Here it’s like she’s seeing Cam in a different light. She’s always like this with the team. Comfortable, open, always smiling, even though she’d been moody and irritable earlier in the morning. Paige is pretty sure that it was just hanger mixing with the hormones since Cam tends to skip breakfast like the freak she is, but that’s neither here nor there. Listening to Cam retell a story from camp and how Coach literally made them circle up and say one nice thing about each other makes her feel like she’s in high school staring at her crush. Half of that is true and it’s pretty obvious that she’s not in high school.

She likes Cam. She really, really does. And maybe in the middle of a restaurant surrounded by her teammates is a terrible venue to think about that fact, but she can’t help it. She’d acknowledged that she wanted Cam bad enough that it made her stupid. As long as Cam stuck around, she’d probably be content with being stupid for the rest of her life.

They split the bill three ways to make it easier on the waitress and they take separate Ubers back to the hotel. Paige ends up in the backseat of one with Cam and neither of them say anything. Cam’s leaning against the window, staring out at the streetlights as they pass by, the stars in the sky, and Paige thinks that Cam Roman might be the prettiest woman she’s ever laid eyes on. Scratch that – Cam definitely is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen in her life.

Cam reminds her of nighttime. Of that brief period of time before the sun has fully set and the moon has risen where the last bits of pink and orange have bled from the sky. It’s when the sky has turned a muted blue, almost grey if not slightly dark lavender in color, where the earth is still, as though it’s accepting nature’s surrender – the sun giving up its throne for the moon to rule, if only for a few short hours. Cam reminds her of summertime, where the breeze is cool and the air is warm and the crickets sing a symphony that she doesn’t ever get tired of.

Cam reminds her of a lot of her favorite things. Peace. Basketball. Of never giving up, even when it feels easier to do so. She exists in that kind of way where not falling for her feels more impossible than never getting to have her at all.

And, well, after thinking that…Paige isn’t sure if she’s ever supposed to move on from Cam Roman. She doesn’t know if she even wants to.

They make it back to their hotel room, where they take turns brushing their teeth in the small bathroom. For the sake of being polite, Paige asks if Cam wants her to take the floor and Cam shoots her a look so dirty that she doesn’t even have to verbally reply. The bed itself is centered in the room, with two nightstands on either side, and Paige plugs in her phone charger on the side closest to the door. The other side is closer to the AC – Cam once complained that being hot was literally the worst thing in the world because it was easier to get warm than it was to be cool, so Paige figures she’d accept overheating for the night if it meant Cam would be more comfortable.

She slides onto the bed, not pulling the duvet over as she’s still a little warm from her sweatpants. She scrolls mindlessly through TikTok for a few minutes while Cam crawls in next to her, having changed into a loose pair of shorts and a tank top for bed. The dim light of her phone illuminates her face and Paige tries really hard to not let her gaze linger, but Cam is just one of those people that you can’t look away from.

Having grown tired of scrolling but not really watching any of the videos, Paige clicks the button on the side of her phone to turn it off. She presses the screen to her stomach, staring up at the ceiling, and before she can lose her nerve, she whispers, “Cam?”

The girl in question hums, turning off her phone, too. She places it on the nightstand and Paige watches her move from the corner of her eye. There’s the barest sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds, one that ghosts across Cam’s skin in a way that makes Paige’s throat dry. “What’s up?”

Paige swallows. She drops her phone carelessly onto the nightstand before shifting onto her side, coming eye to eye with Cam. “I know we said we were keeping things clean,” she begins, studying Cam’s features for any signs of discomfort. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Cam’s lips part ever so slightly, and whether it’s in disbelief or relief, Paige doesn’t know. But she continues anyway. “I think about how you looked at me on draft night, like I wasn’t Paige Bueckers and you weren’t Cam Roman, and we were free to do something that the media wouldn’t crucify us for. I think about how you put my tape on during camp, told me I was your priority, and kissed my knee.” Her throat bobs again, but she can’t look away. “I thought about kissing you then. I thought about kissing you when I drove you home, after you told me I’d be okay. Thought about kissin’ you after the Minnesota game, but I could tell you weren’t ready.”

“I thought about it,” Cam confesses, her brows furrowing like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. She closes her eyes, sighs, and then tries again. “I wanted to. But I…”

Paige is moving before her brain can catch up with her. She’s shifting towards her, almost as though it’s instinct, and her knees brush against Cam’s over the comforter. Cam blinks like she hadn’t expected Paige to come so close, she unconsciously leans into the contact like she’d been restraining herself from wanting to be next to her.

They’re inches apart. Paige can smell the mint of Cam’s toothpaste, a scent that shouldn’t be heady or addicting but is because it’s Cam. “You what?” Paige asks, a little breathlessly, hating how weak her voice sounds. She hates the way it sounds like a plea and a question all at once. 

“I can’t,” Cam says. Paige exhales raggedly, something like dejection marring her features, and one of Cam’s hands rises to twist itself in the fabric of her UConn tee. “I can’t. But I want to. So fucking bad, Paige, you have no idea.”

“Why?” she murmurs, her eyes searching Cam’s. Her heart is all but pounding out of her chest. She swallows again, trying to keep her voice even. “Why don’t you want me, Camille?”

A laugh rips out of Cam’s throat at that question, disbelieving and wounded all at once. Her eyes dart across Paige’s features as if she’s scanning for truth, but Paige is being dead serious.

Maybe they’d miscommunicated. Maybe Paige truly got her hopes up too much and Cam’s feelings were purely physical. Maybe she’d read too far into how different Cam was when she was with her. Maybe Cam only kept her close because she truly felt as though she was responsible for Paige – for her rookie – and that was all they’d ever be.

Then Cam is speaking, and Paige feels her brain go quiet. “How can you ask me that?” she whimpers, her voice breaking, and the amount of pain in her voice makes Paige feel like such an asshole. “I want you, Paige. Probably more than I should. More than I’m allowed to. And that scares me because this –” Cam gestures to the space between the two of them, “is the only thing in my life that’s ever been mine. Not my name or my family’s stupid fucking legacy. Not even myself. And I know that as soon as we make this real, I’ll lose the one thing that makes me feel like me. That’s how it always works.”

Paige just shakes her head, feeling something like desperation bubble in her chest. She presses her forehead against Cam’s, listening to her sharp gasp as though the touch is electrifying, and she cups her face with her left hand, her thumb brushing across her cheekbone. “Cam,” she murmurs, “this is already real. We both know that.”

Cam doesn’t respond to that, her eyes slipping shut, so Paige tries again, not even ashamed of how it feels like she’s begging. “I’on care how hard we gotta fight. This is always going to be ours, Cam, you know that? You’re not gonna lose me. We can protect this – we can protect us. Lemme prove that to you. Please.”

The brunette is quiet for an agonizing few moments, and her voice is pained as she whispers, “We can’t.” Paige heaves a shuddering sigh, but she doesn’t pull away from Cam, and Cam doesn’t exactly push her away either. The hand bunched in Paige’s shirt rises to tangle in the loose hair at the back of her head, holding her firm against her.

It feels like an apology and an explanation all at once. Cam wants her – God, that had been so relieving to hear, but she was just scared. Paige is beginning to understand why. No matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn’t magically take that fear away from Cam. She’d just have to prove to her that it would be worth it, or that they could make it work, because fuck, Paige knows that they could, she just needs Cam to give her that chance.

Paige doesn’t care if it makes her look like a fool. She would wait for as long as Cam needed her to.

“Okay,” she says softly, relenting. Cam’s eyes blink open and she looks at her with something like disbelief, like Paige’s patience isn’t something that she thinks she deserves or has even earned. Paige shifts again, her nose brushing against Cam’s, and she can feel her shaky exhale. “I’ll be here. However long it takes, Cam, I swear I will be.”

“Paige,” Cam whispers, but she shakes her head again.

“I mean it,” Paige vows. “We ain’t gotta overcomplicate this. You want me. I want you. And we…” she swallows, trailing off a bit. “We just need time. I know it ain’t easy for you and I’m not gonna make this harder on you.”

Cam manages a wet laugh, an amused sound despite how her voice cracks. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna make it easy for me,” she teases.

Paige can’t help but smile. “I wanna annoy you,” she corrects softly. “Not ask for more than you’re willing to give me right now. But…knowing that you want me just as bad as I want you…that’s enough for me. Until you’re ready for anything else, I’ll be here. I’ll show you that I got us.” Paige runs the pad of her thumb across Cam’s tanned cheek, meeting her eyes, and the sheer amount of trust reflected in her brown eyes makes Paige ache. “That I got you.”

Cam presses her forehead firmer against Paige’s. It makes Paige tremble with want, but she doesn’t dare move. Not until Cam says gently, “Tell me about UConn.”

That gives her pause. Paige swallows. “What?” she croaks.

Cam huffs a little, amused. “Tell me about UConn,” she repeats. “Or your family. Or literally anything else so I don’t have to lay next to you and think about kissing you.”

Paige manages a wry smile. “I mean,” she begins, her tone a little too flippant given their prior conversation, “I think I’ve made it very clear that you don’t gotta think about it.”

Cam rolls her eyes, but a grin tugs at the edges of her lips. “Stop,” she deadpans. It lacks any sort of conviction.

Paige shrugs a shoulder, adding nonchalantly, “My chapstick is cherry flavored. Or if you’re not into that I’ve got a green apple one in my bag.” Cam gives her a look, her brow raising, and Paige sighs.

With great difficulty, she extracts herself from Cam, sprawling out on her side of the bed and leaving an inch of space in between them. If Cam is thinking about kissing her, and Paige is already fighting demons just by sharing a bed with her, then they’re both screwed. “What do you wanna know?” she asks, the heat of the moment prior long gone.

Cam shifts, getting comfortable, and she’s quiet long enough to decide her question. “Why UConn?” she asks simply. “You had to have gotten offers from literally everywhere else.”

Paige sighs, but the sound is more contemplative than anything else. “Why not UConn?” she says. “I loved the culture. I wanted the pressure of protecting a legacy. And…” Paige shrugs a little. “It was my dream school. I wanted to be great. I wanted to do great things.” She has a wistful smile on her face. “What about you? Why Stanford?”

Cam is quiet for a long moment, and Paige tilts her head to look at her. Her expression is pensive, something unreadable in her gaze, but Paige gives her the space to think. “It was home,” she says eventually. “I grew up in the Bay and Stanford was less than an hour away. My parents – well, my dad wanted me to go somewhere that would get me drafted.” She turns to Paige with a hint of a smile on her face. “He actually wanted me to go to UConn, but Phee was the last person I wanted to fight for minutes with.” Paige laughs a little at that.

“We settled on Stanford,” Cam continues, picking at her cuticles absentmindedly. “I think I would have liked to have gone to UCLA or Tennessee, but I wanted to make my dad proud of me more than anything else.” She clears her throat, her gaze landing on the ceiling. “I don’t regret Stanford, though. It’s where I met Nai, Cameron, and Haley.”

“Are your parents… hard on you?” Paige asks tentatively. “It sounds like your dad made your commitment decision for you.”

Cam doesn’t immediately respond to that, and Paige worries if she’d accidentally crossed a boundary. “My dad expects a lot from me,” she says eventually, but it feels like she’s still trying to convince herself of that. “Coley, too. Our mom is more lenient and chiller than he is, but she still, you know…wants what’s best for us. She wants us to succeed.”

Cam laughs a little, but it lacks any real humor. “You know they’d actually met at the 1984 Olympics? My dad was a fencer for France and my mom did a bunch of track events for the US. I think it’s funny ‘cause my dad always says shit like ‘Romans display their gold, anything else is as good as a coaster’ but I’m pretty sure my mom has more medals than he does.”

It’s in that moment that Paige is acutely aware of what Cam meant by her name not being her own – about her legacy. She’d always been in her parents’ shadow, maybe her father’s more than her mother’s, but it was a shadow nonetheless, the exacting pressure to be great. She understands why Cam is so media adverse. She’d grown up with the spotlight on her and the unfair expectations to be the same athlete that her parents were, if not better.

She understands why one of Cam’s biggest worries was how this would affect the team, because if the team did poorly, then that translated into Cam doing poorly. She wanted to keep it clean not only because she was worried about doing wrong by Paige, because she was worried about losing something that she wanted to keep close to her, but also because keeping it anything but clean probably went against some decades long, unspoken condition between her and her father and her family’s drive to be nothing less than great.

Letting herself be herself probably meant letting herself fail. It meant throwing away years of work – not just the work to get to where she is, but the years of work it took to make someone – her father – see who she was when he should have understood her from the beginning. Cam has been fighting for so long to be loved and accepted that losing that feels like losing everything.

The sudden realization makes Paige ache. It makes bile pool at the back of her throat, makes guilt wrap around the beating organ in her chest because she’d been so concerned with why Cam didn’t want her that she never considered what could make Cam so fearful of letting go.

Paige softens. Cam seems to pick up on her silence. She shifts to look at Paige, something gentle and loose in her gaze. “Where’d you go?” she asks, poking Paige’s temple. Paige swats her hand away with a tender smile. “You’re never this quiet. It’s kinda scary.”

“Just thinkin’,” she says.

Cam huffs. “That never ends well,” she teases, and Paige hates how warm that makes her chest feel.

Paige tilts her head until she’s face to face with Cam, whose brows raise at the change. “Do you remember when you were telling me about your rookie year and you said something about feeling like no matter what you were doing, it wasn’t enough?” Cam’s expression relaxes, although she’s still a little confused when she nods. Despite the blush undoubtedly creeping up her neck, the sudden vulnerability she feels, Paige says softly, “For what it’s worth, I think you are. Enough, I mean.”

Neither of them say anything for an agonizing few moments. Then, Cam shifts, ignoring every effort Paige had made to maintain the distance between them, and she rests her head on Paige’s chest. Paige freezes under her, her breath catching, but she melts into it almost instantly as Cam cautiously wraps an arm around her waist.

Paige’s right arm wraps around Cam’s shoulders, pulling her closer while Cam pulls the comforter over their bodies. “You saying things like that makes it really hard to keep things clean,” Cam admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

That makes Paige laugh a little, her heart all but beating out of her chest. “You laying on me like this makes it hard to keep things clean,” she retorts.

“Do you want me to stop?” Cam murmurs.

Paige doesn’t hesitate. “No.” Cam’s fingers brush against Paige’s skin where her shirt has ridden up, causing her to shiver. “Do you want me to?”

Cam shakes her head. “Please don’t.”

Paige just nods, something like a tentative peace blooming in her chest, and she sinks a little further into the bed – into the woman laying half on top of her, their legs intertwining under the blanket, and she lets herself drift off.

CAM

Cam wakes up on gameday with her hand under Paige’s shirt and the unwelcome feeling of deja vu permeating her entire being. Streaks of the early morning sun peek through the hotel curtains, highlighting each and every contour of Paige’s face, the peace she feels even in sleep. The blonde is snoring quietly – as loud people do, Cam is sure – and she still has her arm wrapped around Cam’s shoulders.

Cam remembers their conversation from last night. It almost makes her want to throw herself from their hotel room window. Paige had been so patient, so understanding of the fact that no matter how badly Cam wanted her, she couldn’t give into it. The fear of losing her had been greater than the desire to have her, but Paige vowed to give her time.

She didn’t deserve her. That much she knew to be true. But she’d work to be the version of herself that did deserve her.

Tentatively, Cam slides her hand out from under Paige’s shirt, using it to gently slide Paige’s arm off of her back. With all of the grace she could muster, she crawls out of bed and makes her way into the bathroom where she quickly goes through her morning routine. The cool water she splashes against her face makes her feel more awake, and when she returns to their room to grab her phone, she finds Paige wide awake and sitting against the headboard.

Paige doesn’t offer a smile. Or a good morning like a normal person. Instead, with faux-indignance, she says, “What’s up with you sneaking out of bed at ungodly hours? I’m startin’ to take it a little personally.”

“Paige,” Cam deadpans. “It is 7:30 in the morning. Do you not have a snooze button or something?”

“I mean,” she says, shrugging. “You’re welcome to come find it.”

If Cam throws her slide at her, then that’s no one’s business but her own.

They eventually make it downstairs for team breakfast, where DiJonai, with no subtlety at all, points to the two chairs she’d seemingly saved for her and Paige. Maddy, Arike, and NaLyssa are sat around the table with her, looking way too pleased with themselves, and Cam has to hold back an eye roll as she slides into the chair next to DiJonai with her plate modestly piled with toaster waffles (because, as Arike said, the hotel did not have a waffle maker), sausage patties, and a few pieces of fruit.

Paige joins them, her plate consisting of waffles, a questionable heap of scrambled eggs, and a few pieces of bacon. Cam bites back a sigh as she deposits a handful of grapes on Paige’s plate. The blonde huffs but doesn’t argue, much to the clear amusement of the four instigators at the table.

“So,” Maddy chirps, pushing her plastic spoon through her bowl of soggy cereal. “How’d you guys sleep last night?” Arike snickers and DiJonai and NaLyssa share a knowing look.

“Like a baby,” Cam retorts. “I’m just so incredibly fortunate that I roomed with someone who doesn’t snore like a steam engine. Or someone who quote-unquote ‘kicks the shit out of people in her sleep.’”

“Sorry for tryna look out for you, Camille,” Arike says indignantly, spearing a lumpy piece of egg that immediately falls off her fork. Arike glances down. “I hate this fuckin’ hotel.”

The table dissolves into lighthearted laughter, and thankfully, they don’t press Cam and Paige for any more details.

Breakfast goes by quickly. Film does too. Paige, ever the stickler for tradition, brings Cam an iced chai before shootaround. The energy leading up to the Sun game is amazing. Everyone hits their passes in stride, they’re making the right reads during scrimmages, and their shots are falling. Paige is a vocal leader on the court, which makes Cam incredibly hopeful for the game tonight.

They needed this win badly. But more than anything else, Paige needed this win badly. She was playing in an arena she was undefeated in. She was playing in front of her teammates from college – her family. Cam knew that she would do anything in her power to make sure that she and the Wings came home with the win tonight.

And if anything meant 23 points, 11 rebounds, and 4 blocks, then she likes to think she did a pretty good job of contributing to the win. The game was all but a blur – Cam doesn’t think she’s ever been more locked in before, but the beaming smile on Paige’s face is what makes it so worth it.

She showers and redresses quickly. Amicably sits through the press conference, where she calls their win a team effort and jokes that “Well, Paige is undefeated in Mohegan. We wouldn’t be very good teammates if we didn’t help her keep that streak.” Then, she finds herself in the backseat of an Uber with Paige, who’s leg is bouncing in excitement as the driver takes them to the restaurant that her UConn teammates had settled on.

Introductions are swift, if a little unneeded – Cam had watched the national championship just like any other basketball fan worth their salt. She gives all of Paige’s teammates friendly hugs and watches with a fond smile as KK Arnold latches onto Paige with a cry of, “P Boogers!” as they make their way into the restaurant.

Cam can tell how badly Paige has needed this. Her smile is wide, relaxed, and the way her eyes shine as Jana makes a joke about something or the other makes Cam feel just a little more unhinged. She doesn’t mean to stare – she really doesn’t, but she can’t help herself. Not when Paige looks the happiest she’s been in a while and her laughter is impossibly bright.

Paige reminds her of a lot of her favorite things, like early mornings where the world is still, the air is heavy with something like peace and the promise of beginning, and birds are beginning to announce the dawn. Paige reminds her of an unconditional affection, where people love you just because they can and they don’t need anything else in return for it. Paige reminds her of the kind of acceptance that comes with knowing you’re scared but the determination to chase after what you want, anyways.

That makes her think about their conversation from last night. How Paige was so open, so vulnerable, so trusting when she’d whispered that she couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. When she said that they both knew this was real. When she vowed to wait, even though she didn’t know how long Cam would keep her waiting for.

It makes her think that, with just a little more time, she would be there. She would be able to give herself to Paige fully, in the way she deserved without Cam constantly being worried about when the other shoe would drop. They just needed to do this the right way.

But then KK is leaning across the table, making mischievous eye contact with Cam, and it pulls her out of her thoughts immediately. Paige, who’s sitting next to her, rolls her eyes and mutters here we go under her breath like she already knows what kind of bullshit that KK’s on. “So, Camille,” she begins ominously. “What are your intentions with P Boogs?”

Cam bursts out into laughter while Paige buries her head in her hands, embarrassment clear in her actions. “My intentions?” she repeats, trying to bite back her smile. Paige has a flush from her neck to the tips of her ears, which makes it more difficult for Cam to keep a straight face.

KK nods solemnly. Ice takes a sip from her water and looks at Caroline through her lashes like she knows something the rest of them don’t. “We just wanna make sure you’re good for her,” KK states, steepling her fingers seriously. “We can’t keep her in check no more, so that means it’s your job.”

“My job,” Cam echoes, amused. She glances over at Paige, who’s still extremely red.

“As her vet, yes,” KK continues. Paige avoids eye contact this time, and Cam gets the impression that Paige had talked about her to her friends, and she allows herself to smile. “So. Intentions?”

“Well,” Cam says plainly, straightening her posture and playing into the bit. “We’re working very hard on that Rookie of the Year agenda.” KK nods, satisfied. “I’m also trying to get her to eat more vegetables, but that one’s taking some time.”

“Bless you,” Azzi says. “If it’s green, she won’t touch it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s nasty!” Paige cries in defense. She turns to Cam, vehemently announcing, “She puts nasty stuff in her omelets.” Paige emphasizes it in a way that makes Cam think they’ve had this conversation a few times.

“Yeah, peppers and onions and spinach!” Azzi retorts.

“Nasty stuff!”

Cam and KK exchange a long look, one of fond exasperation. “It’s a work in progress,” she amends, which makes KK laugh.

The conversation gets back on track as they begin discussing the season, how practices are, and the very important question of whether or not Paige misses them – the blonde’s response is a very deadpan no that nobody believes at all.

At the end of dinner, Cam picks up the check for everyone after an unnecessary argument about it. Half of their group splits to use the bathroom while the other half goes outside to their cars. Paige, who’d already called their Uber, leaves with Azzi while Cam quickly uses the restroom, not wanting to keep Paige waiting.

But maybe she should have.

When she steps back outside, scanning the street for Paige, she sees her locked in a conversation with Azzi. She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, she really doesn’t, but she hears her name and she can’t help it.

“–and Cam thinks you’re going to wait around for her?” Azzi asks, which makes Cam’s blood run cold.

“Az, it’s not like that,” Paige says defensively, her tone a little desperate. “She’s been through a lot, okay? She just needs some time.”

“And that’s fine!” Azzi responds. “She deserves the chance to figure out her mental or work on herself or whatever she needs to do. But it can’t be at your expense, you know? That’s not healthy.”

“I know,” Paige says quietly. “I just…I’m choosing that. I know where we stand. She just needs time.”

“How much?” Azzi asks softly. Paige doesn’t have a response to that, and Azzi sighs. “Look, I don’t know it all. I know that you’re protecting her privacy – and yours – by not telling me certain things. I get that. I really do. And I also know that you’re loyal to a fault and you’d wait around forever regardless of if she asked because you like her that much. But this whole ‘keeping it clean but flirting with and wanting each other’ thing without commitment is gonna kill the both of you if you don’t let go or get it under control.”

Cam swallows thickly, guilt hitting her like a sack of bricks. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she’s saved by Caroline calling Azzi’s name. Azzi’s features soften, wrapping up their conversation. “I just want you to be careful, Paige. But right now? This is reckless. If the both of you are stringing each other along and continuing to be close and push those boundaries despite agreeing on clean, then the both of you are just going to get hurt. You both deserve better than that.”

Caroline calls for her again. Azzi looks at Paige, who relents, wrapping her in a brief hug. “I’ll be okay,” she says, pulling away, and Azzi looks like she’s hoping that much is true. Then, Azzi is gone, and Paige buries her hands in her pockets, sighing so heavily that Cam can see the sag in her shoulders.

Cam exhales, too, mostly to calm herself, and she figures now is a good time as any to walk over. Paige glances up when she comes into view, offering a meager smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How much longer on the Uber?” Cam asks, hoping her voice doesn’t betray her.

Paige pulls her phone out of her pocket, checking the app. “About five minutes,” she responds, her voice a little tight. Cam just nods, standing silently next to Paige and really wishing that she spent just a minute more in the bathroom.

She doesn’t feel like she’d just got run over by a truck because she overheard Paige and Azzi talking about her – it feels that way because she knows Azzi is right. Their entire situation was reckless. Cam knew that much from the beginning, but she just couldn’t stay away, and now?

This mess feels like it’s entirely her fault.

[vamptizm]

SNOOZE — p. bueckers x.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want—like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: none i think? men. cliché tropes.

word count: 4800

note: once again; reblogs, comments and live reactions are more appreciated than just likes <3

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

It was the next day, and Paige couldn’t stop thinking about Soraya.

Not in an intense, spiraling, ‘what does this mean’ kind of way. It was quieter than that. More subtle, but like every little thing just reminded her of the night before.

The taste of her lips lingered like sugar on the rim of a glass. The pressure of her kiss, still pressed into the curve of Paige’s mouth. The sound of her soft whimpers—those breathy, involuntary notes that had escaped against her—looped in Paige’s head like wind chimes.

She couldn’t fucking focus. Not when she shot the ball. Not when she sat through film. Not even when someone was speaking to her.

Because Soraya’s voice was louder.

She was trying to act normal. Really. She was. But it was hard when they were both in the gym again, pretending like the air between them didn’t still feel a little too thick.

Paige’s eyes had a mind of their own. Always drifting. It was almost embarrassing how often she caught herself looking for her.

And there she was.

Soraya was talking to Dijonai near the sideline, her hands resting against her hips, her leg slightly bent. She looked so relaxed, so effortlessly cool. Her shoulder shook lightly when she laughed, and Paige just watched.

Fuck, that laugh. The blonde swore she could feel it in her spine.

Soraya Mensima had set up camp in her head, and Paige was a willing hostage.

She watched the way Soraya listened—really listened—her eyes locked in, intense, observant. Her eye contact seemed intense. But when it was her turn to speak, she averted her gaze, suddenly softer, and almost avoidant.

Paige noticed it all.

The way Soraya scratched at her jaw when she was deep in thought. The way she pouted her lips when she focused. The way she pulled at the sleeves of her practice shirt, playing with the hem.

Everything about her was deliberate without meaning to be.

The gym was loud. Squeaking sneakers, whistles, balls thudding against the hardwood, but Paige barely heard it.

Her eyes were tracking two people in particular.

More specifically, one person and the guy glued to her hip like his life depended on it.

Zak. She was pretty sure that was his name. A decent enough player. Long wingspan. Quick feet. But apparently no sense of personal space, because he’d been guarding Soraya like he was auditioning for a movie role. ‘Obnoxious Practice Player #3.’

Every drill, he was right there. Every possession, practically breathing down her neck. And sure, Paige knew that was kind of the point of these scrimmages. The guys were supposed to challenge them, push them. But this? This felt different.

Zak wasn’t challenging Soraya. He was eyeing her. Hovering. Staring like he’d never seen a woman run a flawless pick and roll in her life.

And Paige?

It annoyed the hell out of her.

Not because she thought Soraya couldn’t handle it—the girl broke ankles in her sleep. But because it was Soraya. And Soraya didn’t entertain men. At all. She’d made that clear whenever given the chance. And yet here Zak was, barking up the completely wrong tree, mistaking Soraya’s stoic focus for shyness or maybe mystery.

Dumbass.

During the water break, Paige ended up next to her like always. Like gravity. Neither of them said anything for a few beats, both sipping from their water bottles, catching their breath.

Then Paige spoke, voice low. Casual, but not really.

“Is he bothering you?”

Soraya glanced over, brows tugging the slightest bit. “Is who bothering me?”

Paige almost laughed. Of course she didn’t notice. Soraya never noticed anyone unless she chose to.

“That guy,” she muttered, tipping her chin toward Zak who was across the court stretching his hamstrings in their direction, “who thinks he’s Luka Dončić. All up in your space.”

Soraya’s lips twitched, eyes crinkling faintly as she let out a short, amused snort. “You’re lucky Luka’s not in Dallas anymore to hear you say shit like that.”

Paige grinned, tongue peeking out slightly as she bit back a laugh and shrugged. “I could beat him one on one.”

That earned her a raised brow and a full smile from Soraya. “Oh, I’m so sure, Paige.”

Before Paige could offer a challenge or some cocky comeback, Soraya was already walking off, bottle in hand, towel over her shoulder, like nothing even happened.

But Paige watched her go.

Soraya shoved a pair of socks into her duffel bag, then paused, letting out a slow breath as she stared at the open drawer in front of her.

She didn’t feel mad. Not exactly.

She should’ve been. Two lousy wins into the season. Two.

That kind of start was enough to light a fire under anyone, especially someone like her. Someone who’d clawed her way up from being ‘just a highly ranked prospect’ to the number one overall pick in the draft. Someone who came into the league with the weight of a whole franchise on her shoulders. But right now?

All she felt was calm. Focused. And maybe a little bit tired. Or more than just a little.

Her apartment was quiet, just the hum of the AC, jiggy, and the occasional zip of her suitcase. Her flight to Chicago was in a few hours. Another road game, another chance to fix what felt like a never ending loop of setbacks and disappointment.

She tossed in a hoodie, the one she always wore pregame, the one that smelled a little like her favorite fabric softener.

Year one hadn’t been so bad, all things considered. The hype, the pressure, the ‘Can she turn this team around?’ questions that never stopped flooding her feed. She came in, put her head down, and worked. Twenty points per game, solid defense, all the right boxes checked. It wasn’t always pretty, but she had hope. She thought they were building something.

Then year two happened.

God, what a disaster. A total mess. The kind of season you try not to think about when you’re in the gym at 6am trying to remember why you love this sport. Breakups between teammates that made practices hell, locker room tension so thick you could feel it in the air. Everyone took sides. Everyone had an opinion. Soraya didn’t.

She just wanted to play basketball.

She wanted to win.

But the universe didn’t give a shit. Not last year. Not when the injuries hit. Not when half the team wanted out and the other half stopped believing. 9–31. A number she still hated seeing. A number that lived rent free in her mind every time she stepped onto the court.

Even her unrivaled season was nothing short of disappointment, despite having won the 1 on 1 tournament.

She sat on the edge of her bed for a second, elbows resting on her knees as she stared at her half packed bag.

This year was supposed to be different.

She told herself that every morning since training camp. That this version of her was stronger, and sharper. That she didn’t need perfect chemistry or a dream roster—she just needed enough. Enough effort. Enough heart. Enough belief.

And maybe a little bit of fun, too.

Soraya heard the buzz before she saw the screen light up on her bed. She paused mid-fold, fingers smoothing over the fabric of a Wings travel hoodie as the name flashed across her phone.

A smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it.

She reached for the phone and answered with a lazy swipe. “You really have no respect for boundaries,” she said flatly, tossing her shorts into her bag.

Aaliyah’s voice filled the room immediately. “Bro, whatever. I was bored and I knew you’d find some excuse if I asked. Turn the camera on, fool.”

Soraya let out a short, amused breath. “I’m literally packing, Li. There’s nothing to see.”

“Don’t care. Turn it on. I need visual stimulation.”

Rolling her eyes, Soraya tapped the video icon and propped her phone up against a stack of folded clothes on her bed. The camera caught her cross legged on the floor, travel bag open in front of her, clothes in tidy piles beside her.

“There she isss!” Aaliyah beamed from the screen, a low ponytail and her background clearly their empty locker room. “Where you goin’, superstar?”

Soraya raised a brow as she continued to fold a pair of sweatpants with precise, almost therapeutic movements. “Damn, you only keep up with your own schedule now?”

Aaliyah leaned closer to her camera like she was about to share some conspiracy. “Cathy got us playing five games in one day and then only one the next day. I can’t be expected to remember other people’s shit.”

“Fair,” Soraya muttered with a nod, zipping one pocket closed. “We’re headed to Chicago.”

Aaliyah’s brows lifted. “Tell Angel I said hi.”

“Tell her yourself,” Soraya replied dryly, not even glancing at the screen.

“You’re so annoying,” Aaliyah mumbled, though the smile in her voice gave her away.

They let the silence sit for a beat. Soraya grabbed her toiletry bag and started organizing it, the quiet hum of her room filling the background.

“So,” Aaliyah said, far too casual to be innocent, “how do you like playing with your new rookie?”

Soraya didn’t pause. She just picked up a bottle of moisturizer, checked the cap, and slid it into place. “Which one?” she asked. “We’ve got, like, four.”

Aaliyah gave her the kind of deadpan stare that could melt screens. “What do you think? Obviously the one I know.”

Soraya’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes held the glint of amusement. “Damn. You don’t know Aziaha James? That’s crazy.”

“You’re not that funny.”

A quiet chuckle slipped out of Soraya anyway. She sat back on her heels, arms resting across her knees now. “She’s alright. Works hard. Stubborn as hell. Cocky, too, but it could be worse.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t what Soraya said—it was how she said it. Casual, but a little too smooth. Not guarded, just careful. And that was enough to confirm her suspicion, that there was more to the story.

Still, she didn’t push. You couldn’t make Soraya Mensima open up. She’d retreat like a cat under the couch the moment you tried.

“Yeah,” Aaliyah said, eyes drifting lazily across the screen. “She’s like that. Annoying as fuck, but she’s a sweetheart. Can’t imagine anyone not loving her after a while.”

Soraya hummed under her breath, noncommittal, but present. Her hands had slowed down, though she pretended to still be sorting through things.

“What about your new rookies?” she asked, eyes back on her bag. “Kiki and Sonia, right?”

Aaliyah lit up. “And Georgia. Put some respect on my Australian.”

“I already respect her for fighting kangaroos and snakes every day,” Soraya said, this time looking up at the camera with a straight face. “Bet she’s handling that torn ACL like a champ.”

Aaliyah burst out laughing, head falling back as she clapped her hands. Soraya just watched, lips curled in the faintest smirk.

“Alright, giggle box, it ain’t that funny.”

Aaliyah wiped at the corners of her eyes, still smiling. “You’re such a hater.”

Their conversation drifted into more nonsense. Playlists, hair products, Aaliyah swearing she was going to learn how to cook more vegan dishes this season. They caught up like two people who didn’t talk every day but didn’t need to. The kind of friendship that lived in the in between. Texts at 2am, silence that didn’t feel weird, and the occasional facetime calls.

After about ten minutes, Aaliyah glanced at someone offscreen. “Shit, I gotta go. Got a game in 2 hours.”

“Make sure you get off that bench.” Soraya said, leaning forward to end the call.

“You act like I can control that shit,” Aaliyah shot back with an eye roll before the screen went dark.

Soraya stared at the blank screen for a moment, the weight of quiet settling around her again. Then she exhaled through her nose, picked up the next pair of socks, and went back to packing.

Chicago welcomed them with grey skies and a slight chill in the air. Something Soraya felt through her zip up hoodie the moment she stepped off the plane and out of the airport. Her body ached slightly from the two hour charter flight, not because of the cramped space or bad turbulence, but because she hadn't slept at all.

She tried.

The first hour, she'd leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, adjusted her hoodie over her face, then opened them every five minutes, restless and wired. Eventually she gave up and just put on Criminal Minds, volume low, subtitles on. She wasn’t really watching it either, just needed something to fill the noise.

Now, as she followed her teammates through the hotel lobby, travel bag slung over one shoulder, Soraya let out a sigh through her nose. She just wanted to shower and stretch out on a bed. Alone. Her legs were heavy, her brain foggy, and the skin under her eyes felt tight from fatigue.

They stood in a small circle near the front desk, everyone looking half asleep or halfway annoyed.

“We have a slight change in room assignments,” Nola announced, clipboard in hand. “Hotel didn’t have as many singles available as we expected.”

Soraya felt the irritation pinch at the bridge of her nose before Nola even got to the actual names.

Here we go.

“Cheapskates,” she grumbled under her breath, loud enough for Dijonai to hear and snort beside her.

“Blame ownership,” Dijonai replied under her breath, smirking without looking.

“Blame Curt,” Soraya added. She’d heard every excuse under the sun for this kind of mess. Last minute bookings, miscommunications, or the ever so popular ’this hotel is closer to the arena’ logic. Didn’t matter. The result was always the same—less privacy, less space, and less rest.

Nola began reading off the pairings. “Dijonai and NaLyssa. Arike and Maddy…”

Soraya zoned out, already doing mental calculations of who was left. Maybe she’d get JJ. Or maybe Luisa. Someone quiet.

“Paige and Soraya.”

Her head snapped up.

She looked at Nola first, as if she’d misheard. Then her gaze flicked instinctively to the left, where Paige stood, hands in her pockets, quiet and unreadable. Paige was already looking toward Nola too, but as if sensing Soraya’s eyes, she turned just slightly. Their eyes met for half a second.

Soraya looked away first.

Her heart hadn’t dropped, but it had shifted. Something light but taut twisted in her chest, like the opening notes of a song she didn’t know she was waiting to hear.

She wasn’t panicked. She wasn’t mad. But it definitely wasn’t nothing, either.

They hadn’t talked about what happened a few days ago. The late weight room session. The lingering glances. The teasing that tiptoed just outside the line. The way Paige had her pressed against the wall, and spoke to her in that low, amused tone that stuck to Soraya’s ribs even now.

And they weren’t supposed to talk about it. Not really. There hadn’t been time. Or space. Or privacy.

Now? They’d have all three.

Soraya swallowed, hard. She didn’t say a word as Nola continued down the list, her voice fading into background noise. She grabbed her keycard from the front desk with a nod and turned toward the elevators, her pace easy but her thoughts tangled.

Paige followed a few steps behind, silent.

The walk to the elevator was quiet. Everyone too tired or too annoyed to make small talk. The ding of the elevator’s arrival echoed off the marble floors.

Soraya stepped in first, back against the mirror wall, and watched as Paige leaned casually against the side rail beside her. Their eyes didn’t meet this time, but the air between them buzzed with unsaid things.

Two more floors. Then one more hallway. Then one shared room.

’Guess we’re not avoiding this conversation for much longer.’ Soraya thought to herself, exhaling through her nose as she adjusted the strap of her bag and stared at the elevator doors.

The walk to the room was quiet.

Not the tense, biting kind of quiet. Just a silence that felt aware and a little awkward.

Soraya trailed a few steps ahead of Paige. Her shoulders were squared, her expression unreadable, but inside, her thoughts moved in quick, darting fragments. Two nights. Just two nights. Keep it cordial. Mind your business. Sleep, practice, game, leave.

It wasn’t like she’d sleep well anyway.

Sharing a room with Paige Bueckers wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Paige was neat. Low maintenance. Soraya hoped she didn’t snore.

Soraya unlocked the hotel room first, the soft click of the card reader opening the door. She stepped inside, her body already relaxing slightly at the thought of flopping onto a bed for five minutes before the team dinner. Paige lingered behind, still at the door, eyes glued to something on her phone.

Soraya rolled her shoulders once, eyes scanning the room. Luggage stand, TV, desk, mirror.

And then she saw it.

Her steps froze, her eyes narrowed, and her stomach sank like a rock.

“You gotta be fucking joking.”

Her voice cut through the air, bold and unamused.

Paige’s head snapped up, confusion creasing her brow. She slipped her phone into the pocket of her grey sweatpants and stepped forward, closing the door behind her. “What?” she asked, brows knitting.

Soraya didn’t answer immediately. She just stared ahead, eyes fixed beyond the corner wall that’d partially hidden it from view at first.

The king sized bed. One bed.

Just. One. Bed.

Paige followed her gaze and stopped short. Her lips parted in disbelief, and then—without meaning to—a small, amused snort escaped her. She slapped her hand over her mouth to try and muffle the sound, but it was too late.

“This is so fucking cliché, oh my god,” Soraya groaned, throwing her head back like the universe had personally chosen her to be the butt of some bad romantic comedy.

Paige didn’t say anything at first, but her shoulders shook with silent laughter. She tried to compose herself, clearing her throat, but the smirk still clung to her lips.

Soraya, however, was not as amused.

She stared at the bed like it had insulted her personally, her jaw tight, her body tense. Her eyes scanned the room with military precision—searching for a couch, a chaise, something.

There. A modest looking couch in the corner. Her gaze locked on it like a backup plan, an escape route.

“If you want, I can go check if they have other rooms available…” Paige offered, the edge of amusement still there, but it was quieter now. More cautious.

Soraya didn’t turn around. She just stood there, still staring at the couch, exhaling a slow breath through her nose. “Nah,” she said finally, her voice clipped but not hostile. “It’s whatever. I’ll probably take the couch or something.”

And with that, she turned and made her way toward the small balcony. The sliding door creaked slightly as she pushed it open and stepped out, the cool Chicago air brushing against her skin. It wasn’t about needing air. It wasn’t that deep. She just needed a second. Some space. To think. To reset.

Paige stayed by the bed for a moment, watching her. There was a flicker of something unreadable in her. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that the sight of Soraya’s back turned, her figure silhouetted against the skyline, made something stir uncomfortably in her chest.

She wanted to say ‘You’re not sleeping on the couch’. ‘We’re adults, we can handle this’. ‘That night meant something to you too. Didn’t it?’

But she said none of it.

Not yet.

Instead, Paige moved quietly, pulled out her hoodie from her bag, and started unpacking in silence, giving Soraya her moment.

The air between them hummed with something fragile. Something unfinished. And the bed sat there—unbothered and waiting.

The dining room the team had booked for the night was quiet, save for the clinking of silverware and the soft hum of conversation. It wasn’t glamorous—just your average conference style space repurposed with round tables, white tablecloths, and a makeshift buffet line. Still, it was private, and that was enough.

Soraya twirled her fork into her pasta, her eyes focused on the strands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. She wasn’t really hungry, but she knew better than to skip dinner before a game. Dijonai sat to her right, flipping open her napkin and draping it lazily over her lap, already mid conversation with Nalyssa and Maddy across the table. But the second their plates were set down and the idle chatter died down, Dijonai turned her attention straight to Soraya.

“So,” she started casually, stabbing into her salad, “how you feelin’ about your roommate situation?”

Soraya didn’t look up. Just shot her a slow, sideways glance that lingered for a beat. The kind of look that said ‘Don’t start’. Then she shoved a forkful of pasta into her mouth and chewed with pointed slowness, like the act of eating could delay the inevitable.

Dijonai smirked. She leaned her elbow on the table, chin perched on her hand as she waited, patient and smug. Soraya glanced at her again and sighed through her nose, low and reluctant.

“It’s fine,” she muttered finally, voice flat. “There’s just one bed.”

She said it like she was describing the weather. Like it was no big deal.

Dijonai blinked once. “Wait—hold up,” she said, sitting up straighter. “One bed? Like a single, king sized bed?”

Soraya gave the smallest of nods and kept her eyes on her plate, twirling again like it might somehow cook up a second bed in their room.

Dijonai’s eyes widened, and her lips curled into a slow, amused grin. “Ooohh, nah. That’s wild,” she laughed, shaking her head. “You and Paige sharing a bed? That’s… that’s comedy. Damn. I wish I could be a fly on that wall.”

Soraya didn’t flinch. She just raised her glass of water to her lips and took a slow sip, blinking once. “There’s a couch,” she said blandly. “Relax.”

“Nah, nah, nah, ” Dijonai teased, nudging her elbow lightly. “You said that like you already got it planned out and shit. Don’t act like this ain’t a little awkward.”

“It’s not. I don’t care.”

“Really?” Dijonai arched a brow. “Y’all didn’t talk all flight, you barely talk in the first place. Always sitting away from each other. Then boom—roommates. One bed. Sounds awkward to me.”

Soraya tilted her head slightly and gave her a pointed look. “Then it’s awkward for you. I don’t know what to tell you”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Dijonai, who leaned back in her chair, hands raised in surrender. “Alright, alright,” she said. “You win. Just saying, though... Paige got that creepily calm vibe sometimes. Like she'd be dead asleep but also lowkey watching you with one eye open.”

Soraya nearly snorted but caught herself. She kept her composure, lips twitching just slightly as she took another bite of her pasta.

“You gonna sleep next to her?” Dijonai added with a smirk.

“No, I'm sleeping on the couch, dumbass,” Soraya muttered, finally cracking a tiny smile. “Don’t piss me off.”

Dijonai held in her laugh, biting her lip like she knew she was pushing it. She leaned in a little closer, voice quieter now. “If y’all wake up spooning, you better text me.”

“Eat your food, Dijonai.”

Dijonai grinned wider but let it go, grabbing her fork again. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”

Soraya didn’t say anything else, returning to her food like the conversation never happened. But under the table, her knee bounced slightly. She was calm on the surface, blank faced as ever, but her mind was anything but still.

Soraya chewed a little slower, eyes distant now, while the rest of the table talked and laughed around her.

Just two nights.

She could survive this.

The room smelled faintly of lavender from Soraya’s body wash, still lingering in the humid air after her shower. The mirror above the sink remained fogged, and soft droplets of water slid down the sides of the glass shower door in the bathroom.

Soraya stepped out onto the carpet, her skin still warm from the steam. Her pajama shorts clung loosely to her hips, and her tank top dipped just enough to feel annoyingly breezy under the hotel AC. She hadn’t packed to share a space, let alone with Paige, so her usual oversized sleepwear was traded out for something lighter and cooler. Her hair was clipped up messily in a claw clip, a few strands curling against the nape of her neck, and she rubbed a towel over her arms absently, trying to shake off the lingering heat.

The silence in the room felt dense.

Not heavy. Not hostile. Just there—like fog.

Paige hadn’t said much since they got back from dinner. Neither had Soraya. She didn’t know if it was tension or if they were both just too tired to fake the small talk. Either way, she didn’t have it in her tonight.

When she heard the faint click of the bathroom lock, Soraya moved. She pulled a pillow from the bed and tossed it onto the couch, then unfolded the blanket she’d packed into her duffel. The satin pillowcase slid over the pillow with ease, familiar and soft under her fingers. She smoothed out the blanket next, tugging the edges with unnecessary precision, like it would somehow make the couch longer or the night shorter.

She sat down with a soft thump, letting her head fall back against the armrest.

The couch wasn’t terrible. It would do. Her back might not thank her in the morning, but it beat waking up in the middle of the night too close to someone she was trying not to think too hard about.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe a few more.

Then the bathroom door opened with a soft creak, and Paige stepped out—face fresh, and a t-shirt hanging loose over a pair of black Nike shorts. She looked soft in a way that made Soraya look away, staring instead at the pattern on the ceiling.

“Just sleep on the bed,” Paige said gently, like it was obvious. “I don’t mind taking the couch.”

Soraya shook her head without hesitation. “It’s fine.”

There was a pause, then the faint creak of the bed as Paige sat on the edge, her voice more insistent now. “I feel awful letting you sleep on an uncomfortable fuckass couch, Raya.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

Soraya stilled.

That nickname was new.

Raya.

Not Soraya. It was soft. Personal. Laced with something careful.

She didn’t look at her. “Seriously. It’s fine. I already set everything up and I’m not letting you have my satin pillowcase.”

That finally pulled a quiet laugh from Paige, her head dipping forward, a hand brushing over her face like she didn’t want to smile too obviously. “Alright, suit yourself,” she said, a trace of amusement still clinging to the edges of her voice.

She got up, pulled the covers back, and slid into the bed with ease, the sheets rustling softly under her weight.

Paige glanced toward the couch. “Good night. Sleep well.”

Soraya hesitated for just a second, then replied quietly, “Good night, Paige.”

Then the desk lamp clicked off, and the room fell into darkness.

The kind of darkness where your eyes stay wide open for a while, because your mind hasn’t caught up to the silence yet.

And for the next seven hours, Soraya couldn’t sleep.

She tried. She really did. She laid flat, then curled up. Tossed one leg over the edge of the couch, then pulled both knees into her chest. She flipped her pillow twice. Tucked her blanket under her arms like a burrito. Nothing helped.

Her body was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t quiet.

Every few minutes she’d hear the faint shift of Paige turning over in bed, the soft scratch of cotton against sheets. Each sound sent a ripple of awareness through her chest, like her body knew who was on the other side of the room even if her eyes were shut.

She stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours. Her throat was dry. Her lower back ached. She adjusted again, the couch cushion squeaking beneath her weight.

Sleep never really came.

Just moments of that in between state, half lucid, yet half aware. Her body drifting, mind floating somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness.

And all the while, Paige breathed evenly on the bed across the room.

extended taglist 🐆 — @thelightknight21 @private-but-not-a-secret @angryflowerwitch @jieysiee @angelliicc @paigebaby5 @ttytttt-gndgnvbm @syraxbigfanfr @forward1212 @niya500 @wosolipa @enchantingesme @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @ksimsplayer @hggbiijj @pupbistro

[itoshiierae]

picnic dates with the toman boys ⋆.ೃ࿔

ᡣ𐭩 ft: manjiro sano, ken ryuguji, kazutora hanemiya, mitsuya takashi, baji keisuke, chifuyu matsuno, takemichi hanagaki

ᡣ𐭩 notes: this is what happens when you let the toman boys plan a picnic. mikey brought snacks for himself, draken pulled the “you look better in my jacket” card, kazutora is a poetic menace, mitsuya deserves a michelin star, baji shows up late, chifuyu tried making cat-shaped onigiris, and takemichi??? well baby tried his best… and we love him for it 😭

MANJIRO SANO ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ brings exactly one item: a pack of dorayaki… but for himself. he might’ve also ‘gently threatened’ the other Toman boys to prep everything else for your picnic ahead of time, and sure enough by the time you and him arrived — everything was already laid out perfectly at the spot.

⟢ ends up lying on your lap the entire time, head resting against your thigh like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. not because he’s tired (though he always is) but because your presence calms something in him.

⟢ doesn’t even eat the other food that much — just picks at it and feeds you in between, holding up a piece with a lazy, “open… now.” he’s infamous for never sharing his dorayaki with anyone… but when it comes to you??? he offers you the last bite without blinking.

⟢ steals your sunglasses, puts them on upside down, and looks at you with a straight face: “… do i look cute or do i look cute??”

⟢ at one point, he stares at the sky for a long, quiet moment. then, so softly it almost gets carried away by the wind: “we should do this again when we’re old...” and he doesn’t even laugh after. instead, he just stares at you & it’s his own way of telling you that he’s already imagining growing old next to you.

KEN RYUGUJI ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ brought a giant thermal bag even though it’s got full-on bentos inside. he tried to make at least some of it himself (he needed some of the women in the establishment to help him out), and he proudly says, “don’t ask me which part i made… just eat and tell me if it’s at least decent.”

⟢ caught you staring at him mid-laugh and said, “if you keep lookin’ at me like that, i might propose right here.” then he pauses — smirk lingering, but his eyes??? they’re dead serious. “… no ring yet, but i mean it.”

⟢ leans back with one hand behind his head, watching you eat more than eating himself. you catch him staring and he just shrugs, “what??? you look cute when you’re chewing.”

⟢ offers you his jacket halfway through even though it’s not cold. he doesn’t say why — just instantly covers your shoulders with it and then says, “wear it. you look better in my clothes anyway.”

⟢ made a playlist the night before just for the picnic. it’s mostly old school r&b, a couple of songs he thinks ‘you might like’ and one weird edm track that snuck in. “… don’t judge, spotify was bein’ weird.”

KAZUTORA HANEMIYA ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ shows up with a picnic basket that looks like it came straight off pinterest — woven handle, red checkered cloth, tied with twine. it honestly looked super aesthetic… until you opened it and found slightly burnt sandwiches inside. “i made them myself,” he shrugs proudly.

⟢ hands you a tiny bunch of wild daisies he picked on the way over. “they looked pretty… just like you,” he says simply.

⟢ fiddles with your fingers the whole time you’re lying on the blanket. doesn’t say much while he does it — he just intertwines them with his own, gently pressing your knuckles like he wants to remember this moment forever.

⟢ randomly turns philosophical out of nowhere. “…do you think souls recognize each other before people do??” he doesn’t expect an answer. he just looks at you like maybe, just maybe — his soul knew yours all along.

⟢ puts on music from a tiny speaker he pulled from his bag. and before you know it, the two of you are slow dancing under a sky painted in watercolour hues and clouds that looked like they were dreaming too. when the song ends, he tucks your hair behind your ear and says: “if we were animals, you’d be one of those tiny forest animals that just… sit there & look pretty. and i’d be the feral one protecting you from a distance.”

MITSUYA TAKASHI ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ of course he brought everything. we’re talking cutlery wrapped in linen, folded cloth napkins, homemade bento boxes and a berry tart he baked himself at 2am because he wanted to surprise you. “it’s not much,” he says it casually, like the meal doesn’t look like it came from a café in Paris.

⟢ casually gifts you a matching handkerchief with your initials embroidered into the corner — in your favourite color, of course. “thought it might come in handy,” he says, handing it to you like it’s not the most thoughtful thing ever.

⟢ snaps a few photos of you when you’re not looking — when you’re laughing, or when the wind catches your hair justtt right. those go straight into a locked photo album on his phone titled: my love ♡

⟢ he gently brushes crumbs off your face, as his thumb lingers at your cheek before he leans in and kisses it. not once, but twice; softly, repeatedly — like he’s making sure you know you’re adored.

⟢ at one point, he leans back on his elbows, sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose, humming a soft tune under his breath before murmuring, “you always look your prettiest in sunlight, y’know that? you’re such a natural beauty… and i’m so lucky.”

BAJI KEISUKE ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ shows up 30 minutes late, hair windswept and a scratch on his cheek. “yo. i’m late, i know. but to be fair… i had to break up a cat fight.” you squint at him. “like actual cats or—” he shrugs. “not sure, one of them hissed — the other threw a punch.”

⟢ brings convenience store food like it’s a full-course feast. “what?? i got variety,” he says, completely unbothered, as if he’s just pulled off the ultimate romantic gesture. you glance down and blink — it’s four onigiris (all different flavours, as if that makes it fancy), two instant yakisoba bowls, and a mystery bento that’s somehow still warm even though he showed up nearly half an hour late.

⟢ pulls out three canned drinks from his bag and goes, “i didn’t know what you liked, so i got three different ones. you can have mine too.” then? he casually cracks open the one you were eyeing and drinks it without hesitation. “what?” he shrugs, lips twitching. “we’re sharing, aren’t we?”

⟢ you tease him about actually enjoying peaceful stuff like this, and he immediately gets defensive. “oi, don’t start thinking i’m going soft or anything,” he grumbles, flicking your forehead. “i just like you, not the picnic crap...”

⟢ outside your house after the picnic, he ruffles your hair roughly and mutters, “next time, i’ll cook. swear on it.” he says it with that usual bite in his tone, but there’s something soft tucked underneath.

CHIFUYU MATSUNO ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ he spent the entire night before trying to recreate a recipe he found online — cute little rice cats with sausage ears, seaweed eyes, and tiny whiskers. but somewhere between shaping the rice and cutting the nori, things went downhill fast. they were supposed to look adorable… instead, they came out looking slightly cursed. “they looked better in the tutorial, okay?” he mutters, trying not to pout as you stifle a laugh.

⟢ he also brought your favorite drink and backup snacks just in case you didn’t like the cat-shaped onigiris (you did but he still made you eat the strawberry pocky too)

⟢ borrowed the mat from baji, who may or may not have threatened him with a slipper to the head if it came back dirty. “this mat’s limited edition, fuyu… if there’s even one grass stain— i’m skinning you.”

⟢ if you lay your head on his shoulder, he’s literally done for. you won. game over. he’s mentally fast-forwarding to a future where you both have matching toothbrushes and a fat orange cat. he swears his heart skipped a beat. twice

⟢ randomly blurts, “i hope we do this again. like, a lot…” — and the second the words leave his mouth, he freezes. his ears go pink first. then his cheeks. then the tip of his nose. he fumbles to grab his drink like it’s some kind of emotional shield, holding it up to his mouth as if it’ll hide how red he’s getting.

TAKEMICHI HANAGAKI ❤︎₊ ⊹

⟢ tries to plan the entire picnic by himself… emphasis on tries. he forgets the blanket, napkins, and even the deck of card games he swore would be “fun for us.” mid-date? he’s sheepishly calling friends to bring over the missing items. “i’m so sorry…. just gimme ten minutes, i swear i had a checklist—” but honestly??? it’s kind of cute seeing how hard he tried.

⟢ “i was gonna cook… but the stove kinda almost exploded and i— yeah, i gave up...” so he ordered food instead, complete with utensils and drinks, just to make sure the both of you had something to eat.

⟢ he laughs it off even with the little mishaps and you find yourself smiling more because of it. when you said, “i really appreciate how much you tried today,” his cheeks flushed instantly, and he looked away like he didn’t know what to do with your sincerity.

⟢ he’s seated across from you, cross-legged, nodding along as you speak. and when you get emotional even just a little??? he offers a small, reassuring smile and says, “you don’t have to hold it in… your feelings matter too.”

⟢ he shares the most ridiculous stories — falling off bikes, getting into fights with other gangs, dyeing his hair on a dare. when you laugh and say how chaotic the day’s been, he just smiles and goes, “i don’t need everything to be perfect… i just need it to be you.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[carlyraejepsans]

I do understand your arguments that her decision to party with Sans "wasn't her fault," but I feel like that's a bit of an overcorrection.

As you have rightfully pointed out, contrary to what this new viral strain of Toriel slander argues, she isn't some neglectful drunk ignoring her kid. She's a much better mom than most people give her credit for (in fact not giving moms their due credit is something we see way too often). At the same time, I can't help but strongly feel that her decision to get with Sans wasn't the best decision she made.

IIRC you said in another post of yours discussing Asgore and Toriel's flaws and how they weren't equally flawed, you pointed out how she didn't make the best possible choice at every turn. And the way I personally see it, the chapter 4 ending is an example of her not making the best choice.

It was completely understandable what led her to make that decision (and those who slander her under the pretext of "giving her nuance" are the REAL ones ignoring her nuances), but it was still a decision she made, and that decision had unfortunate consequences.

Again you RIGHTFULLY pointed out that she badly needed this (a moment to be herself and a break from being Kris's mom), and I agree with you. But she couldn't have waited just a little longer for it.

I mean, she couldn't have waited until Kris had got home and then started having her break from being Kris's mom?

I do LOVE how she asked Kris if Susie was okay indicating how much she cares about Susie and how she's still concerned about her, but one can't help but wish she also asked that to Kris as well. Though in her defense, Sans did NOT help with the situation AT ALL in egging her on to party rather than allowing her a small moment to make sure everything's okay.

And in her defense again, Asgore didn't exactly help either, and it's positively ridiculous nobody seems to be harping on HIM for not doing his due diligence.

And in her defense again, the town didn't help either, as you have pointed out, in given her a decent support network.

That said, there were things she came up short in in that moment even though there were very understandable reasons or doing so.

Sorry about the long ask.

you're telling me the impromptu party for 2 she impulsively ditched church for wasn't at the most appropriate and convenient time? color me surprised.

if toriel had a reason to worry where kris was (and she didn't, they were at noelle's with susie), if toriel wasn't highly stressed out by and fed up with Asgore's behaviour, if she WAS in a position to think 100% clearly and rationally she wouldn't have taken sans home to begin with... she probably wouldn't even have stopped by his store. toriel at her most rational will always put respectability and her kids' needs before her own desires. which is exactly why i will defend this rowdy outburst of hers to the end of the earth, that kind of vice grip on yourself can't last forever without crashing out spectacularly

considering her reaction to having the winter party brought up in the alarm clock dialogue, I'm actually really worried that she'll be ashamed of herself? or close herself up even harder afterwards. girl it's okay! you can ditch choir practice once in a while, you can get drunk with the hot new guy. you don't have to be so perfect of a mom you stop being your own person, you're still young, go live your life once in a while!

[zstartrixxx]

had to share a headcannon / get your opinion..

How do you think, with as many of Jack's characters, would react to meeting their match? ( wit, skill, etc. )

I headcannon that depending on the character and thing, it could either be heaven or hell..here's a few of mine..

Patrick ( knowledge on medicine and human anatomy ) a mixture of fascination and spiraling at the thought of someone out doing him at the one thing he's decent / revolved his time and focus on.

Oliver ( wit ) a mixture of smugness and arrogance, he'd take it as a challenge to out wit each other and then possible make up sex to make you regret challenging him to a wit battle.

Roy ( gun skills ), pussy whipped to a T. Would enjoy it as it's great knowing you can defend yourself, plus it's leads to friendly competitions just to watch you gloat at beating him.

okay, i'm a bit obssessed with this so here is my contribution:

Patrick Sumner (Medical Knowledge & Anatomy):

Picture him watching from afar, cigar in mouth, taking mental notes as this near-idealized rival of his studies. He’d go above and beyond to prove his superiority—in sutures, prescriptions, who knows more—and revel in it, even in his own mind.

I agree with you! Watching someone surpass him in the one thing he’s dedicated himself to would send him into a crisis. It’d be his own personal hell—especially if the situation were highly specific, just him and this rival sharing the same role. I’m thinking post-canon (after India, even during or after the ship events). Patrick would take it as a challenge because he needs to feel useful… Even if he’s distant, analytical, and overly polished with patients, a "rival" would make him lose his bearings.

But if you’re the rival? The tone shifts. Imagine a scenario dripping with sexual tension: Patrick would show you just how skilled his hands, fingers, mouth, and tongue are. That he knows more than just theory—because practice is what matters. It’d turn into a sadistic little competition: Who can make the other climax first?

The prize? "Best Doctor in the Region."

Oliver Mellors (Wit & Banter):

Oliver would watch with smug amusement as you absorb everything you read. Shared reading sessions? He’d challenge you to memory games—"Read this chapter, then summarize it in detail"—and be aroused by a mind as sharp as his.

That’s what excites him most: people who are smarter than him and wield that intelligence like a weapon. Whether you’re throwing sharp critiques at the elite or being sarcastic with him, Mellors wouldn’t hesitate to turn even sex into a dirty game:

"I’ll fuck you while you recite that poem. Miss a line, and I stop." (Spoiler: You’ll be pushed to your limit.)

Chess matches with him are deadly serious, ending with one of you shouting "Checkmate!" and jumping into the other’s lap. Card games? Filled with double entendres. And even bedtime reading becomes foreplay—books tossed aside, arrogance melted away by kisses and rough, claiming sex.

Roy Goode (Gun Skills & Marksmanship):

He loves seeing the person he loves outshoot him. Target practice, quick draws, hunting—anything requiring aim, focus, and precision? He’s there, cheering you on.

In your case, Roy’s the type to hover behind you, giving "instructions" (you don’t need them) just to feel you roll your eyes. His rough drawl purrs in your ear: "Hit that bullseye, darlin’, and I’ll let ya ride my face." (Joke’s on him—you’ll ride him either way.)

Lion Kaminski (Physical Endurance & Athletics):

He’s endlessly impressed by your reflexes. After every friendly competition, he’ll grin and mutter: "Damn, woman—you don’t miss a single shot, do ya?"

As a (near) professional athlete, Lion lives for physical challenges. Who can hold a plank longer? Run faster? Climb higher? It’s all about adrenaline and pushing limits.

With you beside him, teasing him into uncomfortable boners mid-workout—"Bet you can’t last… unless I’m under you"—it becomes sweet torture. Morning runs turn into pinned-against-the-wall moments: "Fuck—how are you this flexible?"

In the end? Win-win.

Remmick (Hunting & Predatory Instincts):

He loves the hunt. And it’s 10x hotter with someone who matches his skill. Your shared hunts become a deadly dance: luring prey, cornering them, killing with grace… Though Remmick tends to get messy, blood splattering his coat.

You tease him: "If you stay clean tonight, Remmy, I’ll let you lick me everywhere." Suddenly, the feral vampire is on best behavior (until he’s not).

[unlikeable-female-character]

Old Man Logan x Nurse!reader - Laura

Finally! For some reason this took me ages to do - I think the heatwaves we’ve been having in the uk have melted my brain…

I decided that Laura needed to be in the story and since I have digressed so wildly from the ‘Logan’ canon it made sense for her to be Logan and reader’s child.

There is a vague reference to Caliban’s ability to track mutants, though I’ve changed it slightly. Charles is still claiming he can talk to the baby and there’s a bit of sauce near the end.

Warnings - mentions of birth, breastfeeding, Logan being a wee bit of a perv, oral sex (f receiving)

****

You woke up one morning about a month after Laura’s birth find both her and Logan gone from the room. You reached over to Logan’s side of the bed and felt the coolness of the sheets. He’d been gone for a while. You eased yourself out of bed and looked in the crib, empty except for the stuffed wolverine that Caliban had given you - much to your amusement and to Logan’s annoyance. It wasn’t unusual for Logan to get up in the night to see to the baby but he normally settled her and got back into bed. That they were both absent was new.

As you left the room, you heard a soft low voice coming from the kitchen. You tiptoed as quietly as you could, eventually spotting Logan sitting at the table, mostly turned away from you, Laura in his arms, awake but quiet. You could just see her staring up at her father, her eyes wide as he spoke to her.

‘And Hank..you’d have loved him. Like a big blue teddy bear,’ you watched as Logan brushed a large calloused finger over his daughter’s soft pink cheek, ‘he’d have shown you all the experiments you could do. Probably turned your mom’s hair white at the thought of the stuff he’d let you get your hands on.’ You heard him let out a small laugh, ‘you’d have had big sisters…Marie, Kitty, Jubilee. They’d have fought over who got to babysit you. You would have terrorised Summers. Ain’t right you miss out on that.’

You saw Laura’s tiny hand encircle Logan’s finger and a small soft smile spread across his face. You watched him lift the child in his arms and kiss her forehead, resting her against his shoulder.

‘I wish you could have met them.’

You realised you were crying. Your emotions had been all over the place lately, of course they had, but this was different. He sounded so sad and you knew there was nothing you could do to repair that heart break. Listening to Logan tell Laura all about the family she could have had…you ran back to the bedroom before Logan could hear you sob. By the time he and the baby came back you had been able to compose yourself.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘she was a little fussy and wouldn’t settle so I sat up with her for a while.’

You smiled at him and reached out for him to place the baby in your arms as you pulled up your top, positioning her at your breast. You looked down at her and felt the bed dip as Logan climbed back into his side.

‘You okay?’ He asked.

‘Yeah,’ you said looking up at him, ‘just tired.’ You leant over and gave him a soft kiss.

‘What was that for?’

‘Because,’ you replied.

Logan watched you as you settled back with Laura. He loved watching you nurse her. He was mesmerised by this tiny thing, she held his heart and soul in her two little hands. And seeing you with her…he’d never seen anything so beautiful. He wanted to stop time, to enjoy this moment forever and never let anything bad happen to any of you.

You heard Caliban moving around outside the room and a gentle knock on the door.

‘Everyone decent?’ He asked

Logan glanced at you, now gently patting Laura’s back, and grunted yes.

The door opened a crack and Caliban poked his head in.

‘Good morning all,’ he said, ‘Charles wanted to inform you that the weather is going to be very pleasant today and if you and the baby would like to accompany him on a walk around the grounds this morning that would be lovely.’

Caliban made it sound like a stroll in the park rather than an abandoned industrial building. But Charles had a point. A little fresh air and exercise wouldn’t hurt anyone.

‘Tell him yes,’ you said, ‘We can go out after we’ve had breakfast.’

Caliban nodded and disappeared

Logan looked at you as you placed Laura carefully in a nest of pillows and got up to start dressing.

‘You know what he said to me the other day?’ he asked, tickling the baby’s belly making her wiggle and squeak.

‘Was it another of Laura’s many complaints about our parenting?’ You asked smiling

Logan let out a laugh.

‘Actually no.’

Charles was still insistent that he and Laura were in communication with each other. He claimed that she had views on how you and Logan were caring for her. Nothing bad, he reassured you, just that Logan would often fasten her diapers too loosely and you didn’t pat her hard enough to burp her, that sort of thing. So far it seemed like ‘Laura’s’ complaints were more Charles’ own observations

‘Well that’s good. She’s only a month old, far too young for opinions.’

‘Charles thinks we should have another’

You paused with your shirt half on and half off

‘Is he going to carry it?’ You asked

Logan snorted

‘He’s worried about Laura being an only child.’

‘Hmmm,’ you muttered, ‘well until he’s pushed one of your big headed babies out of his vagina after 15 hours of labour he doesn’t get to have a say if she should be an only child or not.’

Logan picked Laura up and rested her on the slope of his legs

‘Don’t you listen to your mom, bubs. Your head is a perfect size.’

If he hadn’t been holding the baby you’d have thrown something at him.

‘Now it is,’ you said and winced at the memory of the day Laura was born.

***

Your contractions had started and Logan was amazed at how calm you had remained. He was a mess from the first moment you complained of a pain and would have taken you to the hospital there and then. While he panicked, quietly and not so quietly, you pottered about making sure all was well at home before things had progressed to a point where he was finally able to usher you to the car and get you to the hospital. Your waters had broken en route and things seemed to be moving apace when you got there. Logan stayed with you the whole time, pacing the floor with you, rubbing any part of you that needed rubbing, marvelling at how you actually almost broke his fingers when a particularly fierce contraction came along. He also took every bit of abuse and foul language you threw at him.

‘Yeah I know, I’m a fucking cunt shit bastard for doing this to you,’ he soothed, brushing your damp hair off your sweaty brow.

‘I’m never letting you touch me again you fuuuuuuuck…’ as another strong contraction bore down on you.

Logan would never forget seeing his child being born, watching the doctor pull her from you, squirming and screaming in blood and gore, him cutting the cord with trembling hands and being passed this tiny precious thing to hold. To keep her safe. Laura. His daughter. Your daughter. Handing her to you with the utmost care, his hands itching with the need to protect you both and not so silently weeping along with you through sheer joy. You were the strongest person he’d ever known. Watching Laura taking her first feed from you, he never thought he would ever tire of simply watching her. You felt his lips against your temple

‘I’m so proud of you,’ he said, ‘you’re the real superhero.’

He was embarrassed when the nurse suggested he take his shirt off and lay the baby next to his bare skin, but he did it anyway. You were used to the scars that littered his body by then but you knew that he didn’t really want others seeing them. The nurse didn’t bat an eyelid and simply handed him the infant, a warm little presence against his chest, against his heart. His hand was so big it spanned the entirety of her back. You watched him from your position on the bed. This man, this monster, who had seen so much pain and death and war and blood, holding his heart in his hands. You cried again, and wished for another past for this man who you loved so much. But maybe if he’d lived another life the three of you wouldn’t be where you were now. Together.

***

After breakfast Logan had some jobs and so after a kiss to you both, he left, leaving you to put Laura in the stroller ready for her walk with grandpa Charles. You had a sling so that you could wear her but Charles complained he couldn’t see her properly like that and besides she felt too squashed up, she had apparently told him. On your walks, not daily but often enough, he would gently hold the side of the stroller as the three of you trundled along, as he chattered away to Laura. Sometimes if Caliban joined you you’d allow Charles control of the stroller completely and you’d walk behind keeping a close eye. Today was such a day. You and Caliban walked slowly behind him as he pushed Laura over the dirt.

‘I think this is the calmest I’ve ever seen him,’ Caliban said, his voice slightly muffled by his face covering.

You looped your arm in his.

‘It’s lovely to see. He’s really taken with Laura. Did he have kids? Y’know…before?’

Caliban shrugged

‘Not that I know of. He had the school I guess, but that’s not the same.’

Up ahead Charles and the stroller came to a stop. You watched as he bent his head to the baby and heard him talking faintly

‘Yes yes of course, I’ll tell her,’ Charles turned in his chair to look back at you, ‘my dear, Laura is a little too hot in this outfit.’

You gave Caliban a look and went over to them. Laura was dressed, as she most always was, in cute onesie. This one was covered with frolicking pandas. She was well sheltered from the sun, and you weren’t out in the hottest time of the day, but she did indeed feel a little warm. You undid the poppers that lined the front of the outfit and wrestled her out of it, leaving her in just a little t-shirt and her diaper. Charles smiled.

‘Yes that’s better,’ he said, ‘much more room to move around as well.’ Laura kicked her legs enthusiastically in agreement.

Later as you and Caliban sat in the kitchen preparing dinner, you had to ask him.

‘You know earlier when Charles said Laura was too warm, did you notice him touching her?’

Caliban shook his head.

‘Don’t think so. I think he was still holding onto the stroller’

You stopped chopping the carrot you were holding.

‘I don’t think they’re talking to each other,’ Caliban said, preempting your question.

‘Logan doesn’t think so either but how can you be so sure,’ you mused, chewing on your lip.

You went back to chopping, but you couldn’t switch your thoughts off.

‘Cal…’

‘Hmm…’ he said absently.

‘Can you tell…if Laura is a mutant or not?’

Caliban looked at you.

‘No.’

‘Might need to elaborate on that..’

‘No I’m not having this conversation with you. And it’s got nothing to do with Logan threatening to castrate me if I did.’

You stared at him

‘Did he really say that?’

He shrugged.

‘Maybe not but the implication was there.’

‘Why doesn’t he want you talking to me about it? We’ve talked about her having a mutation plenty of times.’

‘I don’t know…’ Caliban said, clearly uncomfortable and started to fill a pan with water, the loud ring of it hitting the metal indicating the conversation was over.

Before you could press him again, Laura let out a loud wail from her bassinet nearby.

‘Okay missy,’ you said, scooping her up, ‘what’s the problem here?’

The conversation never arose again. You, Charles and Caliban all sat down to dinner and made small talk. When Logan arrived home he asked about your day, scooped Laura up and sat eating the meal you’d saved for him with her tucked into the crook of his arm, this taciturn man chattering away to the tot, her staring up at him with wide eyed fascination. It made you ache inside with love for them.

****

It was still too soon for you to make love and Logan had no intention to push you before you were ready, but that night you just craved his touch. After settling Laura, you’d taken his hand and pulled him down onto the couch with you - not before checking both Charles and Caliban were settled in the water tank and unlikely to disturb you.

You had Logan on his knees, your legs hooked over his shoulders, his tongue working slowly and lazily at your clit, licking your slit.

‘Can I use my fingers?’ he asked, coming up for air.

You looked down at him, his hair mussed from where you had been pulling at it, and nodded.

‘Tell me if it hurts,’ he said and carefully slid one then two fingers inside you. Your back arched as he hit that sweet spot inside and bent his head to continue lapping at your clit.

After you came, Logan remained on his knees, his head resting on your stomach

‘Can I ask you something?’ He breathed.

‘Always,’ you breathed, running your hands through this hair.

Logan propped himself up on his elbows.

‘Can I taste you?’ He asked

‘Pretty sure you already did that,’ you smiled

‘No I don’t mean there,’ he said and raised a hand to gently squeeze your breast.

‘Oh…’.

You knew Logan had already tasted your breast milk, absentmindedly licking a dribble off his hand when feeding Laura but to do this…

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking disgusted with himself, ‘I shouldn’t have asked, fucking perverted…’

You gently stroked his cheek.

‘No you aren’t,’ you smiled.

‘It’s not like I get turned on when you’re feeding bubs or anything,’ he said quickly

‘Logan..’

‘What?’

‘Shut up and come here.’

You unbuttoned your shirt and unclipped your nursing bra, exposing one breast to the cool air of the evening, the chill immediately hardening your nipple. You watched as Logan gently ran a finger over it, before taking your breast in his hand. The sensation almost painful but you found yourself arching into his touch. You gasped as his tongue gently licked at the hard nub, twice, three times, before placing his lips around it and beginning to suck. Your hand found its way to the back of his head, cradling him there. He didn’t do it for long, a few seconds was all. As his mouth left you with an audible pop, you saw a small drop of milk spill from your nipple and run down. Logan places gentle kisses on your breast.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered and moved up to kiss your lips, the sweetness of you still lingering on his tongue.

Later that night you lay awake, listening to Logan’s soft snores and Laura’s little squeaks and gurgles from across the room. Logan had fallen asleep quickly, one arm and leg draped across you, his breath against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him and just enjoyed the weight of him. Sleep eluded you. Charles and Caliban on your mind. You didn’t care of Laura was a mutant, you loved her more than you thought possible, but would it be a bad thing to be sure? You understood Logan’s reluctance, of course you did. He had lived experience, too much of it, of a world that didn’t understand his existence. You felt him stir against you, shifting in his sleep. You ran a gentle finger across a scar on his cheek. He slept so peacefully now, the only thing waking him being the cries of his child. Maybe he was right. Maybe you needed to just Laura be Laura, be your little girl. Whatever that future held for you all, you’d deal with it when the time came.

You tightened your arms around Logan’s form and buried your nose in his hair. You fell asleep with the scent of him, the weight of him, the whole of him.

[haizononon]

Hello 🌹Idk if you are taking requests. But if you do, Sho is also my favorite!!

Would you be able to do a post on how he’d fall for you when he first meets you? Like tries talking to you or finding excuses to meet up. Like you’d need something from Alan/walk into Vagastrom and Sho sees you.

Literally no worries if not hahah. Thank youuuu

falling in love w/ sho haizono

note: i am! also feel free to tell me if this isn't what you wanted or if you want me to add more to something! sho being down bad and suffering because of it is one of my favorite flavors.

contains: extremely light references to sexual themes, fluff, a sprinkle of angst because of the curse, possible ooc because i'm never sure if they're on character or not.

Honestly, it had been a complete accident, his own fault for letting his walls down.

At first, Sho didn't care much about you, just a normie that had gotten roped into this mess, so he kept the contact to a minimum. Even then, sometimes he'd find himself getting distracted by you, but he'd blame it on the fact that it had been a while since he had last been with anyone and you were quite easy in the eyes.

You were a goody-two shoes, without a doubt, he confirmed it when he dipped and left you alone in Vagastrom for a few hours, only to find you still waiting. For some reason, maybe the slight guilt he felt, he ended up relaxing a bit more around you, giving you one of the sandwiches he made...

And that's when you praised his cooking, excitedly giving him the idea to open a food truck because it was so good that it was a crime for it to not be sold. The compliments and the clear satisfaction on your face hit him harder than it should have.

Before he knew it, his eyes were always searching around for you after he opened his truck. Sho would sometimes consider sending you a message to ask if you were coming or even offering to bring you lunch, but forced himself to focus on his work instead.

He wasn't some sappy guy that would follow you around like a puppy.

Except, he may actually act like one whenever you visit Vagastrom, watching from afar as you discuss some mission details with Alan or just want to visit. The biggest problem was when Leo noticed the way he instantly perked up when you walked in one day.

"Ugh, you look like a sad little puppy waiting for its owner to notice it. A crush on the Honor Roll? Really?" The shorter ghoul looked at him like he was disappointed. Sho rolled his eyes.

"Shut up. It's not a crush."

But it was. The realization hit him on a certain day when he kept staring at your open chat on his phone, trying to find an excuse to tell you to come over. It was when he asked himself why was he trying so hard that he had no choice but to accept the truth.

Sho had fallen for you, had for a while, actually.

He wouldn't be so hung up on you otherwise, feeling worried when he heard that you had gone on another mission, asking if you were alright and then masking his worry with him not wanting to lose his only decent taste-tester and helper, he wouldn't enjoy teasing you so much and think of your flushed face at night.

The phone was dropped on the bed, a hand covering his face and then pulling his bangs back as he sighed, frustrated. Out of everyone in that campus, he had to fall for the one who was cursed to die in one year. Just his luck, he guessed.

And yet there was nothing he could do about it except try to help you find a cure and make sure you were safe and well-fed. He couldn't just turn his feelings off, so might as well accept it and continue forward.

Sho reached for his phone, fingers quick on the keyboard.

"Hey, senpai, you free? I have some recipes that I need you to try."

[lynxgriffin]

what do you think about how the chapter 1 and 2 ralsei looks differ so much when all that's removed is the hat? headcanons?

personally i think it's sorta like a prism type thing. from the horns, specifically. if the horns are covered, the light (or i should say the seeable darkness) can't get to ralsei's fur. when the whatever goes through the horns, it spreads out light-or-something to the entirety of his fur, turning it white.

I honestly think it's just primarily to disguise the fact that he looks like a Dreemurr until that reveal at the very end. Even then, for UT fans paying close attention it didn't quite work...the anagram name and the little fangs poking out over his scarf made me go "oh he looks like Asriel, doesn't he?" even before the reveal. But for most folks I imagine it was that way so that the reveal would be more of a shocker!

But I always got the impression that it was just his hat is really large and is shadowing his face. Could be that it's covering the horns too, but at least the hat is decent enough justification for it!

[jasper-unofficial]

Hey archer!

I know you’ve been learning Thai for a while, and I was wondering if you have any tips, resources you found helpful, etc?

hi! my main tip would be to decide exactly what you want from learning thai and go from there. for obvious reasons, a lot of beginner guides focus on speaking and listening rather than reading and writing. but, for the purposes of "i want to be able to understand and translate thai actors", for example, reading is pretty important (while speaking frankly is not). so just make sure you tailor your learning journey to your personal needs rather than what the general recommendations are.

and if/when you do start, don't be intimidated by the language. because it can seem intimidating at first (and, if i'm honest, the alphabet and phonetics are genuinely kind of scary), but you will truly start getting the hang of it eventually and it will no longer be paralysingly scary after you get over the initial shock.

shoving the rest of this under the cut:

i personally took my first steps with thaipod101 (i did get a paid subscription) and it was a decent beginning, especially with helping me learn how to read, write, and pronounce the language. at this point in time though, thanks in no small part to my linguistics degree, i am able to take a very "fuck around and find out" approach to things, where i just pick a grammar topic or whatever it is i want to learn about next and research it myself without having to rely on any one particular resource, so i am unfortunately not of much help there.

as for dictionaries/vocabulary, when i was in thailand, i did pick up physical copies of collins's 'thai dictionary (essential edition)' and 'thai visual dictionary'. both are great resources for words and phrases (the former is a standard thai-english dictionary, while the latter has its words and phrases separated into different topics with visuals, which help you tackle groups of important vocab bit-by-bit). digitally, i use the tools on thai-language.com and longdo dictionary quite often.

who doesn't love a little bit of instagram scrolling? i mean, a lot of people probably don't, but i'm over there a lot, so i follow quite a few accounts that teach thai as well. my favourites are thaidupwithminnie (she does a mix of content, but also talks a lot about the culture and helps understand casual conversations / slang), thaibynana (just because she gives examples from qls lmao), and kat_talks_thai (she has not uploaded in a while, but the backlog is great). and generally i just follow any and all thai teachers i encounter, so every time i open instagram, i end up learning something new.

what else? songs are a really great resource for pretty much all areas of learning, especially if you use the mewonee youtube channel. they upload all songs that our favourite artists release and even some covers, with the original text (in a slightly stylised but overall still readable font), the transcription, and translation into english. there is a lot you can do there: try to sing along while using the transcription or the original text; cover up the transcription and try to sing along using only the original text, checking yourself first via the audio and then via the transcription; try listening to the song, discerning each word, and then checking if you heard all of them correctly; try translating; etc.

unironically, if you follow anyone on twitter, it's a great source for reading practice. just making yourself actually read the text goes a long way and with how much some of them tweet? *cough* joong archen *cough* constant organic practice.

oh! and next time you think "ah, i wanna rewatch that favourite moment of mine from [ql of your choice] that i've already seen fifty thousand times", just don't turn on the subtitles. you already know what's going on! take the language in as is.

apart from that, pretty much all general advice for learning languages applies. i don't know how much experience you have on that front and how deep you wanna get into it, but 'fluent forever' by gabriel wyner is a pretty comprehensive guide on learning any language, if that's something you're interested in.

otherwise, if we get into specifics (such as how to memorise the alphabet or how to approach transcriptions vs the alphabet or the differences between formal phonetics and the way thai people actually speak in real life or a million other things), i would have more specific advice to give but the specifics are pretty infinite at this point and i wouldn't want to throw too much stuff at you in this already lengthy answer. so this is all i'm gonna say for now, but feel free to return and ask me any questions! i will gladly help if i am able.

[palevcr]

Okk Hii so I have a request if you're take any!!! It came to me the other day and I just love your writing so I knew I had to share this. Soooo I was thinking the paring would be Steve and reader. It’s starts off all hot and heated but turns into something more soft ig if that makes sense.

So basically Steve and our reader are getting into it, right? Well our reader it getting caught up in the moment she almost forgets that she hasn't shaved down their in a while so it's obvious growing out. Well she thinks Steve wouldn't like it or finds it weird so she try's to focus attention onto Steve, trying to pleasure him and all that good stuff.

Well of course Steve notices something's is a little off- he stops her before she could continue with anything her. He questions her in the sudden shift she had- at first the reader tries to make up some dumb excuse but Steve can see right through her so embarrassed she tells him the truth.

He isn’t token aback at all, he actually thinks it’s cute and silly how worked up she’s getting over something so little. He reassures her that if doesn’t bother him one bit by that he ends up showing her.

Okk sooo I hope this makes sense and isn’t weird or anything it was an idea that came to me. If you do end up taking this request I hope I provide a decent plot for it and apologies if it sounds stupid anyways if you need any more details or anything in that matter I’m happy to help!!! 😽⭐️

YES YES YES HUNDRED TIMES YES.

── RETURN FIRE

genre: intimate domestic softness, smut-adjacent emotional vulnerability, post-mission reunion

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

tw: MDNI+18, suggestive content, implied oral (f receiving), clothed intimacy, post-mission fatigue, sleepwear, emotional softness, body image insecurities, mentions of body hair and periods, Steve being too emotionally intelligent, consent and communication, reader insecurity handled with softness,

The late afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the city, its light fractured by the tall buildings and filtering down in soft, amber shards that danced across the pavement. Steve Rogers moved through it with the kind of weary grace born of years spent navigating battlefields and back alleys alike. His suit—still smeared with dust, nicked in places where shrapnel had grazed the vibranium scales—clung to him like a second skin, the familiar weight of it both a comfort and a burden. He rolled his shoulder subtly, feeling the dull throb of a healing bruise settle deep into the muscle, but it didn’t slow his pace. There was a quiet urgency in the way he walked, not rushed but deliberate, like every step brought him closer to something he’d been needing all day.

The apartment wasn’t much—modest, tucked just a few blocks from the tower—but that was the point. Steve had asked Tony to help him find something for her that was close enough for convenience but far enough to still feel like her own space. It mattered to him that she never felt absorbed by the chaos of his world, even as she stood solidly within it. The juxtaposition between them was striking, perhaps even jarring to an outsider: she, a surgeon, meticulous and precise, with hands that healed rather than destroyed; and he, a soldier, a symbol, crafted to fight battles most people would never even know existed. But Steve never saw it as a divide. In his eyes, they operated on the same principles—resilience, compassion, unflinching dedication to saving lives. Just different battlefields.

A neighbor was descending the stairwell as he approached the building—an older woman balancing a laundry basket brimming with linens that looked like they belonged to a family of six. Steve offered her a polite, practiced smile, one that she returned with a nod, utterly unphased. They were used to him here. Captain America in the flesh was just “the guy on three who brings good coffee and doesn’t make noise past ten.” It was one of the many small things he liked about this place.

When he reached their apartment door, Steve instinctively reached into the hidden seam of his utility belt for the spare key, only to come up empty. A quiet sigh escaped his lips—half amused, half exasperated—as he realized he’d left it back at the tower, most likely next to the comms unit he’d tossed aside in the locker room. He knocked gently, the sound muffled by the thick wood and the hum of the hallway’s air vent. A few long seconds passed before he heard the muffled shuffle of feet inside, followed by the unmistakable creak of the old hinges—something they kept meaning to oil but always forgot.

Then she was there.

Bathed in the soft lamplight of the apartment, standing barefoot on the cool wooden floor in one of his old T-shirts that hung loose and comfortable on her frame, she looked like something sacred. Her hair was tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep, her skin carrying that warmth that only came from an afternoon nap. She blinked once, adjusting to the light, and then her gaze landed on him—and for a heartbeat, nothing else existed. Whatever fog of sleep clung to her vanished the moment recognition sparked in her eyes.

Steve opened his mouth to say something—anything. Maybe a sheepish apology for forgetting his key, maybe just a quiet "Hey, sweetheart" because damn if he hadn’t missed her more than he’d let himself admit—but before the words had time to form, she closed the distance between them. Her arms came around his neck, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that tasted like home and longing and relief. It was immediate and all-consuming, the kind of kiss that made time slow down and rooms disappear.

He let out a breath of a laugh, the sound soft and fond against her mouth. “Okay, well—nice to see you too,” he murmured with a crooked grin, voice muffled by the press of her lips. His arms, strong and steady despite the day’s wear, slid beneath her thighs without hesitation, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist with muscle memory precision, and she clung to him like she’d been waiting all day to be exactly here.

He stepped into the apartment with her in his arms, nudging the door shut behind him with a practiced motion. His hand reached back without looking, locking it with a subtle click. The world outside could wait. For now, it was just this—just her warmth pressed against him, her breath mingling with his, the scent of clean laundry and lemon-scented dish soap clinging to the air. This was what made all the bruises and long nights worth it. Not the medals, not the missions—this. Her. Always her.

“I missed you so much,” she murmured against his lips, her voice quiet, barely audible, more breath than words. Still, she didn’t stop kissing him, her mouth moving over his like she was trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. There was a kind of hunger in it—less about lust, more about ache. The kind of hunger that came from too many nights spent apart, too many sleepless hours wondering if the person you loved was still in one piece.

Steve hummed into the kiss, a low sound deep in his chest, part pleasure, part protest. He pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe, but she chased him, closing the distance before he could say anything. Her lips caught his again, soft and insistent, and he couldn’t help but smile into the kiss even as he tried to speak.

“I need to talk, love,” he mumbled, the words barely making it out between their mouths.

“Talk later,” she whispered, her voice thick with longing as she deepened the kiss, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck like she could anchor him to this moment, to her.

Steve’s grip shifted slightly as he adjusted her in his arms, walking them the few steps over to the living room, each stride steady and unhurried despite the chaos simmering under his skin. He sat down on the worn leather couch with her straddling him, her knees bracketing his thighs, and for a moment everything felt perfectly suspended in time—her weight grounding him, her warmth seeping through the fabric of his suit, the intimacy of it all wrapping around him like a second skin.

This time when he pulled back, she let him. She didn’t chase his mouth, didn’t reach to close the space again. No, this time she leaned forward slowly, deliberately, and began trailing kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, her lips brushing against stubble and sweat and salt. She moved with purpose, each kiss soft and maddening, a slow burn that worked its way down his neck like she was claiming every inch of him. Steve let his head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut as a sigh escaped his parted lips.

“I’m sweaty,” he whispered, almost apologetic, his voice roughened by exhaustion and the heat building between them.

“I’ve had worse in my mouth,” she mumbled against his throat, her words muffled by skin and heat, her tone matter-of-fact, as if she were simply stating the time or the weather.

A hoarse chuckle rumbled in Steve’s chest, his shoulders shaking slightly with it. “You’re really weird, my love.”

She just shrugged, not even bothering to respond, too busy mouthing at the hollow of his throat, sucking gently at the sensitive skin there, leaving blooming marks like constellations only the two of them would ever map. The kind of marks that didn’t need to be hidden. Not from anyone. Not anymore.

“Missed you so much,” Steve whispered again, his voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. There was a tremble to it, a rawness that didn’t come from physical pain but from the kind of emotional bruising only distance and fear could cause.

“I missed you more,” she replied softly, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy, locked onto his with a sincerity so profound it made his chest ache. Her fingers came up to cup his face, thumbs brushing along the faint shadow beneath his eyes, as if she could smooth away the weight he always carried there.

Steve leaned in again, kissing her this time with none of the urgency from before. This kiss was slower, deeper, threaded with reverence. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t need words because it said everything: I love you. I need you. You make it all worth it. His hands moved along her back, memorizing the curve of her spine through the soft cotton of the T-shirt she’d stolen from him months ago. She tasted like sleep and safety and a thousand memories he’d carry with him into every fight, every mission, every dark place he had to walk through.

Outside, the city buzzed on, loud and uncaring. But here, in this quiet little apartment, with her wrapped around him and his heart finally beating at a steady rhythm again, Steve Rogers let himself breathe. Let himself rest. Let himself be hers.

It didn’t take long for the heat between them to shift, to deepen. It was always like this—inevitable, magnetic, like the pull of a tide neither of them had the will to resist. Her hips began to move with slow insistence, grinding down against him with growing rhythm, each roll of her body eliciting a soft grunt from Steve as he met her with equal intensity, his hips lifting in perfect synchronicity. The friction between them built fast, a simmer turning into something molten, breath catching between kisses that grew wetter, hungrier, more erratic.

Steve's hands, large and sure despite the bruises earned from a day’s worth of fighting, slipped beneath the hem of the shirt she wore—his shirt, still a little damp at the collar from his sweat, but warm from her skin. His palms were rough, calloused from years of wielding a shield, holding weapons, scaling rubble. And yet, when they touched her, they were reverent. He moved slowly, tracing the path of her ribs with the pads of his fingers, until he reached her breasts, cupping them with a tenderness that made her spine curve and her breath catch. She arched into him, her mouth falling open against his in a wordless gasp, her hands gripping his shoulders as though she could anchor herself against the rising tide of sensation.

He squeezed gently, thumbs brushing across her nipples in slow, teasing passes, before his hands slid back down—one settling at her waist, the other drifting lower, slipping beneath the elastic of her sleep shorts with practiced ease. But just as his fingers brushed against skin, she gasped, sharp and sudden, her hand shooting down to grip his wrist.

Steve froze instantly.

His body went still, the haze of arousal clearing from his eyes like a fog breaking over glass. He pulled back just enough to see her face clearly, his brows drawing together in concern, his hand retreating but still cupping her hip gently, grounding. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, tender, every syllable laced with care.

She hesitated for a second—just one heartbeat too long. Then: “Nothing. Just… on my period.”

His brow arched, skepticism written all over his face, the blue of his eyes narrowing with a perceptiveness that could disarm a room. “We’ve had sex while you were on your period,” he said matter-of-factly, his tone laced with confusion rather than judgment. “Last month. And the month before that. Hell, I’ve had my mouth on you during your period and you didn’t stop me. So…” He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t really care. It’s not that.”

She opened her mouth to argue, maybe to brush it off, but he kept going, gaze narrowing further, something sharper—calculated—glinting behind his eyes. “Plus, you’re lying.” He said it gently, not accusingly, but with the kind of certainty that made her spine go a little straighter. “You only start in two weeks.”

Her eyes widened, and she stared at him like he’d just recited state secrets. “Do you… have my cycle memorized?” she asked slowly, incredulously, as if she wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or touched.

Steve just shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

She blinked. “Okay. Not going to unpack that right now. That’s oddly sweet in a slightly obsessive way, but whatever.” She exhaled through her nose, brushing some hair from her eyes before her voice softened. “I just... I don’t know. I want to focus on you today. You already do so much for me. You always take care of me. I want to take care of you this time. Just let me.”

Steve didn’t respond immediately. His jaw shifted slightly, like he was chewing on her words, trying to decide whether or not to push. That soldier part of him was always on alert, even with her. Especially with her. He knew her too well—knew when her voice tilted just slightly off-key, when her smile had too much curve but not enough weight behind it.

But before he could press again, she leaned forward, silencing whatever thought he was about to form with a kiss. Her mouth was warm and insistent against his, her fingers sliding up to cradle his face, her thumb brushing his cheekbone with the kind of gentleness that disarmed him faster than any enemy ever could.

Steve exhaled through his nose, letting it go for now. If there was something she didn’t want to talk about, he’d wait. He always waited. But he didn’t stop watching her—not even as he kissed her back, slower this time, deeper. His hand came up to tangle in her hair, anchoring her to him as he poured everything he couldn’t say aloud into the press of his lips, the curve of his body against hers, the way he whispered her name into the space between them like a prayer.

Because if she wasn’t going to talk—then he’d speak to her in the language they both knew best: touch, breath, devotion, and a silence that said more than words ever could.

Though, Steve, persistent as ever, wasn’t about to let things trail off unfinished. He kissed her slowly, languidly, his hand drifting once again down her side, calloused fingers tracing the smooth lines of her waist beneath the fabric of her shirt. With practiced ease, he slipped his fingers beneath the band of her shorts, intending nothing more than to touch her, ground her, remind her how much he wanted her—not for anything she did, or how she looked, but simply because she was her. But just as his fingers brushed the edge of her panties, she sucked in a sharp breath and said one word, soft and sudden:

“Unicorn.”

Steve froze.

His body, which had been so attuned to hers only seconds ago, went rigid with attention. His hand withdrew immediately, instinctively, like touching fire. His brows pulled together as he sat back slightly to look at her face, concern flaring in his chest.

“Did I scratch you again?” he asked quickly, eyes scanning her with careful precision. “I swear I cut my nails this time.” The guilt was instant, reflexive. His mind flashed back to the last time he’d caught her by accident with the edge of his nail, fresh back from a month-long deployment in Sokovia, still shaking off the battlefield. She’d yelped out the safe word they’d picked on a whim—unicorn, absurd and unmistakable—and he’d felt like the worst man alive for hurting her, even unintentionally. In his defense, when you’re dodging bullets and swinging through wreckage, nail maintenance isn’t exactly a top priority.

But this wasn’t the same. She didn’t look hurt—at least not physically.

“No. No, you didn’t hurt me,” she said quickly, her voice soft and a little breathless, like she hated saying the words. “I just... I’m sorry.” Her eyes flickered away, and she sighed, deflating a little, burying her face in the crook of his neck like she could disappear into him entirely.

Steve’s heart tightened. He shifted, arms wrapping around her protectively, one hand stroking a gentle path up and down her spine. “Okay, Y/N,” he said, quieter now, coaxing. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

There was a long pause. The kind that stretched uncomfortably, taut with vulnerability. And then, muffled against his neck, so quietly it was almost inaudible, she confessed:

“I haven’t… shaved.”

Steve blinked, his brain taking a beat longer than necessary to process the words. “And?” he said, gently, with a confused furrow of his brow, expecting more—something heavier, something that warranted the safe word.

She lifted her head, brow furrowed, cheeks red. “What do you mean, and?”

He gave her a look—genuine, puzzled, endearingly straightforward. “Well, with the way you’re acting, I thought there’d be more to the story. Like… maybe you accidentally killed someone or you committed tax fraud or something. But that’s it? You didn’t shave?”

She stared at him, her expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. “Yes, that’s it. I thought… I don’t know, maybe you’d freak out. Or find it gross or something.”

Steve’s face went blank for half a second, then contorted into the most incredulous look she'd ever seen. “Oh my God,” he muttered, almost under his breath, and then more firmly: “Pardon my language, but I really could not give a shit if you’re shaved or not.” He reached up, cupping her cheek in one hand, thumb sweeping over the soft warmth of her flushed skin as if to emphasize every word. “You could go full 1970s feminist and I’d still be trying to get you out of these shorts. Hell I’ll even help burn your bras if you ask nicely.”

Her mouth opened in disbelief, the beginning of some sarcastic retort perhaps, but then she just groaned, thoroughly flustered, and dropped her forehead to his shoulder, hiding her face. “You’re such a dork,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, but he could hear the smile tucked behind her words. “I thought it’d be a turn-off. Most guys… don’t like, you know. Hair.”

Steve let out a laugh—low and warm, shaking his chest beneath her. “Most men should be grateful women sleep with them at all,” he deadpanned, and she snorted, her laugh muffled against him, the tension in her shoulders finally dissolving.

“I’m serious,” he added, his voice growing tender again. “You’re not a Barbie doll, sweetheart. You’re a living, breathing human woman. And every part of you? I want. Doesn’t matter if you’re smooth or stubbly or rocking some kind of bushy rebellion—I’m still going to worship the hell out of you.”

She let out a breathy laugh, then lifted her head just enough to look at him. Her eyes were shining now, not from embarrassment, but affection—and something else, something deeper. The knowledge that he saw her, all of her, and didn’t flinch. Didn't pull away.

“You’re seriously something else, Rogers.”

He smiled, soft and slow, like her words wrapped around his ribs and pulled tight. “Yeah, well. I love you. All of you. Hair included.”

And with that, he leaned forward and kissed her—unhurried, unbothered, full of so much tenderness it made her chest ache. She melted into it, her fingers threading through the short hairs at the back of his head, and in that moment, it didn’t matter what she’d worried about, or how long they’d been apart, or how many days she hadn’t shaved.

All that mattered was him, her, and the space they created between them that was always safe. Always home.

Steve moved with a patience that somehow still felt urgent—like he couldn’t wait to worship her properly, but he was going to do it slowly, thoroughly, like he had all the time in the world and she was the only thing that existed in it. With practiced ease and a tenderness that still managed to make her heart stumble in her chest, he shifted their positions. He sat up slightly, adjusting her in his lap before guiding her down onto the couch beneath him. His hands were careful, steady, and she let him, watching as he hovered over her for a brief second, his eyes flickering over her face like he was committing it to memory.

Then he leaned in, kissing her jaw with deliberate, languid precision. Not rushed. Not hurried. Just intentional. The scratch of his stubble against her skin was warm and familiar, the weight of his body above hers a comfort rather than a threat. His mouth trailed lower, across the soft slope of her neck where her pulse beat just beneath the surface, and he kissed there too—slow, open-mouthed kisses that made her fingers curl against the couch cushions. He breathed her in like he needed her to steady himself.

And then he was moving lower.

Without a word, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her sleep shorts and began to slide them down her legs. There was no hesitation, no second glance, no pause to analyze or judge. Just a smooth, confident movement as he tugged them past her hips, down her thighs, and off, letting the fabric fall to the floor with an indifference that made her breath catch. As if those shorts were never part of the equation. As if nothing—nothing—was going to stop him from worshipping her the way she deserved.

He gently lifted one of her legs, then the other, positioning them over his broad shoulders, his hands anchoring her thighs with the kind of gentleness that only came from deep, reverent love. He looked up at her from between her legs, eyes dark and warm and so full of affection it made her chest ache.

“Steve—” she began, her voice uncertain, half-hearted protest blooming on her lips. She didn’t even know why she was trying to stop him—not really. Maybe a sliver of lingering self-consciousness, maybe just the echo of past experiences with people who hadn’t looked at her like this. Like she was art. Like she was sacred.

But Steve didn’t let her finish.

“Let me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice quiet but firm. There was no demand in it, just plea—honest, open, and full of something too raw to be anything but love.

She closed her eyes and exhaled, soft and shaky, letting herself surrender to the certainty in his voice. To the way his hands never faltered. To the unspoken promise that came with his touch—that there was nothing about her he didn’t want.

Steve smiled faintly, like he could feel her relax, feel the last of that tension melt out of her. He kissed her inner thigh, slow and deep, letting his lips linger. Then again, higher this time, and again, until she was breathing in quiet, stuttering gasps, her fingers threaded through the throw blanket beneath her as if she needed something to ground herself.

His mouth moved with unhurried devotion, like he had nowhere else to be but right there, between her thighs, kissing worship into her skin, reminding her with every breath and brush of lips that he adored every part of her—hair, softness, imperfections and all. There was no commentary, no hesitation, no flicker of doubt in his movements. Just Steve, utterly and completely focused on her, giving her the kind of attention that felt like both a prayer and a promise.

Because in his eyes, she was worthy of nothing less.

— all rights reserved © PALEVCR all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate nor repost as yours.

[astramoons]

“You’re forgetting one key thing: she likes me.” Astra brought both her hands under her chin, cupping her face and tapping her cheeks. Doubtful that his grandmother would willingly give her a drop even if she somehow became her favourite person. The mention of his friends had felt like a punch to the gut, those that she didn’t have any decent experiences with, Haneul in particular, not holding his tongue in insulting her. “Surprised Haneul hasn’t got all of you in St. Mungos by now.” Her eyes rolled, no faith in a boy who was capable of commanding a room, and also driving everyone around him mad. “She’s ginger, looks like a frog that’s been slapped.” Her explanation of Sara wouldn’t have boded well for the girls’ self-esteem, but Astra hadn’t particularly cared how she felt. Not when she had often taunted her as a child. The longer the silence dragged on, Astra started to believe that she had made the wrong choice. That his invitation to Diagonalley was more formal than genuinely being in one another’s company comfortably. Her mouth opened the moment he replied, a strangled squeak making it out, but she covered it with a light cough. Grinning at him in return, a cure to their boredom, assured that he’d been as cooped up as she was when there were no other teenagers like them for miles. “Exactly, we might as well be what they think we are.” She grinned at him, turning on the spot and disappearing into the hallway and up the stairs, not taking the time to explain herself. She returned a few minutes later with a bag after raiding her trunk, still unpacked at the base of her bed, likely to remain that way until her mother threatened to toss its contents in the bin. “Dungbombs and whizzbangs, they confiscated them from me after Christmas, but I made a point to get them back.” She waved the bag before slipping it over her head and securing it at her waist, not willing to accidentally fog themselves disastrously on the way. “Filch was a little bit too happy at the end-of-year feast, wasn’t he? It was so easy to get his keys.” Astra winked at him, making a cross action over her heart when she had everything to do with Filch’s drink being sabotaged. She caught his wrist in passing, still choosing to ignore the familiarity and strangeness of it, heading for the back door. There was no intention of securing the house, as even the postman walked around it with a wide berth.  

“You’re joking, right? You should hear the lecture I get when I go to Tae’s in August. You’d think we were throwing house parties.” Axel’s gran was lenient in some ways and strict in others. The idea of her underage grandson drinking, a downright horrifying thought. “She feels better if I tell her Min’s there. She nearly has another pretend heart attack if I say Neul’s coming too.” He rolled his eyes at his grandmother's dramatics, finding them exasperating but funny at the same time. “Sara?” For a moment, his expression clouded with confusion. Evidently struggling to put a face to the name, despite having lived in their little town for the duration of his life. Muggle children that he had grown up with initially, before he’d started to show signs of magic. His mothers attempt at normalcy, despite himself and his father being anything but. When he failed to recall who she’d been referring to, he turned his attention to her overall question. One that surprised him, despite him originally being the one to invite her to do something with him later in the week. In truth, a part of him assumed that she had taken him up on his offer simply to escape from the repetitive nature of their town. Diagon Valley was far more to teenagers like them, as opposed to a place full of muggle activities. Still unable to do magic, but at least they were surrounded by it. The closest they could get to Hogwarts during summer break. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes locked with her as though he’d been searching for something. His own grin appeared the longer he openly watched her. “Sounds fun.” And it did. A reality that surprised him. His smile was entirely genuine, despite having been particularly ready to curse at her after his altercation with a rose bush. “They already think we’re freaks anyway.”

[memen18-m5r3]

wacky karaoke night!

[solaestial]

new kids in town 😳

(bonus ver without omori ui under the cut)

[faunandfloraas]

okay i'm glad to see you bring up the teasing of seungmin bc it was also rubbing me the wrong way but i didn't know if i was just being sensitive or what. obvs we don't know what goes on behind the scenes and obviously they all care about each other and tease each other as friends but when time after time the joke targeted towards seungmin is "we don't like him and he doesn't understand things" it's like. hm. it starts to feel mean spirited!!

sorry for the rant i guess i didn't realize how bad this was annoying me lmao

Yeah, tbf I think it's just one of those things where even if Seungmin is 100% unbothered by it, and the guys dont mean anything by it, its still fine and understandable for people who have ever been on the end of jokes like that- whether in your own friend groups or at school, at work, etc. to not really enjoy it.... So I don't think you're being sensitive! But also I did question even making my post last night for the same reason.

The jokes are also just not funny 90% of the time lately which makes it more egregious bc seeing any joke get beaten into the earth gets old eventually- like they do make jokes at his expense sometimes that /are/ funny, so I'm not saying they cant ever do that, it's just that the minute the jokes arent funny, well then its awkward at best or actively uncomfortable at worst so 🤷‍♀️

[catncore]

thank goodness for the gossip that gets us through the day the twink composers are at it again