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doctorho · 2 days ago

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dripping velvet, purring dark

Academy era Viktor x fem! curvy reader, 4.5k, no warnings only love in this house (ok there is a conversation about some people being idiots which can be interpreted as the reader getting unwanted attention at a party but it's nothing graphic or anything i promise and no-one is mean to her) also i made viktor horny and slightly subby because that's what the gremlins in my brain wanted. you're welcome. yeah! hi! not sure what this is, but here you go. the reader is described as she/her here (and curvy, and soft, and she is wearing an evening gown, because i wanted to think about pretty dresses). idk. have a thing. happy friday.

Viktor likes to think of himself as a person who's usually capable of focusing on things pretty well. On the task at hand. Give him a faulty circuit and he'll poke at it long enough to find the broken component, no problem. An error in the calculations? He'll find that missing minus sign or forgotten exponent, easy. He'll strip a wire in his sleep.

The task at hand now, though? The problem?

He had to sit through a whole evening of presentations at the academy end-of-year party, put on a polite face for the investors, and pretend not to care that one idiot after another was lining up to flirt with you while he was watching from the sidelines. You were wearing a dress that felt sinful to look at, and there was something primitive gnawing at the inside of his chest begging to be let out, and he had to just stand there and nod through the conversations, pretend he wasn't slowly boiling from the inside out.

And he was failing miserably.

He’d known he was in trouble from the moment he saw you that night – all expensive fabric covering smooth curves and soft-looking skin, sparkling eyes and easy smiles, and he’d been done for. Before this, it’d been much easier to compartmentalize his feelings; before this, it'd been easier to ignore them.

Before he’d kept his distance, emotionally and physically speaking, because, well, it’d been easier. He'd seen you around the Academy, all bubbling laughs and raw-honest radiant smiles and confident solutions, and he'd known that you looked…appealing, but he wasn't in the habit of holding up any illusions about what you might think of him in return. His place was in the dark dusty corner of the lab, turning over the ever-ticking problems, while you were out there shining like the sun. And sometimes you came by the lab, with new ideas or suggestions or just to borrow some equipment or ask about a shipment, and he had resigned to his role of staying at his desk pretending he wasn't burning to be closer to your orbit.

But when he sees you in the low lighting of the party, leaning to the bar and laughing, something just breaks in him. And then he can’t pretend to ignore it any longer. And sure, maybe he’s a little bit drunk, it was easier to stand these events that way, but it still feels like a solid-honest truth in his bones that he wanted to get closer to you, and suddenly he couldn’t stand the conversation he was in the middle of. Because one of them – the sour idiots he’d catalogued in his head for the whole night, the stupid people trying to impress you with their embellished stories and inherited wealth who weren’t worth your time – one of them was circling you like a hyena again, smiling.

You were wearing a dark, floor-length gown that wasn’t, on a purely technical level, much different from what about 50% of the other guests were wearing. However, it seemed to create a significant caveat that even though there wasn’t anything indecent in the dress itself, seeing it on you made him feel like maybe he shouldn’t look at you for too long or he might spontaneously combust. There was a slit on the side that revealed a more than generous amount of leg when you walked, and his focus kept wandering from that to your silhouette, the soft curve of your hips, your chest, your face – no, that’s worse, don’t stare, she'll notice – and truly, he had to force himself to keep his eyes at least vaguely on the vicinity of the person who was currently talking to him. Something about statistics and return investment. Yes.

He nods, pretending to look interested.

The dress drapes over your hips in soft little cascades, the fabric shimmering lightly as you moved, and something in his brain was itching, begging to run his fingers over it, to know what it feels like, to know what you feel like under it, all soft and warm and pliable under his fingers, and preferably sighing something into the crook of his neck, and–

“We'd like to get our investment back within a year,” the guy that's talking to him says – Viktor can't even remember his name, and he doesn’t really even care – and he just shifts his eyes back to the guy slowly.

“A year?” he repeats, with the barest amount of feigned interest, and the guy goes off in a whole new tangent. Viktor shifts his posture, and lets his eyes glide over to where you were again.

One of those idiots, one he thankfully doesn’t have the displeasure of knowing personally but who must be the son of some crooked diplomat, says something to you and you scoff through a smile, roll your eyes, and lean further into the counter at the bar. Viktor has to pretend to be present for his own conversation – yes, the new coating material for the wires was more heat-resistant, no, there was still the issue of mechanical stress, they were working on it – and you say something in answer to the current idiot (third of the night, he’d counted), and it is killing him that he doesn’t know what it is.

You’d turned down the first two, from what he could tell. But this latest idiot was still talking to you, like he was in any way entitled to your company. And it's making something inside Viktor raise its hackles, and he doesn’t especially like feeling like that, because he couldn't justify feeling like that to himself in any tangible way, and then it all just boiled down to a resigned even if she deserves better than that i have no business dictating that for her.

He's just about to focus on the conversation he was supposedly participating in again when something happens. He can't make out the details, but imbecile number three seems to lean way too close to you, says something, and smiles in a way that makes something cold creep down the back of Viktor's neck. And your expression coldens, too, and you say something to him, and turn away, more rigid than you'd been the whole evening.

“Excuse me,” Viktor is saying to the Investment Guy before he can fully think it through, his own voice feeling distant in his ears, and then he's walking to the bar.

You're alone – the idiot had had the sense to leave you alone quickly, at least. That's good. Viktor isn't sure what he's doing, but then he's leaning to the bar next to you and ordering another drink and trying to look like he isn't thinking too hard about what to do next.

“Whatever he just proposed to you,” Viktor says slowly, looking over the bar instead of directly at you, “I assure you you can do better.”

He can hear you take a deep breath, shift a little, and sigh it out with what sounded like almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” you agree, “I don't know what it is about people like that that makes them think they can just…” You sigh again, and make a hand gesture towards the room. ”You know.”

“Unfortunately,” he answers, resigned, “yes. I do.”

He gets his drink and thanks the bartender, and then leans to the counter too, mimicking your posture, holding the drink and letting it swirl around in his glass. “Have you talked with anyone actually worth your time tonight?”

You hmm. Then, “there was a little girl earlier that told me some fascinating things about insect metamorphosis.” You say casually.

And Viktor laughs. Without meaning to, he laughs, and you smile in response, visibly relaxing a little.

“I don't think she was on the guest list though.” You continue.

He hums in response, and rearranges his grip on the handle of his cane. “Sounds much more interesting than the conversations I've been in tonight.”

“I know,” you answer, and he can hear the smile in your voice, “you think we could swap out one of the main speakers with her?”

He hmms again, looking over the stage thoughtfully. “I think it would count as a public service,” he nods a little, considering the list of speakers yet to come, “what do you think, who'd be a good target?”

You shift in your place, looking over the same list of speakers, plastered over the walls on both sides of the stage. “The financial talk,” you answer, “Mr. Ross. I'd much rather listen to insect facts than another boring talk about investing.”

Viktor nods. “You distract him, I'll whack him unconscious?” he offers, and you laugh. You laugh, and it warms something in him.

“And then what?” you continue, still smiling, and he has to look away to keep his composure.

He shrugs. “Eh,” he answers, “we drag him to a bathtub somewhere and act like he just passed out there?" He shrugs, "I happen to know three ways to get out of this room that I'm pretty sure we could use unnoticed.”

“Uh-huh,” you answer, “and then we just find the girl and ask her if she wants to talk about bugs for half an hour. Easy.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, “and then we congratulate ourselves for making the evening better for everybody.”

"Except maybe Mr. Ross."

"No," he counters, looking over the crowd, "I think he would prefer a nice little nap. Surely not even he wants to hear himself talk all the time." He takes a sip of his drink, "and I think waking up in a bathtub would be a nice change of pace to the rumors of other places he seems to have a habit of waking up in after events such as these."

“Good point,” you shift in your place, settling to lean to the counter a bit closer to him. “Perfect plan. But why'd you get to whack him unconscious and not me?”

Viktor blinks. Lifts one eyebrow. “Because you are by far more distracting than I am,” he answers, “and I thought the plan could use the distraction.”

“I don't think that's true,” you answer, “I think you're plenty distracting on your own.”

Now, he lets himself look at you. Really, properly look at you, and not even half-trying to hide it. You're smiling now, shoulders relaxed, holding your drink with fingers wrapped loosely around it, and in the warm lights of the bar there's a golden glow on your skin, and something breathless at the bottom of his stomach is aching to get closer to you, to touch you, to see if his hand would fit on your waist as well as he thinks it would, to see how you would react to that, if he could make you smile in a different way, what sounds he could get you to make for him–

“Agree to disagree,” he says, averts his eyes, and takes a sip of his drink.

Tries to tell that wild-hungry purring thing in him to behave.

Someone reasonable comes to talk to you – and it's about work, which is…something, probably, he has to stop himself from thinking it's better than those earlier idiots, because who's he to decide that for you? He gives you a casual wave and a nod as you depart with a smile and get swept up in the conversation about new ideas and solutions and this-new-thing you've been looking at. And he watches as you start talking excitedly, all golden and glittering, easy conversation and confident smiles, and quietly (not-so quietly) he concludes that maybe you hadn't had many worthwhile conversations with any of the guests that night because you were the most worthwhile person in there to talk to.

He stays there sipping his drink and wondering what would be the closest appropriate time to slip out. He'd made an appearance, and technically nothing could be expected from him beyond that point. Sure, Jayce might tell him he could've stayed a bit longer, he could use the support, but nothing dramatic would happen.

The party drones on, and he makes no effort to move – and really, he tries not to think about it too much, but that was at least in part because he wanted to keep looking at you. He promptly ignores this, even when you're laughing at something someone else said and that heavy-dark-purring something at the bottom of his stomach doesn't like it very much.

Someone comes to ask for his opinion on something, and with a tiny sigh, he lets them pull him into the loop of conversations again. Yes, we are trying to simplify the design, no we can't cut back from the materials, they are what they are for a reason.

Somewhere around his third ‘Why would you think that?’ of that particular conversation, he's had enough. People were stupid, and he's had enough. He's just trying to come up with ways to get out of the conversation preferably without starting a scandal of some sort, when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turns around to look at who it belongs to, and then everything in his head is quiet for a moment.

“Hey,” you say, smiling, “sorry to interrupt, but can I steal you away for a moment?” you ask, slipping your hand feather-light down his arm, and he has to suppress a shiver.

Viktor furrows his brows and opens his mouth, and then, like an idiot, says nothing. But he turns to leave, thankful for the window of opportunity.

“You remember that thing we talked about before?” you continue as you steer him away from the earlier group smoothly, “I found someone who's interested in those three escape routes you had up your sleeve.”

“Who?” he asks, because that's the only thing he can think of. You've linked your arm with his, and you're leaning on him, and you're soft and warm and you smell good, and he doesn’t trust his ability to form a full sentence.

“Me,” you answer, “and judging by how you just looked out there,” you continue, “you.”

Viktor swallows, and something in his brain purrs at the idea.

“This way,” he says, nodding towards an old stage exit, and honestly, he doesn’t even care why you want to leave, he's just grateful for the distraction and the company and drinking in every warm square inch of skin contact that you're willing to give him, even if it is just walking with your shoulder pressed against his.

If it turned out to be a plot where you actually wanted to whack someone unconscious, he'd worry about that later. For now he was just happy to leave, and happier that you were leaving with him.

It's easy to slip away from the crowd, and into the space between the stage curtain and the wall, if you know where you're going. You effortlessly fall a bit further from his side but keep his hand on yours, letting him pull you along, and quietly he wonders how and why and holy shit. He decides not to question it though, and keeps walking through the dim space between the cold old wall and the cascades of warm heavy velvet curtains.

“Do you want to leave the party,” he asks, voice quiet now that the background buzz of people was muffled by the curtain, “or just get away from it?”

You hmm behind him, clearly through a smile, and he makes the mistake of looking back at you. Surrounded by the dark red velvet curtains and only slivers of light from each side, his head – and the rest of his body – get entirely the wrong idea of what you're doing in there, because you look like a goddess in the small dim space, and he might crumble into ashes if he keeps looking at you, or he might do something stupid like pull you closer and press you into the wall, to see if your eyes would widen, if you'd gasp from the cold wall, if he could find other ways to make you gasp–

so he turns his eyes away and keeps talking.

He quickly finds he has to clear his throat before he can do that. “There is a staff entrance that goes past the kitchen a little ways further,” he says, and motions forwards, “or there is a disused indoor balcony surrounding the stage. You would be able to see the party, but it'd feel…removed.”

You lean closer, close enough that when your voice is muffled by the surrounding velvet, it feels like you're speaking right in his ear, and he has to swallow and remind himself that that's just situational coincidence, nothing more.

“Why do you know so many ways to get out of here?” you ask, “You sneak out a lot?”

“I am a fan of interesting architecture,” he answers, “and not as much a fan of pretentious social gatherings.”

“Fair,” you answer, then lean your chin on his shoulder, and he feels like his spine might spontaneously melt. “In your expertise, what would you recommend?”

“Well,” he says, trying to make it sound casual and like he wasn't breathless at all, “I think the balcony has some fairly interesting architecture.” And the lights of the party would look pretty from there. And you'd both get a breather away from the crowd. And he'd get to keep talking to you a little bit longer. And, as selfish as the thought felt, he couldn't deny it; he'd get to keep having you to himself for a little bit longer.

“Show me the balcony,” you smile, and he obliges. Happily, he obliges. So he pulls you into a narrow staircase, and then, up.

At the end of it there is a room that could, only by technical definition alone, be called a balcony – it was more like a hole carved into the wall, having at some point been used for seating or equipment space at events and concerts, and now just served as half-forgotten extra storage. It had, he supposed, once upon a time looked like the banquet hall did, all smooth surfaces and warm lights and thematically switched-out decorations, but now it was mostly the standard red velvet and dark wood and light marble, forgotten by the party and some of the golden light from the hall spilling into it by pure coincidence. There were velvet curtains on each side of the room, and you drop his hand to go look over the railing, and down at the party.

His hand instantly feels cold without yours in it, but he tries his best to ignore this, and follows you to look down at the party, too.

It looks much smaller from up there. Less chaotic.

“I didn't know there was a space like this here.” You say quietly, “can they see us?”

“Part of the design,” he answers, “you're not supposed to notice these spaces unless people want you to. Good place to hide extra orchestra pieces and make it feel like the sound is coming from nowhere. And–” he looks over at the people, colorful and mingling, “no, they can't. Not unless you want them to.” Then, he smiles, just a little. “But they'll be able to hear us, if we direct our voices upwards and wait for things to quiet down there first.”

You turn to look at him.

“Sloped ceilings,” he explains with a shrug, “again, good for a hidden orchestra accompaniment.”

“But they can't hear us talking?*

“Not over themselves,” he answers, “ironic, I know.”

You hum thoughtfully and turn around, with your back to the railing, and then you look at him and he needs to kick his brain back in line. You were gorgeous in the dim lighting, all relaxed and smiling, and–

He grips the handle of his cane a little tighter.

“Good,” you say, and the way you say it – all quiet and warm and liquid – makes something in him purr again, entirely against his better judgement.

“Why is it good?” he asks, because he has to hold on to some semblance of logic here, because otherwise he might just vaporize out into the atmosphere.

“Why do you think?” you ask, slowly turning to face him, and oh that just isn't fair. You're just there, just a warm breath of space away, all soft and pretty and languid–

He doesn’t know what to say, so he goes with what feels like the safest course of action.

“In case we want to plot any more ways to violently derail the evening's program?”

You exhale a small laugh and lean back.

And then you lift a hand on his chest, and he's pretty sure his heart might be overheating soon.

“Sure,” you answer, “that.” You inch closer, and Viktor is having a hard time remembering how to breathe. “Or anything else we might not want them overhearing.”

“Like?” He exhales, careful not to break the moment, and then you smile, warm and private and for him, and his insides liquify into warm, honey-thick goo, and oh, he’s not going to recover from this.

“Like,” you repeat slowly, and then you push yourself away from the balcony railing, just slightly, into the side of the wall covered by the velvet curtain, and he lets you pull him with you, he's not stupid. His brain – along with the rest of his body – might be in the process of actively melting, but he's not stupid. If you wanted to pull him into a shadowed, velvet-covered corner, he would follow no questions asked, especially on a night like this when his insides were buzzing and you looked like that. When you looked at him like that. You smile again, and stop moving when your back hits a wall, and then you pull him just close enough to whisper into his ear. “...Anything else we might not want them overhearing.” you repeat, and, yeah, Viktor is close to becoming the best documented case of human combustion in recorded history.

In the dim lighting, he searches your eyes into his, and you watch him, waiting, radiating heat between him and the velvet-covered wall. He's not sure why you were acting like this, but all signs were pointing towards you wanting the same thing he did, and he's not sure what he did to get this lucky, but with his every cell buzzing and vibrating and keening over to get closer, he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.

He wants to ask ‘why me’ or ‘are you sure’ but what comes out is a broken, desperate whisper of a “can I touch you?”, and you answer with a grin and with your fingers tangled to the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

“Yes,” you breathe, “please.”

And really, he wouldn't have thought it would be so simple, but it's the please that does him in – just one whispered word and his brain short-circuits in an overflowing flash of white-hot need. Need to trigger that again, need to please, and need to finally give in to the pleasure waiting to boil. And then it all comes rushing out; the hunger.

His hands are on your waist in an instant, and his cane clatters to the ground as he leans his weight on you and the wall and for a moment, he has the sense to hope the curtains don't come tumbling down, and they don't, which is good enough for him, because then he can let go of that particular worry and focus solely on finding your lips to his and making the most of every second of this that you're willing to give him.

The sensations hit his brain like flashes of bright light; how soft you are under his fingers, like he'd hoped, the fabric smooth and silky, giving away easily under his touch. How warm you are, warm and breathing in a fluttered little gasp, the dusty old velvet mixing in with your sweet scent, and then when he gets his lips on you–

After that it's just golden-dark-velvet-honey-thick bliss. You breathe out a small sound that drips down his spinal cord and goes straight to the purring pit at the bottom of his stomach, and he swallows it with a hungry, greedy, desperate groan that comes from somewhere deep inside his chest, and his head is swimming with warm and real and soft and for me–

He is happily overloading his brain with this, and he doesn’t even care. He presses closer to you and you exhale another sweet little sound that makes him bare his teeth, and then his lips are on your neck and he doesn’t know anything except that he wants you to keep making those sounds and he likes the way your hands tangle in his hair and tug.

“Tell me what you want,” he mutters to the skin of your neck, pulling you closer by the waist, and absolutely relishing in the way your chest rises and falls with short little pants he can hear you take in and out. In and out, and as he tugs at your waist again, just a bit closer, and drags his teeth against your pulse lightly, one of those exhales turns into a sweet little whine.

He grins against your skin.

He doesn’t waste the time or energy pretending he isn't an absolute mess over you, right now – his own breathing ragged and fast and his heart hammering in his ears, his whole body buzzing with want – but that didn't mean seeing you react that way didn't make him want to purr.

Didn't make his insides heat up with I did that. I got her like this. She made that sound for me. For me. It's mine.

You take a breath, slow and rugged, and then you tug him towards one of the velvet-covered seats. And he moves like he's floating, letting you guide him, because what else is he going to do? You tug him into the seat and he sits on it, gladly, and stays there looking up at you with his eyes wide and only half-lidded and his heart hammering, waiting for more.

You give him another one of those small, private, knowing smiles, your eyes hazy, and then you step to stand right in front of him.

And then you hover over him, just waiting for him to pull you into his lap. He does, because he is selfish and greedy and burning, and he's pretty sure he's going to implode if he doesn’t get that delicious pressure on him soon, and his hand fits your waist perfectly, and then when when you do straddle him, your hips pressing down on his, he whines. He lets out a breathless little whine, he can feel it in the base of his spine, and it makes that hunger in him want more.

“Only the voices directed upwards travel down there, right?” you ask, voice quiet and dripping right into his ear and pooling at the bottom of his stomach.

He swallows. “Yes.”

You hum thoughtfully, and press your body closer to his, all soft and warm and perfect, sinking your lips down to his neck and he shivers, instinctually tilting back his head with a sigh, exposing more of his neck to you.

“Better keep quiet, then.”

#viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x fem!reader #viktor x female reader

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bucketbueckers · 17 hours ago

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I'D RATHER PRETEND

CHAPTER SIX

tags: @angryflowerwitch @avvwritesstufff @melpthatsme @rebecca-woso @bueckersg1rl @l0verl4ne @clouded-whispers @dolliest-thena @katemartinlvr @numberonepartyanth3m @glamourdaya @pbbucks @unadulteratedcyclepaper @paiges-1vur thelightknight21 wc: 18.3k notes: masterlist (sorry, nothing funny today, this chapter and last nights game actually destroyed me) but holy word count who cooked here 😹 i fear the last half of this chap is kinda rushed but writer's block was going crazy and i truthfully only had plans for like THREE (3) specific scenes...if you can't tell, planning, pacing, and the timeline are my biggest opps 😾 but i'm grown so i do what i want!! also, smut warning! if it's not your thing, it's at the very end and you can skip over it without missing anything super important. i'm not a smut writer, i just work here, but i put pen to paper and it just came out (no pun intended) 🤷‍♀️ sorry for making this as long as the chapter itself, but as always, lmk what you think and i hope you enjoy 🫶

‘The Hard Launch Heard Around the World’

For college basketball fans, Christmas has come early this year. On June 21st, Paige Bueckers and Tess Kennedy’s long-awaited hard launch was finally shared to Instagram after a month and a half of speculation, fan theories, and less than subtle interactions online. Kennedy shared a collection of pictures with the caption “here’s to tess kennedy’s worst kept secret. thank you for coming into my life when you did.” Many of the comments consisted of undecipherable keyboard smashes, such as one commenter’s “TESS AND PAIGE? AJSFKFJKDSJK”, but overall, Kennedy’s comment section was full of congratulations, support, and praise.

Bueckers, similarly, shared a collection of photos, although her caption was a lyric from Frank Ocean’s “Sierra Leone.” If you have been following Kennedy’s journey thus far, you may remember that the first ever soft-launch photo she posted to her story included another lyric from this song. Bueckers’s caption, reading “And her pink skies will keep me warm,” is seen as a call-back to that moment, with many fans accepting this as the confirmation that Bueckers and Kennedy have been seeing each other all along.

Their hard-launch precedes their Bose endorsement. The two of them starred in a commercial showcasing Bose’s newest product, where they became known as Mrs. and Mrs. Bose. Some critics noted how specific the timing was, arguing that their hard-launch was just a stunt to further promotion for Bose’s product, although supporters rallied in defense. Commenters noted that Bueckers and Kennedy spent most of their time this offseason in different states – this Bose ad was the first time they were able to be in person together, so they surmised that it was just the optimal time to announce it. Another fan also pointed out that their history speaks for itself.

Regardless of the timing, one thing is for certain – Bueckers and Kennedy are the next “it” couple. Their influence is beginning to spread outside of the sports world, and many people believe that their openness is going to be pivotal in breaking barriers and promoting acceptance for queer athletes.

-Penelope Lancaster, Bleacher Report

JULY 2023

The months after their hard-launch go about as well as anyone could have expected. Once Tess and Paige made it back to Brooklyn and Minnesota respectively, things were…nice. They finished June out strong, in near constant contact and on FaceTime. Tess kept her feelings close to her chest. She knew there was no way Paige was into her in that way. She wasn’t the type to be tied down, and Tess had to respect that – even if she was one for commitment, Tess doesn’t think that she’d be her first choice.

All she can think about is their agreement. Paige had so confidently said that she could do casual. She wasn’t the one who caught feelings. And as far as Tess is concerned, she isn’t sure if her reputation is worth how complicated her life has become. She’s not the one to pretend to be someone she’s not; not the one to pretend to feel a way (or not feel a way about something). Her relationship with Paige used to be something that brought her great comfort, but now she can’t help but feel like she’s ruined something perfectly fine by allowing her feelings to get the best of her. Now, she’s not telling a story to the public or selling a ruse. Bree was right – she is lying to Paige, and that’s the worst part of it all. Paige doesn’t deserve her dishonesty, nor her inability to keep things strictly business as she’d once promised.

So, June was okay. They talked, Tess spiraled, but this is her life now. Tess would eventually have to learn to keep her feelings at bay.

Then July hit.

July was like a blessing in disguise, the perfect opportunity for Tess to work on herself and hopefully get rid of her lingering feelings for Paige. She could get over her. It’s not a big deal. So what if Paige was the first person she’d ever felt romantically for? Tess is new to all of this – she can’t honestly know perfectly what liking someone felt like. The denial wasn’t particularly effective, but if Tess keeps speaking it into existence, then it has to come true, right?

July was when summer practices started back up. Paige flew back to Storrs the first week. Tess was supposed to fly back to Columbia, but given her injury and the fact she wouldn’t be able to contribute much to practices, Coach Staley gave her the all-clear to stay in Brooklyn and soak up as much PT with Terri as she could. Craig was qualified, although the both of them knew Terri had a different approach to rehab than Craig did.

Paige gets busy almost immediately. She’s fresh off an injury and her role on the team has shifted due to other’s injuries, so she’s swept up into an incredible amount of extra practice, film watching, and learning a different part of the game. Tess gets…the complete opposite of busy. She still does PT three times a week, meets with Yvette, but with Paige gone, all of her free time becomes free again, and she doesn't even know what to do with herself. Fortnite, as stupid as it sounds, makes her think of Paige. Her feelings are still too fresh and the mere thought of the game reminds her of the countless hours she and Paige wasted away on it, laughing, flirting, and celebrating their wins. It’s not a break-up, but it feels oddly like one. Tess used to be stronger than this. That was the worst part.

With Paige’s time being occupied by things out of her control, Tess uses it to her advantage. She tries to get over her, spaces out her responses when Paige does get the time to speak. With her knee in better shape, she tries out yoga. Tess can’t quite master the idea of clearing her mind. Paige’s name echoes like a mantra in her brain, the image of her blue eyes blinding. No matter how hard she tries, all Tess can think about is the pressure of Paige’s lips on hers, the way she’d guided her jaw just how she liked, the weight of her hand on her and the way she was able to feel exactly how she made Tess’s heart race.

She’s so fucked.

It hurts, Tess has to admit. Covering up lies with even more lies. She’s not completely sure what happened to turn her into someone who couldn’t tell the truth. It hurts even more to know that she’s not just hurting herself, but she’s hurting Paige, too, who’s not even at fault for any of this.

Hey I got a couple hours free tonight Facetime? I miss you

[Delivered: 4:32pm]

Are you okay?

[Read: 7:53pm]

sorry, busy tn idk if i can

It’s cool Do you know when you’ll be free?

idk got a lot going on

Okay Call me when you can

[Delivered: 7:54pm]

Tess feels like she’s going to throw up.

AUGUST 2023

Paige doesn’t give up, but Tess can tell she’s losing patience and hope.

She gets a two week break after the end of summer practices, then she and her teammates are heading overseas for their Europe tour. They’re playing a couple of exhibition games. Back in June, Paige had been so excited to send her pictures and tell her all about it, but they’re a day into their trip and she hasn’t heard a word from Paige. It’s for the best. Paige needs to lock in for her games. She can’t get caught up in Tess again.

Tess ends up tuning in for one game. She can’t help herself, even though she ends up turning it off after halftime. There’s a noticeable difference in the way Paige is playing. Tess knows it’s because of her. She’s a little more sluggish, sloppy in her passes, missing a lot more than she usually did. Bueckers, first exhibition game since her ACL injury, the commentator noted. She’s not quite warm yet, but we all know she’ll be on fire once the season starts. Tess knows better than that. It’s her fault.

Still, Paige tries.

You busy?

[Delivered, 5:43pm]

Zagreb is beautiful [3 Attachments] Text me when you can

[Delivered: 6:38pm]

[Read: 9:01pm]

sorry. just got free

It’s okay FT? Can’t sleep

i can’t, have to be up early tomorrow you should get some rest. it’s late

I don’t care I miss you I feel like we never talk anymore Did I do something? Whatever it is I’ll fix it I promise

you didn’t do anything just got a lot going on

Me too

[Read: 9:03pm]

Okay cool 😂 Let me know when you’re not too busy for me Goodnight Tess

[Read: 9:04pm]

SEPTEMBER 2023

July and August were busts – no matter what she did, she wasn’t able to keep her mind off of Paige. Distancing herself wasn’t very effective, but she shouldn’t expect results after two months, right? Maybe she just needed a little more time.

Paige texts her once in September.

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for whatever I did. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or if there was something I said that hurt you. I meant it when I said you didn’t have to be scared with me. I still mean it. If there’s anything at all I can do or say to make you believe that, please let me know. I don’t like arguing or how we left things and I hate feeling like I’m not fighting hard enough for you. I shouldn’t expect you to drop everything to talk to me. You’re busy and you have a lot going on. Saying what I said was unfair. I’m sorry. But I miss you. Please let me know how I can fix us. I don’t care what it takes. I’ll fly out if I have to, just please don’t shut me out

[Delivered: 2:48am]

OCTOBER 2023

Paige gives up in October. It brings Tess more anguish than she was accounting for.

On the 20th, Tess texts her happy birthday. Paige doesn’t bother reading it. Paige doesn’t post anything for her birthday, either.

Tess wonders if she fucked them up for good.

Maybe it’s better this way.

NOVEMBER 2023

Ghosting Paige wasn’t the right decision at all.

A little obvious in hindsight, but at least Tess can say she tried. Five months apart didn’t magically fix Tess’s problem. It made it worse. She still feels the same for Paige, if not stronger, but affection becomes a difficult pill to swallow when it’s poisoned with guilt and shame. After her injury, she should have learned that pushing people away does more harm than good. Paige didn’t deserve that, but maybe this is who Tess Kennedy is – someone who’s blind to what’s in front of her, someone who leaves when it gets hard, someone who avoids her problems entirely, someone who treats the people she loves like disposable objects. Maybe it was better for Paige to find that out early on before their contract expired and Paige wanted to continue being her friend.

On the 17th, Tess’s birthday, she gets a lifeline.

Happy birthday

Paige’s text is like a knife to the gut. Tess twists the blade herself when she notes the lack of excitement, the lack of emojis. Her message is bland, more like an afterthought, and Tess can’t even be mad – she deserves it. She debates leaving it on delivered, much like Paige had left her message on delivered, if only to spare her from this constant back and forth cycle of will-they won’t-they. But her fingers move faster than her brain does.

thank you

[Delivered: 11:11am]

[Read: 11:11am]

And much to her surprise, Paige responds.

My mom wants to know if you’re still coming for Thanksgiving She bought you an ugly sweater to wear for family photos

There’s a lot of things Tess can say to that. Family photos is enough to make her chest tighten, her stomach roil with anxiety, her throat constrict. It takes everything in her to not break out into sobs, but she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood as she types out her message.

you want me there after these last five months?

Tess doesn’t think that was the right thing to say. Paige types for a long while.

I want what’s best for the story My parents think we’re together We need to keep up appearances

Tess would have preferred it if Paige just left her on read. Delivered. She would have understood if Paige just blocked her all together. She would have preferred if Paige had texted her at any other day, because it’s her birthday, damn it; she’s turning 22 and she’s sitting in her bed crying because this is all she and Paige are, anymore – a story, an appearance to keep up for the sake of their images. But it’s her fault, isn’t it?

i’ll be there

Okay 👍

Tess thinks that’s the end of their conversation until she gets an email. It’s an airline ticket, a roundtrip – she’d be flying out the 22nd and leaving Minnesota early on the 25th. They’re first class. Tess feels like she could throw up again.

you didn’t have to buy my tickets

I promised I would I don’t like breaking my promises

Tess has no retort for that. She sends Paige a half-hearted thank you, not expecting a response, and powers off her phone.

NOVEMBER 22, 2023

Tess spends the entire plane ride nauseous as hell. She dreads her reunion with Paige, knowing that seeing each other will only hurt them more. She’s not even sure if fixing them is possible, but she knows she’ll have to give it a shot. She gets four days with Paige. That should be enough to smooth things over. A part of her knows Paige won’t bend as easily as Kamilla, Bree, and her parents did. Paige was so understanding, but she didn’t take any of Tess’s bullshit. Tess might be making amends until Christmas, if they last that long.

She finishes off the rest of the ginger ale she’d asked the flight attendant for. It does little to soothe the nausea. Guilt usually isn’t something that can be cured with a drink, alcoholic or otherwise. Guilt is one of the things you can’t run away from, even for someone as good at running away as Tess is.

The seatbelt light flicks on as the plane begins its descent onto the Minnesotan soil. Tess’s anxiety returns tenfold. It feels as though time is moving slowly. The plane lands. It idles for a moment, then everyone is standing and reaching for their carry-on. Tess has hers in hand and is walking down the aisle as soon as they click open. It doesn’t take her long to locate her suitcase at baggage claim. Then, she’s back in the crowd, eyes scanning the airport for any sign of Paige. There wasn’t a message on her phone, but she was holding out a little bit of hope.

Instead of Paige, she spots a tall man holding a sign with her name written on it. Tess’s heart all but falls out of her ass as she walks towards him. The realization that Paige didn’t come to pick her up shouldn’t hurt her as much as it does. She should have expected as much. But seeing it brings on a fresh wave of pain that she just wasn’t ready for. The man recognizes her, lowering the sign with a beaming smile, and he reaches out for a hearty handshake. “Hey Tess! I’m Bob, Paige’s dad. It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Tess shakes his hand, smiling at him, and hoping that it’s convincing enough. “Likewise, Mr. Bueckers,” she says. Her voice doesn’t falter, but she can tell she’s about to crash out. She takes a deep breath as Paige’s dad waves his hand.

“Bob is fine,” he corrects her. “C’mon – my truck’s this way. Paige went out to pick up some last minute things for you. She should be back at the house by the time we get there.”

Tess hides her grimace. She’s not fully confident that Paige actually did that, but she’s not going to voice that thought to her dad. The simplest truth of the matter is that Paige just didn’t want to pick her up. Tess can’t blame her.

Once they’re loaded up, Bob makes small talk that Tess tries her best to contribute to. He doesn’t seem to think anything’s wrong, so Tess surmises she must be doing a pretty good job. As he speaks, her mind keeps drifting back to Paige, feeling a guilt and shame so strong that she’s unsure if she’ll be able to feel anything remotely positive ever again. How do you hurt Paige Bueckers? Her heart is made of solid gold, but perhaps the issue is her heart is a few sizes too big for her body. Her heart is bigger than Tess herself; Paige gave her everything, no strings attached, and Tess crushed it into small pieces and stomped it out.

That thought alone makes her nauseous all over again. She was so worried that Paige would hurt her, not the other way around. Life has a funny way of biting you in the ass. Tess wonders how socially acceptable it would be to jump out of your fake girlfriend’s dad’s moving vehicle and leave yourself for roadkill. She determines that it’s probably not very acceptable, so she tries her best to get her shit together while she still can.

The Bueckers’ live in a quaint little townhouse, two-storied and a light beige in color. Bob pulls into the driveway next to two SUV Jeeps – one black and one red. He grins at her, nudging her shoulder. “Paige’s home. You excited?”

Tess almost laughs in disbelief. “Yeah,” she lies. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Well, let’s not keep her waiting.”

Tess will admit she sounds like a broken record, but she genuinely thinks she’s about to throw up all over the Bueckers’ driveway. She adjusts her backpack over her shoulder and pulls her suitcase out of Bob’s truck bed, glances at the door, and takes a deep breath as she follows the older man inside.

Inside, it’s warm and cozy. Tess can distinctly make out the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg. Bob calls out for his wife, who calls back with a cheerful, “In the kitchen!” Paige’s step mom is a tall woman, wearing a festive pair of leggings and an apron over her shirt. She slides off her oven mitts, having just pulled out a pie.

“This is Tess,” Bob states. “Tess, this is my wife, Moe.”

In lieu of a handshake, Moe pulls her in for a gentle hug. “So nice to finally meet you,” she says genuinely. “Paige talks about you all the time.”

Tess’s heart falls out of her ass and she chuckles worriedly, giving the older woman a squeeze. “Good things, I hope.”

“Nothing but,” Moe confirms. “It’s like y’all been together forever. Tess this, Tess that. It’s kind of sickening.”

At Moe’s brutal honesty, Tess laughs, the first genuine one in almost five months. It wasn’t even that funny, but Tess is so far off the deep end that anything helps. “My mom would say the same about me,” she says.

Moe lights up with laughter of her own, grinning widely at Tess. “Alright, I’m sure you’re tired from your trip here. Paige is upstairs. She can help you get settled in. We don’t have a guest room, so you’ll have to bunk with her. No funny business, okay?”

Tess smiles to hide the way her heart stops. She’s shared a room with Paige before. Granted, they had two separate beds, but the room sharing is not an issue. The issue is in how Paige will probably suffocate her with a pillow once night falls. “No funny business,” she agrees, and with one last smile, Moe directs her to the stairs and informs her that Paige’s room is the first on the left.

Tess takes a deep breath before she heads upstairs. She’s been through worse. She tore her ACL, underwent surgery, and crashed out so bad she almost killed herself. She doesn’t bother reminding herself she’s been crashing out for the past five months and she’s in no better shape, but that’s not the point. She can handle Paige. She can say she’s sorry. She knocks on Paige’s door and she hears some shuffling inside before the door opens, and after five months, she comes face to face with Paige once more.

The shift in Paige’s demeanor is noticeably different. Her jaw is tight, her blue eyes unusually dull. Even her body language is far more reserved. She leans against the doorframe, one hand on the doorknob, and her mouth pulls into a natural frown. “Hey,” she says, surprising Tess. Her words lack any bite, but it hurts because her words lack much of anything. If the both of them were five months younger, Tess is sure that Paige would have pulled her into a hug by now, probably whispered an excited, “Hey, ma,” or pressed an affectionate, “Missed you,” into her shoulder.

But they’re five months too late, and all Tess can do is wince as she responds with a quiet, “Hi.”

Paige glances at her, her eyes dismissive and disappointed. She sighs, taking a step back and allowing Tess inside. “You can just leave your stuff over there,” she says, pointing next to her desk where a space has been cleared. Tess does as she instructs, depositing her suitcase and throwing her backpack haphazardly on top. Wordlessly, Paige crawls back into bed, sitting so close to the edge that there’s more bed than girl, which is usually a difficult task for a six foot athlete.

“Is this what we’re doing?” Tess asks softly, her fingers shaking, and she knows she has no business asking Paige that when she was the one who fucked them up.

Paige scoffs, looking up at her again. Her gaze hardens, her lip curling into an unfamiliar scowl. “You had five months to figure that out,” she says harshly. “Don’t ask me shit now.”

Tess laughs weakly, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Okay,” she concedes.

“Something funny?” Paige asks.

Tess averts her eyes. “...No,” she says after a beat. Paige hums, an annoyed noise deep in the back of her throat.

Tess isn’t sure what to do. She’s standing in the middle of Paige’s childhood bedroom, feeling like every bit the fool she undoubtedly looks like. She can’t sit next to Paige, not when she can feel the anger radiating off her in quiet waves. She can’t go back downstairs with Drew and Paige’s parents. They’d ask why they weren’t together, and Tess isn’t sure how much more lying she can take. Paige glances back up from her phone, scanning Tess’s features, and she stands with a huff. “You take the bed,” she says. “I’m gonna get stuff to sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t–”

“Stop,” Paige says instantly, her voice breaking. Tess shuts her mouth, staring at Paige, and she looks agonized. Her eyes are glassy, face pinched, and Tess feels like a jackass all over again. “Just…stop, okay? Stop arguing. I’m gonna get a blanket and the air mattress and I’m gonna sleep on the fuckin’ floor ‘cause I can’t share a bed with you tonight and pretend like everything’s okay. It’ll probably be another five months before I get an apology from you, but that’s okay, right?” She laughs humorlessly, turning on her heel, walking backwards to the door. “S’okay. I guess I was stupid to think anything else. I was right. Tess Kennedy’s too fuckin’ afraid to get close, and when she’s scared, she goes back to what she’s used to. And apparently that’s bein’ an asshole to everyone around her. You don’t get to do that shit with me. Not today.”

Paige slams the door behind her, and all Tess can do is stare at where she stood in disbelief.

Dinner that night is a torrid affair.

Bob and Moe seem to sense that something’s off with Tess and Paige. Out of politeness, they don’t mention anything, but Drew seems none the wiser to the tension at the table. He rambles excitedly about Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow and how excited he is for Christmas. Tess tries to listen to him, she truly does, but she can’t focus on anything but the argument that she and Paige had. Honestly, a better descriptor is just Paige yelling at her and Tess taking it, but that’s neither here nor there.

Tess barely has an appetite, but she shovels her food in her mouth anyways, not wanting to be rude. Paige hasn’t said a single word to her since Moe came upstairs to fetch them for dinner. Even then, Paige hadn’t so much as looked at her. The worst part about it is that Tess understands why. Paige is genuinely a better person than she is. If someone treated her like Tess treated her, Tess would have made it everyone else’s problem immediately. If they thought her post-injury crash out was bad, then they’d be unprepared for the post-ghost crash out.

Bob distracts her from her racing thoughts as he clears her throat. “So, Tess…” She looks up, resembling a deer caught in headlights. “How’s physical therapy going? I saw you rehabbed with a WNBA team. That’s really exciting!”

“Oh,” she says, pushing around a piece of chicken on her plate. “Um, it was really good. Felt like I progressed a lot with Terri. I work with the team trainer now since I’m back in Columbia. He gets the job done, but I do miss the Liberty, you know?” She chuckles softy, willing her nerves to dissipate.

“I bet,” Bob agrees. “When do you get to play again?”

“I should be cleared by March,” she says hopefully. “Just in time for the last March Madness games. Provided we get invited or win the SEC championship. LSU is really strong, so…gotta take it game by game.”

“Smart,” Moe states. “Never count your eggs before they hatch, right?”

Tess nods. The table falls into a tense silence, only the sound of forks scraping against plates filling the room. Paige suddenly huffs. She stands up with her plate, her chair making an awful noise against the floor as she pushes it back under the table. “I needa take a shower,” she says, not waiting for a response. She walks into the kitchen to clear off her plate, walking back through the dining room with a frustrated expression on her face as she rushes upstairs.

Bob and Moe share a concerned glance. It’s Drew who breaks the silence when he asks, “What crawled up her butt and died?” Moe is quick to reprimand him, although it seems like her heart’s not really in it.

Tess clears her throat and stands, too. “Um, dinner was delicious, Moe, thank you. I should uh…probably go check on her.” Moe thanks her quietly. Tess washes her plate quickly, placing it in the strainer to dry off, and she heads upstairs after Paige.

Paige’s door is wide open and Tess walks in cautiously. The blonde rifles through her drawers, pulling a pair of shorts and a tank top out. She’s still pissed. Never in the seven months that Tess has known her has she ever seen Paige be this angry. When Paige turns, seeing Tess behind her, she clenches her jaw and walks out wordlessly. Tess feels her heart drop as she listens to the bathroom door close.

Her chest tightens. She feels like she could cry even though it would do nothing for her. Paige is the only one with the right to be upset. Instead, Tess takes a deep breath, burying her face in her hands for a few, calming moments before she moves to her suitcase and pulls out sleepwear. She scrolls on her phone while she waits for Paige to get out of the shower, and when she finally does, Tess averts her eyes as she stands. Paige doesn’t say anything to her as Tess makes her way into the bathroom.

The water is scalding hot. It makes Tess feel a little more centered, but it does little to wash away the grief and the shame. She tries not to think about it as she cleans herself quickly. She dries off, redresses herself, and when she walks back into Paige’s room, she’s already curled up on the air mattress and is scrolling through her phone. Tess glances at her, frowning, and shoves her dirty laundry into a separate compartment in her suitcase before sliding into Paige’s bed.

Her pillow smells like her. Tess wouldn’t expect anything else, but it makes her feel closer to Paige despite the literal and metaphorical distance between them. Her purple comforter is soft. When Tess looks around, she notes the various posters of NBA greats – Kyrie, Lebron. Diana Taurasi and Sue Bird are also there. Basketball is Paige’s life, her entire reason for breathing. When they lost to South Carolina in the NCAA tournament, Paige was distraught, obviously. But that anger and sadness only pales to what Tess observes in her now as she tries to pretend she can’t hear the way Tess breathes next to her.

Tess takes a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling. “Paige,” she says into the darkness of the room.

Paige doesn’t respond. For a brief moment, Tess wonders if she fell asleep, but she knows better. Paige is breathing too fast to be asleep, coming in uneven bursts. Then, Tess thinks she’s just ignoring her. Then, Paige surprises her. “What do you want, Tess?” she asks, her voice breaking.

“I’m sorry,” Tess says without hesitation.

She hears Paige laugh, but there’s no enjoyment in it. “Are you?”

“I am,” she says. They’re both quiet for a moment. She hears Paige sniffle and her heart breaks all over again. “I mean it. I’m sorry, Paige, I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I shouldn’t have pushed you away when all you’ve done was care for me. I’m sorry for making you apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong. This is all on me and I could sit here and apologize for the rest of my life and it would never be enough.”

Paige shifts on the air mattress. Tess cocks her head, glancing down, and Paige is already staring at her. The moonlight streaming through her windows reflects off of her. Tess could paint her face by memory. She knows exactly what she looks like, where every single freckle or blemish or crease exists. She knows the exact shade of her eyes, the degree at which her nose upturns slightly, the way her nostrils flare when she’s annoyed. Tess could describe Paige Bueckers in such great detail that a blind person could recreate her visage. Until now, Tess has never seen Paige this way. Her lips are pulled in a constant frown, her jaw tight, her eyes a few shades grayer. Tess never wants to see Paige look this desolate, let alone because of her.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” Paige says after a few agonizing moments. Tess deflates. “Sorry doesn’t fix the five months I spent losin’ my mind, wondering what I did wrong.” She studies Tess’s face once more, her lips pursing and her gaze hardening. Paige pulls her blanket up to her chin, flipping on her opposite side, putting her back to Tess.

“How do I fix us?” Tess asks, her voice nearly a broken whisper.

Paige lies unmoving on the air mattress. Tess should know better than to expect a response. But when Paige admits, “I don’t know,” Tess thinks she would have preferred the silence.

NOVEMBER 23, 2023

Thanksgiving is a terrible holiday.

Conceptually and historically, it leaves a lot to be desired, though she can understand how many American families would enjoy getting together in one place, eating a huge dinner, and watching sports. It’s supposed to be a day where everyone can come together and rejoice, tell each other what they’re thankful for and all that sappy shit, but Tess never bought into it. Many of her teammates would complain about going home for Thanksgiving and having to listen to an uncle or two rant about women or politics or whatever the fuck – it always ruined the mood. Tess never thought that those uncomfortable Thanksgivings would be something she had to be subjected to.

When she wakes up in the morning, Paige isn’t in her room. When she goes to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and do her morning routine, Paige isn’t there, either. And when Tess walks downstairs into a flurry of early morning chaos – Moe and Bob rushing around the kitchen and preparing dinner, Drew tidying up the living room – Paige isn’t there either.

“Morning, Tess!” Bob greets happily, grinning at her from where he’s cheffing up the turkey. She returns his greeting, though it’s a little half-hearted. “Paige went for a run. She should be back soon.”

“You guys need a hand?” she asks instead, wanting to be useful. Moe and Bob have welcomed her into their home. The last thing she wants to do is be an ungrateful guest, especially when their daughter hates her guts. Tess is going to make an honest effort to get back into Paige’s good graces. Even if she never forgives her, she’s going to make it up to her. That much she could promise.

“If you could help Drew clean the living room, that’d be great,” Moe says. “There’s too many people in the kitchen right now.” She shoots Bob a knowing glance and he laughs, raising his hands defensively.

Tess smirks wryly and makes her way into the living room where Drew is dutifully dusting off the coffee table. He wastes no time before he puts her to work, directing her to the vacuum cleaner (Tess just gets the impression he didn’t want to vacuum), and together, they get the living room all cleaned up for the guests. They tackle the dining room next. Drew and Tess return to the living room once they finish, sitting on the count and awaiting Moe’s next instructions. Soon, Paige returns from her run – Tess knows she no longer has the right, but she can’t help but look at Paige as she walks in. She’s dressed in a pair of athletic shorts and a tank top. It’s unfair how pretty she is, shiny with sweat and flushed. Tess has to avert her eyes. Paige only greets her parents before rushing upstairs. Tess hears the shower click on.

“What’s wrong with you and Paigey?” Drew whispers to her.

Tess glances at him, a somber smile on her face. “I messed up and hurt her feelings,” she tells him honestly. “She’s pretty upset with me.”

Drew looks at her curiously. “Why’d you do that?”

His blunt question makes Tess chuckle. That’s a question she’s been asking herself, too. “I like her a lot,” she admits, the first time she’s ever said those words out loud. It feels like a weight is lifted off her shoulders, though she’s still crushed under everything else. “I like her a lot and it makes me do stupid stuff.”

“Mom says you should never hurt the people you love,” Drew says smartly.

“She’s right.”

“Did you say sorry? And did you bring her a cookie? Cookies always help.”

“Do they?”

Drew nods, humming as he turns on the TV. He scrolls through the channels until he settles on some cartoon Tess has never heard of. “Paigey likes cookies,” he states. “Chocolate chip ones. They’re her favorites. She always says you can’t be sad when you’re eating a cookie.”

At that, Tess can’t help but laugh. “That does sound like something she’d say,” she concedes. The taps on the armrest of the couch mindlessly, thinking. She turns to Drew. “Do you think your mom would let us bake her some? Right now?”

Drew turns off the TV without another word, standing as he calls, “Mom!” Tess stands to follow him, sighing. She did not expect him to move so fast. The kitchen is much cleaner than it was earlier – Bob went outside to put the turkey on the smoker and Moe remained, preparing the roux for the mac and cheese. Moe hums as Drew walks in. “Can me and Tess bake some cookies right now?” Moe looks as though she’s about to protest, but Drew beats her to the chase. “For Paigey. She’s sad.”

Moe softens, looking over at Tess, who flushes under her stare. She hopes her face looks as apologetic as she feels. Moe sighs. “Yes, make it quick. I’ll need the oven soon.”

Drew pumps his fist in the air as he rifles through the cabinets, looking for the ingredients. Tess lets him take the lead on most of that as she leans against the counter. She feels Moe’s eyes on her again, and she turns her head, meeting her gaze. “Everything okay?” Moe asks knowingly, her voice quiet.

Tess smiles sadly. “I hope they will be,” she says. Moe raises a brow, clearly expecting more, and Tess swallows. “She’s not happy with me. I hurt her, and honestly, I’d be pissed at me, too.” She picks a loose thread on her shirt. “I’m gonna make it up to her. I just…” Tess sighs. “She’s my first…girlfriend. My first anything, really – I don’t know what I’m doing. But she makes me want to try and that’s scary. I’ve never felt this way for anyone before.”

Moe is silent for a moment, thinking about her next words. “You’re beating yourself up pretty bad,” she notes. Tess almost laughs because she truly has no idea. “I’m not gonna lecture you. But, you know, Paige is my kid. No matter how old she is. She has so much love to give. Don’t take advantage of that. One day, she’s not going to wait around.”

Tess nods. “I know,” she says. She opens her mouth, trying to find more to say, but her words fail her. Moe gives her another knowing look, her lips curling into a smile. Drew returns with flour, sugar, and all of the other supplies and he and Tess immediately get to work. He’s a little messy with the flour and definitely steals most of the chocolate chips, but he’s a joy to spend time with. Drew reminds Tess so much of Paige – that thought alone makes her queasy again. She has to tell herself that they’ll be okay. Delusion and manifestation are a thin line, right? Paige isn’t the kind of girl to hold onto grudges, even if she should.

Once the cookies are out of the oven, Drew helps her select the best looking ones to take to Paige. He salutes her like she’s going off to war and Tess can’t help but laugh at him, feeling strangely like she is about to walk across a field of landmines. She takes a deep, stabilizing breath before she walks up the stairs, plate of cookies in hand. She knocks on Paige’s door and opens it as soon as she hears Paige call out, “Come in!”

Paige is reclining on her bed, phone in hand and freshly showered. She looks up as Tess walks in with a meek smile, holding out the plate. “Are those…?”

Tess exhales deeply, taking Paige’s curiosity as a sign to move closer. “Yeah. Me and Drew made them. He said you can’t be sad when you’re eating a cookie.” That’s enough to make Paige crack the slightest of smiles. Tess gives her the plate, explaining, “They’re fresh out, so–” but Paige is already reaching for the one on top, dropping it with a yelp of pain. They stare at each other as Paige sucks on her finger before they break out into laughter. It’s slightly awkward, but it’s relieving, and the situation isn’t funny at all but everything has sucked for five months so it’s all just stupid. “Sorry. I promise I’m not trying to kill you.”

Paige chuckles again, resting the plate on her lap and letting the cookies cool off. She shuts off her phone, glancing back up at Tess. Her expression is guarded, like she still doesn’t fully trust Tess, but there’s a new openness to her.

“Can we–”

“Do you–”

They both speak at the same time and Tess laughs as Paige scratches the back of her neck. “Come sit?” Paige requests softly. Tess studies her features, the earnestness in her eyes, and she nods shyly as she rounds the bed to sit on Paige’s left side. She makes sure to leave a bit of space in between them, unsure of where their boundaries lay after all this time. “You first?”

Tess nods again, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. “I know you said sorry doesn’t fix anything, but I want to try, if you’ll hear me out?” Paige stares at her for a long while before tilting her head, giving her the all-clear. Paige reaches for a cookie again, checking the heat, before lifting it to her mouth and humming at the flavor. “I was spiraling again,” Tess says slowly, once she’s found the words. “Overthinking every single thing. I was confused. There was so much going on in my head and it was awful because there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I know the solution to it – it’s too risky, and I can’t lose everything I have. Not again. I shouldn’t have shut you out, but isolating myself is the only way I know how to deal with my shit. I thought I was protecting myself, protecting you, but I only made it worse.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, still chewing, and Tess keeps rambling. “I’m so sorry. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. I hurt you and I keep hurting you and I don’t – I don’t know why or how but I just do and you don’t deserve that, Paige. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for this, but if you never forgive me, I wouldn’t even be able to be mad about it.” Tess laughs humorlessly. “Whatever it takes, I’ll make it up to you, that much I can promise. Just…please, give me another chance?”

Paige gazes at her, her eyes wide and seeking. Tess has to fight every instinct to turn away, to break eye contact, but she needs Paige to know that she’s serious. Finally, Paige relents, a sort of somber half-smile quirking on her lips. “I’on like being mad at you,” she admits. “Arguing. Ignoring you. But…I just – we agreed to communicate. You promised me that you wouldn’t do this by yourself. I’m upset you broke that promise and our agreement, but I understand why you did it. Just wish you hadn’t ‘cause we coulda fixed whatever it was. Easily. I woulda made time for you; shit, I did make time for you, and you threw it back in my face. That shit hurt.”

“I know,” Tess whispers. “I would feel the same way, too. You have every right to be upset with me. I’d be mad if you weren’t mad at me.”

That makes Paige laugh. It’s full, from the belly, and all of the tension in the room disappears. Paige is quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “I’on know about forgiveness right now,” she says honestly. “We gotta work towards that. But I don’t wanna be mad anymore.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Tess says softly. Paige smiles at her, her knuckles brushing her hand, the touch electrifying. The relief is nearly overwhelming. Things aren’t back to normal, but they’re as close to normal as they’ve been in five months, and that’s all Tess can really ask for. She then remembers where they are and exhales deeply. “I, uh, I think Moe might need a hand in the kitchen.”

Paige refocuses. She clears her throat. “Yeah. Okay.” They both stand, Paige holding onto the plate of cookies, but before they can leave the room, Tess stops her with a hand to her wrist.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her throat bobbing. “For hearing me out.”

Paige’s smile grows, turning into something tender despite the reservation in her eyes. “Of course.” Then, Tess can almost feel the shift in the air as Paige’s eyes flash with mischievousness. “Just don’t do that shit again or you can go spend Thanksgiving with the Ionescus.”

“Paige Madison!”

After their much needed conversation, the energy in the house almost immediately changes. Tess feels like her breathing comes a little easier since she doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around Paige. When they made it back downstairs, Moe instantly put them to work in the kitchen. Both Moe and Paige pretended to not see Drew and Tess’s excited handshake to celebrate the fact that the cookies worked. Tess and Paige sat side by side as they peeled the potatoes for the mashed potatoes, quietly catching up on all of the things they’d missed over the last five months. Tess thought that revisiting those memories would hurt a little more, but being honest with Paige helped a lot. They’re working on moving past this, and while Tess does have much to atone for, she fully intends to put in the work to earn back Paige’s trust.

As soon as the potatoes are peeled and ready, there’s a knock at the front door. Moe leaves to get it and returns with a family of four in tow. Tess doesn’t recognize them, but when Paige goes in to hug each of them, she assumes it must be her mom’s side.

“Tess, this is my mom, Amy, and my step-dad Brian,” Paige states, some lingering fondness in her tone. Tess grins as she shakes their hands, greeting them. “And these idiots are Lauren and Ryan.” Immediately, Lauren and Ryan start talking over each other as they drag Paige, but the taller blonde struggles to hide her amusement as they squabble. “Guys, this is Tess.”

“Your girlfriend,” Ryan drawls, cooing dramatically. Lauren snickers.

Paige, to her credit, doesn’t react much, but a light flush settles on her cheeks as she smiles at them. “Yes, my girlfriend,” she says. “Where’s yours?”

Lauren hisses, murmuring ouch under her breath, while Ryan rolls his eyes and Tess giggles. “Not fair. You guys U-Hauled.”

“I actually specifically told her I’d do anything but U-Haul,” Tess cuts in. Paige scoffs, but grins. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Moe then kicks the four of them out of her kitchen and Paige drags them into the living room where Drew is watching TV. Everyone disperses, settling in on the couch or the futon. Tess hardly has the time to make a decision before Paige takes a seat in an armchair, pulling Tess haphazardly into her lap. Her siblings don’t pay any attention to them as they argue over the remote, trying to set up the Playstation. Tess glances at Paige with an amused look, though also slightly confused. She’d thought she would have needed to grovel a little more before Paige would want to be close to her, but she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Problem?” Paige asks nonchalantly, adjusting Tess so she sits a little more comfortably.

“Nope,” she says. She ignores the slight crack in her voice, but Paige doesn’t have the same plan to. Paige grins smugly and Tess rolls her eyes. “You’re insufferable.” Paige merely pinches her hip in response. Once Paige’s siblings have the Playstation set up, the five of them take turns split-screening Fortnite, integrating Tess almost seamlessly into their dynamic. While two play, the other three chat and play cards. Paige declared early on that Monopoly was firmly off the table, not wanting to sit through Lauren and Ryan’s inevitable argument when one or the other went bankrupt.

Tess settles in easily with Paige and her siblings. She finds herself smiling more than she thought she would, pressed against Paige’s body, and maybe she’ll admit that Thanksgiving isn’t so bad when you have good company. She feels lighter than she has in five months and she couldn’t think of any way today could get any better.

Paige’s hand rests low on Tess’s waist, splaying across her stomach as she pulls her in closer, chin hooked over her shoulder and grinning at the sight of all of her siblings together. Tentatively, Tess rests her hand over Paige’s, relaxing when Paige gives her a gentle squeeze. “You happy?” Tess asks softly, tilting her head so Paige can hear her. She can feel the smile that Paige presses into her neck.

Paige’s voice is muffled against her skin, but she shivers at the way it reverberates through her entire body. “Yeah. I am,” she admits, her tone full of affection. Her grip tightens on Tess ever so slightly. “I missed you.”

Tess’s throat bobs with emotion, feeling her chest tighten. “I missed you, too,” she says honestly. And when Paige’s lips brush against her skin, almost imperceptibly, Tess gets the feeling that they’re a lot closer to being okay than she’d thought.

Thanksgiving dinner that night goes a lot better than the night before. The chatter is lively, food is passed around, and they all link hands in prayer before digging in. Everything is delicious. Tess would have gone for seconds if she wasn’t trying to save space for pie. Even after their plates are cleared and Tess has to unbutton her jeans just so she can sit comfortably, the nine of them remain at the table, sharing stories and jokes. Paige’s hand finds her knee under the table, almost unconsciously, and Tess’s subsequent smile is real. She should be alarmed by how well she assimilates into Paige’s family, by how well she plays the part of girlfriend. She should be alarmed by the fact she’s not pretending at all, that this is just the soft, simpering idiot that Paige turns her into with the simplest of smiles.

When everything is said and done that night, Tess is crawling back into Paige’s bed, the smell of her shampoo and perfume still fresh on the sheets. The air mattress has been lying untouched since the night before. Tess is struck with the realization that she doesn't want Paige sleeping on the floor tonight, but she can’t think too much about that because Paige is walking back into her room, her hair damp over her shoulder as she squeezes the excess water out with a towel. They share a soft smile. Tess still thinks that Paige is the prettiest woman she’s ever laid eyes on.

“So,” Tess begins hesitantly, folding her hands over her stomach as she reclines back on the bed. Paige hums, urging her to continue, running her brush through her hair. “I heard through the grapevine that there’s a Thanksgiving tradition where you tell your friends and family what you’re thankful for.”

“Yeah?” Paige asks, an inquisitive noise building in the back of her throat.

“Mhm,” Tess responds, glancing at Paige, who meets her eyes through the mirror on the wall. Her lips quirk up into a smile. “Am I allowed to say I’m thankful for you?”

“Depends,” Paige teases. She leaves her hairbrush on her dresser and takes a seat at the foot of her bed, pulling on a pair of socks to ward off the late-November Minnesotan chill. “Do you mean it?”

“I do,” Tess says, completely honest. Paige’s eyes scan her features for any hint of a falsehood. Finding nothing but earnestness, her smile grows, an almost bashful flush settling on her cheeks. “I’m serious. I know I’ve been a jerk–”

“Not the word I’d use–”

“Shh,” Tess laughs. Paige raises her hands in defense. “But I’m glad you’re here, that you’re in my life. You didn’t save me, but you made it easier to want to save myself. I don’t make it easy for you, but… I don’t know – you take care of me. I just hope I can repay the favor one day.”

“S’not transactional,” Paige states. “Don’t need you to ‘repay’ me. Just want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

Paige smiles at her, a lone dimple popping out, and Tess truly can’t help the way her heart beats a little faster. “Good.”

There’s something about the way Paige lingers, her gaze expressive. “Paige,” Tess says, almost nervously. She hums, leaning back slightly, awaiting her question. Tess clears her throat. “Don’t sleep on that fucking air mattress.”

Paige’s eyes are bright, alert, searching Tess’s expression for any sign of a sike! moment. “Are you sure?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t wanna–”

“Paige,” Tess says again. “Please?”

And then Paige is nodding, a smile overtaking her features again. She crawls gingerly over Tess’s legs, slipping under the purple comforter next to her. They’re both on their backs, nearly elbow to elbow, and the space between them feels electric. Sure, they shared a room on their Bose trip, but they remained in their separate beds. This is the closest they’ve been in five months, and Tess is certain that every cell in her body is simultaneously combusting.

“Tess,” Paige says.

“Yes, Paige?”

“Am I allowed to say I’m thankful for you too?” she murmurs.

Tess’s chest loosens. “Depends.” She cranes her neck to glance at Paige, but the blonde is already staring at her, her gaze dark and beseeching. “Do you mean it?”

Instead of a verbal response, Paige moves, one hand holding herself up and the other cupping Tess’s jaw, kissing her with a soft intensity that pulls the breath directly from her lungs. Tess sighs, tangling her fingers in Paige’s hair, letting Paige guide her as she liked for better access. Paige pulls back, her nose brushing against Tess’s cheek as she presses her lips to the slope of her jaw, the spot under her ear that makes her shiver, the base of her throat, her pulse point. Tess can feel Paige’s smirk as she lingers, her lips sweeping across her skin. “Your heart’s beating really fast,” she murmurs.

Tess scoffs, blushing fiercely. “I wonder why,” she retorts.

“I think I got a few ideas,” Paige says smugly.

“Think less,” Tess says breathlessly, pulling Paige back to her lips, halting whatever stupid comment she was about to make. Paige grins insufferably, her kiss long and slow. Tess feels herself sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, consumed by all things Paige Bueckers; the scent of her perfume, the silk of her pillowcase, the warmth of her hand on her skin, the push and pull of her lips.

When they finally pull apart, Paige’s lips ghost across her temple as she murmurs, “Happy Thanksgiving, baby.”

The nickname does little to slow the beating of her heart. Tess doesn’t care. “Happy Thanksgiving, Paige.”

DECEMBER 2023

are you still interested in christmas-ing with the kennedys?

Wouldn’t miss it for the world

okay let me email you the tickets

[Paige loved “let me email you the tickets”] You gonna pick me up from the airport?

i could be persuaded

Say less [1 Attachment]

that’s a picture of dunkin donuts

It is Which is what I will buy for you if you pick me up from the airport

you drive a hard bargain 🤔 can you upsell?

I mean Coffee, a bacon egg & cheese, and Paige Bueckers in your passenger seat Are you not convinced?

not really

Bruh Tess PLEASE do not make me take an Uber

you are such a baby 😭 don’t worry i’ll be there with a sign that says “welcome back from jail”

As long as you’re there I don’t care what’s on the sign

ok smooth oh also so what are your thoughts on spending like a day with my family then we go into the city for like the new year’s eve stuff in times square

Alone? 🫦

oh my god ok so you can actually walk from the airport

I’m kidding I’d be down for that Whatever you want

[Tess loved “Whatever you want”] sounds good see you soon

Can’t wait 🫶

DECEMBER 29, 2023

Tess is nervous.

She isn’t exactly sure why. She’s been in this situation time and time again, waiting at the airport for someone to pick her up or waiting to pick someone else up. It’s extremely busy, an unfortunate repercussion of the fact that it was that limitless space between Christmas and New Year’s where time didn’t exactly exist and people were flying in and out of New York constantly. Perhaps the difference is just because it’s her picking up Paige when it’s usually the other way around. One of the themes she’s begun to notice is that simply doing things with Paige just makes them feel different. She can’t exactly explain it, but Paige has this way of helping her see and experience things through a new lens.

The bustle of the airport makes her stand on edge. She’s never been a huge fan of the crowds, the constant noise, which is probably a strange thing to say as an athlete. She’s usually able to lock in and drown it out, but she’s anxious for other reasons. Paige will be walking through those gates in a few short minutes. Tess is excited to see her – that’s not the issue. She’s dreading the fact that as soon as she and Paige reunite, half of the airport will want to shove their phones in their faces. Again, the lack of fan privacy is probably something she should be used to, although she’d spend her life arguing that the lack of autonomy and respect isn’t something that should be normalized.

But that’s neither here nor there. The PA overhead clicks on. Tess can barely hear the robotic voice over the noise of the crowd as it announces the landing of Paige’s flight. Just a little longer, Tess reminds herself, then we can go home. The time seems to pass slowly, but soon enough, Tess can see a new crowd forming, emerging from the gate, and she feels her heart beat just a little faster at the implication.

Paige stands tall in the crowd, her blonde hair sticking out like a beacon. She’s dressed in an all black Nike tracksuit with the Husky logo emblazoned on the chest, although she holds a hoodie close to her chest as if she’d gotten hot on the plane but prepared well for the New York chill. Tess makes her way through the crowd in Paige’s direction. It doesn’t take long for Paige to find her, a beaming smile growing on her face, and Paige falls into her with evident relief.

Tess will never get tired of the way Paige hugs her. She melts completely, her body enveloping hers, her head always falling close to her neck. Paige’s body is firm, tangible, and Tess sighs at the weight and pressure of their embrace. “Merry Christmas, ma,” Paige murmurs in her ear, squeezing her tight.

“Merry Christmas, Paige,” Tess responds. “And Happy New Year’s, I guess.”

Paige’s shoulders shake with laughter as she pulls back, dropping an affectionate kiss to Tess’s forehead before intertwining their fingers. “It ain’t New Year’s yet,” she says.

“Close enough?”

“Nah.” Paige shakes her head, looking all too mischievous. “S’not New Year’s until I get my kiss at midnight.”

Tess rolls her eyes, but a flush settles over her cheeks. “You’re incorrigible.”

“C’mon – look at you!” Paige gestures with her free hand as she leads the two of them over to baggage claim. “I’m not a monster, I’m just a man with needs,” she sings, terribly off-key, which amuses Tess.

“Alright, Daniel Caesar,” she goads, smirking. “Let’s get you out of here before people charge you with aural assault.”

Paige suddenly looks affronted, blue eyes wide and indignant. “Oral?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

Tess sighs, shaking her head. “No, baby, aural. A-U-R-A-L. As in hearing.”

Paige scoffs. “Jus’ say that, then.” Then, her head snaps back quickly, glancing at Tess with mock-offense. “Wait, that wasn’t nice!” Finally, her suitcase rolls around and she hauls it off the conveyor with ease.

Tess snickers, patting Paige on the shoulder. “Remember what I told you? I gotta keep your ego at a reasonable level.” With their hands still linked, Tess leads them through the crowded airport quickly, eager to get home and away from all of these people.

“My girl so mean,” Paige huffs dramatically. “Nothin’ wrong with my ego. You’re just a D1 hater.”

Tess smiles. “Are you finished?”

“No!”

Paige rambles the entire drive back to Tess’s house, but she at least stays true to her promise and buys Tess brunch at Dunkin – not that Tess expected anything less from her. In the short eight months they’ve been friends, Paige has proven herself to be very intentional in her words and actions. She doesn’t make a habit of saying things she doesn’t mean. Excluding their banter or when they’re teasing one another, Paige is unfathomably genuine. Promises and intent are incredibly important to her; Tess found that out the hard way back in November, but she’s keen on keeping that an isolated incident.

When Tess parks on the curb behind her parents’ car, she cuts the engine, but makes no effort to get out. Paige glances at her with a concerned expression, her thumb brushing against her knuckles gently. “So, my parents might be…a lot,” she says hurriedly, meeting Paige’s eyes. “Just let me know if it gets overwhelming or something, okay?”

Paige smiles reassuringly at her. “Don’t worry, ma. We got this in the bag.”

Tess returns the smile, though it’s a little weaker. “I’m serious. My dad likes you but you might get the shovel talk.”

“I’m serious, too.” Paige lifts their hands, pressing her lips to Tess’s palm. There’s no use hiding the infectious blush, so she just tries to not look as down bad as she feels. “I can handle it.”

Tess sighs, conceding, and she collects her belongings and leads Paige into her house. Her parents are sitting in the living room watching a movie when they walk in. Almost instantly, they turn to stare down Paige, who, to her credit, doesn’t falter, instead offering a polite smile.

“Hey, guys,” Tess says awkwardly. “This is Paige. Paige, these are my parents, Alessandra and Mateo.”

Her parents stand to shake her hand. “Great to finally meet you both,” Paige says charismatically, not wincing under her father’s handshake, which earns her a gleam of silent approval. Point, Paige. Her parents echo the sentiment, flashing relaxed smiles, and Tess finally chills out.

“Are you both staying for dinner? I know you have other plans this weekend,” her mom asks.

“Yes, mamma,” Tess replies with a smile. “We’re heading into the city tomorrow afternoon and I’ll be back on Monday after I drop her off at the airport.”

Her parents share a glance, as if silently communicating with one another. Their apparent telepathic capabilities always terrified Tess growing up. That fear comes back tenfold when the both of them glance at Paige, curiosity in their gaze as they soak her in. Paige, admirably, stands strong, a calm seriousness in her expression. She doesn’t even react when Tess subconsciously tightens her grip on her hand. While it feels like they stand there for hours, the staredown only lasts a few seconds before her parents relent. “I’m making bolognese tonight,” her mom states, the tension in the room dissolving.

At that, Tess relaxes again, and flashes a quiet smile at her parents. “We’ll be in my room,” she says. “Paige is jet-lagged after her flight.” None of them comment on the fact that Paige only travelled across one time zone, but her parents smile kindly and return to their movie as Tess drags Paige down the hallway, flushing. “Oh my God. That was the most nerve wracking thing ever.”

“I’ve never dissociated so hard in my life,” Paige confesses. “Did I do okay? Can they smell fear?”

Tess laughs, pulling Paige inside her room and shutting the door. “Christ, Paige – they’re Italians, not fucking sharks.” Paige rolls her eyes, depositing her bags close to the door and kicking off her shoes. She wraps her arms around Tess from behind, rocking them side-to-side, and Tess can’t help her smile as Paige sighs with relief. “Good job, though. She asked if you were staying for dinner.” Tess spins in Paige’s embrace, wrapping her arms around her neck and kissing her in celebration.

“Is that good?” Paige asks, her cheeks turning red.

“Very,” Tess confirms. “Just don’t wear jeans. She cooks enough for a small army and she’ll make you eat dessert, too.”

Paige nods seriously, like impressing her parents is an important task to her. “I’ll lock in,” she vows, her lips brushing against Tess’s jaw. “They’re gonna like me more than they like you.”

And at that, Tess shoves Paige away from her, scoffing indignantly while the blonde dissolves into laughter. “Jerk,” Tess grumbles. She makes her way to her bed, climbing in and turning the TV on. “Grey’s?” she asks Paige hopefully, as if the blonde would ever say no to Grey’s Anatomy, and Paige nods as she crawls in next to Tess, slinging an arm over her waist and resting her head on her chest.

They make it through an episode and a half before Paige falls asleep, lulled into slumber by the drag of Tess’s fingertips against her scalp. Tess knows she’s been working hard this season, spending extra time in the gym and training because she’s shouldering so much more for her team. She’s on court for nearly 40 minutes a game and although she’d never admit it, Tess knows that it’s taxing.

Tess wouldn’t admit it, either; she knows this arrangement is temporary, but she could get used to this – laying in bed with Paige while the blonde naps, comfortable in the knowledge that out of all of the people in her life, Tess is the one person she knows she can go to and not be expected to be Paige Bueckers all the time. She’s not expected to shoulder all of the responsibility, not expected to be the tough one – she can just be. The fact that Tess can provide that kind of comfort and security for her means more to her than she’d ever expected.

Paige shifts in her sleep, her arm tightening around Tess’s waist subconsciously, and Tess allows herself a gentle smile. It’s temporary, but she’s going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Dinner was surprisingly nice that night. True to Tess’s word, her mom did make a shit ton of food, but Paige was a willing victim as she went back for seconds and had room for a slice of tiramisu. The chatter was lively and Paige integrated so well with her family. They asked about her childhood, her dreams, and her dad even dragged her into a lengthy conversation about football and the Superbowl. For an Italian raised man, her father was far too interested in American football, but Tess can’t find it in herself to mind too much when Paige’s hand finds her knee under the table as she listens intently. The smile on her face is bright, endeared. When Tess catches her mother’s gaze from across the table, noting the silent approval and her own fondness, she realizes that there’s just something so right about her and Paige.

They gather around the Christmas tree after dinner. Tess and her parents had already opened most of their gifts when Tess’s cousins came around on Christmas day, but her parents had surprised them both with gifts for Paige. Paige wasn’t expecting it, but the childlike wonder on her face was priceless, and Tess really couldn’t have been all too shocked by the fact that she fell just a little harder for Paige as she opened her presents. It was nothing major; a few pieces of workout apparel, a sneaky South Carolina hoodie that they all laughed at as Paige stared at it in mock-disgust (Tess knew she’d wear it), and a gift card for an upscale restaurant in the city that she and Paige planned to take full advantage of.

And then Paige surprised her parents with gifts of their own, which was incredibly fucked up, because how was Tess supposed to go back to normal when Paige is buying her parents Christmas presents and they’re not even dating for real? Paige gives her father a beautiful watch and her mother a gorgeous necklace. Judging by the way they sparkle, they must both cost a fortune, and Paige tells them she already tore up the receipts so there’s absolutely no take-backsies.

Tess hugs her parents goodnight, although they also pull Paige in for one when she tries to shake their hands again. Her parents both whisper their firm approval and Tess can’t help the way her chest tightens. They tell her that they really like Paige – that makes Tess laugh weakly because they aren’t the only ones. She really likes Paige, too, and that’s slowly becoming her biggest problem right now.

After they both shower, Paige rifles through her bag, searching for something, and when she turns around, she presents Tess with a small, gift-wrapped box. “Paige,” Tess grumbles, not expecting a gift from her, but the Cheshire grin on her face makes her resolve weaken.

“C’mon,” Paige goads. “D’you really think I wouldn’t get you sum’?” Tess rolls her eyes, but she opens the drawer on her nightstand and pulls out a gift wrapped box, too. Paige’s smile grows. They exchange their gifts, and after much argument, Paige convinces Tess to open hers first. She takes the wrapping apart gingerly, her eyes widening at the Tiffany & Co logo. “Don’t freak,” Paige says gently, which does little to hide the fact that Tess is freaking.

“Paige–”

“Open it, ma.”

Swallowing thickly, Tess does, and tucked into the cushion of the box is a small, yet glimmering, bracelet charm. She picks it up gingerly, her breath catching. “I struggled for a really long time to find the perfect one,” Paige admits in a whisper. Tess glances up at her, watching a slow smile spread across her face. “Had to get it custom made. It’s the Gampel court. I know – why would you wanna walk around with the enemy court on your wrist, whatever, but flip it over.” Tess flips it, and on the back, February 8, 2021, is engraved. “This was the first game we’d played against each other. The first time I met you in person, the first time I shook your hand. And honestly, I didn’t think we could beat you. I didn’t think I could beat you. You made it really fucking hard.” That draws a teary laugh from Tess, but Paige keeps going, a smile on her face. “As we played, it became less about, I’on know, beating you and more about impressing you. Win or lose, I was just really fucking grateful I got to share the court with you. I learned so much from your game and you made me a better player, whether you realized it or not. I was scared to reach out to you – you’d always been sort of untouchable, I didn’t think you’d wanna be my friend, especially since we’re on different teams. But here we are now.”

“Here we are,” Tess agrees, her lip quivering. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to out-do that,” she jokes.

Paige rolls her eyes, dimples popping out. “Lemme put it on you?” she requests. Tess nods, handing over the charm, and with overwhelming gentleness, Paige clasps the charm to her bracelet, giving her hand a squeeze once it’s safely secured.

“Thank you,” Tess says, her voice barely a whisper. She meets Paige’s eyes. Her expression shines with adoration, fondness, the blue of her gaze disarming. “It’s beautiful.”

Paige smiles at her, vulnerable and tender. “Of course,” she says.

Tess gestures to the wrapped box in Paige’s hand and she opens it gingerly. Inside the box is a thumb ring. The band is extremely thin, gold in color, and isn’t perfectly straight. It resembles the stem of a rose which leads into the petals with two miniscule leaves jutting out on either side. Paige stares at the ring in a reverent sort of awe. “So, we have this Italian saying: se son rose, fioriranno. ‘If they are roses, they will bloom.’ It essentially means that things take time to develop. You have to have faith that the roses will bloom – that you will bloom. It reminded me of both of us – our ACLs, that in time, they won’t weigh us down.” Paige glances back up, meeting Tess’s eyes. “It reminded me of you. I know this year hasn’t been easy for you so far, for your team, but in time, you’ll find that success you’ve been working your entire career for.”

Paige smiles even though her eyes water and her bottom lip quivers. “Tess… I’on know what to say.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Tess jokes, and the both of them dissolve into laughter. At Paige’s insistence, Tess slides the ring onto her thumb. Paige stares at it for a while, a dopey expression on her face, but Tess can tell she loves it. “Merry Christmas, P.”

Paige’s smile grows. She leans in, softly pressing her lips to Tess’s, her arm curling around her waist and dragging her closer until she’s nearly in her lap. Tess places her hands over Paige’s shoulders for stabilization, content to let Paige take the lead, but it’s not long before Paige is withdrawing to ghost her lips across Tess’s cheek, murmuring into her ear, “Merry Christmas, baby.”

DECEMBER 30, 2023

The first few hours of the morning are spent watching cheesy Hallmark movies, much to Paige’s chagrin. She thinks they’re too corny, but Tess argues they’re a holiday staple. Paige eventually gives in after Tess makes her a mug of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, although that doesn’t save her from Paige’s endless commentary.

“The acting is so bad,” Paige says, her tone disgusted. She stretches out a little more on the couch, her leg brushing against Tess’s. “Why does she move her head so much? Why does she keep blinking?”

“Paige,” Tess says, fond exasperation clear in her tone. “It’s not supposed to be good.”

“Well, it’s bothering me,” she whines. “Moving your eyebrows so much doesn’t make you look cool. It makes you look ridiculous.”

“You are such a baby,” Tess gripes. She lifts Paige’s left arm, tucking herself flush against her side. Paige gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze as she pulls her in a little tighter. “If you think about it, they’re just like us.”

At that, Paige raises her brows, huffing out something akin to unconvinced laughter. “Yeah? How so?”

Tess smiles at her coyly. “They got paired up together for the mural contest. Now they have to work together if they want to win.” She presses her fingertips together, separating them as she makes an explosion noise. Paige snorts. “I don’t think we’d be on Hallmark, though. Not PG enough. You curse like a sailor.”

“Me?” Paige asks. “Have you heard yourself?”

“You’re really gonna sit here and blame me for sh – stuff?” Paige gives her a knowing look, a smirk growing on her face. Tess juts her lip out in a pout that’s clearly not working on Paige. “It’s Christmas and you’re being mean to me?”

“It is not Christmas –”

Tess sighs dramatically, cutting her off. “Christmas,” she whines.

Paige rolls her eyes good naturedly, brushing her lips across Tess’s temple and shutting her up. They finish the movie, along with two others before it’s time for them to make the arduous, thirty minute journey into the city (traffic was a bitch). Paige called dibs on driving, which Tess wasn’t happy about considering that it was her car, but as soon as she thought about driving through the city traffic, she changed her mind.

Tess booked them a suite in a hotel called Tempo by Hilton, mostly due to its proximity to the New Year’s Eve ball drop location. After they checked in, they planned on heading out to dinner and then lounging around for the rest of the evening. They weren’t doing much on the 31st either, their only real plan being the ball drop. They agreed they weren’t going to fill up an entire itinerary. New Year’s in New York was just supposed to be a weekend vacation away from their families and the city would be crowded enough that they’d be away from the media, too. It was difficult to find much to do since Tess was not a fan of the New York nightlife. December marked eight months of sobriety – it wasn’t a lot, but it was a source of pride for her. She had no interest in going back on that even if the urges were long gone by now.

They got ready for dinner together, although Paige was absolutely no help at all. She was dressed in a multicolored striped sweater, baggy white jeans and a pair of matching shoes; her hair was styled down in loose waves. Tess jokingly told her that she looked like an art teacher and Paige rolled her eyes so hard that she had to lay down because it made her head hurt.

“Paige, I don’t know what to wear,” Tess complains.

“Sum’ warm,” she says unhelpfully, not looking up.

“I want to wear a dress.”

“Then wear one?”

“It’ll be cold!”

“Bring a sweater.”

“And ruin the fit?” Tess grumbles.

Paige laughs, much to Tess’s chagrin. “You can pull anything off,” she says.

“It’s probably not even that cold,” Tess muses, glancing down at the dress she packed. It’s a simple black one that cuts off just below her thighs with thin straps at the top. “We’ll be inside for the most part, right?”

Paige shifts, holding her head up with her hand as she stares at Tess with amusement. “Wear the dress. Bring a sweater. Or don’t. I can give you mine and we can be all cute and shit.”

“You just want me wearing your clothes,” Tess says under her breath, but Paige hears it.

“Damn,” she deadpans. “Caught me.”

Tess wears the dress. She doesn’t bring a sweater. The restaurant was warm enough that she didn’t need one, although she’s certain that Paige deliberately took them the long way back to their hotel so she’d cave and ask Paige for her sweater. Her suspicions are proved true when Paige forces them to take what feels like a million photos, but Tess just feels endlessly endeared by her, so she entertains it.

“I like you in this,” Paige comments nonchalantly once they make it back to the hotel room. She toys with the frayed edges of the multicolored sweater mindlessly, glancing up to smile at Tess coyly.

“I know,” she says, taking her jewelry out and unpinning her hair. Paige lingers behind her, watching as she works. “You’re so down bad. It’s sickening.”

“Sorry,” Paige lies. Tess shakes her head with an amused smile. “Look in the mirror and get back to me. Who wouldn’t be?”

They watch an episode or two of Grey’s before bed that night, although Tess falls asleep after the first thirty minutes. The weight of Paige’s body against hers was too calming, the scent of her perfume in the air, the drag of her fingertips across her back. Despite doing nothing but lounging around, traveling, and going to dinner, Tess was exhausted. Paige could be partially to blame for that – she makes Tess feel safe, like she doesn’t have to worry about keeping all of her walls up. She has a comforting energy that could make anyone relax and lose all of their worries.

But maybe she’s a little too effective at that. If Tess had managed to stay awake longer, then maybe she would have heard the dial tone, the sound of another person picking up, and Paige’s whispered confession of, “Aubrey, I might be in love.”

But she didn’t hear it – and Paige may never say it again.

Things are fine the morning after, although Tess would have no reason to expect them to not be. She wakes up before Paige does (not a surprise), although they shifted at some point during the night. While Tess fell asleep with her head on Paige’s chest, she woke up on her side with Paige’s right arm slung protectively over her waist and the blonde’s face pressed into the back of her neck. Her breathing was gentle, fanning against her skin, sending shivers down Tess’s spine when she was coherent enough to realize just how close they were.

She slides out of Paige’s arms, careful to not wake her, and stretches as she walks into the bathroom to begin her morning routine. She’s in the middle of brushing her teeth when Paige finally wakes up, padding into the bathroom and wiping the exhaustion out of her eyes. “Mornin’,” she says, voice thick with sleep. She presses a quick, chaste kiss to Tess’s cheek before she reaches for her own toothbrush and gets to work.

“Morning, Paigey,” Tess says, though her words are muffled around the toothbrush in her mouth. Paige shoots her an amused glance while Tess tries not to stare at her too obviously. She’s dressed in a pair of black basketball shorts and a matching Nike sports bra, although her shorts hang low on her waist, revealing the waistband of her boxers. There’s not even a safe region for Tess to look at. The muscles in her shoulders are freakishly defined, the veins in her hands protrude slightly, her expression is soft and mellowed out, and her hair is down in bedridden waves. Tess needs to be taken out back and shot between the eyes. This is getting out of hand.

“Sum’ you wanna say?” Paige asks around the foam in her mouth. Tess flushes immediately, much to Paige’s endless enjoyment.

“Nope!” she says as she spits out her toothpaste. “Nothing at all.”

Paige catches her around the waist when she tries to leave, attempting to put space between them. Tess’s breath hitches as Paige pulls her flush against her, her hands resting on her bare stomach. Wordlessly, Paige bites down on her toothbrush, using her free hand to wipe away a smudge of toothpaste off Tess’s bottom lip. Paige’s subsequent smile is all too smug and she has to shove her away before she says something pathetic like naming the 2023 WNBA draft class by pick order.

She can hear Paige’s light laughter from the bathroom as she returns to the main room. When Paige finishes up in the bathroom, she doesn’t mention how she flustered Tess, although she does put a shirt on (much to Tess’s simultaneous relief and disappointment) and picks up the phone to order room service for them. The food arrives quickly, an assortment of meats, pastries, and other delicacies. Paige insists on making Tess’s plate for her – the princess treatment getting is ridiculous, but who is she to complain? – and the photo of Paige that she captures, messy bun and oversized t-shirt on, is good enough that Tess considers gatekeeping it, but she ultimately posts it anyway because the people deserve to know that UConn’s basketball star is doing this for her and not for them.

Paige reposts it with the eye rolling emoji and the princess emoji, which makes Tess laugh.

They talk all throughout breakfast, easy conversations and jokes, and they lounge around in the hotel room until it’s time to get ready for the ball drop. Tess, once again, struggles with what to wear, but when Paige comes out of the bathroom wearing a hot pink, long-sleeved Nike sweater with black baggy cargos and rummages through Tess’s suitcase, Tess really can’t be all too surprised when the outfit Paige selected matches her’s.

“You could be a little less obvious,” Tess suggests as she does her hair in the mirror.

Paige only smiles, taking in Tess’s outfit. Paige has dressed her in a pink tube top and black high-waisted pants with a matching coat. “Nah,” she says after a minute of shameless ogling. “I did my big one.”

Tess rolls her eyes. She would never admit it to the blonde, but she and Paige look good.

The walk to Times Square flies passes quickly. They spend it hand-in-hand with Paige expertly navigating them through the busy New York foot traffic as Tess takes countless pictures of the city decorated for New Year’s. She gets plenty of photos of Paige, too, the easy smile on her face, her side profile illuminated by the city lights. Tess knows very well by now that Paige is extremely attractive – that wasn’t a secret to anyone. She was magnetic and Tess has been stuck in her orbit from the first time they met, not in the conference room, but when they played each other in 2021. It takes her a long time to realize her feelings. She keeps them under tight lock and key, knowing that her goal and purpose is to play basketball. She never had the time for anything else, but when Paige finds her gaze, squeezing their intertwined hands, Tess thinks that maybe she could make time if Paige decided to stay in her life permanently.

Paige isn’t magnetic because of her looks. It definitely helps, and while that physical attraction will never leave, Tess has come to find she’s attracted to Paige for other reasons. She likes Paige’s kindness, her candor, her irresistible charm. She likes that Paige keeps her accountable, that she stands ten toes down on her beliefs. Tess is drawn to the way Paige cares for those around her, the way she gives everything her all. She likes her humor, her faith, her compassion. There isn’t a single thing Tess hates about her, but there’s an infinite amount of things that Tess loves about Paige Bueckers.

Love.

Tess loves Paige Bueckers.

That realization, while incredibly sudden, doesn’t surprise Tess as much as it probably should. If anything, it’s freeing – there’s a reason, an explanation to the way she’s been feeling for so long. It should scare her, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because it hasn’t set in yet, the panic. Tess panicked when she realized she had feelings for Paige in the first place. But maybe it’s because she’s older now, arguably wiser. She’s learned that she can’t run from her feelings. She has to embrace them for what they are. She’s in love with Paige. It should scare her because Paige was her first “relationship,” first kiss, and now, first love. It should scare her but it doesn’t and that’s just what it is.

It should scare her because now, rule four is officially broken. There’s no arguing against it or calling it by any other name. She dapped Paige up in a campus coffee shop and promised her that she wouldn’t fall in love with her. In fairness, a Notes app contract and a handshake isn’t really legally binding. But at the end of the day, Tess doesn’t care and that’s probably the scary part. She’s in love. It’s unsurprising, undaunting, and looking back, inevitable.

“You good?” Paige asks, drawing Tess from her thoughts. “You got really quiet.”

Tess thinks about her answer. Is she okay? She’s here, in New York City with Paige Bueckers, the woman she’s in love with, and they’re about to watch the New Year’s Eve ball drop. She’s three months away from being able to play basketball again, a year away from declaring for the WNBA draft. She is literally on the cusp of achieving all of her dreams, of having everything she’s ever wanted. So, she smiles at Paige, shifting closer into her personal space as they walk, and she’s honest when she responds, “Yeah. I’m good.” The smile that Paige gives her is bright, full of fondness, and so disarming that Tess truly wonders how she went so long trying to convince herself that she couldn’t fall in love with her. Paige just makes it so easy. And when she pulls Tess tighter into her side, whispering a joke into her ear, part of Tess hopes that Paige could find it within her to love her back. Another part of her notices the clear adoration in Paige’s eyes, the way she tightens her grip on her hand, and she thinks that maybe Paige Bueckers being in love with Tess Kennedy isn’t such a long shot.

Paige finds them a secluded spot in Times Square, decently far away from the larger portion of the inebriated crowd. The wind is frosty, nipping at her nose and fingers, but Pagie’s body is so warm. She wraps both arms around Paige’s waist, laying her head on her chest, and the blonde runs her fingers up and down her back in a soothing motion. She’s not scared to be in love, but it’s overwhelming in the best way possible. Her heart feels like it’s about to burst at the seams, that the only way she could get this energy out is if she cried from the rooftops.

Right now, there’s literally nowhere else she’d rather be. She has room in her heart for both basketball and Paige – her two first loves. For her, that’s enough.

“D’you have any New Year’s resolutions?” Paige asks once the clock hits 11:50.

Tess hums, pausing to truly give it some thought. “I think I’m going to try to do more next year,” she admits in a soft whisper. “Do more things, meet new people, take more risks. This year really taught me I can’t just rely on the same thing. Take more drives into to paint, you know?”

Paige smiles at her, immediately catching onto her reference. “No more three-point shooting for you,” she teases. “I wanna see you out-hustle Kamilla for some rebounds.”

Tess laughs. “I don’t know about that,” she says wryly. “What about you? Any resolutions?”

Paige’s hand is warm on her back, still brushing her fingers against her spine. She’s quiet as she thinks. She stares directly into Tess’s eyes when she responds, her eyes blue and beseeching. “I wanna try to build something permanent,” she confesses, her throat bobbing with nerves. “Legacies. My future.” Paige hesitates before her next words. “...Relationships.”

“Yeah?” Tess asks. Paige nods, a flush on her cheeks, though Tess can’t tell if it’s from the December chill or embarrassment. “Sounds admirable. But if anyone can do it, you can.”

Paige’s smile is solemn, although Tess doesn’t pick up on it, shifting her attention to the clock. 11:53. The two of them sit in silence for the next few minutes, swaying side to side to the beat of far-away music, the murmur of the distant crowd. Tess allows herself to get lost in the fantasy of a new year, one where she and Paige aren’t just pretending. Tess stopped pretending a long time ago. Part of her wonders if Paige did, too. She finds it hard to believe that Paige would be so committed to keeping up appearances in private. You could excuse the amount of time they spent together. Friends do that. But friends don’t kiss. They don’t fall asleep with each other, or cuddle, or call each other “baby” like Paige does with an enamored drawl. The signs are all there, but what if they were all lies? She doesn’t want to get her hopes up, even if part of her feels like there’s something more.

Tess has never been one for resolutions. They’re tacky and no one ever upholds them, but she thinks she’s going to uphold hers this year. She’s going to confess to Paige – eventually. Definitely not during the tournament season, not when Paige has so much on her shoulders already. But one day she will. That’s a promise she’s going to uphold.

She checks the clock again. 11:59. When she glances up, Paige is already staring at her. Coyly, she asks, “Ready to ring in the New Year’s?”

Tess chuckles, tightening her arms around Paige’s waist. “Are you?”

“Been ready ever since you picked me up at the airport,” she retorts, a grin growing on her face. “D’you remember what I said? S’not New Year’s until I get my midnight kiss?”

Tess hums as if contemplating something. “I don’t recall that,” she murmurs, her gaze locking onto Paige’s.

“No?” She shakes her head as Paige draws her in closer. Their noses brush. Paige’s eyes are soft, but there’s an emotion swirling in them that Tess just can’t place no matter how long she searches for the answer. “Is there anything I can do to jog your memory?”

The crowd roars, although Tess doesn’t pay them any attention.

10…

9…

8…

“I’m sure there’s something,” Tess concedes.

7…

6…

Paige smiles at her, her hands firm on her back. “Something?” she drawls.

5…

4…

“Paige.”

“Yeah?”

3…

2…

“Please stop talking.”

And she does, pulling Tess even closer and capturing her lips with a gentle urgency. Tess grins against her, reaching up to tangle her fingers in Paige’s loose hair, though Paige grows annoyed at Tess’s inability to be serious. One of her hands finds Tess’s jaw, taking control and guiding their kiss. Her hands are freezing but they feel like a soothing balm against the heat building in Tess’s cheeks.

Paige pulls away for air, her breath coming out in shallow bursts that forms clouds of steam in the air, but she doesn't stay away for too long. She’s swooping back in and kissing Tess with a renewed vigor, like there’s something she’s trying to communicate. Her lips are greedy, insistent, drawing out every single noise building in the back of Tess’s throat. She’s never kissed like this before – technically, Paige is the only person that Tess has kissed, but there’s something that’s earth-shatteringly new about this interaction. Paige kisses her with want, with desire, like she couldn’t bear it if she didn’t have Tess in her arms at all times. And honestly, given how Tess eagerly responds, trying her best to put as little space between her and Paige as possible, Tess isn’t sure if she herself could bear it if she and Paige weren’t near each other.

Her entire nervous system is alight with activity, neurons firing on all cylinders. Call her delusional, or stupid, or whatever, but Paige has awoken a part of her that has laid dormant for 22 years. It’s like part of Tess was waiting for Paige to come into her life, that she wasn’t fully living until she felt what it was like to love Paige Bueckers. Now that she knows, Tess can’t imagine living a life where she doesn’t love Paige Bueckers, where she doesn’t get to look at Paige like she’s hung the very stars in the sky, where she doesn’t get to wake up everyday and wonder how Paige will piss her off this time. It’s just them, it’s how they work, it’s how Tess wants them to work forever and ever and ever.

“Paige,” Tess gasps, almost breathlessly, pushing the blonde away from her with a hand to her chest. Paige looks almost annoyed at the interruption until she takes in the hazy look in Tess’s eyes. “Hotel?” Tess asks, and Paige nods her head so vigorously, coming back to her senses. She reaches for Tess’s hand and shoves their way through the crowd back towards their hotel.

The walk back feels like it takes ages. The elevator ride isn’t any better. Tess is nearly shaking with anticipation and Paige fumbles with the keycard, cursing under her breath. Finally, she opens it, ushering Tess inside with unseen urgency and shuts the door quickly behind them, locking it.

Tess hardly has the time to react before Paige is on her again, one hand at the base of her throat and the other around her waist. Despite her haste, she carefully walks the two of them backwards until the back of Tess’s knees hit the bed and Paige lowers her down gently, cognizant of her leg. Paige pulls back, her eyes clouded with want but she finds some clarity when she looks at Tess again. “Off?” she requests, her voice hoarse, tugging lightly at Tess’s coat. Tess nods, but Paige is shaking her head. “Words, Tess. None of that shit.”

“Off, Paige, please,” she says hastily, leaving her pride at the door. Paige rewards her with a deep kiss to her lips as she reaches for Tess’s coat, pulling it off her shoulders and throwing it somewhere behind her. She stands to kick off her shoes and Tess almost misses the contact until Paige sinks to her knees, reaching to undo her heels. The sight of Paige on her knees, staring up at her in near reverence sends a shockwave of desire straight to Tess’s core. Once her heels are off, she reaches for Paige, pulling her up and on top of her, connecting their lips once more.

“Fuck,” Paige murmurs, dipping down to press her lips to Tess’s jaw. Tess tangles her fingers in Paige’s hair, pulling the hair tie out, allowing the blonde waves to spill over her shoulders as Paige drags wet kisses across the slope of Tess’s collarbones. She nips at her skin, soothing the bite with a pass of her tongue, and Tess can’t help the moan that rips from her throat when Paige’s hands press against her ribs. “So pretty, baby, you have no idea.”

“Says you,” Tess says breathlessly, which draws a laugh from Paige. She pulls back far enough, hooking her fingers under the hem of Tess’s top. Paige meets her eyes, the question evident in her blown-out eyes, and Tess nods rapidly as she says, “Take it off, please.”

Her top comes off quickly and Paige groans, her eyes zoning in on her bare breasts. “So polite,” she murmurs, sliding her hands to her chest. She glances back up for consent, and once she has it, she brushes her thumbs across her nipples, drawing a whimper from Tess. “This what I needa do to get you to be nice?” Her tone is warm despite the insinuation in her tone.

“Stop teasing,” Tess grumbles, and who is Paige to deny her? She leans down, littering wet kisses across her chest, encircling her mouth around a nipple as her hand gives equal attention to the other one. Tess slides her fingers through Paige’s hair for leverage, pulling slightly, and moaning when Paige’s subsequent groan reverberates throughout her body. Her back arches off of the bed, trying to lessen the space between them. Paige pulls back, staring at Tess with a reverent smile like she’s the eighth wonder of the world. Then she’s dipping back down, lavishing her other breast with attention, and Tess feels so high-strung that she could float away from the slightest touch.

When Paige moves down her body, sucking hickeys near her ribs, Tess reaches for Paige’s sweater. Wordlessly, Paige raises her arms, allowing Tess to pull her it off. Her mouth goes dry at the sight of Paige’s abs, firm and rigid and inviting.

“All quiet now, huh?” Paige goads.

“Paige–”

Paige shushes her, pressing their lips together again, swallowing the needy sounds ripping from Tess’s throat as her hands explore. They’re warm, leaving blazing paths of desire across her body, dipping down to grip her thighs. “Gonna get you right,” she promises, leaving Tess’s lips, traveling down to her neck where she sucks a mark into her skin. “Jus’ need you to be patient.”

“Don’t want patient,” Tess says, gasping when Paige bites her shoulder. “Want you.”

“You got me,” Paige reassures. “Always, baby, you got me.” Her fingers hook into the waistband of her pants, looking back up to Tess for approval.

“Please,” she begs. “Fuck, Paige, please.”

With almost agonizing slowness, Paige pulls her pants down her legs, still cognizant of her knee. Her eyes widen at the sight of Tess splayed out under her, her breath catching. “Fuck, Tess,” she murmurs in disbelief. Tess finds it hard to be insecure when Paige is looking at her like this. “All for me?”

“For you,” Tess says, her chest heaving.

Paige smiles smugly, whispering, “Yeah, it is,” before she leans down, pressing her lips to Tess’s full thighs, gripping her hips. She spreads her legs, fitting her body in the space she’s created, trailing kisses towards her knee, where the surgery scar remains. Tess’s breath catches in her throat when Paige kisses her knee, her fingers brushing gently over her skin. “Every inch of you is so fuckin’ beautiful,” she whispers in awe. “God, Tess. How are you real?”

For that, Tess has no answer. She reaches for Paige’s hand, intertwining their fingers as she pulls the blonde back to her lips. They’re locked together for a few moments before Tess feels the brush of Paige’s pant leg against her skin. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whines.

“Sorry, baby,” Paige whispers against her lips. She kisses her once more, a lingering press before pulling away, pulling her pants off with a quickness. She’s left in a black sports bra and a pair of boxers.

She settles in again, her lips finding Tess’s navel, pressing wet kisses to her skin. “Paige,” Tess begs again. “Please touch me.”

“Where d’you need me?” she asks, glancing back up to meet Tess’s eyes. She wonders if she looks as destroyed as she feels. Paige hasn’t even done anything, but all of her senses are on overdrive. She reaches for Paige’s hand, guiding it to the apex of her thighs, resting it over her underwear. If she were wearing a lighter color, she’d be concerned about her arousal seeping through the material.

“Off, Paige, please,” Tess requests.

Paige obliges, stripping her fully. Her eyes soak her in, a groan building at the back of her throat at the sight of Tess spread open and exposed for her. Her hands linger on her thighs as Paige returns to Tess’s lips, kissing her deeply once more. “You want me?” she asks, their noses brushing. “We can stop if you want, don’t gotta do nothin’ you’ont want, Tess, I swear it.”

Tess shakes her head, pulling Paige back in. She’s never been more sure of anything else in her life. “Want you,” she affirms, her voice breathless. Paige pulls back again; her pupils are blown out and the desire is evident, but she searches Tess’s eyes for any hint of a falsehood. When she finds none, she presses one last kiss to her lips, trailing down her body again until she reaches her cunt. Her breath is warm against her and Tess shivers.

Paige reaches for one of her hands, intertwining their fingers. With the other, she spreads her legs once more, getting comfortable and finally, she dips down fully to drag her tongue slowly along the length of her slit. She groans, the vibrations making Tess crazy, and it takes everything in her to not lose her mind as her back arches. Paige uses her free arm to press down on her hips, keeping her rooted as she licks and sucks, her tongue all over her. And when Paige finds her clit, wrapping her lips around it and sending waves of white-hot pleasure throughout her body, Tess whines so loudly that she can feel the noise in her throat. “Paige, fuck,” she gasps, one of her hands twining in Paige’s hair, tugging her closer and closer to her.

Paige is vocal in general, but the noises she makes against Tess’s cunt are intoxicating in the best way. Her head spins as Paige laps her up, gathering her slick on her tongue and drinking her up like a woman starved. She travels lower, her nose brushing against Tess’s clit as her tongue circles her entrance, and Tess feels like some part of her has died and gone to heaven. The pleasure is immeasurable, white spots blotting at the edges of her vision.

Then Paige’s arm is leaving her hips, her fingers trailing down, brushing across her folds. She presses her lips to Tess’s thigh, smearing the wetness as her thumb rubs slow, intentional circles on her clit. “So pretty like this,” Paige murmurs, her voice thick, sounding like she’s drunk off of her taste. Her fingers dip down and she slowly pushes one inside of her, letting Tess get used to the stretch as she tips her head back in wordless euphoria. “That’s it, baby, you got it.” Her finger starts moving, curling upwards, dragging across a spot that makes Tess writhe.

Tess releases Paige’s hair, one arm slinging over her face, unable to fully process the pleasure. Paige stops suddenly, making a disapproving noise against the inside of her thigh as she nips at her skin. “Eyes on me,” she says firmly, “or I’ll stop.”

Tess whimpers, but does as Paige says. She’s rewarded with a blinding smile, the shine of her slick on Paige’s cheeks evident with the way the moonlight streams through the room. Paige prods at her entrance with a second finger. It’s a tighter squeeze, but Tess just sucks her in. “There we go,” Paige whines, breathless with want. “Jus’ like that, fuck.” Both of her fingers are working her in tandem, curling upwards, and Tess feels boneless.

With every push and pull of her fingers, every time her fingertips brush against the spongy part inside of her, Tess feels the pleasure mounting and she starts babbling, begging for Paige to give her what she needs, to finally give her some relief after being so high-strung for what feels like ages. Paige is all too content to give it to her, her head dipping down once more to wrap her lips around her clit. Paige is vocal against her cunt, moans of her own high-pitched and whiny, talking her through it with incoherent rambles. Her mouth and her fingers work her in tandem. Paige leads her higher and higher to her peak, and after one final well-timed brush, the pleasure crests and Tess’s orgasm washes through her.

Paige hums against her, pleased, working her through it until the aftershock tremors subside. Only when Tess gasps, far too overstimulated, does Paige slowly drag her fingers out, pressing one last kiss to her thighs. Tess sighs, sagging into the bed. Paige glances at her, her expression hazy and filled with undeniable smugness, fondness, and a lingering concern. “You good?” she asks, her voice rough.

At that, Tess can’t help but laugh, gazing up at Paige through hooded lids. “You just gave me the best head of my life and that’s what you have to say?” she asks weakly.

Paige rolls her eyes, rubbing her thigh gently with her clean hand. “I’on know what you want from me. You wanna high-five or sum’? Buy a cake to celebrate?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tess says, amused and somehow endeared. “I can’t believe this is who I just had sex with.”

Paige snorts. “I don’t remember you doin’ much of anything.”

Tess flushes. “First of all,” she begins, still a little breathless, “rude. Second of all… should I?”

“Nah,” Paige says, her entire demeanor shifting. “Uh, you don’t gotta worry about that.”

Tess stares at her long and hard, not quite understanding. It’s not until she notes the flush on Paige’s chest, the sweat beading at her temples, the way her boxers stick to her body that she finally understands. “Oh my God,” she says, much to Paige’s chagrin. “You–”

“Chill!” Paige exclaims, embarrassed. “You were makin’ all these noises. I couldn’t help it.”

They stare at each other for a few beats before they both dissolve into exhausted giggles. Tess feels slightly delirious, although part of her can’t believe she just did this with Paige. She doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t think she ever could.

“We should probably clean up,” Paige suggests.

Tess hums, stretching. “Give me like ten minutes,” she says. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Paige laughs smugly. “Yeah?”

Tess shakes her head, amused. “Shut up.”

“Alright,” she concedes, hooking one arm around Tess’s back and the other under her knees. Tess yelps in surprise as Paige lifts her easily, walking them both to the bathroom. “I’m tired. And your ass is not makin’ it ten more minutes.”

“You’re an asshole!” Tess exclaims as Paige turns on the shower, adjusting the heat. “But true.” With one last smile, Paige helps her into the shower and they wash up together. It feels so incredibly domestic, but Tess isn’t complaining. She’s not going to allow her brain to ruin this night for them, not when everything leading up to it has been nothing short of perfect.

They’re well past sleepy when they finally make it out of the shower, redressing in sleep attire. Paige checks out the blankets, getting rid of the soiled ones and grabbing fresh ones from the closet. Soon, she and Tess are collapsing into bed, seconds away from passing out entirely, but Paige reaches for her instantly. She curls into her body, her arm wrapping around Tess’s middle. She brushes her lips against her temple. “Happy New Year’s, Tess,” she whispers, her tone fond.

Tess can only muster an exhausted smile, squeezing her hand as she whispers back, “Happy New Year’s, Paige.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #uconn #uconn wbb #ncaa wbb #paige bueckers smut

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goblinontour · 3 days ago

Text

Consequences

is there such a thing as too much love?

warnings: dad!alex (well, not quite), fluff, smut, raw fucking, ya know

word count: 7k

He had his eyes closed. He should’ve been dreaming. Instead, he was thinking of you. Not just you, but the spaces you occupied, the way you breathed air and made it yours. He wasn’t sure if it was obsession or something softer, something quieter but more profound, something that stretches across the distance between the two of you and doesn’t snap. Either way, it kept him awake, even now, as the rest of the world surrendered to sleep.

They told him not to wait for it. Don’t wait for the world to align itself, for the stars to blink their approval. Create it yourself, they’d said. Your world. Alone. Stand alone. Build it brick by brick, carve it out of the nothingness. Then the love will come to you. Then it will come. But they never warned him what it would feel like when it did. How it would crash into him, fierce and unrelenting, how it would unravel him piece by piece until he wasn’t sure which fragments of himself belonged anymore.

The day you met, the wind howled like it had something to say. A storm was caught in its lungs, a promise in its teeth. It yanked at his coat, bit at his neck, and wrapped itself around the moment like a ribbon tied to a gift neither of you knew you were giving. Later, he’d wonder if it wasn’t the universe itself exhaling, breathing out its relief as he whispered, under his breath, finally.

You were like that — something that wasn’t supposed to be here but was. A misplaced star, maybe. Or a stray thread tugging at the edges of his life, unravelling him just to see if you could put him back together in a new way. And he let you. Every time. No questions asked. Somehow, you always did it right, reassembling him into something unfamiliar yet more whole. A new version of himself, one he didn’t know he’d been waiting to meet.

He hadn’t expected it to be so easy for you. The way you looked at him — steady, like you weren’t afraid of what you might find — left him feeling exposed. But it didn’t stop him from leaning closer. You had this way of throwing things off balance. He let you throw him too.

You wandered into his orbit with the kind of quiet that still felt loud and changed everything without saying a word. And suddenly, colors tasted better on his tongue just from the sight of them, without even taking a bite. The sound of rain became music, no rhythm, no melody, just noise, and yet it sang.

He swore — God, he swore — he could fly. Not in the grand, sweeping sense of it, but in the way a bird feels the wind cradle its wings, like gravity might just loosen its grip if he asked nicely enough. That’s what it was like with you. Effortless. Dangerous, too, because he knew he was risking the fall every time.

There was something about you that turned the ordinary into something else entirely. The way you looked at the world — curious, amused, like everything was both a puzzle and a punchline — made him want to see it the way you did. And sometimes he could.

He noticed the little things because of you. The sound of a door creaking open, the way sunlight moved across a room, the way your hands spoke a language he didn’t know he understood. You taught him how to look, not just at the world but at himself. And he hated it, at first. How vulnerable it made him feel. How much it made him want to be better.

But then there were moments when it felt worth it. Like when you smiled at him — not just with your mouth, but with your whole face, your whole being. Like the universe itself was bending toward him, just for a second, just for the briefest of moments.

He wondered if you knew what you were doing to him. If you knew how completely you’d taken up residence in his thoughts, in the spaces between them, in the cracks he’d refused to acknowledge until you. You were there now, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to leave or if he wanted you to stay forever.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need to know, that the knowing wouldn’t change anything. But the truth was, he wanted to understand it — this thing between you. This force that felt too big to name, too wild to tame, and yet somehow quiet enough to fit in the silence between his breaths.

You threw him off balance. And he let you.

Because somehow, in the chaos, you always managed to put him back. Differently, but perfectly. Each time. No exceptions.

And if he had to fall apart a thousand times just to feel this way again, he’d do it. Without hesitation. Without regret.

Because with you, even the falling felt like flying.

There was silence and peace and dreams. Dreams of possibly him or possibly something else entirely — though most probably him. It was always him, even if you couldn’t be sure when the dream dissolved into fragments the moment your eyes opened. You could never recall them when you woke, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. And this time, any hope of clinging to the memory of it was stolen by the sensation of something — someone — poking gently at your eyes.

It was light, barely a touch, but the area was sensitive enough that it startled you awake. You blinked against the soft intrusion, vision blurry. But then you saw him, and suddenly, you didn’t mind.

He was leaning over you, his face framed by soft curls and morning light. His smile was small but unmistakable, curling at the edges like it had nowhere else to go but wider. His finger was still hovering close to your face. Caught in the act.

“You’re so cute when you sleep.”

You frowned, not because you were upset, but because compliments always made you feel like you were being caught off guard, like a spotlight had been aimed directly at you. “Then why wake me up?” you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to.” He tilted his head, and the way he said it was genuine but not regretful. Unapologetic in the way he always was. “You’re cute when you’re awake too.”

Your nose scrunched instinctively, an automatic reaction you couldn’t control. You weren’t sure if it was because of the compliment or the sleepiness still clouding your mind, but either way, you turned your face slightly, almost embarrassed.

And he laughed — soft, breathy, like he couldn’t help himself. The sound of it filled the room, made the silence feel alive again. He reached out with that same finger, brushing against your scrunched nose as if to smooth it out.

“Don’t do that.” he teased, but his voice had softened.

You closed your eyes for a moment, scrunching them too, tightly shut as if to escape him, but you could feel him leaning closer. It was a subtle shift, but you noticed it immediately — the warmth of him inching toward you, the space between you shrinking with every second.

And then he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin mixing with your own. Your eyes fluttered open just slightly, enough to catch the way his gaze softened, how he looked at you like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Maybe this was better than any dream you could’ve had.

His thoughts tangled and unraveled in waves as he watched you. Watched you like he was trying to memorize every detail — the way your eyelashes fanned across your cheek, the way the light kissed your skin before he could, the soft part of your lips as you exhaled in quiet breaths. There was a gentleness to you in that moment, the kind of softness that made his chest ache. It wasn’t just beauty, though there was plenty of that. It was something more, something that couldn’t be captured in words or paintings or songs. And then he thought of nothing at all, because the need — the want — was too loud, too consuming.

The longer he looked, the more the thought rose in him. It wasn’t impulsive, exactly — it was inevitable, a truth he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Kiss me.”

You hadn’t moved a bone, a muscle, hadn’t even flinched or twitched in surprise, and there was no hesitation in your eyes. No question. There was no other choice but yes. In the stillness of your body, there was an answer.

And in that moment, his chest swelled. Delight, relief, something brighter and bigger than both. His gaze flicked down to your lips, his own puckered, and for a second, he looked younger, freer, like all the weight he carried with him had been set aside in favour of this one, perfect moment.

When he kissed you, he moved slowly at first, his lips brushing yours, feather-light, testing, savoring, like he was afraid to rush and ruin it. But the hesitation didn’t last long. It melted away as soon as he felt you leaning into him, your warmth meeting his, your lips parting just enough to let him in. But then you responded, tilting just slightly toward him, and that was all the invitation he needed.

He tilted his head, his hand rising to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against the curve of your cheek. Every second of this must be engraved somewhere in his memory — how you felt, how you tasted, how you leaned into him like you too were falling and he was the only one to catch you.

How could humans possibly be solitary creatures? How could they bear to live untouched when the dip of every neck and the curve of every palm seemed sculpted for connection, for closeness? The hollow of his hand fit against your face as though it had been waiting for this, for you. And in the way your cheek softened against his palm, like you were surrendering, he felt the answer to a question he hadn’t even known he was asking.

His fingers traced lightly along the edge of your jaw, as though mapping something sacred, and it occurred to him — suddenly, achingly — that this was what people were made for. To hold and be held. To press themselves into the spaces of someone else and find that they fit. That they belonged.

And as he kissed you, he thought maybe you knew this too. Maybe you’d always known, and that’s why you leaned into him so naturally, like the world itself had softened and settled just to make room for this.

For you and for him. Together.

“Mhm…” he murmured.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “What?” you whispered.

He stayed close, his forehead brushing lightly against yours, his lips curved in a lazy, lopsided smile. “I woke up wanting to kiss you.” The simplest truth.

And then he kissed you again, slower, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t want to stop. Like maybe, if he kept kissing you, he’d never have to.

Lips lingered on yours for a moment longer before he pulled back, just slightly. He couldn’t bear to move too far away. His fingers were still on your face, his thumb stroking gently along your cheekbone, a touch so light it felt more like a memory than a moment.

“You once told me,” he murmured, quiet, like a secret being shared in the dark, “that the human eye is God’s loneliest creation.”

You blinked slowly, still caught in the haze of sleep, of him, and his closeness. “Yeah.” you said softly, the word almost swallowed by the air between you.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips grazing your temple, more instinct than intention, drawn there by some magnetic pull. “I don’t believe that.” he said, muffled against your skin.

“God?” you asked.

He laughed with a quiet exhale. “That too.” he admitted, brushing his nose against your hairline. You couldn’t help it — you laughed, and he smiled against you.

“But…” His hand moved, slipping from your cheek to your jaw, his fingers tracing the curve there, trailing down your neck with the lightest pressure. “But…how so much of the world passes through the pupil, and it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, just as empty.”

Words sank. And for a moment you couldn’t respond. He didn’t seem to notice, his lips brushing a kiss along the curve of your jaw, so gentle it almost tickled. His other hand found your waist, resting there with no real purpose except to feel you beneath his palm.

You swallowed hard. “That’s…sad.”

“Yeah.” he murmured, grazing your skin again, this time at the edge of your collarbone where your shirt had slipped just slightly. “But I don’t think it has to be. Not when there’s this.”

His hand tightened, just slightly, at your waist. A squeeze. His fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand stayed at your neck, thumb pressing gently at the hollow of your throat, like he could feel the rhythm of your pulse and was trying to match it with his own.

Everywhere he touched felt like both too much and not enough. He seemed to be following some invisible thread that connected you both, pulling him closer, closer, closer. His lips pressed to your shoulder, his thumb brushed the curve of your rib, his fingers slipped to the back of your neck, tangling lightly in your hair.

You felt his breath as he leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your bottom lip, soft and slow, trying to draw out the moment forever.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t think the eye is lonely.” he said. “Not when it has this. Not when it has you.” And before you could answer, his lips found yours again, more sure this time.

He pulled back just as slowly, resting his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns along the curve of your waist. You opened your eyes and you forgot what words even were. His eyes held you there, heavy and unmoving, and you felt it — something alive and raw and impossible to name. Staring into him might undo you completely.

“Maybe if we stare into each other’s eyes long enough,” you murmured, “they’ll reflect into a supernova.”

You said it to lighten the air, to make him smile, to pull him back into something playful and safe. But he didn’t laugh. There wasn’t even a flicker of amusement on his face. He blinked once, and when he looked at you again, there was something there that made your stomach flip.

“Maybe.” he said softly, and he wasn’t joking. Not even a little. “You think I’m joking.” he said, his breath warm against your mouth. “I’m not.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through you, not because it was absurd but because you believed him too. The quiet in his voice, the steadiness in his gaze, the way his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, holding you gently, made you feel like the impossible wasn’t so far out of reach.

“I know.”

His touch wandered everywhere and nowhere all at once. He didn’t know where to hold you because there wasn’t a single part of you he didn’t want to touch.

“Maybe.” he murmured again, quieter this time, like the word was for him, not for you. “Maybe we already have.”

Heavy and electric, and you couldn’t tell if it was the room spinning or just you. All you knew was the way he was looking at you — like the supernova had already started, like the light was already spilling out of both of you, unstoppable.

His eyes were hungry. Not the kind of hunger that could be sated with a kiss, or even a touch, but something deeper, raw and untamed. It wasn’t desperation — it was desire, pure and unfiltered, like he’d been holding himself back for too long and now the dam was cracking.

His lips were still parted, flushed from the kisses you’d already given him, but there was something else there now. Something darker. Lust, thick and heavy, dripping from him like honey. You could feel it in the way his hands twitched against you, in the way his chest rose and fell faster, like he was trying to keep control but failing.

So you starved him a bit longer.

You leaned back just slightly, enough to create space, enough to make him feel the loss of you. His hands followed instinctively, one on your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck, but you didn’t let him close the distance. Not yet.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and pleading, but you held your ground, tilting your head just enough to make it clear this was your game. You watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, like he was preparing to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Please.” he murmured finally, his voice rough, hoarse, like it had been dragged through gravel.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. “Deprivation brings out our inner animal.” you said softly.

His grip tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you gasp. His gaze was molten now, his hunger bleeding.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, low and dangerous, barely holding himself back. “To see me lose control?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You leaned in just enough that your breath ghosted against his lips, close enough that he could almost taste you. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, his resolve cracking, but you pulled back before he could close the gap.

You wanted him wild.

And when he opened his eyes again, there it was — the animal, unleashed. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping you harder, pulling you flush against him. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so your neck was exposed to him.

“You want wild?” he growled, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear. His teeth grazed the spot lightly, enough to make your breath hitch, enough to send a spark shooting through you. “Careful what you ask for.”

His mouth was on you then, hot and demanding, trailing along your jaw, your throat, down to the curve of your shoulder. Rougher. Needier. His lips and teeth and tongue marked you in ways that felt dangerous.

You gasped, your hands finding their way to his chest, his shoulders, clawing at him without meaning to. He groaned at the sensation, a deep sound that rumbled through his chest and into yours.

And when he finally kissed you again — fully, deeply — it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was everything he’d been holding back, all his hunger, all his need, pouring into you.

It was wild. Exactly the way you wanted him.

Balance was easy. Everywhere else. In your day, in your mind, in your carefully crafted world where everything had its place. But not with him. Not with you. Together, you tipped the scales every time. Because balance required restraint, and restraint didn’t exist here.

You both wanted all of it. All of him, all of you, all the time, every time. No measured doses, no patience. Just hunger, mutual and endless, spilling over like it had nowhere else to go but into each other.

A hand cupped your cheek, firm but tender, grounding you even as it made you feel like you were floating. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, his fingers splaying out to cradle you. But the other hand — that was something else entirely.

It slid down your side, slowly, before finding the curve of your breast. His palm was big, hot, and unrelenting as it pressed against you, his fingers dragging just so over the fabric covering your nipple. It was barely a touch, but it set you alight, your back arching instinctively into him.

“You’re shaking.” he murmured, edged with satisfaction.

“You’re irresistible.” you managed, breathy and uneven.

He chuckled, low and quiet, his lips curving against your skin. “I know.”

“Do you?” you said, trying to sound exasperated but failing when his thumb brushed over you again, teasing and firm all at once. “Because you-”

“Did I tell you,” he interrupted, suddenly conversational, like you weren’t both teetering on the edge of something consuming, “that I had the weirdest dream last night?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Dream.” he repeated, trailing maddeningly slow kisses down your neck. “I was on a beach. Except it wasn’t really a beach. There was no sand. Just water. Endless water. And fish, flying through the air.”

You laughed despite yourself, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “Flying fish? Seriously?”

“Yeah.” he said. “But they weren’t normal fish. They had wings. Big ones. Like hawks.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I can’t tell if that’s poetic or just bizarre.”

“Both…you know me.” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. His hand, still on your breast, gave a gentle squeeze, dragging your attention back to the moment. “But I woke up thinking about it. Wondering what it meant.”

“Maybe it means you’re going insane.” you teased, trying to steady your breathing as his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over the fabric.

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice dropping again, “it means I was dreaming about you.”

The sudden shift in his tone made your laughter catch in your throat. “Me?”

“You.” he confirmed, leaning in again. “You’re the water. The endless part. The thing I can’t get enough of.”

“That’s ridiculous.” you whispered.

“Is it?” he murmured. “Why else would I wake up wanting to kiss you? Tell me it doesn’t make sense.”

“I can’t.” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

He smiled against your skin, his hand sliding from your breast to your waist, holding you. “Thought so.”

There was silence for a moment, heavy and charged, before you broke it. “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t…you?”

He paused, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you. “If I weren’t me?”

“Yeah.” you said. “Like, if you weren’t…you know. This.”

He laughed, fingers tightening on your waist. “I’d be a fisherman.”

“A fisherman?” you repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah.” he said, his grin widening. “Out at sea. Catching fish. Flying ones, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes, your laughter bubbling up again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said as his lips found yours, “here you are. Laughing with me. Touching me. Wanting me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” you muttered, but it was much too unconvincing.

“Too late.”

And just like that, you were back where you started — off balance, undone, completely at his mercy. But you didn’t mind. Not even a little.

He was the kind of man who understood the subtle difference between heat and warmth. He knew how to be both, how to burn without consuming, how to hold you close without smothering. His touch was calculated, precise, but it felt instinctive, natural, like he’d known your body long before he’d ever laid a hand on it.

His hand moved on your breast again, his fingers tightening slightly, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Tell me how it feels.” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.

“It feels…” you started, your voice trailing off as he rolled your nipple gently between his fingers.

“It feels?” he pressed.

“Good.” you admitted, the word tumbling out of you. “Too good.”

He smiled then, not just with his mouth but with his whole body, like he was basking in the effect he had on you. “That’s the point, baby.” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

And then his hand left your cheek, sliding down your neck, your shoulder, until it joined the other. He was everywhere again, his hands roaming, exploring, mapping out every inch of you with the kind of care that felt almost reverent. But it wasn’t gentle. Not entirely.

“Look at me.” he said suddenly. Your eyes fluttered open, and when you met his gaze, it was like the air had been sucked out of the room. “I want all of you. Every part. Every thought. Every breath. Don’t hold anything back from me.”

And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Because you wanted the same thing. All of him. All the time.

He took your shirt off, slow and unhurried. The fabric pooled somewhere behind you, forgotten, and he leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin.

“I love breathing you.” he’d told you once, the words so simple yet so heavy they’d stayed with you. He was doing that now, his chest rising and falling against yours, his lips brushing your collarbone as though he was inhaling you, drawing you in, needing you to fill every corner of him.

His hands moved with that same steady rhythm, skimming down your sides, tracing the curves, writing something only he and you could understand. He spoke to your body rhythmically, each touch a sentence, each kiss a line of poetry. He didn’t rush. He didn’t falter. It was with ease. He knew every word, every movement, by heart.

“You’re beautiful.”

“You’ve said that before.” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I’ll say it again.” he said simply, grazing the hollow of your throat. “Every day, if you’ll let me.”

You didn’t respond with words. You tilted your head back, giving him more space, more of you, and his lips followed the silent invitation, moving down, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin along your chest.

He whispered something then, something you couldn’t catch. “What did you say?” you asked, your voice shaky.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. “I said,” he repeated, “you’re going to ruin me.”

“Me? You’re the one-”

His hands moved again, cutting you off, his fingers brushing the underside of your boob. “You.” he said again, his voice firm this time, like a declaration.

He spoke to your body, and somehow his whispers made you scream — not with noise but with feeling, with the way your whole being seemed to vibrate, caught in the current of him. You never did understand how he did it, how his voice could unravel you with nothing but a murmur, a word, a sigh.

You never cared to, either.

So long as he’d — “Please” — keep talking.

And he did. His words came in waves, washing over you, soft and relentless. Compliments, confessions, half-formed thoughts spilling from him like he couldn’t keep them in.

“You feel like heaven.”

He murmured, his lips brushing your shoulder.

“My little trouble.”

He teased, his hands skimming down your sides.

“You’re everything.”

He whispered, his voice breaking just slightly.

And each word, each syllable, sank into you, filling the spaces you hadn’t even known were empty. Arching into him, holding him closer, whispering back with every touch, every gasp, every shudder.

You didn’t need words. He understood you just fine.

The routine of it never got boring. Same steps every time, same heat every time. The way his hands found your body, the way your body responded like it was made for this — for him. Never stale, never cold. It always took your breath away, the way his body would talk for him when words weren’t enough. Like it did now. Automatic, instinctive. Clothes off, parts touching, skin to skin, deeper than deep.

Penetrating.

“Oh…” you gasped, the sound escaping before you could catch it.

“Oh…” he echoed, his voice vibrating against your ear.

Just as good as the first time. Just as good as the best.

His hands tangled with your pillow, gripping it because he just needed something to hold on to. Yours roamed over his back, your nails raking down his sensitive skin, leaving traces, marks, scratches. Little reminders that this happened, that you were here, that he was yours.

“So tight.” he murmured. Agrowl, a confession, a prayer.

“So big.” you praised, your words coming out breathless, like they’d been pulled from the depths of you.

He moaned at that, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers through you. Without thought, your body responded, contracting around him, pulling him in, holding him there. It was heaven on earth, this give and take, this rhythm you’d perfected together.

The pure, seductive nature of eye contact. The kind that never breaks.

It was impossible to look away, impossible to do anything but drown in him. Your breath hitched, your hands clutching at him, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between you.

People don’t say “the eyes are the doors to the soul” for nothing. You could see everything in his — the hunger, the devotion, the way he was completely lost in you, with you. And you knew he could see the same in yours.

Your lovemaking was slow and patient, yet filled with an intensity that made your head spin. It wasn’t about chasing an ending — it was about this. About feeling. About being as close to him as humanly possible. About holding him and being held, about losing yourself and finding him in the process.

It was the best way to start a day.

The absolute best way to fuck.

“Harder?” he asked.

“Yeah.” you moaned.

He shifted then, adjusting his angle, his pace, his intensity. His hips moved against yours with more force, more urgency, and the sound that tore from your throat was pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Harder?” he asked again.

“Yes.” you whispered, then said it louder, breathier, “Yes, please.”

Alex grinned, slow and cocky, the kind of grin that made you want to kiss him and slap him in equal measure. He didn’t make you wait long, though, shifting his hips and giving you exactly what you asked for. The first thrust had your head tipping back, and he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your exposed throat.

“You’re so polite.” he teased, his breath hot against your skin. “Always asking so nicely.”

“Shut up.” you countered, and his laugh turned into a groan as you clenched around him, just to make your point. “You’re cute.” you said, because you couldn’t help it.

He rolled his eyes, but the grin didn’t leave his face. “Cute?”

“The cutest.” you confirmed, teasing, but there was truth in it. He was the cutest thing you’d ever seen, and you were sure it would be the death of you one day.

“Cute.” he repeated, as though testing the word. Then he shook his head, leaning down until your foreheads touched.

And he kissed you again, slow and deep, and you sighed into it, your hands slipping around his neck to pull him closer. But impatience was building, a steady drumbeat in your veins that wouldn’t be ignored.

“You feel…” he started, his voice breaking, his forehead pressing against yours as his thrusts slowed just slightly to drag out the moment. “My God, baby…you feel like everything.”

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t stop.” you whispered against his lips.

“Never.” he promised, his hands sliding under you, holding you tighter, pulling you closer. “Never.”

“More.” you begged. Or demanded. Or pleaded. Or somewhere in between. The word came out broken, trembling, desperate. How much more of him could there possibly be? He was already everywhere. Over you, under you, inside you, wrapped around you in ways that felt almost cosmic. And yet, somehow, he delivered.

He gave himself to you more.

It felt illegal, this level of connection. Like there was some universal law being broken, some boundary being shattered, some line you weren’t supposed to cross. This is too much, you thought, even as your body cried for more, for everything. It was too much. And still not enough. Never enough.

“Baby.” he groaned, his voice cracking. He was unraveling in your arms. “I’m gonna come.”

“Do it.” you whispered, your voice shaking with anticipation, your legs tightening around him, holding him to you.

“God-” he choked out, his hips stuttering as his movements became frenzied. “I’m gonna fill you up-”

Heaven. The words were heaven to your ears, a promise and a plea all at once. It felt obscene to think it, but you felt it, and he felt it, and that was all you needed. No logic, no explanation. Just this.

And then he was gone.

His body stiffened, his head dropping to your shoulder as his breath hitched, caught in his throat. He groaned, vibrating through you as his hips pressed flush against yours, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could feel it, the way his body gave in, the way he let go, spilling into you with a force that felt like surrender.

It was warm, searing, a flood that made you gasp, made your body tighten around him instinctively, pulling him in, holding him there. He cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Fuck…” he breathed, wrecked and shaky. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your mind was too hazy, your body too overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling you, completing you in a way that felt almost holy.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, all heavy-lidded and full of…disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite comprehend that this was real, that you were real, that you were his.

“I love you.” he whispered. It carried his whole soul.

“I love you.” you echoed, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, pulling him down for a quiet promise in the aftermath of the storm.

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like enough.

He stayed there, pressed deep inside you. You thought he might speak, but for a moment, there was only the sound of your shared breaths.

Then, finally, his voice came, quiet and raw. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” you trailed off, your lips curving into a small, tired smile. “I’m thinking I might actually melt into you.”

His laugh was soft, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours. “Good.” he murmured. “That’s good.”

You shifted slightly beneath him, your body instinctively starting to move, to stretch, but his hands tightened on your hips, holding you still.

“No, don’t move.” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Please.”

You froze, your brows knitting together. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, hesitant, “that way I can imagine we’re a single body.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it, at the vulnerability in his tone. His hands softened their grip, but he didn’t let you pull away. His eyes stayed on yours, wide and unguarded.

“That’s…” You swallowed hard, your voice faltering. “That’s beautiful.”

He smiled, a small, almost shy thing, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure he should be smiling at all. “It’s true.” he said simply, his hands moving up to cradle your face again, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose you. Not even for a second.”

“You’re not losing me.” you whispered. “I’m right here.”

“I know.” he said. “But I want more than that. I want…” He trailed off, his eyes closing as he took a shaky breath. “I want you to be a part of me. Like…physically, spiritually. All of it.”

“You already have me.” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your own emotions. “Every part of me. You know that, right?”

“I do.” he said softly. “But sometimes it feels like it’s not enough. Like I’ll never have enough…enough of you.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you kissed him, pouring everything you couldn’t say into the way your lips moved against his. And he kissed you back like he was trying to do the same, his hands sliding down to hold you closer, to keep you there, connected, inseparable.

And you knew, somewhere deep in the quiet corners of your mind, that one day you would awaken with the bitter taste of regret lingering on your lips where his kisses used to live.

Because he wasn’t the kind of lover you could replace.

He was that Sunday morning, stay in bed till noon kind of lover. The kind who made the world outside your bedroom feel like it didn’t exist, who made time irrelevant, who made you forget there was anything beyond the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body pressed against yours. That lose ourselves between the sheets, forget where you end and I begin kind of lover. The kind who could turn every sigh, every gasp, every moan into a symphony, who knew the exact rhythm of your body like he’d been born to play it. That double climax, let me taste you again kind of lover. The kind who never seemed satisfied, who always wanted more of you, who could spend hours tracing your skin with his mouth like it was the most sacred map he’d ever seen.

“Don’t leave me.” you whispered suddenly.

His head lifted, his eyes finding yours, wide and questioning. “What?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. “I mean…don’t leave this.” you clarified, your voice softer now. “Don’t let this, us, fade. Promise me.”

His expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.” he said, his voice steady, reassuring.

“But what if-”

“No.” he interrupted, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there. “No ‘what ifs.’ I’m here. I’m staying. With you.”

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift entirely. There was a part of you that knew nothing this good, this intense, this all-consuming could last forever.

“Hey.” he murmured, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him and nowhere else. “You’re stuck with me, alright? No one else is ever going to make me feel like this. Like…” He hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched for the words. “Like I’m alive for the first time.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. What could you possibly say to that?

So you kissed again. And in that moment, you believed him. You believed in him, in this, in the impossible, fragile thing you’d built together.

But somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew that someday you might wake up and realise it had all slipped through your fingers.

And you would miss him like you’d miss air.

But like everything touched by man, there would be consequences.

Because now, you’re in that same bed, with that same man — your Alex, your same Alex — and she’s tugging on his hair with all the determination her tiny fists can muster. He’s wincing from the sting, his jaw tight, but he won’t pull away. He never does.

She’s kicking him in the face with those minuscule onesie-covered feet, relentless and uncoordinated, all raw energy and discovery. The kind of kicks that make you wonder how someone so small can have so much force behind them.

And he’s tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your soul and refuses to let go. His eyes are heavy, the dark circles beneath them a testament to too many sleepless nights and too many early mornings.

But he keeps them open.

He keeps them open because every time he blinks, every time his lids lower even for a fraction of a second, she stops. And then she waits. She waits for him to look at her again, and when he does, when his eyes meet hers, her tiny face lights up with a smile so pure, so full of joy, it’s as if the entire world was made just for her.

And you’re watching it all unfold.

You’re watching your daughter fall in love with the same eyes you did.

Consequences.

They’re everywhere now — in the scattered toys on the floor, in the half-drunk cups of coffee that go cold before he can finish them, in the tiny socks that never seem to stay on her feet.

But they’re also here, in this moment. In the way Alex leans into her, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, his hands gentle but steady as they cradle her wiggling body. In the way he whispers something soft to her, something you can’t hear, and she lets out a high-pitched giggle that fills the room like sunlight.

“Did you hear that?” he asks, turning to you with wide, wonder-filled eyes, his voice hushed because he’s just witnessed a miracle.

You nod, your chest tightening as you take it all in. “I heard.”

“She’s perfect.” he says, his voice cracking slightly, and you know he means it with every fiber of his being.

“She’s you.” you say softly, watching as his gaze shifts back to her, his expression so tender it makes your throat ache.

“No.” he murmurs, shaking his head. “She’s…she’s us.”

And in that moment, you know the consequences are worth it. Every sleepless night, every ache, every fleeting moment of doubt or fear. They are worth it for this — for the sight of your Alex, your same Alex, falling in love all over again, just like you did.

Consequences.

You wouldn’t trade them for anything.

a/n: I think I’m getting a bit obsessed with the concept of him finishing inside. I went on about it for a bit too long in another thing you’ll see soon too. Ugh.

Also, adding this just because. I was scrolling through some old playlists and whatever, landed on this song randomly and it really gave me the vibe of this, like what I was tryna express in here.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner fluff #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #fluff #smut #goblinontour #Spotify

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khorneschosen · 4 hours ago

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Yes but in a way its interesting. They are the prefect product of socialism.

Their mind is a brick wall. They know nothing, care for nothing, and want nothing.

Even their expressed values would follow with the death of humanity itself. They are the human extinction philosophy purely. They express this openly. So its interesting to poke at them and see what shakes loose.

Figure them out, figure out the fundamental error in practice and validate every theory. They are the philosopher's stone of errors.

Even the Luddites lie to themselves and pretend it is to humanity, the spirit of nature that is the altar that they kill on. The duality of man does not allow for this contradiction. To kill one is to kill the other.

Feminists don't even have that deep down. It's what makes them so interesting. They would kill for the sake of killing. Hate for its own sake. And destroy if the destruction would start with themselves. They are perfect by socialism's standards. They don't think, and yet crave the death of the measure of all things.

Its why they fail anything past what traditionalism could permit ironically enough and why were they to try it would be they who are destroyed in the process. They are the product, rebellion, and ultimately tied to traditionalism in a way that is inescapable.

Then there is just the sheer malice they have to practice as their only defense mechanism. You notice its their first and only response. Break it and what would be behind that? Would there even be enough space for a person? Would you find nothing?

As I said. Its interesting. Worth poking them from time to time.

why do women always have to be the bigger person? why don’t men just stop “joking” abt raping us?

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rookinthecrownest · 2 days ago

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Bedtime Stories For a Demon: The Day The World Disappeared, Part IV (Lucanis x Rook Fanfic)

Word Count: ~ 5.2k

Rook is trapped in the Fade. Spite is determined to get her out. But the truth of the prison is slowly unravelling itself.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Madeleina Mercar can’t sleep.

And this is quite unusual, because for the last few nights – really, ever since she can remember being at home, she has simply woken up to the next day. Every night was a dreamless slumber, shuffling her between moonlight to sunlight with little fanfare. Not so much as a violent twitch of her body while her mind convinces it she’s falling off a ledge.

Since Spite’s visit earlier, something hasn’t felt right. There’s not one thing she can really point a finger at. It was more of an ill-defined uneasiness that started bleeding into her interactions with her parents.

Later in the afternoon, she went to help her mother with the shop as she always did. It was only today that she realized that there were never any customers. Eurydice baked the bread and croissants and tartes every morning and arranged them neatly onto silver display trays. Each day, they went un-eaten, and Madeleina had no idea what happened to the excess, because she certainly never saw her mother carting in boxes of those leftover pastries into their home.

When she asked her mother about it as she was sweeping the floors (that never seemed to have any dust on them), Eurydice had simply returned a blank stare and asked her what she would like for dinner.

Madeleina had blinked, confused at the sudden shift in subject.

“Um …” she began, and really thought hard about it. Her face scrunched in concentration.

What had she eaten lately?

She remembered … well, she only remembered her favourite meal. Dolmades and vegetables with Tzatziki on the side. The same thing, every night.

“I want spiced lamb stew” she answered a few moments later. Madeleina didn’t even remember what her mother’s lamb stew tasted like but certainly wanted the opportunity to.

Her mother had nodded, airy and light, as if she hadn’t even heard, then went back to fussing over the displays that would certainly go unnappreciated.

Madeleina doesn’t question it until she’s sitting at the dinner table, and she doesn’t smell spiced lamb stew – she smells Dolmades. Sure enough, the stuffed grape leaves appear in front of her, with a side of grilled carrots and eggplants, and Tzatziki dip. As they had the night before. It was as if the conversation in the bakery earlier hadn’t happened at all. Since her mother didn’t acknowledge it, Madeleina didn’t either. She wordlessly ate her Dolma and ignored the sensation of the food turning to ash in her mouth.

Later that night, her father told her a story, before he went off to work for the evening. The same story, every night. Always The Sleeping Princess. And after Spite had tried to retell it in his own disjointed way, evoking all those strange memories as he did, she couldn’t help but notice how stilted her father’s delivery was tonight.

Almost as if he was reading from a script he couldn’t deviate from. A character in one of his own stories.

Had it always seemed that way and she just hadn’t noticed? Or was he becoming … different?

She desperately wanted to say something but her lips wouldn’t make the words. Just like at dinner. Would it even matter if she did, or would he brush her off like her mother had?

Deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, Madeleina listened and nodded at the appropriate times while he spoke, as the figures of the Princess, the King, the Demon, and the Hero danced behind her eyes, brought to life by her over-active imagination.

Madeleina’s eyes fly open as a memory starts to take shape in the back of her mind.

A memory of stories brought to life by magic. Her magic. In front of an ornate hearth, in the company of a man who’s face she still cannot see. A man whose name is as familiar as breathing, and yet entirely foreign as well. The phantom smell of coffee and chocolate and cinnamon lingers in the air, even now. She hasn’t been able to stop smelling it since Spite left. Wherever they are, it’s warm. Safe. Comforting. A private little haven for the two of them, forged first in blood and comradery, then molded into something tender and sweet with time and trust.

Lucanis.

Home.

Madeleina shakes her head.

No, this was her home.

A sleepy little village tucked safely between a forest of great Sycamores and the Hundred Pillars. A bakery that she tends with her mother, while her father plays at the tavern down the street every night.

A bakery without any customers, she reminds herself.

Madeleina tries to blink the thought away, but Spite’s words keep nagging in the back of her mind like a small dog yipping and snapping at her heels.

The young mage takes a slow, deliberate, inhale and closes her eyes, trying to focus harder on that memory.

She needs to figure this out. If there’s nothing to be worried about and she can go back to her regular, day-to-day, mundane life.

A day that repeats like turning wheel, a snake eating its tail.

Madeleina pushes the thought to the back of her mind, and with some reluctant effort, she’s back in that elusive memory.

Madeleina sees the stone hearth again. She can feel the hard, wooden chair beneath her. The warmth of the fire spreading like a wave across her body. As before, she tastes something sweet and familiar on her tongue - cinnamon and dough. He’s sitting across from her, partially shrouded in the dark. His voice is muffled, as if he were speaking under water.

Madeleina shuts her eyes tightly tries to focus harder. Spite’s words come streaming into her consciousness, guiding her down the turbulent river of her thoughts.

You show him. Wonders in front. Of his eyes. Stories brought to life. With magic. He measures nights. By your tales. Days. Waiting for the next

When she remembers Spite’s words, something strange happens.

She opens her eyes to find her chest glowing, as if someone set her heart alight with blue flame. It flickers weakly in the dark, almost like a beacon. There’s the sensation of being tugged towards some unknowable, far-off direction she couldn’t pinpoint. It’s stronger now than it was before. She’s almost afraid she’ll fly out of her own window, trying to find whoever is pulling at her heartstrings. Acting on instinct alone, Madeleina places a hand over her chest, inhales deeply once more, and concentrates on the strange sensation in her chest.

The scene bleeds into her mind’s eye again, a bit sharper now than it was before the sudden interruption.

The fire feels warmer, a balm to her sore joints and muscles. The desserts on the table smell fresher, sweeter than they did before. The leather of her father’s journal in her left hand feels rough, and weathered with time that shouldn’t yet have come to pass.

Her free hand flourishes across her vision, and right in front of her eyes the castle from The Sleeping Princess blinks into existence in sharp, striking detail.

Stories brought to life with magic. Just as Spite had said.

“It’s incredible, Rook” The man across from her breathes.

His voice is low, soft and gentle. Each word a velvet-soft petal falling upon waiting ears. The sound practically wraps around her like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s morning. She could live in that feeling.

Madeleina blinks in the memory.

His face his clearer now, coming into clear focus. Rimmed in the contrasting warm orange glow of the fire and eerie blue light of her magic, Madeleina drinks his features in like a madwoman dying of thirst, and he an oasis in the sand.

His eyes draw her in first. They’re big, and the most beautiful shade of earthen-rich brown she’s ever seen. She could fall into them for an eternity and be content to drown in their warmth. His black hair is styled into a mullet and feathered at the sides – almost like the wispy wings of a bird. His beard frames a strong, square jaw. His features are accentuated by soft lips, and an aquiline nose.

Breathtakingly, devastatingly, handsome. Words are inadequate, and so her body settles for a releasing a soft breath she didn’t know she was holding.

She continues moving through the motions of the story, bringing every figure and every scene to life with a wave of her hands, like she was the director of a theatre production.

“Well, go on” He motions to her eventually, with an expectant look flickering in those perfect brown eyes. At some point, the illusion she had been maintaining disappeared into the ether. She was too busy studying him like an art piece from one of the old master’s to have noticed. Lucanis is resting on his forearms now, practically at the edge of his seat.

Lucanis. Waits for what happens next.

He waits for you.

Only you.

Madeleina grins widely, pleased by his reaction. “Impatient, are we?”

He smirks, and she’s undone at the sight. “Spite wants to know how it ends”

She raises an eyebrow and folds her arms over her chest, “Oh? And you’re not the least bit curious?”

Lucanis’ lips quirk into a little smile, and her heart melts into her stomach. “I might be” he adds, as he takes a sip of his coffee.

That same melted heart is somehow solid enough to able to thrum erratically in her chest, flitting about like a crazed hummingbird trapped in a cage. A faint smile works its way onto her lips but she’s afraid the quickened rise and fall of her chest will give her away. So, she does the only thing she can think of and takes a sip of her own coffee. She’s not really thirsty, but the cup is large enough to hide the blush spreading across her face. The coffee is a bit lukewarm by now, clearly forgotten over the course of the story the two were enraptured in.

Satisfied that blush is gone and the pounding in her chest has settled, she sets the coffee aside and wrings out her hands.

“Sorry, I was feeling a bit parched there. On with the story”

A lie, a terrible lie. But a needed one.

As her free hand flourishes the figures into being once more, the memory cuts off abruptly. She opens her eyes and grips the fabric of her shirt through the thick blanket.

The warmth of the fire dissipates slowly, receding like a tide and although she’s under the covers, Madeleina feels cold. There’s no smell of coffee or cinnamon anymore. Lucanis is gone, and in the wake of his memory, a horrible realization settles in.

A piece of her heart is living outside of her body, somewhere far beyond her reach.

And she has no idea how to get to him.

“Lucanis”

She whispers his name like a prayer in the dead of night and hopes that wherever he is, he’s listening for her.

~*~

Lucanis Dellamorte has been sleeping more than usual these last few weeks, which was quite paradoxical because he wants to spend every waking moment making sure Rook’s rescue plan goes perfectly. He’s convinced he’s driven even the patient, kind-hearted Professor mad with his meticulous planning.

Unfortunately, it’s easier for Spite to traverse the raw Fade and keep an eye on Madeleina while he’s asleep. So, Lucanis acquiesces and lets himself drift into a dreamless slumber as Spite monitors the situation.

Once they told the group of the danger and time was running out, everyone was firing on all cylinders. It was a cacophony of organized chaos in the Lighthouse until the Veilguard was geared up and ready to head to Arlathan Forest through the Vir’Evas.

The entire trip through the Tevinter countryside to rescue Rook has him so on edge he’s lucky to get a few uninterrupted hours, much to Spite’s annoyance. He puts on a calm demeanour for the group, but each day that passes, given what he knows is happening inside that prison, Lucanis grows more agitated. Spite can feel it too. The demon’s … fear, for lack of a better world, is palpable under his skin, rolling across his body like a passing thunderstorm.

If the other members of the Veilguard have noticed, they have the good graces not to say anything.

The group is speeding along verdant hills in a large Dalish Aravel with Strife, Irelin, a few Veil Jumper mages, a sizeable quantity of Lyrium, and a few Resonance Amplifiers.

Bellara and Irelin are holed away in their own little corner, still furiously studying the Resonance Amplifiers and coming up with all sorts of far-fetched theories on how to … reverse their something, so they’ll weaken the veil instead of strengthening it. He may have spent a good portion of his career hunting mages, and he did know his way around a sordid variety of dangerous magic, but the finer points of magical theory are lost on him. Their chattering, as a result, filters in through one ear and out the other. Unfortunately, the amount of magic they’re using to try and get them to work is making the backs of his eyeballs itch something furious and is a lot harder to ignore than talking. He tries to blink the sensation away to no avail, so he settles for getting up and moving closer to Davrin and Assan’s corner of the Aravel.

The Griffon squawks excitedly at his approach. Lucanis gives him a quick smile and ruffles his head. Davrin is still working away at his wood carving. A wooden chess piece, Lucanis has noticed.

A little Rook.

The sight of has his heart squeezing in his chest.

He and the Grey Warden have settled into an easy friendship, one brokered by Rook, of course. She had that effect on people – was able to make them see past petty differences. Madeleina eased tension just by existing. Like a little sun, catching everything in her orbit and bathing it in her light.

Although he still thinks Davrin all too pretentious and self-righteous, he does have one endearing quality that Lucanis has come to appreciate. He can tell when is the time for words, and when is the time for silence. And Davrin is more than content to let Lucanis sit beside him in companionable silence as he continues carving his wooden figurines.

Assan stands on his hind legs next to him and watches the Tevene countryside roll past them.

He wiggles his hind legs and looks into the air, then to Davrin expectantly. His right ear flops as the Griffon tilts his head, pleading.

Davrin smiles and gives him a quick nod towards the air above them, “Just don’t go too far, boy. Stay where I can see you”

The Griffon needs no more encouragement, and a moment later, he’s leapt into the air and flying circles overhead, squawking delightfully.

Lucanis watches the young Griffon joyfully, freely flying through the air. With Spite’s wings, he could be up there too. But the absence of Rook is like a stone in his chest, keeping him and Spite grounded.

“Incredible, isn’t he?” Davrin remarks offhandedly, while he carves out dainty triangular designs on the side of the Rook tower.

Lucanis didn’t realize he was still staring up at Assan, basking in the sun, and gliding on an air current just to the west of the Aravel.

He makes a noncommittal hum of agreement.

“A little young to have seen so much, though” The assassin remarks, after another few moments of silence, recalling the fight with the Gloom Howler in the Cauldron. Remembered Assan's squeals of terror as the Gloom Howler had him in its claws, about to be blighted with Arch Demon blood.

Davrin’s lips quirk, “Not unlike a certain illustrious leader of ours”

Lucanis hadn’t given much thought to Rook’s age. It was just another thing in a growing list about her he thought he’d have time to ask about. Her age, her birthday, bothering Neve about what kind of jewelry she likes (or if she even likes jewelry), her favourite flowers, more of her favourite food and drink than he’d already gleaned from their time together. He wanted to know it all. To know her in her entirety.

But he didn’t ask those questions. Not her age or her birthday or her favourite flowers or her taste in jewelry. She was definitely younger than him by a good margin, but the gap between them could span as large as a decade, for all he knew. Madeleina certainly had the recklessness of youth. That he’d seen in spades, because she was constantly hovering at the edge of death’s door and he was constantly pulling her back by the scruff of her neck. But she also possessed a wisdom well beyond her years, and he never once factored her age in as a detriment to her ability to lead the team, although she might disagree.

“I expect in these times, that’s become more and more common. Growing up faster than one’s years.” Davrin murmurs, nicking some decorative dots on the tower’s side with the tip of his blade. “I don’t envy the decisions Rook’s been forced to make. I’ve a good five or six years on her and I don’t know that I would’ve fared any better even with that experience on my side”

Lucanis didn’t quite know what to say, so he let Davrin continue talking.

“All this to say,” The Warden shoulders him gently, “Try not to worry so much about Rook. If there’s anything I can say with confidence, it’s that she’s not going to let anything keep her down. Including some weird, nightmare-inducing Fade prison that’s trying to siphon her memories and – “Davrin stops abruptly when he sees the frown spreading on Lucanis’ face, “… I’ll just be quiet now. You get the picture. She’s tough, don’t worry”

He looks down at his wood carving and continues working at it, glancing up at the sky every once in a while, to make sure he can still see Assan.

Lucanis sighs and closes his eyes. He tries to focus on things he can hear and smell to keep his thoughts from winding him up like a children’s toy. The rustling of the leaves on the wind, the smell of pine and oak, the sound of Halla hoofbeats beating against the ground and low grunts of effort as they pull the aravel through the woods.

Try as he might to distract himself with this world, his mind continues to cycle back to Madeleina in the Fade. The very idea that the Fade prison could cause her to forget about him, forget about all their time together, as absurdly terrifying. It makes his skin crawl, and Spite rattle angrily in the back of his mind.

He’s mid-way through thinking about how he’s going to wring Solas’ neck the next time he sees him (and he isn’t entirely certain the thought only came from him), when Lucanis feels a pinch in his chest. Like someone was plucking a thread attached to his heart. He closes his eyes and reaches for Spite through their shared connection, much easier now with the newfound alliance.

Spite. What’s happening?

The demon bristles behind his eyelids.

Calling. To us. Through the Fade.

Is she in danger? He asks quickly. Lucanis can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he waits for the Demon’s response.

Don’t. Know. Spite replies after a thoughtful moment. Go. To sleep. I will. See.

Lucanis blinks as a hand waves in front of his face.

“Lucanis?” Davrin snaps his fingers for good measure, “Hey, Lucanis. You alright?”

He shakes his head and waves off Davrin’s concern, “I’m fine – it’s just… Spite and I sense something off with Rook.”

Davrin frowns, his brown eyes alight with concern. He sets his blade and wood carving down, before leaning closer to Lucanis, “What’s going on with her?”

“I don't now. Spite needs me to go to sleep so he can investigate”

He ignores the knot of anxiety forming in his stomach and tries to settle into his spot on the wooden floor of the aravel. It’s not the most comfortable place to fall asleep, but with about a year of sleep deprivation to catch up on, the bumpy ride on dirt paths hardly poses an insurmountable obstacle.

He turns to Davrin, “Watch my back?”

Davrin grins, “Do you even have to ask?”

The Warden claps him gently on the shoulder before quietly returning to his whittling, “Just make sure our friend’s alright. I promise not to let trouble disturb your beauty sleep”. Davrin huffs, “Maker knows you need it”

Lucanis rolls his eyes. As much as he wants to quip back, the feeling that Rook is in danger in the Fade has him desperate to let sleep take him as soon as possible and reigns in the impulse. The assassin draws his legs in to his body and rests his head in his arms, before closing his eyes and letting sleep take him.

Assan squawking overhead as he flies in circles, the wind whipping the trees and the sound of soft hooves beating on gravel soon fade away into a dreamless slumber.

Wait for me, Madeleina.

~*~

Spite Dellamorte hates the Fade Prison with an intense, all-consuming passion, even though he is Spite and not Passion. He doesn’t completely understand how that works. There’s still a lot of things about existing in the material world that are confusing to him. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how much of him is him, and how much of him is Lucanis. The edges between the two have blurred significantly since they made a new alliance. So much so, that his human host seems to have put new emotions in front of him to grapple with that weren’t there before. More things that aren’t him, on top of the memories from Rook’s journal that also are not him.

Regardless, Spite was determined to answer her plea for help.

The young Demon flies circles around her home inside the Fade prison. The journal’s essence flickers in and out, just a little weaker than before. Then, an emotion he’s felt from Lucanis bleeds into him, one they both know all too well from their time in the real Ossuary – fear. Fear that it won’t be strong enough to get him out. That he could be trapped in here, with her, unable to open the door that frees her.

He has to be the one that opens the door.

Spite ignores the thought as much as he can, and lands softly on her windowsill. He peers into her bedroom, expecting her to be doing something mundane, like she was before. Instead, he finds Rook sitting on the corner of her bed, with her head buried in her arms and knees pressed close to her chest. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly. He can hear soft, muffled sobs escaping from the narrow space between her face and her arms.

Spite is Spite, he is not comfort or compassion. But Lucanis’ nature has once again, made him feel things he’s not supposed to be feeling. He doesn’t want to see Rook crying. He hates the sight of it, actually.

Spite taps on the glass several times, harder than he normally would, to make sure she hears him above the sound of her soft sobs.

Rook looks up at him, her green eyes bathed in a sea of red. Her face is puffy and tear streaked. She looks awful. Rook shouldn’t look awful. He doesn’t like that she looks awful.

Smells like. Salt and Lavender. Not right.

He taps the window again.

Rook wipes the tears from her face with her arm and slowly walks to the window sill, before unhooking the latch.

Spite ruffles his feathers and flits to perch on the back of her chair, as he did before. Madeleina closes the window and sits back down on her bed slowly, sniffling the entire time.

“Rook” He croaks, tilting his head. “Why. Are you crying.?”

Rook inhales sharply and closes her eyes before exhaling. “S-Spite …” she whimpers his name, and he hates how that sounds.

She draws her knees in close again and frowns deeply. “W-why do I keep seeing Minrathous burning? P-people being h-hung in the s-street” she takes a shaky breath between words. "E-every time... I look ... in the m-mirror - I s-see it ..."

Rook has a distant look in her eyes, like she’s staring through him at not at him.

“A v-voice in my head … it’s … it says … it’s my fault” She cries softly, and wipes her nose with her sleeve again, “He s-says I l-let them take the city … t-the dragon…”

Rook grips her head and shuts her eyes tight, and then takes a ragged breath. “It won’t stop! It won’t stop…” She raises her head and looks at him with pleading eyes, “Spite, how do I make it stop?” Her face crumples as more tears threaten to spill from her eyes, “S-Spite … help me… it w-won’t stop … my head…”

Spite tilts his head and thinks.

She’s starting to remember things, but not the right things. He’s rightly quite confused. Solas’ prison so far has been showing her what she wants to see - her parents, her childhood home - familiar things that would presumably function to keep her from wanting to leave. Why would it be showing her a blighted Minrathous? What purpose would that serve?

He remembers the day they found her in the music room, days after she’d returned from visiting Neve in Minrathous.

Smells like … cheese and salt. He had thought, as Lucanis brought her a cup of cioccolata calda to share.

They sat beside her, and she quickly wiped her hands of the remnants of the cheese wedge she’d been eating and moved over. He remembers Lucanis’ fretting over her mental state very well. Locked in their pantry, he thought of little else.

Knowing Treviso was safe brought him little relief every time he watched her go into the infirmary to talk with Varric’s ghost because she couldn’t cope with his death. When she stopped coming to dinner, he started drinking more coffee and staying awake even longer worrying over her. Pacing back and forth, paralyzed with inaction, with uncertainty on how to help her.

It turns out he was severely overthinking the problem.

All he had to do was tell her a story.

Maybe Spite had to do the same, like the first time he came. She was only remembering the bad that came from that decision. It figures the Dread Wolf’s prison wouldn’t want her to remember the good she did during that time.

“This place. Doesn’t want you. To know what. You saved.” Spite begins, “Minrathous fell. But Treviso. Lived to see. Another day. Because of you.”

Rook releases the name on a soft breath, “T-Treviso?” Her brows furrow in confusion, “I … I’ve n-never left Tevinter…”

Spite preens and plucks at a loose feather as she speaks.

“Saved Lucanis’. Home.” He squawks, “He trusted you. Above all others. And you saved him. There when he. Needed you most. And he will. Never forget.”

Rook’s eyes flash with recognition at the name, “Lucanis – tell me about Lucanis. P-please, Spite. I think… I think I remembered him last night – his face, his voice … but it’s gone again”

If Spite looked like Lucanis, he was sure his face would split in a satisfied grin.

He was going to break apart the Dread Wolf’s prison, memory by memory. He would open the door for her and pull her out.

“He came. To you. In the music room. After the Dragon. Took Minrathous”

She closes her eyes, as if trying to picture the scene herself. He can see her eyes flicker back and forth behind closed eyelids.

“He wants. To help you. Like you. Helped him. With Treviso. With Caterina’s funeral.” Spite says, “He helps. Only way he knows how. With a story.”

Rook’s fingers grip the edge of her bed tightly, and her lips press into a hard line, deep in concentration.

“I smell something warm… chocolate?” Her nose wrinkles. “Warm chocolate… like before…”

“Cioccolata. Calda.” Spite corrects her gently, although his own pronunciation of the word is a bit clumsy, “He knows. You love it. He makes it. When he knows. You’re in need.”

Her lips part in a sigh, as if she’s taking a sip in her jumbled memories.

“T-tell me more… please …” Rook whispers, biting her lower lip, “I want to remember him”

“He tells you. The story of how. He became the Demon of Vyrantium. The Wigmaker. And his. House of Horrors. Of blood magic and demons. And freeing slaves.” Spite recites the memory as he had seen it through Lucanis’ eyes. “A story. For a story. He always. Wants to help.”

A small smile creeps at the edges of her lips, “I remember him… I remember him telling me about a terrible pickup line Illario used on a guard”, Spite tilts his head as she giggles, “I couldn’t believe it actually worked, you know”

Rook wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye, before opening them both. Her green eyes crinkled at the corners as she erupted in a warm smile. Like they did when she would tell them stories.

She swings her legs off the edge of the bed and comes to stand in front of the little Demon.

“He’s important to me… isn’t he? You both are” She whispers quietly. Rook touches her chest, and a faint blue glow erupts from where her heart should be. His chest is alight with its twin flame.

Spite merely nods and flutters his tailfeathers in response.

“He waits. For you. Only you.”

“You said that before” Rook nods and looks around her room, “You also said this place isn’t my home”

Spite nods wordlessly.

“Then what is it exactly? Why… why am I here?”

“A prison. Made by the Dread Wolf. To keep you in. Away from. His plans.” Spite nearly hisses the words out, rage bubbling in his chest. He puffs up into an angry little ball as a result. “A prison. To make you forget. Forget us. Lucanis.”

Rook grips her chest through her shirt and frowns. “The memories they … they come and then… then the day repeats and I forget ... I think…” She releases a shaky breath, “I think I’m living the same day again. And again. And again.”

If Spite could scowl, he would be scowling harder than he ever had in his entire existence.

“Spite” Rook leans in closer, so close he can feel her breath on his feathers. Her eyes are wide with panic now, “Spite… help me… I don’t – I don’t want to forget but each day I think I’m losing more of myself- “

She turns abruptly when the door opens, and Spite is startled enough to let out a surprised squawk. He flies out the window quickly before he can be spotted, leaving Rook to deal with the intruder. Spite hovers outside her window for just a moment, and sees a tall woman pull her into a tight embrace.

The woman, who resembles an older Rook with straighter hair and brown eyes, seems to be looking straight at him. The eyes are soulless and empty. Yet somehow, there is a warning lurking beneath that hollow gaze. She grips Rook tightly, as if to signal to him she will not the girl go.

The sight of it chills Spite to his core.

The Demon calls on whatever essence of the journal is left and propels himself out of the Fade with dizzying speed.

Each day I think I’m losing more of myself -.

He would not let that happen.

If she loses herself to this prison, he will find every scattered piece in the Fade and put her back together himself.

The Dread Wolf will not win.

Demons do not fear Gods.

-----------------------------------

Wooooo okay, well that took a lot longer than I thought. Once again big thank you to @teawithshakespeare (honestly my honourary co-author at this point for how much time I spend rambling in their DM's about this story), and @juneiper-art and @thewardenisonthecase as well for letting me bounce ideas for this chapter off them. I appreciate u guys.

Also, the Fade prison is doing weird things now! It's changing and reacting! Freaky stuff. But then again, the Fade's a freaky place.

I'll give bonus points to whoever can guess which movie I'm sort of loosely basing this off of haha.

I think this part of the fic is coming to an end in maybe another chapter or two.... I really just wanna write the Rookanis reunion :')

Anyway,

As always, thanks for reading! Appreciate all the love and support for this fic <3 MUAH!! See you next time!

-Rookie

#lucanis dellamorte #spite dellamorte #rook #lucanis x rook #lucanis x mercar #rookanis #fanfic #rook mercar #oc: madeleina mercar #dragon age veilguard #datv #dragon age #rookie writes #fic: bedtime stories for a demon

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