#but they take entirely different meanings from it
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The Prophecy | Part 1
Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader
Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.
But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.
WC: 11.9k
Authors Notes: Slow Burn, Competitors to Lovers, SLOW, I'm heavy into world building so expect a lot of story, SMUT in next chapter. I've like proof read 70% there's already 40k words written and I've changed shit up like 40 times by now lol
They say there are two kinds of impossibilities in basketball: the ones you laugh at, and the ones that make you hold your breath. Your entire career has been about the second kind.
The numbers shouldn't exist: 847 shots attempted in college. Two misses. A percentage that makes statisticians check their math and then check it again. The first miss was a seventy-footer your freshman year that hit the rim so perfectly the sound echoed through the arena like a bell. The second? Sophomore year, caught an elbow to the face that had blood streaming down your jersey—the shot still almost went in.
Two misses in three years. They call you The Prophecy because watching you miss is like seeing a meteor strike, so rare that people mark their calendars by it.
Every sports network has tried to explain you. ESPN did a special called "The Prophecy: Breaking Down Basketball's Perfect Player." Sports Illustrated put you on the cover: "The Future Came Early." The New York Times ran a feature: "Harvard's Double Threat: Engineering the Perfect Game." They all tried to capture what makes you different. None quite managed it.
Because how do you explain someone who turned down every basketball powerhouse in the country—UConn, Stanford, South Carolina—to study Aerospace Engineering at Harvard? How do you rationalize someone who spends mornings in advanced fluid dynamics classes and afternoons making impossible shots look like a simple routine?
Your teammates get it, though. They've nicknamed you "Rocket”— partly for your major, partly for how you launch yourself through defenses. You're the heart of a Harvard team that's won three straight championships, turning the Ivy League school into a basketball dynasty that no one saw coming.
But that legacy isn't built on game days alone. It’s forged in moments like these: the hum of anticipation, the camaraderie, the banter that cuts through the tension as the team gets ready to take the court.
They say the silence before a storm is the loudest. But whoever said that never sat in Harvard's women's basketball locker room before a big game.
"I swear to god, if you try to explain zone defense using thermodynamics one more time—" Sierra launches a rolled-up sock across the room that you catch without looking up from your pre-game ritual: left shoe, right shoe, double-knot both, check laces twice.
"That was ONE time," you protest, but Maria's already cackling.
"One time? Girl, last week you tried to break down UNC's press using some dynamic—“
"And it WORKED, didn't it?"
The locker room erupts in laughter, the kind of easy joy that only comes from three years of championships, late-night practices, and inside jokes that no one else would understand. Taylor's already started your pregame handshake sequence; each title has added new moves until it's practically a full choreographed dance.
"Speaking of Carolina," Jasmine pipes up while adjusting her headband, "did y'all see their point guard tried to claim she's almost as accurate as you?”
"How'd that work out for her?" Sierra grins.
"Shot 3-for-15 against Duke." Taylor shakes her head. "Meanwhile, our girl over here—"
"845 for 847," the team chants in unison, then breaks into laughter again.
You roll your eyes but can't hide your smile.
"Yo, check this out though," Sierra's scrolling through her phone. "LSU's talking mad shit on Twitter. Their center says she's gonna 'expose the myth’ tonight."
Tonight's game against LSU has been circled on calendars since the schedule dropped. Defending national champions versus the team that's rewriting what's possible in college basketball.
The banter continues as everyone goes through their pregame routines. Maria's got her headphones in, mouthing the same Drake lyrics she's been using since freshman year. Taylor's meticulously re-taping her ankles for the third time. Jasmine's practicing her crossover in front of her locker, adding a little extra flair each time.
That's when Coach Matthews steps in, game face already set. The room doesn't exactly go quiet- this team's never been good at that, but the energy shifts— focuses.
"Ladies," she begins, but Sierra can't help herself.
"We know, we know, sold out crowd, national TV, time to show them why they call us the best team in the country."
The locker room buzzes with the easy confidence of a team that knows what they're capable of. You've all been together three years, grown from underdogs to unstoppable.
Coach tries to look stern but fails. "I see three rings have made you cocky."
"Nah, Coach," Jasmine grins. "We were cocky before the rings. Now we’ve just proven that we were right all along.”
The team cracks up again, but you catch something in Coach's expression, a mix of pride and concern. Her eyes find yours across the room. You know what she's thinking: LSU's not here just to play basketball. They're here to make a statement. To prove that Harvard's dynasty, your perfect record, all of it, is just smoke and mirrors.
You peek out at the arena as you head to warm-ups. Every seat filled, signs everywhere:
"The Prophecy Has Spoken: Harvard by 20"
"845/847 ≈ Perfection"
"Future WNBA GOAT"
"Rocket Science + Basketball = 🐐"
The student section erupts with enough thunder that you’d think there was an earthquake outside as you step onto the court. Three years, and the roar still hits different every time. Your teammates spread out for warm-ups, but you can feel every eye in the arena tracking your movement.
"Remember freshman year?" Sierra bumps your shoulder as you start stretching. "When you were still trying to convince everyone you were just 'pretty good' at basketball?"
You laugh, remembering that first practice. You'd shown up in glasses and a Harvard Engineering t-shirt, trying to downplay the high school highlights that had ESPN calling you the next Sue Bird. Then you went 50-for-50 in shooting drills.
"Pretty good," Taylor mimics, feeding you the ball. "Meanwhile Sports Center had a ticker counting your made shots."
The ball feels alive in your hands as you start your warm-up routine. Crossover, behind the back, step-back three. Swish. The Harvard crowd counts each made shot, a tradition that started your freshman year. They're at "thirty-seven" when a murmur ripples through the stands like a shift in the air pressure.
That's when you see them.
The entire UConn women's team, filing into their seats behind your bench. Their presence is magnetic, commanding, like the world has suddenly shifted to center on them. Your breath catches for just a moment, but you keep moving. Eyes forward, muscles loose. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Your gaze flickers up, and that’s when it happens. Paige Bueckers—UConn’s golden child, the face of their dynasty—locks eyes with you. The briefest of seconds, but it feels like a spotlight on your skin. She's not just watching; she's studying. Calculating.
Without breaking stride, you add a little extra spin to your next move. A crossover that’s sharp enough to slice, a step-back three so effortless it’s almost insulting. Swish.
"Showing off for UConn?" Maria teases, but her voice feels distant, barely cutting through the thrum in your chest. You don’t answer. The crowd is at "forty-two" now, and so is Paige. You can feel her counting.
"Please," you roll your eyes, draining another three. "They're the ones who showed up to our house."
The arena's practically vibrating now. LSU's warming up on the other end, trying to look unbothered. Their coach keeps glancing your way, everyone knows their game plan will revolve around stopping you. Good luck with that.
"Rocket!" Jasmine calls out. "Give them the space shot!"
It's another team tradition. End of warm-ups, you launch one from near half-court, high enough to clear the International Space Station. The crowd holds its breath as the ball arcs through the air—
Bucket.
The place goes absolutely nuclear. Even some LSU players stop to watch the replay on the jumbotron. You don't celebrate, just turn and jog back to the bench, but you catch Paige Bueckers leaning forward in her seat. Yeah, she felt that one, too.
In the huddle, Coach Matthews keeps it simple. "They're going to try to get physical. They're going to try to get in your heads. But what do we do?"
"Let the scoreboard talk!" the team responds in unison.
You look around the circle—these girls who've become family. Sierra, who's never met a defensive assignment she couldn't lock down. Maria, whose no-look passes seem telepathic. Taylor, who crashes boards like gravity's just a suggestion. Jasmine, whose trash talk is almost as legendary as her three-point shooting.
The starting lineups are announced. LSU's players get scattered applause, but when they call your name, the sound is deafening. "At guard, a junior from Boston, Massachusetts, averaging 32.5 points per game, shooting 99.8% from the field—The Prophecy!"
You high-five down the bench, each teammate adding their own flourish to the routine. The crowd's chanting now:
"M-V-P! M-V-P!"
But you're already in game mode, that familiar calm settling over you. You can feel Uconn’s members watching from the stands, feel the weight of every expectation, every camera, every scout with an NBA team's future in their hands.
The referee holds the ball at center court. LSU's center—all six-foot-five of her—tries to stare you down.
You just smile. They have no idea what's coming.
The game opens exactly how LSU planned: double-team before you even touch the ball. Their guard and forward shadow your every move, leaving gaps all over the court. Rookie mistake.
You catch Maria's eye, give her the smallest nod. She drives right, drawing attention, while you slip backdoor. The defender realizes too late—you're already airborne, catching the lob one-handed. The rim's still shaking as you get back on defense.
"That's my point guard!" you shout, giving Maria her props. The crowd's already going wild, and you're only thirty seconds in.
LSU tries to establish their post game, but Sierra's having none of it. She strips their center clean, and suddenly you're off to the races. The ball finds you at the three-point line. One defender recovers, rushing at you with a hand up.
Time slows. You see every option: the drive, the pass, the shot. But there's something poetic about making the hardest choice look easy. You rise up, release. The defender's hand grazes your wrist—doesn't matter. Swish.
"And The Prophecy strikes first! Two possessions, two baskets!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "She's making this look like a shoot-around!"
Your teammates are feeding off the energy. Taylor's owning the glass, Jasmine's picking pockets, and Maria's threading passes through impossible angles. By the six-minute mark, you're up 18-7, and LSU calls their first timeout.
"They can't guard you for shit!" Sierra laughs as you huddle up. She's right—they've tried three different defensive schemes already.
Coach Matthews keeps it tactical. "They're getting frustrated. Gonna start trying to bump you off your spots. Stay composed."
You nod, taking a quick swig of water. Your eyes drift to the UConn section. KK Arnold shoots you a smile which you return. Sierra’s shown you enough of her Tik Tok’s for you to recognize the Freshman.
Back on court, LSU switches to a box-and-one. Four players in a zone, one dedicated to face-guarding you. Cupcake stuff compared to what you see in practice.
You set up on the wing, let them think they've got you contained. The defender's playing so tight you can smell her shampoo. Maria starts her drive, draws the zone's attention. You wait... wait...
Then it happens. Quick as thought, you plant your back foot, cut hard to the corner. The defender's still turning when you catch and release in one motion. The ball hasn't even hit the net before you're heading back on defense.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" The announcer's losing it. "The Prophecy with another! She's 5-for-5 to start the game!"
The Harvard student section's going ballistic. Even your teammates are shaking their heads—three years, and you still find ways to surprise them.
LSU's getting chippy now. Their forwards are throwing elbows on screens, talking under their breath. You've seen it before: when skill isn't enough, they try to get physical.
"Yo Rocket," Taylor mutters after a particularly hard screen. "They're hunting."
You just nod. Let them hunt. You didn't get here by backing down.
With two minutes left in the first quarter, they try to trap you at half-court. Two defenders, both bigger, trying to muscle you into a mistake. You hit them with a crossover so nasty the crowd gasps. Split the double-team, euro-step around the help defense, and finish with a finger roll that looks like it defies gravity.
The LSU coach is screaming now, face turning purple. Nothing's working. Every scheme, every adjustment, every physical play, you've got an answer for all of it.
Ten seconds left. You let the clock drain, waving off the screen from Taylor. Your defender's in perfect position, textbook stance. Doesn't matter.
You rise up from NBA range, the defender's hand right in your face. The ball arcs high, the crowd holding its breath—
Swish. At the buzzer.
Harvard's bench explodes. Your teammates mob you as you head to the sideline, perfect quarter in the books. 15 points, 6-for-6 shooting, 3 assists. Just another day at the office.
"Show off," Sierra teases as you sit down.
"Actually," you grin, slipping into your best professor voice, "according to my calculations, that was just the warm-up."
The team cracks up. This is what the cameras miss, what the stats can't show. The joy of playing the game you love, with people you love, at a level few have ever reached.
But LSU's huddle looks different now. There's an edge to their expressions, a darkness in their eyes. They're not just losing—they're being embarrassed on national TV.
You've seen that look before. It usually means someone's about to do something stupid.
Second quarter opens with LSU trying something new: they're running a full-court press, getting extra physical on every possession. Their coach has clearly given them the green light to push boundaries.
"They big mad now," Jasmine laughs as she inbounds the ball to you.
You weave through the press like it's a morning jog, finding Maria with a no-look pass that has the crowd buzzing. She drains the three, and you make sure to flex for the LSU bench on the way back. Their coach calls for a substitution, sending in Williams—their enforcer, known for walking the line between aggressive and dirty.
"Heads up," Taylor mutters as she runs past you. "Number 32's got that look."
You've seen players like Williams before. They show up in every big game, thinking they'll be the one to throw you off your rhythm. They usually learn.
The next possession, Williams tries to bump you off your cut. You absorb the contact, spin away like water, and catch the ball in perfect position. She's still recovering when you rise up for three. Nothing but net.
"That's 20 for The Prophecy!" The announcer's voice carries over the roar. "Still perfect from the field!"
The Harvard student section starts a new chant: "YOU CAN'T GUARD HER!"
You spot some NBA scouts courtside, furiously taking notes. There's already talk about you leaving early, being a top pick. But that's future stuff. Right now, there's just this game, this moment, this next possession.
Williams is getting frustrated. Each bump gets a little harder, each screen a little later. The refs are letting them play physical, and LSU's taking full advantage.
"Yo Rocket," Sierra says during a free throw. "Want me to accidentally trip her?"
You shake your head, smiling. "Nah. I got something better planned."
Next play down, you call for a clear-out. Everyone knows what's coming, your teammates, the crowd, even the UConn section leans forward. Williams squares up, trying to look tough.
The move is pure poetry: crossover so quick it looks like the ball's on a string, between the legs, behind the back. Williams lunges, trying to stay in front. That's when you hit her with the step-back, creating just enough space to rise up.
The shot is perfect before it leaves your hands. Williams can only watch as it drops through, pure silk. The crowd absolutely loses it.
"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!" Jasmine screams, running past Williams, tongue out in mockery. "But not for her!"
Even some of the LSU players are trying not to smile. What else can you do when you're watching someone operate on a different level?
That's when you notice Paige Bueckers isn't just watching anymore—she's studying. Taking in every move, every counter, like she's downloading your game for future reference. You catch her eye for a split second and there's something there: not just respect, but recognition. Game recognizing game.
The half continues like a highlight reel. You're seeing everything in slow motion: every cut, every screen, every defensive rotation. It's like playing basketball in IMAX, everything crystal clear, every possibility visible.
With three minutes left in the half, Harvard's up 45-28. The game's starting to feel less like competition and more like an exhibition. That's usually when things get dangerous.
You see it coming in slow motion: Sierra bringing the ball up court, Williams setting up for what looks like a normal defensive position. But there's something in her stance, something in her eyes.
Williams launches herself at Sierra, sending her crashing into the scorer's table with a sickening crack. The crowd gasps as Sierra crumples, blood already streaming from her nose.
The arena goes dead silent.
Then everything happens at once. Your teammates rush to Sierra. Jasmine gets in Williams' face. The refs are blowing whistles. But you, you're standing perfectly still, a different kind of calculation running through your mind.
Three years of friendship. Three championships. Countless late-night study sessions where Sierra helped you with orbital mechanics homework while you ice your knees. All those moments flash through your mind in an instant.
You start walking toward Williams, and something in your expression makes everyone—teammates, refs, even the crowd—go quiet.
The silence in Lavietes Pavilion is deafening. Blood drips from Sierra's nose onto the hardwood—each drop echoing like thunder in your ears. Your teammates are surrounding her, but your focus is laser-locked on Williams, who's still trying to act tough, shoving Jasmine.
"Get the fuck out my face," Williams snarls, pushing your teammate back.
You cross the court in long, measured strides. Your teammates part like the Red Sea, something in your expression making them step aside. Williams turns just as you reach her, and for the first time tonight, you see fear flicker across her face.
The crowd holds its breath. Every phone is up, every camera pointed at this moment. Even the refs seem frozen, waiting to see what happens next.
You step right into her space, close enough that only she can hear you. Your voice comes out low, deadly calm. "Touch my teammate again," you say, each word precise as a scalpel, "and I promise you'll regret ever stepping foot in this fucking gym."
Williams tries to maintain her tough act, stepping forward. "Oh yeah? What you gonna—"
"Try me one more time," you cut her off, voice even quieter now, "and when I catch you outside this gym I’ll make sure you don’t get back up.”
The refs finally restore order, whistles blaring. Technical fouls all around. As you check on Sierra—her nose definitely broken but she's insisting she can play—you hear the murmur rippling through the crowd. Nobody's ever seen you like this. The Prophecy's always been about grace under pressure, about making the impossible look easy.
This is something else entirely.
Coach sends you to the bench to cool off. You end up near the Harvard section, your teammates who aren't on the court surrounding you like a protective wall. Behind them, the UConn section hasn't made a sound, but you can feel their attention like a physical weight.
"I've never seen you like that," Taylor whispers, a mix of awe and concern in her voice.
"Nobody touches our people," you say simply, eyes locked on the court where LSU is shooting their free throws.
Sierra's getting patched up beside you, tissues stuffed up her nose. "You know I've taken worse hits in practice," she tries to joke.
“That’s beside the point." Your voice is still deadly quiet. "They came into our house thinking they could punk us. Thinking what—because we're Harvard we're soft? They can suck my dick.”
The energy in the arena has shifted. Your teammates are fired up, talking amongst themselves. The crowd's still buzzing, cameras alternating between you and Williams. But you're not playing for them anymore. This isn't about highlights or SportsCenter or draft stock.
When the buzzer sounds for you to return, your teammates stand as one. "Light them the fuck up," Sierra says through her swollen nose, and the team erupts in agreement.
You step back onto the court, and the ball finds its way to your hands like it's meant to be there. Williams tries to meet your eyes, but she flinches when she does. She knows what's coming.
They all do.
The ball leaves your hands before their defense can set. Swish. 34 points.
Maria screens Williams hard—legally, but with extra emphasis. You curl around it, catch, release. Swish. 37.
"The Prophecy is taking no prisoners now," the announcer's voice carries over the chaos. "This isn't just basketball anymore, folks. This is personal."
Each possession is a message. No more fancy moves, no more style. Just pure, devastating efficiency. Catch and shoot. Drive and score. Again and again until the numbers blur together and the only sound in the arena is the whisper of the net.
Williams tries to guard you on a switch. You look her dead in the eye as you rise up. She knows it's good before you even release. 45 points.
The fourth quarter becomes a massacre. Not just because of your scoring, but the way your whole team moves now—like sharks that have tasted blood. Every screen is a statement. Every cut is a challenge. Harvard basketball isn't just winning anymore; they're sending a message.
With thirty seconds left, Harvard up by 35, Coach tries to sub you out. You wave her off. There's one more thing to do.
You catch the ball at the opposite baseline—ninety-four feet from your basket. The crowd realizes what you're about to attempt and rises as one. Williams is still trying to guard you, bless her heart.
You don't even look at the basket as you launch it, eyes locked on hers the whole way. The ball soars through the air, high enough to scrape the rafters. Time seems to stop as 4,000 people hold their breath.
Swish. As pure as a layup.
The arena explodes. Your teammates storm the court as you take off on a victory lap, tongue out, arms spread wide. The Harvard band is playing, the student section is losing their minds, and somewhere in the chaos, you catch Paige Bueckers standing up, shaking her head in amazement.
December hits Boston like a cold slap to the face. Three months since the LSU game, and Harvard's still undefeated, 12-0, ranked #2 in the country. Tonight's the game everyone's been circling: #1 UConn at Harvard. The Game of the Year, ESPN's calling it. Every headline is the same story in different words: you versus Paige, like the rest of the teams are just here to watch.
You haven't spoken to any of the UConn players since that night in your locker room. Sure, you see the occasional Instagram story when Jasmine reshares KK's posts (they're dating now, apparently, something that started with DMs and turned into weekend visits), but, that's about it. You don't even follow Paige Bueckers on social media. Why would you?
"Earth to ____,” Sierra waves a hand in front of your face during warmups. "You good?"
"Yeah," you snap back to reality, draining another three. "Just locked in."
The arena's packed to the rafters, twice as loud as the LSU game. During layup lines, you catch glimpses of the UConn players, especially Paige, who moves with that same fluid confidence you remember. She's got that look in her eyes, the one you recognize in your own reflection: the quiet certainty of someone who's never doubted their greatness.
Your pregame outfit, fitted black turtleneck under your warmups, gold chain catching the light, has already made its rounds on social media. “She looks SO good!!” is trending on Twitter, complete with fire emojis. Not that you care about that stuff. (But okay, maybe you spent an extra minute on your appearance today. Professional reasons only.)
The game starts like a prize fight, both teams trading blows, neither willing to blink first. Paige opens with a three; you answer with a step-back jumper. She hits a floater; you counter with a drive that leaves her defender spinning. It's not personal, you tell yourself. Just basketball.
By the first TV timeout, you've both got 8 points and the crowd's already losing it. The energy's different from the LSU game, no cheap shots or trash talk, just pure, elite basketball. Almost like you're speaking the same language, even if you're on different teams.
"Yo," Maria whispers during a free throw, "is it just me or is Bueckers playing extra hard when she's guarding you?"
"Everyone plays hard against me," you shrug, but you've noticed it too. The way she locks in, the extra intensity in her defense. Like she's got something to prove.
The second quarter is where you start to take over. UConn tries everything, double teams, box-and-one, even a triangle-and-two. Nothing works. You're seeing the game in slow motion again, every passing lane, every defensive rotation crystal clear. By halftime, you've got 24 points on perfect shooting, and Harvard's up 48-39.
In the tunnel heading back out, you pass Paige. There's a moment— brief but loaded— where your eyes meet. She gives you this little nod, competitor to competitor. Nothing more. (But why does it feel like something more?)
The second half is a masterclass. You're not just scoring anymore; you're conducting an orchestra. No-look passes to Sierra for corner threes. Behind-the-back feeds to Taylor for breakaway layups. And when UConn makes their inevitable run in the fourth, you shut the door with a sequence of moves so filthy they'll probably end up on SportsCenter's top 10.
Final score: Harvard 89, UConn 78. Your stat line: 38 points, 9 assists, still haven't missed a shot this season. The handshake line is respectful, none of that LSU energy, and when you reach Paige, her grip is firm, professional.
"Good game," she says simply.
"You too," you respond, and mean it.
After the media obligations, your phone buzzes. It's Jasmine: 'Bar. Tonight. Both teams. No excuses.'
You consider begging off, you do have that Thermodynamics problem set due Monday, but something makes you change your mind. Professional courtesy, you tell yourself. Networking.
The bar is one of those trendy spots where the grad students pretend they're not drowning in student debt. You show up fashionably late in black jeans, a cream-colored silk shirt, and boots that add an extra inch you definitely don't need. The teams are separate at first, Harvard at one end, UConn at the other. Only Jasmine and KK bridge the gap, wrapped up in their own world.
You stick with your teammates initially, nursing a Moscow Mule and trying not to notice how Paige looks in a baggy jeans and a button up when she arrives with some of her teammates. The groups slowly start to mix as the night goes on, pulled together by Jasmine and KK's gravitational field.
"So," UConn's shooting guard, Emma, ends up next to you at the bar. "You always play like that, or were you just showing off?”
You arch an eyebrow, a light smile tugs at the corner of your lip. "Just playing my game."
"Right," she smirks, ordering another drink.
You change the subject, asking about their upcoming schedule. Basketball is safe. Basketball makes sense.
The night continues, groups shifting and reforming. You end up in a conversation with some UConn players about the WNBA draft, carefully maintaining your distance when Paige joins the discussion. But you can't help noticing things: how she commands attention without trying, the way her laugh carries over the bar noise, how she seems to know exactly where you are in the room at all times.
Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe, you’re just down bad.
"Paige is single, you know," KK says later, appearing at your elbow with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
"Good for her," you say neutrally, even as something flutters in your chest.
"Good for you, you mean," KK mutters, dodging the half-hearted shove you send her way before melting back into the crowd.
The night winds down, groups splitting off for Ubers, some players already making plans for late-night food. You're standing near the door, tugging your coat tighter around you against the Boston chill seeping in, when you hear your name.
You turn, and there she is, bathed in the hazy glow of the bar's neon sign, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. For the first time all night, it's just the two of you, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.
"Good game tonight," she says, and it’s almost funny how understated it sounds after the week of media buildup and ESPN countdowns.
"Thanks." You pause, letting the silence stretch. "You too."
Her smile tilts, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. "You don’t have to play it cool all the time, you know."
"Who says I’m playing?" you counter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, quirking up just enough to give her the edge.
Paige steps closer, the space between you shrinking but still electric. "You’re good, Rocket. Even better than the headlines give you credit for."
"Don’t tell me you came out here just to boost my already inflated ego," you say, leaning back just enough to keep the balance of power from tipping entirely her way.
"Maybe," she says lightly, though the way she holds your gaze feels heavier than that. "Or maybe I just wanted to see for myself what all the hype’s about."
"And?"
Her smile deepens, slow and deliberate. "I wasn’t disappointed."
The air between you crackles, her words lingering in a way that feels deliberate, intentional. But before you can decide what to say—or if you should say anything at all—one of her teammates calls her name from the curb.
She glances back, then at you again.
"Don’t overthink your game plan," you say.
"And you don’t underestimate mine," she calls over her shoulder, her voice light but the glance she throws you anything but.
You stay there a moment longer, the cold biting at your skin but your chest feeling oddly warm. As you finally step outside, something about the night feels unfinished—like a play halfway through its best scene.
As you slide into the car, you realize your heart's racing—and it has nothing to do with the cold.
Maybe KK was right. Maybe this is good for you.
Later that night, lying in bed, you find yourself replaying moments from the game. Just the game, you tell yourself. The way she moves on court, like water finding its path. Her defensive intensity. Her competitiveness that mirrors your own.
Your phone buzzes: a follow request on Instagram from Paige Bueckers on your private Instagram.
You stare at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Finally, you press accept. No big deal. Just professional courtesy.
But you can't help smiling as you set your phone down.
March suddenly feels very far away.
That night, sleep feels impossible. The win keeps looping in your mind—every play, every shot, every moment after the final buzzer. You’re still riding the high, but it's the interactions off the court that keep replaying, too. The way Paige’s eyes locked on yours during the game, that quiet intensity between you two. It was almost like there was something unspoken, an invisible thread pulling you together.
You try to shake it off as you lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Eventually, you post a late-night story: just you in your Harvard champion sweatshirt, hair a little messy, looking tired but satisfied. Caption: “some nights hit different 🏀✨"
You're not thinking about anyone in particular when you post it. Really. No, seriously.
But a couple of minutes later, your phone lights up with a notification: "paigebueckers viewed your story."
You freeze. Your heart does that annoying skip, the one you wish you could ignore. You try to play it cool, but the small smile on your face gives it away.
Before you can stop overthinking it, another story pops up from Paige. It’s her on the team bus, the weariness on her face somehow just makes her look even more perfect. Caption: “good games make you better. great games change you. 📈"
You stare at the story longer than you should. Three times, maybe four. Then you catch yourself. No, you're not doing this. You’re being professional. Totally. You swipe past it, but not before watching it once more—just for, you know, "research purposes."
Wednesday practice, you’re on the floor with Sierra, trying to explain orbital mechanics while stretching out your legs. The routine’s familiar, your voice calm and focused, like you’re explaining a simple layup. "So basically, if you account for gravitational force and initial velocity—"
"Rocket," Sierra interrupts, "you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds."
You look at her, feigning confusion. "Have not," you protest, but your fingers are already reaching for your phone, like they’re on autopilot. You can’t help it. Paige posted a drill video this morning, just pure basketball content—nothing that special, just her hitting a perfect jumper, maybe some footwork drills, nothing groundbreaking. You dropped an eyes emoji in response. Professional admiration only. That's it. Nothing to see here.
"Right," Sierra raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "And I'm sure you've watched every other point guard's practice clips fifteen times too."
You give her a deadpan look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, reaching for your foam roller and throwing it at her.
Thursday afternoon finds you in Advanced Fluid Dynamics, usually your favorite class. The equations and concepts feel like second nature to you, but today, your thoughts keep drifting elsewhere. You keep finding yourself thinking about basketball — about how certain players move like water, finding the path of least resistance, flowing through defenses with a grace you can’t help but admire.
You’re not sure if it’s the subject of the class or the strange pull you’re feeling, but your mind is elsewhere.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down discreetly. It's a notification from Instagram: Paige has liked your last three posts.
Including one from six months ago.
You blink. The screen feels like it’s glowing too brightly in your hand. You immediately glance around, making sure no one saw you checking, before quickly hiding your smile behind your textbook.
Because yeah, you definitely didn’t mean to feel this giddy. But here you are.
Friday night, you're in bed scrolling through film when you get the notification. Paige posted a new story: her at the gym, late night shooting session. Caption: “late-night grind. gotta stay sharp for what’s ahead. 😤"
Before you can overthink it, you reply: "living rent free in that head huh? 😌"
Three dots appear immediately. Your heart rate picks up.
just practicing for march 😘
You stare at that emoji for a solid minute. Professional rivals don't use kiss emojis. Right?
Saturday morning practice rolls around before you can even process what happened last night. Your mind’s still buzzing, trying to dissect the interaction with Paige, but you push it aside. Focus. You can think about that later.
As you’re stretching before drills, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. When Coach catches you grinning at it, she narrows her eyes.
"Whatever’s got you distracted better help us win games."
You quickly stuff your phone back in your bag, fighting to keep a neutral expression. "It’s just a text. No big deal."
"Sure, sure." Coach raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.
You try to shake off the grin still tugging at your lips. Definitely not in the middle of a debate with Paige about whether Kobe or Jordan had the better footwork. No. Definitely not.
Sunday night in the library, you're supposedly working on your Thermodynamics problem set. But your eyes keep flicking back to UConn's schedule page, calculating when they’ll be back in the northeast. You try to focus, but you find your thoughts drifting back to Paige.
A message pops up: "Shouldn't you be solving rocket equations or something?"
You bite back a smile, tapping out your reply: “shouldn't you be working on your left hand? Saw that weak drive yesterday 😴"
A few seconds pass. The dots appear, then disappear. You try not to let your heart race.
Finally, the response comes: “wow. and here i was about to say your last IG fit was 🔥"
You stare at your screen, biting your lip. The banter is easy, but there's something else there—something electric. Your pulse thuds louder than usual as you hesitate, fingers hovering over the keys. It feels like there's more hanging between you than just jokes. Did she feel it too? You quickly swipe back to your notes, trying to shake the feeling
Something that makes your skin buzz.
Tuesday, 2AM. You can’t sleep. Again. But this time, it’s different. The nervous energy swirling in your stomach isn’t from the game. It’s... something else.
Your phone lights up with a message:
you up?
Your breath catches in your throat. Two words. That’s all it takes.
You hesitate for just a second, fingers poised over the screen, and finally reply: “depends who’s asking 👀”
A beat. Three dots.
just your future march matchup.
You feel a grin tug at your lips, even as you try to keep your response cool.
bold of you to assume you’ll make it that far.
guess you’ll have to wait and see.
You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out. There’s something about these late-night exchanges that feels different.
You roll over, pulling your blanket tighter, trying to convince yourself it’s just another game, just another rival. But when your phone buzzes again, you’re already looking forward to her next message.
A month after the game, your phone buzzes again as you’re reviewing game film late at night. You glance at the time—1:47 AM. Too late to be analyzing, but you can't help it. The game keeps replaying in your head. Then another message appears:
you always study film this late?
You glance at the reflection of your laptop in the dark screen of your phone. It’s like she knows. You smirk, replying.
how'd you know i was watching film?
saw your laptop reflection in your glasses in that last story
Something warm settles in your chest. You didn't think anyone had noticed those details.
stalker much? 🤨
just scouting the competition 😌
You're about to reply when three dots appear again.
want company? i'm looking at our clemson tape
Your heart skips a beat. You weren't expecting this. You pause before responding, a nervous twinge running through you. "facetime?"
Seconds later, the call comes through. You almost hesitate, but there’s something about it that pulls you in. You accept, suddenly hyper-aware that you're in your oversized Harvard hoodie, glasses perched on your nose, hair tossed into a messy bun.
When her face appears on the screen, you’re momentarily struck. She’s wearing a UConn sweatshirt, hair tied back, no makeup. She’s raw, real—like you’ve caught her in an unguarded moment, and for some reason, that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"So," she starts, then seems to lose her train of thought. "Um. Basketball?"
You laugh, some of the tension breaking. “Uh-huh.”
"Listen," she grins, "I'm better at talking with a ball in my hands."
The conversation shifts easily into basketball, the two of you sharing screens and breaking down film together. She catches things you miss, and you point out nuances she hasn’t noticed. The back-and-forth flows—something about it feels natural. Like you’ve been doing this for years.
Hours pass without you even realizing it, and suddenly you’re talking about other things: favorite movies, worst recruiting stories, childhood dreams.
"Wait," she's saying through laughter, "you really wanted to be an astronaut AND a basketball player?"
"Still do," You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as something inside you aches with the lightness of the moment. "Who says I can't be the first WNBA player in space?"
Her expression goes soft for a moment. "You know what? If anyone could do it..."
There's something in her voice that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat. "Anyway, uh, it's late."
"Yeah," she says quietly. "This was... this was nice."
"Yeah," you agree, not quite meeting her eyes through the screen. "Maybe we could do it again sometime y’know?”
"I'd like that."
Neither of you moves to hang up. The silence stretches, full of things unsaid.
Finally, she breaks it: “Well, goodnight, Rocket."
The nickname hits different in her voice at 4AM.
"Night, Paige."
You end the call, staring at your screen for a moment before you finally fall back onto your bed. The silence is deafening, but your mind is racing. You force yourself to calm down, to let your heart slow to a normal pace.
Then your phone buzzes again:
sweet dreams 🌙
You definitely don’t replay the entire call in your head. Definitely not.
And you certainly don’t dream about the way she looked when she laughed at your space joke.
Definitely not.
You’re sprawled on the couch in the apartment you share with Jasmine and Sierra, supposedly reading your Aerospace Engineering textbook. Actually, you're doing everything you can to avoid looking like you're grinning at your phone. The cursor keeps blinking in the reply box, like it’s daring you to type something stupid.
"earth surface temps are literally insane rn"
"why are you even awake?"
"says the girl who's also awake 🤨"
"homework doesn't count"
"nerd 🤓"
"bet you won't say that to my face"
"bet i will. next time i see you"
"when's that gonna be? 👀"
A part of you knows you should be focused on the problem set in front of you. But instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the screen, to her messages. You bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something different about this—about her—that you can't quite put into words. Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast for it to just be casual.
"Oh my GOD," Jasmine’s voice startles you, making you jolt and nearly drop your phone. She's leaning over the back of the couch, eyes twinkling with that grin that’s a little too knowing for comfort. "You're texting Paige!"
"What? No, I'm—" you fumble your phone, nearly dropping it. "I'm doing homework."
"Mmhmm." Jasmine vaults over the couch to land beside you. "That's why you're making the same face I make when KK texts."
"I do not make a face."
"You literally look like this—" Jasmine demonstrates an exaggerated dreamy expression that makes you throw a pillow at her.
"I'm going to KK's this weekend," she says after dodging the pillow. Her voice is deliberately casual. "UConn has a home game Friday. You should come."
Your heart does a little flip. "I have that Physics midterm Monday..."
"Right, because you definitely weren't just texting about wanting to see her."
"I wasn't—" you start, but your phone buzzes again, Paige’s name lighting up the screen in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.
"Girl," Jasmine says, softer now. "It's okay, you know? To want something besides basketball."
You stare at your phone, fingers hovering again over the keys as those three dots show up. Paige is typing, and your chest tightens. Your heart’s racing now, too fast for this to just be some rivalry. You’ve never felt this way about an opponent before.
"It's complicated," you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.
"When is it not?" Jasmine squeezes your shoulder as she gets up. "Think about it, okay? KK says the whole team's been asking about you anyway."
Later that night, Sierra finds you on the roof of your building. It’s your thinking spot—the place where you go to clear your head when the world feels too loud or when the equations refuse to make sense. Tonight, though, the equations have nothing to do with physics.
"Spill," Sierra says, sliding down to sit beside you.
"What?"
"You've been different lately. Good different, but different." She bumps your shoulder. "And I saw you smile at your phone six times during practice today."
You let out a long breath. The city lights blur below you, and somehow it feels easier to talk without making eye contact.
"I think... I think I like her," you say finally. The words feel huge in the quiet night air. "Paige, I mean."
"No shit," Sierra laughs softly. "I figured that out when you watched her coffee story four times."
You blink, feeling caught. "You saw that?"
"Girl, everyone saw that." She pauses. "The question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
You lean back against the roof, your gaze on the stars that are barely visible through the light pollution of the city. "I don’t know. It’s complicated," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "We’re rivals, and we’ll probably face each other in March. If the media got wind of us, it’d be a circus. Not to mention—" You cut yourself off, because it sounds even worse when you say it out loud.
"Okay, forget all that for a second." Sierra interrupts, her voice quieter now. She turns to face you, her eyes soft. "How does she make you feel?"
Your breath catches in your chest. How does Paige make you feel? You think about those late-night video calls that always start with film study but end with laughing over something stupid. About how she remembers little details about your life—like your favorite late-night snack, your favorite places on campus, or how you sometimes still get nervous before big games.
"Like I can be both," you say finally, the words tumbling out before you even realize their weight. "Like I can be The Prophecy, but also just... me."
Sierra's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've spent three years being perfect. Maybe it's time to be happy instead."
You stare at the stars, trying to find your footing in this new reality that feels both foreign and exciting. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that."
Sierra nudges you, her tone playful again. "Then at least try. You deserve it."
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and for a moment, you forget about everything else. You pull it out, heart skipping when you see the name on the screen: Paige. The message.
miss watching film with you
Sierra leans over to peek at the text, a grin spreading across her face. "Smooth," she says, barely suppressing a laugh.
"Shut up," you laugh.
"Is that why Jasmine invited you to Connecticut this weekend?" Sierra asks, an eyebrow raised.
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "She told you?"
"Girl, I’m not blind," Sierra says, standing up. "Please. She’s been planning this whole setup for days. And you know what? You should go."
You look up, your gaze meeting hers. "I don’t know. The physics exam is coming up, and—"
"Physics will still be there when you get back," she interrupts, her voice light but serious. "But this? This might not be here forever."
You chew on that for a moment, the weight of it settling in.
"She’s waiting for you to say something," Sierra says quietly, her gaze flicking between you and the screen.
You hesitate, then smile softly to yourself. This is your chance.
You type back: "guess you'll have to come study in person sometime."
Sierra gives you a teasing look. "Oh, it’s on now."
Your phone buzzes again, and this time, Paige’s response comes quickly: "is that an invitation?"
Your fingers hover over the keys for a moment, and then, with a deep breath, you reply: "maybe. you gonna show me around campus?"
The message comes back almost immediately: "only the important spots. like where i practice my weak left hand drives 😏"
You can’t help it. You burst into laughter, your heart light and carefree for the first time in what feels like forever. Sierra shakes her head, smiling fondly at you.
"You’re totally down bad, huh?"
"Shut up," you laugh, feeling the warmth of it rush through you. But even as you tease her, you feel it too—this rush of excitement, the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.
Sierra heads for the roof door, pausing just before she goes inside. "Hey Rocket?"
"Yeah?"
"Just... be careful, okay? Not because of basketball or rankings or any of that stuff. Just... because your heart's on the line too."
You nod, your chest tight as the weight of her words settles in. "I will."
She gives you one last look before disappearing inside, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your phone, and the lighthearted texts you’ve been sending all night.
Another buzz from Paige lights up your phone: "but seriously. come this weekend? i want to see you."
Her response makes your whole body warm: "can't wait 💫"
You stay on the roof a while longer, letting the night air cool your flushed cheeks. March feels both too far away and too close, but right now, in this moment, you let yourself focus on a different kind of countdown:
Three days until Connecticut.
The minute you step onto UConn's campus, you remember why being The Prophecy is complicated.
"Oh my god," you hear someone whisper. "Is that—"
"Holy shit, that's really her—"
"The Prophecy is here—"
You pull your hoodie up, hoping for some anonymity, but it’s futile. Jasmine’s already ditched you to find KK, leaving you standing in the middle of the chaos, awkwardly clutching your duffel bag. You check your phone, hoping for a distraction, when you see a text from Paige.
how’s campus so far? are you surviving the hype? 😂
You type back quickly, trying to act casual.
surviving. But UConn is like a zoo. 🙄
Before you can put the phone down, a text buzzes again.
i’m in the quad, come meet me? i’ve got your escape route ready 🏃♀️
You smile at her message, your nerves a little lighter now, but that doesn't make the reality of the situation any less surreal.
"Should I just text her when I get there?" you mutter to yourself, typing out a quick reply:
on my way. see you soon.
The crowd's whispers grow louder, and as you move through the sea of students, your phone buzzes again, this time with a message that makes your heart skip a beat.
turn around
You turn, and there's Paige, looking unfairly good in joggers and a UConn hoodie. For a second, you both just stare at each other, all those late-night texts and video calls suddenly feeling very different in person.
"Hi," you manage, hyper-aware of the growing crowd pretending not to watch. "Um. Nice campus."
"Thanks, I—" she starts, just as you say, "Should we—"
You both stop. Laugh nervously. God, where did all your game go?
"Yo, Paige!" some guy calls out. "Is that The Prophecy? Can we get a picture?"
Before either of you can respond, the crowd swarms in like a tidal wave. Students materialize from every direction, phones out, voices overlapping, and it’s all happening too fast. You’re caught in the whirlwind of questions and flashes.
"Can you sign my jersey?"
"Is it true you haven't missed a shot since high school?"
"Are you really majoring in rocket science?"
"Can you do the space shot right now?"
It’s nothing new. You've done this a thousand times, but today, it feels different. You're hyper-aware of Paige standing there, watching, her gaze unreadable. Her eyes flick from the crowd to you, amusement playing at the corners of her lips, but there’s something else there too.
You keep your composure—signing autographs, taking selfies, answering questions—but it’s harder when she’s so close. You try not to look over at her too much, but you catch her looking at you once. And her smile? It makes the whole world feel lighter, even in the chaos.
Then someone from the crowd asks, “Yo, did you come to see Paige?”
You freeze. All eyes are suddenly on you, the crowd waiting for your response.
“Just checking out the competition,” you say smoothly, though your heart skips a beat. But then you catch the subtle curve of Paige’s lips as she tries to hide her smile.
“She's already kicked our ass once,” Paige adds, her voice playful. “Maybe I’m trying to learn her secrets.”
The crowd laughs, and the tension in the air eases. You finally manage to break free from the swarm, and Paige leads you out of the madness, pulling you toward a quieter part of campus. She glances over at you as if to gauge how you’re holding up, and then says, “Sorry about that. I probably should’ve warned you… You’re kind of a big deal here.”
“Here?” You raise an eyebrow. “Not just at Harvard?”
She rolls her eyes with that charming little smirk of hers. “Please, you know what I mean.”
She bumps your shoulder lightly, and for a second, you’re both frozen in that little moment, and then—quickly—she steps away, as though surprised by the contact. She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly before continuing, “The perfect record? The space shot? Your major? You’re like basketball mythology at this point.”
The words settle over you, like a weight that makes you stand a little straighter. It's odd, but you can't deny the truth in what she’s saying. You pass a group of girls, and they absolutely squeal when they spot you. One of them is wearing a t-shirt with your number and "The Prophecy" written on the back, and it's like you’ve stepped into some weird alternate reality.
"That's..." you start.
"Weird?" Paige offers.
"I was gonna say flattering, but yeah, weird works too."
She chuckles, a little breathless, as you continue walking. You can’t help but notice how she looks at you—like she’s caught between admiration and something else.
By the time you reach the athletics center, the crowd starts to thin, but there's still a palpable buzz in the air. Students part for you like you're some kind of celebrity, whispering as they pass.
"—never misses, like ever—"
"—turned down every WNBA scout—"
"—heard she's already got a NASA job lined up—"
"—next GOAT for sure—"
You can’t hear it all, but enough of it sticks to your skin. You make eye contact with a few of the UConn players as you pass, and they do double-takes. The whispers don’t stop. The world still hasn't figured out how to react to you, and you’re still trying to wrap your head around it yourself.
When you get inside the locker room, you spot KK, draped over Jasmine on a bench. She sits up as soon as she sees you, and a wide grin spreads across her face.
“The Prophecy graces us with her presence!” KK announces, her voice carrying through the room.
You and Paige both turn to each other, saying “Shut up” at the same time. You exchange a glance, and immediately, you both look away, your cheeks heating up.
“Oh my god,” KK stage-whispers to Jasmine, her voice dripping with mischief. “They’re actually awkward. This is adorable.”
“I will literally murder you,” Paige threatens, but her face is flushed, the playful tone in her voice not matching her serious words.
You drop your bag, trying to act casual despite your racing heart. "So, this is where the magic happens?"
"Something like that," Paige responds, her voice quieter now. Then, her tone shifts, just a little, as she adds, “Want to see where I practice those trash left-hand drives?”
Her smile is nervous but hopeful, and something in your chest flutters in response. You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes meeting hers.
"Lead the way, Bueckers."
The gym is quiet, empty this late—just the two of you and the space stretching out around you like a vast, hollow echo. The squeak of your sneakers against the court floor seems louder than usual, and the rhythm of the ball bouncing between you is a steady heartbeat in the silence.
You grab a ball, the motion automatic, instinctual. Some habits don’t break just because your heart’s doing backflips.
"So..." you start, dribbling slow, almost hesitant. Your palms feel too hot on the ball, like everything about this moment is too much, too close, but you can’t pull away.
"So..." she echoes, her voice low, mirroring your movements with a fluid ease that makes your pulse pick up a little faster.
"This is..." you trail off, looking for the right word. Something that fits the electric tension hanging in the air.
"Weird?"
She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. "I was gonna say nice," you add, voice a little softer, but still trying to brush it off, to keep control. "But yeah, weird too."
She laughs—just a soft sound, but it breaks something between you. You feel your shoulders loosen, and the tightness in your chest starts to ease. "Want to play? Or are you scared I'll ruin your perfect record?" Her words are light, playful, but there’s an edge of something else there. Something beneath the surface.
"Please," you scoff, but the words come out softer than you expected, a little breathless. "You couldn’t guard me with a restraining order."
Her smile widens, but her eyes stay locked on yours, sharp, like she can see right through you. "Big talk from someone who's been stalking my coffee stories."
You nearly drop the ball at that. "I— that’s not—" You choke on your words, heat rushing to your cheeks, the sudden shift in conversation throwing you off-balance.
"Four views," she grins. "I counted."
"Professional research," you manage, trying to ignore how your face is burning.
"Right." She steps closer, her body moving fluidly, effortlessly, still dribbling the ball with that same steady rhythm. "And all those late-night texts?"
"Scouting reports," you shoot back, but your voice cracks, betraying the lie.
"The two-hour video calls?"
"Film study," you mutter, voice barely a whisper.
"And coming to Connecticut?" Her tone shifts—lighter, but with a question in it now. A challenge in her eyes, daring you to say something.
You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your chest. "Would you believe advanced aerospace research?"
She's too close now. You can smell the faint scent of her perfume, feel the heat radiating off her as she steps forward just enough to close the space between you. The ball’s still bouncing, the rhythm matching your heartbeats, and you can hear the beat of her pulse too—steady.
"Try again." Her voice is soft, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.
You take a breath, the air thick with something unspoken. "Maybe... I just wanted to see you."
The ball stops bouncing. It’s almost like everything around you freezes for a second. The echo of the gym fades out, and all you can hear is the steady thrum of your heartbeat, racing now, too fast, too loud.
Her eyes search yours, the gold flecks in them catching the light, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. She doesn’t move. You don’t either. There’s a moment between you, raw and exposed, like you’re both just standing there, waiting for something to happen.
Then, her phone buzzes, breaking the stillness—KK, asking where you both disappeared to. The moment shatters, and you both step back, like you’ve both just been jolted awake.
"We should..." she starts.
"Yeah," you agree quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Team dinner, right?"
"Right." The word comes out like a sigh, a soft release, but neither of you move for a beat.
You both head back toward the locker room, but it feels like the distance between you has doubled, despite being only a few feet apart. You’re careful to maintain some space, but the air around you still crackles with the memory of the moment.
Just before you reach the door, you feel the lightest touch on your wrist. It’s a shock to the system, warm and soft, and you freeze.
"Hey."
You turn to face her, heart still thundering in your chest, your breath caught in your throat.
"I'm glad you came," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air between you, heavier than anything she’s said so far.
You open your mouth, but no words come out, your mind a blur, trying to make sense of the shift in the air between you. Before you can speak, though, she’s through the door, vanishing into the locker room, leaving you standing there, breathless.
You stand there for a moment, your heart still racing, trying to collect yourself. The touch of her fingers on your wrist is still warm on your skin, like an electric spark that lingers long after the contact ends. You can still feel the weight of her gaze on you, the way she looked at you just before she left—open, vulnerable, and for a second, everything in you just... paused.
You’re so fucking screwed.
Inside, KK takes one look at your face and starts laughing immediately. "Oh yeah," she says to Jasmine, her voice full of knowing. "March is gonna be interesting."
You throw a towel at her, but you can't help smiling. Because yeah, March is going to be complicated. But right now, watching Paige try not to look at you while she gets ready for dinner, you can't bring yourself to care.
Some things are worth the complication.
The team’s already piled into the upscale Italian place, the kind of restaurant where the hostess gives your group a double-take, eyes wide as she tries to figure out if you’re all really who she thinks you are. Emma starts giggling beside you, and you can’t help but let a laugh slip too. The entire UConn starting five, plus you, Jasmine, and a couple of bench players, fill up the space like a small parade. The table’s enormous, but somehow, fate—or possibly KK—decides that you should sit next to Paige. You know it's not her doing, but the thought of it makes your stomach do flips. Definitely not subtle.
Your knees brush under the table, and you both jerk away so fast it feels like a live wire just zapped both of you. It’s... a weird moment, but it’s over quickly.
"So," Caroline leans in, practically smirking with that devious look of hers. "We finally get to hear how The Prophecy got her name."
"Oh god," you groan, sinking back in your seat, hoping to disappear into the padded booth. But Paige perks up next to you, eyes lighting with interest.
"Wait," she says, "I don’t know this story."
You shoot Emma a glare, but she’s already opening her mouth, ready to spill the beans.
"Nobody tells it," you warn, but Emma's already launching in.
"Freshman year," Emma begins, her voice a little too loud in the suddenly quiet room, "first practice. Coach put her through this insane shooting drill—"
"It wasn't insane," you protest.
"Hundred shots from five spots," Emma continues, undeterred. "Most freshmen hit, like, sixty percent if they’re lucky. She goes perfect. Coach thinks it’s a fluke, makes her do it again. Perfect again."
You can feel Paige’s eyes on you, her attention sharp and focused. You don’t know how to feel about it, but you try not to squirm under her gaze.
"Third time," Emma's building to it now, "Coach says 'What are you, some kind of prophecy?' And right as she says it, this girl—" she points at you, "—sinks a half-court shot backward without looking."
"I was stretching!" you defend, but the table's already losing it.
"The name stuck," Caroline finishes. "Even before the no-miss streak."
"Speaking of," Tessa jumps in, her voice suddenly a lot more serious, "how do you actually do that? The never-missing thing?"
The entire table quiets down, all eyes suddenly fixed on you. Even the waitress, hovering nearby, pretends not to listen, but you catch her glancing over every few seconds.
You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention on you, but the pressure isn’t all bad. You glance over at Paige—she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to focus. She shifts slightly closer, and it makes your heart race.
"I just..." You pause, unsure of how to explain the weird, inexplicable thing that happens when you’re on the court. "I guess I see it differently. Like, you know how some people have perfect pitch in music? They hear things that other people can’t even pick up on?"
Nods around the table.
"I see angles that way," you continue, trying to sound more confident, but you’re still not used to talking about it. "Trajectories, force vectors... like physics and the feel of it—they just... merge in my head, I guess?"
Jasmine, who’s been watching you this whole time, cuts in with a smirk. "She’s being modest. Yesterday, I watched her solve a quantum mechanics problem while sinking thirty straight threes."
You roll your eyes. "Multitasking," you mumble, but Paige’s knee brushes against yours again. This time, neither of you pulls away, and your concentration goes from laser focus to absolute mush. You feel heat rising in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.
The conversation shifts, but you’re barely listening anymore. Every little movement from Paige, every time her hand brushes your arm as she reaches for her water, every time she leans in a little closer to hear you speak—your mind is barely keeping up. Her perfume is subtle but intoxicating, making it impossible to think straight.
"Y'all should see her in class," Jasmine's saying. "Professors literally use her as an example in physics."
"One time!"
"Three times," Jasmine corrects. "Remember when Dr. Peterson used your jump shot to explain projectile motion?"
KK, who’s been silently watching you both like this is her personal reality TV show, grins. "No wonder half the team has a crush on you."
You nearly choke on your water. Paige freezes next to you, and you can feel the shift in the air.
"I mean," Caroline chimes in, clearly trying to smooth over the tension, but only making it worse, "who wouldn’t? Best player in the country, genius-level IQ, and look at her—"
"Okay!" Paige cuts her off, a bit too loudly. "Who wants dessert?"
The change in pace is enough to shake everyone out of the sudden tension. But as dessert menus are passed around and people start laughing again, your mind is still racing.
Later, as the group walks back toward campus, you notice how easily the team starts to scatter. KK and Jasmine vanish into the distance almost immediately, making some excuse about practice. The rest of the team drifts off to their own plans—study groups, dorms, whatever—but you and Paige end up walking together, side by side in the cool night air, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence.
"So," Paige says, her voice soft but a little uncertain, "the hotel’s that way."
You glance at her. "Yeah."
Neither of you turns toward it.
"I have, um," she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I have a single. In my dorm. If you wanted to watch a movie or something."
Your heart goes into overdrive, doing flips and twists like it might just leap out of your chest. The words feel stuck in your throat, but your mind is running wild.
"Or something?"
Even in the dim streetlight, you can see her blush. "I didn't mean— I just thought—"
"I'd like that," you cut off her rambling, and the smile she gives you makes your knees weak.
Her room is exactly what you'd expect - basketball posters, team photos, neat desk with game notes spread out. What you don't expect is how intimate it feels, being in this space that's so completely hers.
"Make yourself comfortable," she gestures to her bed, then immediately looks panicked. "I mean, you can sit— I'll take the chair—"
"Paige?"
"Yeah?"
"Breathe."
She laughs, some tension breaking. You sit on her bed, back against the wall, and after a moment she joins you, careful to leave space between you.
"So," you say.
"So," she echoes.
"Half the team has a crush on me, huh?"
She groans, covering her face. "KK has the biggest mouth—"
"Just half though?" You're pushing it, you know you are, but something about the way she's blushing makes you brave.
She lowers her hands, looks at you directly for the first time since dinner. "You know exactly how many people have a crush on you."
"Do I?"
Her eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second. "You must."
The air feels thick, charged. Your hand is on the comforter between you, and slowly, so slowly, her pinky finger hooks over yours.
Just that small point of contact sets your whole body on fire.
"Paige?"
"Hmm?"
"I didn't come to Connecticut for film study."
She turns her hand, letting her fingers intertwine with yours properly. Your breath hitches.
"I know," she says softly.
You sit there for what feels like hours, neither moving except for her thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles. The touch is so light, so careful, but it feels like the most intense thing you've ever experienced.
"I should..." you start reluctantly.
"Stay," she says quickly, then blushes harder. "I mean, it's late, and the hotel's far, and—"
"Okay."
She blinks. "Okay?"
You squeeze her hand gently. "Okay."
Later, lying in her bed (she insisted, taking the floor despite your protests), you stare at the ceiling in the dark. Your hand still tingles where she touched it.
"Rocket?" her voice comes softly from below.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Then: "I'm really glad you're here."
You close your eyes, smiling into the darkness. "Me too."
Neither of you mentions March. Neither of you talks about rankings or rivalries or what any of this means. For now, there's just this: her steady breathing in the quiet room, the lingering warmth of her touch, and the feeling that something huge is beginning.
Just before you drift off, you hear her whisper something that might be "perfect." But you're already falling asleep, wrapped in her blankets that smell like her, dreaming of basketball and physics and the way her hand felt in yours.
Some equations, you think hazily, don't need solving.
#paige bueckers#wbb x reader#uconn wbb#uconn huskies#wbb imagine#wbb smut#paige bueckers x reader#paige bueckers fic#paige bueckers smut#paige bueckers x oc#paige bueckers uconn#uconn#paige buckets#wcbb x reader#wcbb smut#uconnwbb#paige bueckers fluff#uconn women’s basketball#paige x reader#bueckets
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The Inheritance
The estate loomed on the horizon like a relic of a forgotten era, its spires piercing the gray winter sky. When my grandparents passed, the weight of the house fell to my parents. I arrived days later, summoned back from the city to help sort through the remnants of their lives. It was then I first noticed the cat.
It was an elegant creature, black as the void, with eyes like molten gold. It roamed the estate as if it had lived there longer than anyone, weaving silently through the labyrinthine halls and watching from the shadows.
“Her name’s Persephone,” my mother said when I asked. “She’s been with the family forever.”
It seemed like an odd thing to say. How long could a cat really live? I didn’t press the matter at first. There were more immediate concerns: sorting through the vault of family records, old portraits, diaries, and letters. But as the days went on, the cat’s presence became harder to ignore. It wasn’t just that Persephone was always nearby; it was the way she looked at me—intently, as though I was the only person in the world who mattered.
One evening, I found an old family tree tucked in a chest in the attic. It stretched back centuries, an unbroken line of inheritance. At first, it seemed mundane until I noticed a peculiar annotation: a small pawprint scrawled next to each heir’s name.
I returned to the chest, digging deeper. There were photographs and oil paintings, their subjects varying in fashion and age but always accompanied by a black cat with those same haunting eyes. I stared at them until my head swam. Persephone was always there, unchanged.
I confronted my parents the next morning. “Does Persephone ever… look different to you?”
They both frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s in every photo,” I said, spreading the evidence across the dining table. “These go back centuries. It’s the same cat.”
My father laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. No cat lives that long.”
“But look!” I insisted, shoving a particularly damning photograph under his nose. He stared at it for a moment before his expression softened, as though he had forgotten why he was upset.
“It’s just a coincidence,” he said, patting my shoulder. “Now let’s not dwell on silly things.”
No matter how hard I tried, they wouldn’t take me seriously. Worse, they seemed to forget the conversation entirely within minutes, leaving me to wonder if I was losing my grip on reality.
The cat began seeking me out after that, appearing in my room at odd hours, slipping inside without a sound. It would leap onto the bed and sit, perfectly still, its eyes locked on mine. Each time, I felt an inexplicable pressure in my chest, as though the air had thickened.
One night, I woke to find her on my pillow, her golden eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. I didn’t move, my heart pounding as she inched closer. Her paw rested lightly on my chest, and for a moment, I could swear I heard a voice—not in my ears, but in my mind.
“You see me.”
I bolted upright, but the cat was gone.
The following day, I dove deeper into the records. The estate’s library was vast, filled with books as old as the house itself. I found a diary belonging to a woman named Eleanor, dated 1793. In it, she described the family’s “guardian,” a black cat named Persephone, which had been passed down through the generations. Eleanor wrote of how the cat had chosen her when she came of age, how it whispered secrets of power and responsibility. She described the others forgetting—how it was part of the curse.
By now, I was too far down the rabbit hole to turn back. The pieces clicked into place: the cat wasn’t just a pet. It was something else entirely, something that lived on through each generation of my family, tethering itself to one heir at a time.
That night, Persephone cornered me in the study. The house was silent, the air heavy with anticipation. She leapt onto the desk, her eyes blazing like twin suns.
“You’re not a cat,” I said, my voice trembling. “What are you?”
She tilted her head, and again, that voice slithered into my mind. “I am the keeper of this house, of your line. I have chosen you.”
“No,” I whispered, backing away. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“You have no choice,” she replied. “You are bound, as your ancestors were. Through me, you will endure.”
I felt a cold rush of something—knowledge, memories, fragments of lives that weren’t mine. The weight of centuries bore down on me, and I stumbled, clutching at the desk.
“Why me?” I choked out.
“Because you see me. You remember.”
I haven’t left the estate since that night. My parents have moved back to the city, their connection to the house severed as cleanly as if it had never existed. They don’t remember Persephone or the strange events that unfolded here.
But I do. Persephone is always near, her presence a constant reminder of what I’ve inherited. Sometimes, I hear her voice in my dreams, teaching me secrets I never wanted to know.
The estate is mine now. And so is the cat.
Your grandparent passes and your parents inherit the palatial estate as well as the care for its cat. After going through several family records you realize the cat has been inherited throughout the generations. You try telling others but they forget. Now it keeps trying to be alone with you.
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How the batboys would react to anniversaries!
Dick Grayson
He really tries his best to spend the day with you or carve out some time, but if you’re a civilian then it’s hard. He’s got to lead the titans, stop Mr Freeze, make sure Bruce doesn’t adopt anyone else, stop Mr Freeze again!
When he finally gets to you he makes it well worth your time. He’ll confidently give you your favourite flowers because he knows exactly which ones they are.
Dick is a diehard romantic so he’ll bring you back to wherever you had your first date, or where you first met depending on how memorable the moment was.
“Sooooo, I’m assuming you remember this place…” He’ll say with a cheeky smile- nervously he’ll add, “You do like it right?”
Expect a lot of nostalgia to the early days of your relationship, which will lead to you two falling in love with each other again.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the entire World.”
Jason Todd
“Well… do you want to celebrate our anniversary?”
Jason doesn’t believe it should be any different from any other days in your relationship. Sure he wants to commemorate and appreciate your time together, but you two shouldn’t be doing anything drastically different right? After all you both put a 110% into your relationship naturally.
He’ll definitely buy you a very thoughtful gift, most likely a book that reminds him of you. However Jason doesn’t have the confidence to give it to you in person, because he’s scared you’ll reject the idea or throw his affections back in his face.
Instead he’ll leave the gift for you on the beside table with a note. Which is short and to the point, but again he’s worried that he may be overestimating how much you truly care for him, so he acts aloof.
“For you, happy anniversary.”
Tim drake
He’ll probably be a few minutes late to the date looking totally disorientated. Shoving your favourite flowers into your hand he’ll breathlessly give you an apology.
“Sorry-“ pant, “riddler,” pant, “is crazy,” wheeze.
Tim is looking for more of a casual day rather than a massive extravagant event. He just wants to spend time with his lover and feel free to be himself.
The pair of you will go on a date doing something that you both find equally enjoyable so the day isn’t solely spent on one of you.
Tim’s definitely bought you something expensive to give you after the date is over. It’s something that reminded him of you when he walked past a store in the diamond district a few weeks ago and he couldn’t resist. Secretly he hopes you like it, one because his bank account took a bit of a dent, two the store doesn’t do returns and three he’ll be scared he doesn’t understand you properly.
“It suits you perfectly.”
Damian Wayne
You and Damian have dinner at Wayne Manor, which sounds very simplistic, but the little details are what makes the anniversary special.
Either you or Alfred will make the dinner, while Damian goes patrolling. This means he has the entire night to give to you and not Gotham.
You both dress up as if you’re going to a fancy gala and insist on no interruptions.
It’s just you and Damian with the fireplace silently rustling behind you and the opulence of Wayne Manor to embrace you.
The affair is quiet and romantic, not overstated and tiring. It’s just the right pace for you and Damian.
No words need to be said at the end of the meal as you both stare into the fireplace, save for a previous statement.
“Thank you for trusting me with your heart.”
Duke Thomas
“No it’s next week right?”
Duke is so sweet and loves you to the moon and back. Unfortunately he’s a bit forgetful. Duke however makes things up for you in an impressive fashion. If there’s one thing Duke is known for it’s kindness.
You’d think he hadn’t even forgotten considering how he takes you to all the right places and says all the right things. The day goes by so quickly but it’s completely jam packed with activities.
“I know you always wanted to, so why not today!”
Since he forgot the anniversary he doesn’t buy you a specific gift, but to you the day in itself is a gift. He completely forgoes patrol all together for you.
“Please forgive me, I love you too much to let you go.”
#dick grayson headcanon#dick grayson x reader#jason todd headcanon#jason todd x reader#tim drake x reader#tim drake headcanon#damian wayne headcanon#damian wayne x reader#duke thomas headcanon#duke thomas x reader
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December 1st
December masterlist
General masterlist
Feyre and Rhysand had a calm evening at the River House.
The fire was lit, and they were snuggled together on the couch. Nyx had already fallen asleep, and the couple took the opportunity to have some alone time.
“I have a painting from their mating ceremony to Nesta and Cassian, a new cookbook to Elain and a perfume to Mor,” Feyre listed up Winter Solstice gifts she had planned for her family. However, she was missing one. “But I don’t know what to get Az.”
Feyre looked up at her mate and saw how he was deep in thoughts. She lifted her hand and carefully cupped his face. He leaned into her hand. His eyes met hers and she felt his strong emotions. He was filled with both gratitude and love, but also grief.
“You know Az won’t celebrate Winter Solstice with us,” Rhys told his mate.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get him a present.”
“Yes, it does,” Rhys started. “Az hates Winter Solstice. I’m afraid giving him a gift will only bring back bad memories.”
Feyre sat up on the couch and watch her mate with a careful gaze.
“What happened?” she asked.
She saw how the grief covered Rhys’ face, and she felt how powerful the feeling was. She almost started crying just from that alone. She reached over, held Rhys’ hand and gave it a small squeeze.
Rhysand answered with taking a deep breath and started to explain.
“Y/N was the daughter of my mother’s best friend. She was about two years older than me, but we became friends quickly. She grew up at Windhaven too, but we didn’t see each other often. She was my mother’s apprentice, and therefore also a seamstress. We started to become better and better friends and then Cassian came along, and she became good friends with him too. She ended up moving in with us when she was nineteen, after her mother passed away.
“Y/N was like an older sister. She took care of our injuries after training and did her best to help us with our hangovers, unless her hangover was worse than ours. She was the steady stone that helped all of us through everything. When we lost my mother, or when any of us was scared for whatever reason, she was there. She had the best hugs and made the best stew. Neither Cass or I had ever had a big sister before and neither one of us have ever loved someone that dearly.”
Rhys’ eyes were glistening with tears, but he forced himself to hold it together.
“What about Az? Wasn’t she an older sister to Azriel?” Feyre couldn’t hold back her questions. She had heard a little about Y/N, but never this many details.
“No, she was definitely not a sister to Azriel,” Rhys said with a loving laugh. “They were mates.”
Feyre felt her eyes grow wide. How had nobody told her that Azriel had a mate? However, she soon realized that something must have gone very wrong for her not to know about this before now.
“They spent centuries crushing on each other, but neither one of them dared to admit it. Y/N was in multiple different relationships and Azriel crushed on Mor, but both eventually realized that they were suppressing their real feelings. Their mating bond snapped only weeks before I got stuck Under the Mountain. They were going to have their mating ceremony only days after Amarantha���s party.”
Dread filled Feyre. Amarantha had destroyed so much for so many years and for so many people. She couldn’t imagine spending fifty years under her reign. Feyre had, after all, not even survived three months.
“They decided to be stupid and waited for me to get back before they accepted the bond. They waited for fifty years, just so that the entire family would be there.”
Rhys swallowed in dread and his voice was shaking as he spoke.
“They had their mating ceremony only two days after I returned and then spent a week in their shared apartment. After they returned, I needed Y/N to go on a mission. She needed to use her charm to get some people on our side again after Amarantha. Azriel initially refused to let her go, but eventually Y/N convinced him that it would be okay if they went together. However, they never got to where they were going. They were ambushed and when Azriel woke again after, Y/N was gone. Nobody knows what happened.”
Both Feyre and Rhys had to dry tears at the end.
Feyre hated to be away from Rhys, sometimes even seconds apart was too much. She couldn’t imagine not knowing if he was okay, or if he was alive. Even the thought made her nauseous.
“Y/N loved Winter Solstice. She would decorate the entire Town House and there was always cookies or hot chocolate in the kitchen. Without her, Azriel haven’t been able to enjoy the holiday. Azriel haven’t been the same.”
Dividers by @issysh3ll
#acotar#azriel#azriel fanfic#azriel x reader#azriel x y/n#azriel x you#azriel shadowsinger#azriel x oc#azriel x original character
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Could This Be? (Sae Itoshi x fem!reader)
angst, fluff, slow burn, Sae Itoshi, language, smut (heavy?) fem!reader, trigger warning, hopeless/over thinker reader..?, BTW THIS IS GONNA BE A LONGGG ONE.
Yeah there's fingering, orgasms, dominate Sae, big-cocked Sae, somewhat submissive reader?, dirty talk (somewhat?), y’know all the usual.
a/n: give me ideas for who and what to write about next please🙏 cuz I got nothing.
Also, sorry if I made any mistakes on here as I have had not checked for any spelling mistakes or anything. I rushed to try and get this published because well…yeah it’s been a while.
____
(no song for this sorry😢)
Love.
It’s something everyone craves. The warmth of comfort, the security of knowing someone is truly there for you. It’s that feeling of having someone by your side, someone you can open up to without fear of judgment. It’s knowing there’s a shoulder you can lean on when life feels heavy.
Who wouldn’t want that? Everyone longs for that one person who understands them deeply, who stands by them through everything. It’s a natural part of being human.
Yet, finding true love isn’t always easy. Lustful desires can cloud our vision, making it hard to distinguish between the fleeting thrill of lust and the enduring presence of love.
Lust satisfies only for a moment, but love—love endures.
Too often, people mistake lust for love, deceiving themselves into thinking the temporary excitement is something lasting. But in truth, love is far deeper, something that grows and remains, far beyond the surface.
They convince themselves that this so-called "love" they’re experiencing is genuine, when, in truth, it’s anything but.
Then, there are those who have never been loved properly at all. As humans, we often twist the meaning of "love," reshaping it into something that barely resembles true love.
It’s disgusting, really.
The world is far from perfect, and it’s filled with deceivers and liars who spread only flames of falsehood and venom. It’s painful to think that someone like you has crossed paths with these people.
Many have tried to explain what "love" is supposed to be—pleasure, satisfaction, joy, delight, even lust. They use these words to describe love, and it’s horrifying to see how they’ve mistaken and misrepresented it.
What they experienced wasn’t real love at all. Just a shallow, distorted version of something far deeper and truer.
It’s pitiful. The "love" they’ve experienced is etched so deeply into their minds that they believe it’s real. But it isn’t.
Love is so much more. It takes many shapes, each unique to the person, and it goes far beyond fleeting pleasure or satisfaction. Some have been led to believe otherwise, brainwashed into confusing love with something shallow and empty.
They’ve never truly experienced love.
And yet, you, too, fall into this category. You’ve never been loved as you deserved.
These days, it seems like all men want is sex and pleasure. Many of the men you’ve dated claimed to “love” you, but those words quickly unraveled into hollow promises. What they felt was just a lustful attraction, nothing more.
Your heart has been broken more than once by these pretenders, each time leaving you with more questions than answers.
One day, they’d say they loved you; the next, they’d avoid you entirely. And to think, you even lost your virginity to one of these fucking scums.
They left you shattered, vanishing the moment they got what they wanted.
One guy, in particular, slipped past your defenses, convincing you he was different—that he was actually worthy of this "love." He manipulated you in countless ways, claiming it was all in the name of love. He told you that having sex, intimacy, and leaving yourself vulnerable, was the ultimate proof of love.
You were conflicted, torn by doubt, but a deep need to be loved pushed you to trust him. Yet, the days that followed left you miserable and broken, as he cut off all contact after that night.
All you wanted was to be was loved…
One by one, each guy took what he wanted and left, only adding to the ache and emptiness.
You stopped believing in love and began to hate yourself in ways you never had before.
Was love even real? Was it just a fantasy made for movies and stories, something exaggerated beyond reality? No one could convince you otherwise. All those voices claiming to know what love is, how it’s supposed to feel—they seemed almost delusional to you now.
You found yourself pitying them, those blind and hopeless creatures, chasing an illusion you no longer believed in.
What a bunch of animals.
…🌺…
You worked at a small bakery not far from home. Despite everything going on, you couldn’t afford to be broke. Thankfully, this job gave you just enough to scrape by each week. Barely.
You took the night shifts for the extra pay—just in case. A car was out of the question on your income, but that didn’t matter much; work was only a short walk away.
What they didn’t pay you enough for, though, were the rude, bitchy, demanding customers who tested your patience daily. They complained, ordered you around, and acted as if you were their work-slave, to solely serve their every whim. You were surprised you hadn’t lost your mind by now—probably thanks to your coworker or best friend might I say.
“Heyyy, Y/nnie! How’s my favorite girl?” she called out, wrapping you up in a tight hug.
Her name was Yuko. Annoying and overly extroverted as she could be, though you were grateful to have her around.
Her dark, disheveled hair, bounced as she ran toward you. “Hey, Yuko…” you managed, barely able to breathe under her tight hug. Despite her size, she was surprisingly strong.
Yuko’s eyes widened as she realized she was squeezing the air out of you, and she quickly let go. “Ha… sorry, Y/n!” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck in embarrassment.
“Nah, you’re fine, Yuko,” you said, smiling as you met her gaze.
Your first shift here had been lonely. You hadn’t bothered much with the other coworkers, and they hadn’t really reached out to you either. You’d all just been there to do the job—nothing more.
You hadn’t really minded keeping to yourself, never making an effort to connect with your coworkers. They hadn’t shown much interest in you, either.
Then came Yuko.
She approached you, eager to get to know you better—though, to be fair, she did that with everyone. She was friends with nearly all your coworkers, and now she’d set her sights on making you her next.
You couldn’t deny that her bold personality drew you in. Something about her was captivating, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Was it her loudness? Her confidence? Her outgoing spirit? Whatever it was, you felt yourself drawn to her.
And Yuko felt the same. She sensed there was something different about you, something intriguing, and that made her all the more determined to befriend you.
Who would have guessed that this mutual interest would spark such a strong friendship between the two of you?
You weren’t just another coworker to her—Yuko considered you her best friend. And, honestly, you felt the same way about her.
“I just couldn’t resist squeezing the life out of you, Y/n! You’re just so precious and adorable!” Yuko gushed, clasping her hands together with a loud smack.
“Yuko… you use that excuse every single day,” you sighed, shaking your head.
“Do I? Mmm, I don’t recall…” Yuko hummed, feigning innocence with a coy smile.
You let out a small huff, clearly seeing through her act. With a playful glare, you waited, knowing she’d slip up soon enough.
Sure enough, not even ten seconds passed before she let out a whine, squirming a little under your gaze. “Ah, Y/nnnnieee… how do you always figure me out?” she grumbled.
“You’re just that bad at lying, Yuko.” You chuckled softly, watching as she crossed her arms, giving you a mock-offended glare.
“I am not that bad at lying!” she retorted, pouting.
Lost in your banter, neither of you noticed the soft jingle of the bell signaling someone’s entrance.
“Sure, Yuko, whatever helps you sleep at night—”
“Are you going to take my order, or are you two just going to keep bickering?”
Both of you froze, turning toward the voice with wide eyes.
"Ah… my apologies, sir. Sorry for not paying attention," you muttered quickly, stepping over to the register to take his order.
The man let out a faint hum, as if to agree that yes, it was your fault. Inwardly, you stifled a groan—you could already tell he was going to be one of those bitchy customers.
"Anyway, what can I get for you, sir?" you asked, glancing up.
Your gaze lingered, almost unconsciously taking in his appearance, a habit you’d developed with customers. He had reddish-brown hair and a lean build, at least from what you could see. His eyes, a striking green-teal, were narrowed slightly, showing not a hint of emotion.
You almost paused, a bit envious of his long, dark lashes. What a lucky guy, you thought.
Overall, he gave off an air of indifference, like nothing around him could bother him in the slightest.
“A salted kombucha tea will do,” he replied, barely looking up from his phone.
“Anything else?” you asked, glancing up at him again.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket, meeting your gaze with an intensity that made it feel as if he was sizing you up, too.
“That’s all,” he said, hands shoved casually into his pockets.
You quickly typed in his order, breaking eye contact, though you could still feel the weight of his stare. It was… unsettling.
“And your name?” you asked, grabbing an empty cup, trying to brush off the strange tension.
“Sae Itoshi,” he muttered.
Sae Itoshi? The name struck a chord, tickling the back of your memory. You’d heard it somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place where.
“Alright, your drink will be ready shortly. If you could, please wait over there,” you said, gesturing toward the spot.
Sae’s gaze followed your hand, and without a word, he walked to the designated area.
With the empty cup in hand, you stepped away from the register and started preparing his drink. Just as you began brewing the tea, Yuko appeared at your side, looking as energetic as ever.
“Did I hear that right? That was Sae Itoshi?!” she practically shouted, wide-eyed as she leaned right into your face.
Already feeling the beginnings of a headache, you nudged her back. “Yeah, why are you so surprised?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Yuko looked at you like you’d just sprouted a second head.
“Are you serious, Y/n?” She scoffed, gripping your shoulders in exaggerated disbelief. “You call me clueless, but you don’t even know who Sae Itoshi is?”
“That, my dear Y/n, was none other than the Sae Itoshi—the famous football player!” Yuko exclaimed, rocking you back and forth.
No wonder the name had sounded so familiar. What were the odds that a famous soccer player would show up at a small bakery like yours?
“Okay, okay, you can let me go, Yuko!” you yelped, clutching the cup tightly to avoid spilling the drink.
Reluctantly, she released you but continued her excited rambling. “Do you realize how rare this is?” she squealed, practically sparkling with enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I guess it’s pretty rare,” you mumbled as you got back to preparing the drink, hoping she’d settle down.
But Yuko just stared at you, her expression twisting with utter disbelief. What’s with everyone staring today?
“The hell, Y/n? How are you not excited about this?! A famous athlete is literally in our shop right now! Out of everywhere, he chose here!” she ranted, poking the side of your head for emphasis.
You swatted her hand away. “Keep your voice down, Yuko,” you sighed, trying to focus.
But Yuko, unfazed, only leaned in closer. “And not only is he famous, he’s one of those hot athletes!” she gushed, ignoring your attempt to quiet her. “How can you stay calm when we’re literally in the presence of a sexy celebrity?”
You groaned, turning to face her. “Yuko, please. Let me finish this, okay? I really don’t need the noise right now.”
She huffed, dropping her shoulders dramatically. “Fine, whatever, Y/n. You’re so weird,” she muttered, leaning against the counter beside you.
A brief silence fell—until Yuko finally spoke up again. “So… how big do you think his dic—“
“Yuko!” you blurted, stopping her before she could finish.
“What? I’m just curious! Can’t you let a girl imagine these things?” she pouted, crossing her arms with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She knew you were already done with her antics.
“At least keep those thoughts to yourself, Yuko. And you call me weird,” you scoffed softly, snapping the lid onto the drink.
Yuko chuckled, clearly pleased with herself for getting under your skin. She lived for teasing you.
You took a steadying breath, picked up the tea, and headed over to Sae Itoshi, feeling a touch nervous to be serving someone so famous.
“Here’s your tea, sir,” you mumbled, holding the cup out to him.
He glanced up from his phone, his eyes settling on you as he reached for the drink. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and slightly rough, sending a surprising jolt through you. Shaking off the thought, you added, “That’ll be 595.31 yen.”
“Right.” He gave a soft hum and pulled out the exact amount, placing the yen in your hand before taking a sip.
You noticed his eyes widen just a fraction as he savored the tea, clearly caught off guard by the taste.
“This is surprisingly good for such a cheap drink,” he muttered, taking another sip.
You let out an irritated huff. Did he really have to say it like that?
“Glad it suits your taste buds,” you grumbled, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
He ignored your tone. “Did you make this yourself?” he asked, studying you with unexpected interest.
Caught off guard by the question, you raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I did. Why?”
His gaze held yours as he replied, “No reason. I just didn’t expect it to turn out this well.”
Another rude remark. Will you ever get a break from these customers?
He took another sip, looking mildly impressed. “I might reconsider coming by again for another cup. You make good tea—for a baker.”
You were sure steam was coming out of your ears by now. You just wanted him out of the shop. “Thanks, I guess,” you muttered, barely concealing your frustration.
“No problem,” he said nonchalantly, strolling out the door without a second glance.
You let out an aggravated sigh. The nerve of that guy.
Slumping your shoulders, you turned and headed back to where Yuko was waiting. The moment she spotted you, she practically skipped over.
“Sooo, Y/n, what’d you think? Pretty sexy, huh?” she laughed, leaning against your shoulder.
“Sure, I’ll admit he’s good-looking,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “But he’s an absolute jerk. Seriously, how do people put up with him?” You groaned, burying your face in your hands.
“Woah, woah, Y/nnie, what exactly happened?” Yuko asked, pulling back to look at you.
You sighed, pulling your hands away from your face. “He practically insulted me—multiple times. And I don’t even think he realized it.”
Yuko studied your face as you ranted, wide-eyed. Clearly, you were more annoyed than usual.
“Well, look on the bright side, Y/n—he probably won’t come back! …Sadly,” she added, mumbling the last part.
“About that…” you muttered, avoiding her gaze.
Yuko’s mouth dropped open, and she grabbed your face, forcing you to look at her. “You’re telling me he’s coming back?! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh—!”
“Yuko!” you exclaimed as she released her grip, realizing she’d been squeezing your face a little too hard.
“Sorry, Y/n,” she chuckled sheepishly, taking a step back. “But seriously—is he really coming back?” Her eyes were wide, fixed on you like a hawk.
“Well… yeah, he said he might, but I don’t know if he actually meant it,” you murmured, recalling Sae’s words.
Yuko let out an exaggerated groan, tugging at her hair. “Aww, come on, Y/n! Way to get my hopes up!”
“Sorry, Yuko,” you sighed. Not that you were actually sorry.
“Doesn’t mean he won’t, though! Ooh, maybe I can get his number too! I can already picture our future together—wonder how he looks naked in bed—”
“Yuko!” you shouted, interrupting her with a mix of surprise and annoyance.
“Just messing with you, Y/n!” Yuko cackled, wrapping you in a tight hug.
You couldn’t stand how easily she joked about such… lustful things, though you’d never admit it to her. It always made you uncomfortable.
“Aww, I love you, Y/n!” Yuko said dramatically, burying her head in your neck.
That, too, made your stomach turn. You hated it.
Why did everyone toss around the word "love" so casually, like it was just a meaningless phrase? You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
…🌺…
The soft, familiar comfort of your bed enveloped you as you collapsed onto the mattress. A sigh escaped your lips as you began to settle in for the night. It was already 12:05 AM, meaning your shift would start in just six hours.
You let out another sigh, staring at the ceiling, letting your thoughts wander.
Then, out of nowhere, Sae Itoshi’s face flashed in your mind.
Without thinking, you grabbed your phone and searched for his Instagram profile.
What the hell are you even doing?
You scrolled through his posts, which were mostly just photos of him scoring goals, looking effortlessly cool. What is wrong with you?
Your finger hovered over the screen as you clicked on his followers and the people he followed. It was a list of other famous football players, each name more recognizable than the last.
Are you out of your mind?
You navigated through all the social media apps, searching for his name, scrolling aimlessly.
Stop.
You froze, suddenly aware of what you were doing.
“What the hell am I doing?” you whispered to yourself, a wave of realization washing over you.
Why were you so fixated on finding Sae Itoshi online? Was he really that intriguing? Was he worth all this time and energy?
What exactly was so captivating about him?
You had no answers.
With a frustrated sigh, you closed out of every app that featured his name and set your phone down beside your bed. You plugged it in to charge, then wrapped yourself tightly in your blanket.
But despite the warmth, sleep eluded you. Instead, you lay wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling.
What made you do this? Why was Sae Itoshi still on your mind?
Why were you suddenly so desperate to know who he was?
You let out a weary groan, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping sleep would finally drown out the endless questions swirling in your mind.
And after what felt like an eternity, it finally worked. Your thoughts began to fade, and sleep claimed you.
…🌺…
“Well then, Y/nnie, who’s excited to see Sae Itoshi?! I know I am!” Yuko exclaimed, practically bouncing with energy.
“Sometimes you’re too much, Yuko,” you replied, rolling your eyes.
As expected, Yuko was absolutely ecstatic about the prospect of seeing Sae Itoshi again. But could you say the same? You weren’t so sure.
“Come on, Y/n! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! You’ve got to make the most of it!” Yuko urged, clasping her hands around yours with a grin.
“Well, I’d like to make use of my lifetime not obsessing over some famous football player,” you sighed, trying to sound indifferent.
What a lie.
“Gosh, you’re so boring, Y/n!” Yuko huffed, releasing her grip on you. “You’re hopeless,” she added with a teasing tone.
You scoffed. “Me, hopeless? I’m just trying to make enough money to survive out here,” you grumbled.
“Aren’t we all?” Yuko replied, taking a step away from you and heading off to serve other customers.
You sighed, watching her go, then rested your elbows on the counter in the back. Your phone came out of your pocket, and you began scrolling through social media absentmindedly.
Then, once again, that all-too-familiar thought of him crept into your mind.
What is happening to you?
You found yourself on his Instagram page, scrolling through his posts without even realizing it.
Just then, you heard a voice—one you knew all too well.
“You must have a really hard time noticing your customers waiting.”
Your eyes widened in shock. You quickly whipped your head up, and there he was—that stupid jerk—standing right at the register, waiting for you to take his order.
Sae Itoshi…
You quickly turned off your phone, hoping he hadn’t caught you scrolling through his profile just moments before.
Taking a deep breath, you walked up to the register, forcing a neutral expression.
“The same thing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah,” Sae replied, his tone as calm as ever.
With just one word from him, you got to work, preparing his tea with a practiced speed.
It didn’t take long, and within less than 10 minutes, his drink was ready.
“That’ll be—”
“Here.”
Sae handed you the money without missing a beat, then swiftly took the drink from your hands, taking a slow sip.
A satisfied sigh escaped him as he swallowed, clearly enjoying the tea.
You couldn’t help but watch him, eyes lingering on the way he drank.
This guy…
Noticing your stare, he pulled the cup away from his lips and casually spoke, “Y’know, instead of just wandering around looking at my page, you could always just follow me.”
His voice was quiet, almost teasing, but you couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious.
Nonetheless, your eyes widened at his words.
Fuck…he caught you.
“Uh… yeah, I’ll keep that in mind…” you mumbled awkwardly, the words barely escaping your lips.
You could feel your face burning with embarrassment. This is so humiliating.
Then, just as you were trying to regain some composure, Sae spoke again.
“Give me your phone.”
His words hit you like a punch. What the hell? Why would he want your phone?
“May I ask why?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, the confusion evident in your voice.
“I just want to see something,” he replied, his tone flat and unreadable.
You should’ve known better. You shouldn’t give a stranger your phone. It was basic knowledge, after all. But something about his calm, indifferent demeanor made you hesitate.
Strange, you thought, but you didn’t argue.
With a subtle sigh, you pulled your phone from your back pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to him.
Sae swiftly swiped your phone from your hand, his fingers moving quickly as he typed something and tapped on the screen.
“Here,” he said, handing the device back to you.
You took your phone, still confused, and looked up at him. He met your gaze with a calm, unreadable expression.
Without thinking, you broke the eye contact and immediately glanced at what he had done on your phone.
Your eyes widened.
You were now following Sae Itoshi.
"You needed my phone for this?" you asked, your voice laced with confusion as you shifted your gaze back to him.
He took in your baffled expression, his head tilted slightly.
“Yeah, it’s not that hard to click ‘follow,’” he replied nonchalantly, his tone almost taunting.
You glared at him, feeling a frustrated vein pulse at your temple.
Did he really not care how he affected people?
Actually nevermind. He probably didn't.
Now, you were really starting to believe that people probably were paid to put up with this egotistical jerk.
“Whatever. Is that all you needed?” you asked, forcing the frustration down as best as you could.
It was getting harder and harder to ignore his blunt, cutting words.
“Yeah, i guess.” Sae shrugged, his eyes drifting away from you to inspect the decorations and furniture around the shop.
You let out a quiet sigh of relief, grateful that he wasn’t pushing any further.
But, of course, Sae caught it.
His gaze snapped back to you, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “What? You that eager for me to leave?”
“Somewhat,” you replied, not even hesitating.
Sae’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed your blunt answer. His brow quirked, clearly not expecting such a direct response. He shrugged it off casually.
“Too bad. I’m coming back.”
Naturally, that soured your mood tenfold. But, oddly enough, you didn’t feel as annoyed as you’d expected hearing those words.
Odd…
"If you're done ordering, please step out of line," you sighed, shoulders slumping. You were already growing tired of his antics.
"Didn’t even get a chance to check this place out, and you’re already kicking me out? What poor customer service," Sae commented casually, holding up his empty cup in front of you. "Might as well throw this away for me, yeah? Thanks." His tone was light, as if he barely noticed how much he was testing your patience.
You let out a frustrated grumble, muttering under your breath as you snatched the cup from his hand, shooting him a glare before turning to the trash can.
Just as you tossed it away, you looked up to see Sae already strolling out, unbothered.
You felt yourself visibly relax as Sae’s figure disappeared from sight.
Seriously, could that guy be any more irritating?
But your brief moment of relief didn’t last.
"Y/NNIEEE!"
Perfect—just what you needed.
"Ah, my beautiful Y/n, how did your date go with Sae Itoshi?!" Yuko teased, a mischievous grin on her face as she draped an elbow over your shoulder.
"Really, Yuko?" you groaned, nudging her off.
"What? Didn’t go as planned?" Yuko pouted dramatically, raising her hands to her face and pretending to wipe away imaginary tears.
"Sometimes, Yuko, you do too much," you mumbled, glaring at her, hoping the hint of annoyance in your tone would get through.
"Y/n, you’re such a peculiar one. Most girls would go crazy by just seeing that guy! I mean, every time I catch a glimpse of him, my heart practically explodes!" Yuko rambled on, forming a heart with her hands and placing it over her chest, mimicking a rapid heartbeat.
"C'mon, Yuko, you know why—" you paused mid-sentence.
She didn’t know. Yuko didn’t know about the pieces of your past you’d left unspoken, buried somewhere you hoped no one would find.
She didn’t know about the heartbreaks you’d endured, the ones that had chipped away at you until even the thought of love felt distant, hollow. She didn’t know about the countless nights spent piecing yourself back together, the silent battles, the disappointments that had left scars no one could see.
Yuko didn’t know about the lies you’d had to believe, the ones that wrapped around you until you could hardly tell where the truth ended and the facade began. She had no idea how those things had worn you down, until something as simple as liking—or even loving someone, felt like too much to ask.
No, she didn’t know any of it. You’d never told her. And maybe you never would.
"Huh? No, I don’t know why. What do you mea—"
"Oh, uh, never mind, it’s nothing," you said quickly, cutting her off, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the edge in your voice.
But you knew Yuko wasn’t stupid. You could feel her gaze linger on you, her eyes clouded with confusion and curiosity, studying you, knowing something was going on.
Yet, she knew when to let things be.
"Alright, if you say so, Y/n," Yuko murmured softly, letting it drop.
You looked away, voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah."
You exhaled, feeling a small release as her gaze finally drifted from you.
"Anyway, I’ll get back to my shift, Y/n. Talk to you later!" Yuko said with a small smile as she started to walk away, her curiosity saved for another time.
You gave her a quiet nod and returned to your work. Just a couple more hours, and you’d finally be able to go home.
…🌺…
Here you were, lying in bed, getting ready to drift into a deep slumber.
Slipping into your nightwear, you wrapped yourself snugly in your blanket, instantly enveloped in warmth and comfort. Reaching for your phone on the nightstand, you lazily glanced at your notifications.
“Sae Itoshi is now following you.”
Your breath hitched. For a moment, you thought you were imagining things. Was this real?
Heart pounding, you tapped on your profile and checked your followers.
Nope, it wasn’t a mistake. It was real.
But how? How did he even know your name?
Oh. Right. The nametag.
You tossed your phone aside with a sigh, sinking deeper into your bed.
You couldn’t quite pinpoint what you were feeling. There was happiness, maybe even excitement, but it was tangled up with annoyance and a faint thread of confusion.
Why would he follow you? He didn’t seem like the type to care about someone like you. It didn’t make sense.
But the real question lingered: how did you feel about all of this?
It was strange. These emotions felt foreign, like opening a book you hadn’t touched in years. And yet, they felt… good. Comforting, in a way.
But also terrifying.
You couldn’t remember the last time you let yourself feel like this. What if it led to the same pain, the same destruction? Wasn’t it safer to keep your guard up, to not let anyone in?
“The hell are you doing to me,” you groaned, burying your face into your pillow, trying to escape the overwhelming storm of emotions crashing over you.
…🌺…
"Let me guess—the same thing?"
"Yeah."
You let out a small sigh, already knowing the routine as you headed to the back to prepare his drink.
He came in every day, like clockwork. It was almost comforting in its predictability, though he never switched things up—always the same drink, no pastries, nothing else.
As you handed him his order, you asked, "Do you want anything else, or…?" You already knew the answer but asked anyway, half out of habit, half hoping for a surprise.
"No," he replied flatly, his tone as cutting as ever. "Though it’s pretty stupid of you to even ask. I mean, isn’t it obvious by now? I get the same thing every day."
Ah, yes. Classic Sae. Always quick with the unnecessary criticism. What a great way to dampen your already mediocre morning.
"Well," you muttered, brushing off his remark with a hint of irritation, "it’s just that you always get the same thing. Don’t you ever want to try something else?"
Your tone betrayed your annoyance, but honestly, could anyone blame you?
"If I wanted something else, I would’ve asked for it already, don’t you think?"
Now he was just being a smartass.
"I get that," you scoffed, barely holding back your frustration, "but wouldn’t you want to at least try something different?" Your fists clenched at your sides, a subtle outlet for the irritation bubbling inside you.
Sae paused, his gaze steady as he studied you for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he finally said, "If I buy something else, will you stop nagging me about it?"
"I mean… I guess?" you replied, your uncertainty creeping into your voice. A simple "yes" felt too eager, but saying "no" would make it sound like you were intent on pestering him forever. You weren't a begger. Especially not to him.
Sae gave a curt nod and glanced at the display, scanning the selection before pointing at a pastry. "That one looks decent."
Your gaze followed his finger to the pastry in question. "Alright, then," you said, moving to grab a paper bag. Carefully, you placed the pastry inside, sealed it up, and handed it to him.
"That’ll be 645.87 yen," you muttered, barely meeting his eyes as you extended your hand. He handed you the money without a word, his expression unreadable as ever.
You let out a relieved sigh, assuming this was the part where Sae would leave, as he usually did.
Usually.
Just as you thought your morning might finally return to normal, Sae took a step, then stopped and turned back to face you.
You blinked, confused. Wasn’t he done here? Apparently not.
“Before I forget,” he began, his unwavering gaze fixed on you, “I have a match coming up against this program called Blue Lock. I want you to come watch.”
Your eyes widened slightly, your mouth parting in disbelief.
Did he just… personally invite you to his game?
“Wait… what?” you mumbled, still trying to process his words.
He let out an exasperated sigh, his expression tinged with impatience. “I said I want you to come to my match. You’re not deaf, are you?”
And just like that, your initial shock morphed into irritation.
Great. Just great.
“Well, can you blame me? It’s not every day a famous player invites someone they barely know,” you grumbled, narrowing your eyes at him.
Sae shrugged, resting a hand on his hip. “I don’t have anyone else to invite,” he admitted casually. “Besides, you’re not all that bad to talk to.”
Your eyebrow shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you murmured, your tone skeptical.
He met your gaze without hesitation. “You’re someone I enjoy talking to. I’m sick of people who act all formal and fake around me, putting on some persona just because of who I am.” His voice was steady, almost nonchalant. “Not to mention the crazy fans. It’s exhausting.”
He paused, then added, “It’s refreshing talking to someone who doesn’t act like that.”
You didn’t know how to respond. Was he being serious? Judging by his expression, he didn’t seem like the type to lie about something like this.
Your chest tightened, your heartbeat picking up speed.
Were you nervous? Happy? Flustered?
It was hard to tell—everything about this felt foreign, yet oddly familiar. It left you feeling strangely vulnerable.
“Our conversations are also quite pleasant,” Sae added, his tone as flat as ever.
You blinked, your expression instantly deadpan. Did he really just call our “conversations” pleasant?
What a ridiculous statement. The only thing you two ever did was bicker—and by bicker, you meant he annoyed you to no end. Pleasant? Hardly.
You let out a sigh, equal parts confused and exasperated, before replying, “Sure, Sae. I’ll accept your invite.”
The words left your mouth before you could really think about them. Why had you said yes? You could’ve said no—you should’ve said no. That would’ve been the normal response. The usual you response.
But instead, you’d said the opposite.
Strange.
What’s been up with you lately?
"I'll text you the details," Sae said, snapping you out of your thoughts.
And with that, he finally left, pastry in hand, leaving you to process the whirlwind of emotions he'd stirred up.
…🌺…
One day.
The match against Blue Lock Eleven was just one day away.
It was strange—this was the first football match you’d ever been excited about, and honestly, it didn’t feel like you at all. You’d never cared much for sports. Until now.
Was it the thrill of having a big shot like Sae personally invite you to one of his games? Or was it the curiosity of experiencing a live sports match for the first time?
Probably a little bit of both.
But alongside the excitement, there was something else. Nerves.
Actually, scratch that—you were really nervous.
You’d have to go alone—not that being alone bothered you most of the time, but this was different. It would’ve been better to bring a friend.
Maybe Yuko? She could always go, right?
But then again, Sae had personally invited you. That probably meant he’d already arranged for a seat—most likely close to the field. And with how packed the stadium would be, there’d hardly be any open seats nearby. Everyone would be scrambling to get as close as possible.
You groaned, letting your head hang low in frustration.
Looked like you’d just have to suck it up.
“What’s got you looking so down in the dumps?”
You lifted your head, only to be met with none other than Yuko herself.
Speak of the devil.
"Nothing much. Just… thinking," you replied, straightening up to regain your composure.
Yuko raised an eyebrow and stepped closer, stopping just within arm's reach. "About what?"
"Just about an upcoming game," you murmured quietly, crossing your arms as you tried to mask your nerves.
"Why would you be stressed over a game?" Yuko asked, her expression turning confused as she looked at you.
You sighed, feeling the weight of your thoughts. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her, right?
"Well, it’s just that Sae Itoshi invited me to watch one of his games and—"
"WHAT?!" Yuko screamed, cutting you off mid-sentence.
You immediately felt your face flush in embarrassment as her loud shout turned every customer and employee's attention toward you both.
"Yuko! Keep it down!" you hissed, quickly covering her mouth to stop any further outbursts.
"Sborrey," Yuko mumbled, her voice muffled as you kept your hand over her mouth.
You slowly pulled your hand away, gripping her shoulders as you gave her a stern look. "Yuko… please don't shout like that," you grumbled, scolding her gently.
"Mmm, I’ll try," she awkwardly chuckled, a sweatdrop forming on her forehead.
"Anyway… what about Sae Itoshi?" Yuko whispered loudly, leaning so close to your face that you could feel her breath.
"I said, Sae Itoshi invited me to one of his games," you repeated, trying to stay calm.
She froze for a moment, eyes wide. "He… he personally invited you?!" Her voice trailed off in disbelief as she spoke loudly.
"Yuko!" You shot her a glare, but before you could speak again, she broke into a grin that looked almost too wide.
"Yes, he personally invited me," you murmured, now feeling even more awkward under her intense gaze.
"Oh my gosh… OH MY GOSH! Y/n, do you have any idea how lucky you are?!" Yuko practically shouted, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Any girl would kill to have THE Sae Itoshi invite them to his game! How’d you do it? Did you seduce him? Or did you promise him se-”
"Yuko!" you shouted, quickly cutting off whatever inappropriate thought was about to escape her lips.
"Sorry, Y/n… but seriously, tell me! How?" Yuko urged, clasping her hands together with excitement.
You looked away, scratching your chin, before meeting her gaze again. "Well, he just said he enjoyed talking to me and then invited me," you said, trying to downplay the whole thing.
Yuko’s expression immediately dropped, and she stared at you, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? That's it? No love confession or anything?"
"Um… no," you replied, still staring at her, not entirely sure how to react to her reaction.
"Ugh, that's so lame!" Yuko huffed, tugging at her hair in frustration. "Y/n, I thought you were better than this!"
"What do you mean—?"
"Never mind!" Yuko cut you off with an exasperated sigh. "Well, regardless, this is the first time I’ve heard of Sae Itoshi taking an interest in someone he barely knows enough to invite them to his game." She grinned mischievously, raising her eyebrows up and down as she looked you over.
"Yeah… I was kind of shocked myself," you replied, brushing off her teasing with a nonchalant shrug.
"He's definitely interested in you, Y/n!" Yuko exclaimed, grabbing hold of your arm in excitement.
You deadpanned, staring at her in disbelief. Really? The Sae Itoshi, interested in you? What a joke.
But even as you dismissed it, you couldn’t help but wonder. Why had he invited you? Sure, maybe it was because he enjoyed talking to someone who wasn’t fawning over him like the rest of the world, but was that really all?
Is that really all it took?
"You're funny, Yuko," you murmured, gently shaking her off.
"Aww, c’mon, Y/nnnieee!" Yuko whined, practically bouncing on her feet. "He invited you! He could’ve picked anyone else who was 'sane,' but he chose you!" She emphasized the word sane with a teasing grin.
"Yuko, you’re just making this into something it’s not. It’s probably nothing," you said, brushing it off as you started to move away and continue your shift.
If Yuko could, she would have slapped some sense into you.
She hated when you were this oblivious. "You’re hopeless, Y/n," Yuko groaned, shaking her head as she let you do your thing.
With that, Yuko left, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Great. Now her words were swirling in your mind, filled with what ifs.
It felt strange—almost disorienting—as your heartbeat quickened along with the rise of these thoughts.
This was definitely not like you. It only made you feel more stressed and confused.
Maybe Yuko was right. You really were hopeless.
Although who could blame you, after everything you've been through?
…🌺…
SAE! SAE! SAE! SAE!" The crowd roared his name, their voices blending into a thunderous chant as the prodigy scored the first goal.
You were completely mesmerized, entranced by his skill. For a moment, you forgot all about the nerves that had been eating at you since this morning.
…(right before the match)…
Come on, Y/N, you'll be fine," Yuko had said earlier, her tone reassuring. "But what if I get lost?" you had asked, chewing on your lip. "I highly doubt that," she replied with a smirk.
Yuko had been trying to comfort you as she drove up to the entrance of the stadium. Since you didn’t have a car, she’d offered to drop you off. Out of the kindness of her heart, she even gave you a full pep talk on the way.
You sighed, sinking further into the passenger seat. "I just don’t get why you can’t take the day off and come with me," you murmured.
Rolling her eyes, Yuko shot you a look. "Y/N, I have another job. I don’t exactly have the luxury to tag along with you today.”
You knew about Yuko's other job. She had told you just yesterday when you asked her to come with you. Still, the idea of navigating a building packed with thousands of people on your own felt overwhelming.
"As much as I love you, Y/N... you need to get out of my car. I'm going to be late," Yuko said, leaning over to push open the passenger-side door.
The word love made you flinch slightly. You weren’t used to hearing it, at least not like that.
"Yuko..." you mumbled, watching her gesture impatiently at the open door.
"Y/N, you’re going to be fine," she said with a firm but reassuring tone. "Just ask someone for directions!"
You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "Fine. Since when did you want me gone so badly?" you asked, feigning offense as you shot her a playful glare.
"Ever since you started making me late!" Yuko shot back, her voice exasperated but light. "Come on, Y/N!"
She kept nudging you to get out, her urgency growing by the second. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh a little as you finally stepped out of the car.
"Okay, okay!" you chuckled softly as you finally stepped out of Yuko's car.
You shut the door with a solid slam and turned toward the stadium entrance. Glancing back one last time, you caught Yuko waving at you before she drove off. A frown crept onto your face as your attention shifted to the massive doors ahead.
Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside. Instantly, it felt as though someone was twisting your insides. The nerves hit hard.
You wandered through the bustling halls, clutching your ticket like it was a lifeline. But the moment you found your seat, it was like someone flipped a switch. All those negative emotions—gone, replaced by excitement and anticipation.
_______
“GO SAE!" you shouted along with the crowd as he made a goal, cupping your hands around your mouth as if that would make your voice reach him. Deep down, you knew he couldn’t possibly hear you over the deafening roar of the fans chanting his name.
Still, you couldn’t help but grin. You hadn’t expected to enjoy this, not really. But here you were, caught up in the moment, cheering louder than you thought possible.
You smiled, your gaze fixed on the prodigy dominating the field. Admiration filled you, though you couldn’t tell if it was just for his skill—or if there was something more.
From your reserved seat—the one he had bought for you—you watched him intently. And then his eyes found yours.
Your breath hitched as Sae locked eyes with you. The moment stretched, and the longer it did, the warmer you felt, your cheeks heating under his piercing stare. Was that a good thing?
Your palms grew clammy, your heart racing wildly in your chest. And then, just as you thought the intensity might be too much, he smirked. It was a sly, almost teasing look, as if to say, Did you see that?
Your eyes widened slightly as you took in his expression. For the first time, you saw something beyond boredom or disinterest—even anger—on his face. It was subtle, but it was there—a spark of something you couldn’t quite name.
Still, you preferred this over his usual expressionless gaze. That smirk, that piercing look—it made you feel something.
But as much as you enjoyed it, you hated it too. It felt familiar, painfully so. And familiar wasn’t safe. It was dangerous.
You’d felt this way before, and it hadn’t ended well. It left you shattered, broken in ways you swore you’d never let happen again. You couldn’t afford to risk those consequences a second time.
Forcing yourself to breathe deeply, you tried to steady your thoughts, keeping your composure as you held his gaze. Part of you wanted him to look away, to release you from the unspoken tension. Yet another part... didn’t.
It was as if the gods decided for you when Sae finally turned his attention back to the field.
You exhaled sharply, feeling your heart begin to slow. But even as relief washed over you, those lingering feelings—the ones you tried so hard to suppress—still churned within, refusing to let go.
It seemed these lingering "feelings" would take their time to fade, refusing to settle easily.
_______
“Come on, just give me your number, pretty boy!"
Sae didn’t even acknowledge the man’s bold remark, brushing it off as if it hadn’t been said.
Your attention shifted to the source of the comment—a guy with blond hair, the tips dyed pink. He stood out, to say the least. Odd, maybe, but he certainly wasn’t shy.
The game was already in its second half, and you felt more alive and energized than ever. You never imagined you’d enjoy something like this—not in a million years.
The next match was about to start, and you could feel the tension crackling in the air. It radiated from the players on the field and the roaring crowd around you.
They were tied.
This next goal could decide it all.
You sat on the edge of your seat, anticipation coursing through you. Deep down, you hoped for U-20 to win.
Not that you cared too much about the outcome—your loyalty was simple. Sae was on U-20, and he was the only reason you even knew about the team.
Your eyes widened as the player named Shidou seamlessly linked up with Sae. Together, they were nothing short of monsters. Their aggressive, fast-paced gameplay was unmatched, almost unreal. With every precise pass and powerful stride, they closed in on the goal.
But fate had other plans.
In a sudden turn of events, Blue Lock Eleven intercepted the ball. Before you could fully process what was happening, a player named Isagi launched the final shot.
The ball hit the back of the net.
For a heartbeat, the stadium fell silent. Then, chaos erupted—screams, cheers, and a deafening roar from the crowd.
You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension had gripped you so tightly it felt as though the game had you in a chokehold. It was exhilarating—every second of it.
As the crowd began to disperse, you quickly gathered your belongings. But before heading out to meet Yuko, you decided there was one thing you had to do. You needed to see Sae.
Walking down the hallways, you peeked into every room, hoping to find Sae in one of them.
By the time you reached the last door, there was still no sign of him. Where the hell was he?
Letting out a frustrated huff, you pulled your head back and turned to leave. But before you could take another step, you bumped into someone.
"Ah—I'm sorry! Please forgive me, I wasn't paying attenti—"
"Do you always apologize this much, or what?"
You froze. That voice—of course, you knew that voice.
Your head snapped up, and sure enough, there he was. Sae.
"Oh, it’s just you," you said, letting out a breath. "I’ve been looking for you."
"For what?" Sae asked, his sharp gaze fixed on you, his tone as unreadable as ever.
Was he really this dense?
"To congratulate you. Why else?" you said, arching a brow at him.
Sae locked eyes with you, and once again, your heart betrayed you, picking up speed as the silence stretched. Finally, he spoke.
"What’s there to congratulate? We lost," he said flatly.
"Still, you played well," you replied earnestly.
"I guess," Sae muttered, his tone dismissive.
Your jaw tightened. Somehow, he always found a way to get under your skin.
"Could you show a little more gratitude than just ‘I guess’?" you grumbled, shifting your weight onto one foot, irritation bubbling over.
"And what do you want me to say?" he asked, his sharp eyes glancing over your figure.
"A simple ‘thank you’ would be nice," you shot back, your tone dripping with frustration.
Sae stood there, quiet for a moment. Then, in a low voice, he murmured, "Thank you."
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to catch you off guard.
You couldn’t help but smile at his response. “That’s much better. See? It wasn’t that hard, was it?” you teased, your smile unwavering.
Sae took in your smile, then shot back with a snarky reply, “What, do you want me to pick an answer that’ll satisfy you?”
Your smile faltered, and you stared at him, baffled. What was his deal? “Never mind... forget I said anything,” you muttered, letting out a sharp sigh.
A heavy silence fell between you both. It lingered, uncomfortable, as neither of you knew what to say next.
Just as you were about to break the silence, Sae spoke first
“Its best if i get goi-“
“Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
Sae quickly mumbled as he cut you off, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he regretted asking.
You blinked, stunned, processing his words slowly. “Huh?” you whispered, your heart skipping a beat. It took a moment for the question to fully sink in. Did he really just ask you that?
Did Sae Itoshi—the Sae Itoshi—just ask you out to dinner?
You stood there, unsure whether you had heard him correctly, your mind racing. Sae, the same guy who had been so indifferent and sharp with you, was now asking you to dinner? The idea felt so out of place, yet somehow, it didn’t seem like a joke.
The silence stretched again, and you wondered if he was waiting for your response.
“Uh, Sae, can I ask why?" you muttered, still reeling from shock.
Sae let out an irritated grumble before responding. "I said it before, didn’t I? You’re the only person who doesn’t go crazy over me. Is it wrong to want some company?" His tone made it clear he was turning this back on you.
"Well, not exactly, no—"
"Then why is it such a problem for you?" he interrupted sharply.
You stood there, staring at him, utterly confused. Why was he blaming you now?
"It’s not a problem," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "It’s just… surprising, that’s all."
But Sae wasn’t ready to let it go. "Why is it such a shocker?" His agitation was growing more obvious.
"It’s not—actually, never mind," you sighed, feeling the frustration creeping in.
You knew this conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and continuing would only make things worse.
Sae let out a satisfied hum, as if your response had confirmed everything he wanted to hear.
Silence crept back in, heavy and uncomfortable. You shifted your gaze elsewhere, refusing to look at him. Something about meeting his eyes made your stomach swirl uneasily.
It was the opposite for Sae, though. His piercing gaze stayed locked on you, sharp and unrelenting like a hawk stalking its prey. He hadn’t looked away from you once.
"So? Your answer?" Sae’s voice cut through the quiet, calm yet demanding.
You responded quickly, almost too quickly. "Uh, yeah. I can. Sure.
Sae's eyes narrowed slightly. You hadn’t even looked at him when you spoke, and for some reason, that ticked him off.
"Why don’t you look at me when I’m talking to you?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation. It was clear he wasn’t just annoyed—he was genuinely angry.
Wow. What a way to cross boundaries, huh?
Still, he had a point.
Why weren’t you looking at him? Why did your palms feel clammy when he stood so close? Why did your heart race like it was trying to escape your chest? Why were you all fidgety?
It couldn’t possibly mean you liked him.
No, of course not. You were just… nervous. Right?
It had to be nerves. This was the longest time any guy had spoken to you, after all. Most of them usually got what they wanted and left.
Actually, thinking about that now made you feel ridiculous—like you were some kind of attention seeker.
Or maybe it was because you felt so small, so insignificant, under the weight of his gaze. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating—a constant reminder of how much larger than life he was. A big shot. Someone untouchable.
And yet, that only made you feel more pathetic.
But what did you really feel?
Maybe—just maybe—he had grown on you. Maybe you had caught feelings. But was it because he stayed longer than anyone else ever had? That thought alone made you feel queasy. It felt wrong.
Desperate.
Attention seeker.
The words echoed in your mind like a cruel whisper. You hated the sound of it. You didn’t want that to be the truth.
But what if you did like him? What if it wasn’t just nerves, or loneliness, or some desperate grasp at the closest thing to affection?
You’d considered the possibility, of course. You weren’t naïve enough to ignore it. But you refused to let it be true.
You weren’t ready—not for this, not for him, not for the chance of heartbreak all over again.
You’d been through it countless times before. And you weren’t sure you could survive it again.
If that’s how you felt—if you really did like him—but he ended up taking what he wanted and leaving like all the others… would you even be able to pick up the pieces this time?
The thought alone was unbearable, and it crushed any shred of hope you might have clung to.
It dampened your mood, dragging it into a deeper, darker place. You wanted to pull back, retreat while you still could. But it was too late now.
"Did you even hear me? What’s up with you and being deaf?"
His sharp tone cut through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. The weight of your emotions dulled, if only for a moment, as irritation took their place.
"I'm not deaf," you muttered, your voice dripping with frustration.
"I doubt that," Sae shot back without missing a beat.
Resentment bubbled inside you, but before you could fully process it, Sae’s voice broke through again. "At least you’re looking at me now."
That stopped you cold.
He was right. You were looking at him now.
Your emotions screeched to a halt, forced into submission by the weight of his words. You didn’t even realize when you’d started meeting his gaze, but now there you were, staring back at him.
It felt like standing in the middle of a battlefield, with nowhere left to run.
"That aside, what time should I pick you up?" Sae asked casually, as if the question was of no real importance to him.
Your eyes widened. Right… you’d agreed to the dinner he offered.
"Uh… anytime in the afternoon is fine," you mumbled, struggling to find your voice.
"5:30 then?" he suggested, his tone as nonchalant as ever.
"Yeah, that should work," you nodded, quickly running through your mental schedule.
"See you on Sunday, then," Sae said abruptly before turning on his heel and walking off, his dismissal clear.
"Yeah… Sunday," you murmured softly, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you. He was already out the door.
The moment he left, you let out an exhausted sigh, your body finally relaxing. You hadn’t even realized how stiff you’d been.
But before you could fully unwind, your phone buzzed in your pocket. With a weary hand, you pulled it out, unsure of what—or who—was waiting for you now.
"Yuko 🤡."
The contact name flashed across your screen, pulling you out of your thoughts. Right—Yuko was supposed to pick you up.
You stared at the screen for a moment before silencing the call, deciding not to answer. There wasn’t much to say anyway, and your head felt too cluttered to hold a conversation right now.
Shoving the phone back into your pocket, you hurried toward the exit. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of the earlier exchange with Sae was dragging behind you.
You needed air. You needed to think. And maybe—just maybe—a way to stop the relentless pounding in your chest.
_______
As you stepped out of the building, the familiar sound of Yuko’s voice greeted you.
"Why didn’t you answer my call?!" she exclaimed, leaning halfway out the driver’s side window, her dramatic tone impossible to miss.
You rolled your eyes, suppressing a tired smile. "What about it? I’m here now, aren’t I? Be grateful I even saw your call."
Yuko gasped, hand to her chest as if deeply offended. "The audacity!"
You chuckled softly, shaking your head as you opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. Her over-the-top antics were a welcome distraction from the weight still lingering in your chest.
"Sooo," she began, eyes glinting with curiosity as she waited for the seatbelt to click, "how was the game?"
"It was good," you replied, sinking into the seat as the exhaustion caught up to you. "Better than I expected."
Yuko hummed, pulling onto the road, but her sideways glance told you she wasn’t entirely convinced by your answer.
"Better than you expected, huh? Was it because Sae Itoshi was there?" Yuko teased, her grin wide as she navigated the familiar route to your beloved sanctuary—home.
You groaned, tilting your head against the seat to glare at her. "No, it wasn’t just because he was there," you grumbled, your tone sharp enough to match your annoyance.
"Oh, really? Well, if you say so…" she chuckled, clearly not buying it.
"Believe what you want, Yuko," you huffed, rolling your eyes. You knew she wouldn’t let it go, but you were too drained to argue.
"Okay, okay," she said, feigning surrender before flashing you another sly glance. "So, if it’s not because of Sae—according to you—what made it better than you expected?"
Her words hung in the air for a moment.
You hesitated, staring out the window as you mulled over her question. The truth was painfully obvious: it was mostly because of Sae. But you’d rather bite your tongue than admit that out loud.
Finally, you hummed, masking your thoughts. “The players were really skilled, and the game was super intense. I was honestly very impressed by their amazing footwork.”
Yuko raised an eyebrow, sparing you a glance as she drove. "Mmm-hmm. Sure, it was all about their footwork," she said, her tone dripping with playful disbelief.
You crossed your arms and leaned back, determined to let the conversation end there. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
You weren’t lying about the players’ skill. They really did keep you on the edge of your seat, and the game had been incredible.
"But damn… now you’re making me regret not going," Yuko groaned, dramatically slumping her head onto the steering wheel. Luckily, you were stopped at a red light. "Having more than one job sucks!"
You laughed, unable to help yourself. "It was a fun game," you admitted, watching her over-the-top display.
Yuko sighed heavily, the light turning green as she straightened up and began driving again. "Rub it in why don’t you," she muttered, though her grin betrayed her fake annoyance.
It didn’t take long for the car to fill with her usual nonsense—playful jabs, ridiculous theories, and random observations that seemed to come out of nowhere.
You quarreled the whole way home, with her spouting dumb, shitty jokes and exaggerated stories, while you did your best to tolerate it—barely. Still, there was a comfort in the banter, her chatter distracting you from the quiet heaviness that had lingered after Sae.
By the time you pulled into your driveway, you felt lighter, even if just a little.
…🌺…
Seeing the taillights of her car disappear into the night, you let out a heavy sigh and dropped onto the couch. The weight of the evening pressed down on you as you tossed the apartment keys onto the coffee table. The sharp jingle and dull clack of metal meeting wood cut through the silence, a momentary distraction as you sank deeper into the plush cushions.
Your expression darkened, a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. Why? Why was it always Sae that haunted your thoughts, filling your mind with questions you didn’t want to answer? No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the lingering echoes of your earlier conversation with him.
The date you’d agreed to—it was just two days away. The thought twisted your stomach into knots. You wanted to back out, to call it off before it began, but the idea of standing someone up felt even worse. Disappointment was something you despised, even more so when you were the one responsible for it.
A frustrated groan escaped your lips as you buried your face in your hands, rubbing at your skin with rough, almost punishing force. Agitation bubbled beneath the surface, a bombardment of emotions you couldn’t quite name. The room felt suffocating, the silence too loud, and yet all you could do was sit there, wrestling with a decision you didn’t know how to make.
You dropped your hands into your lap, staring blankly ahead as your thoughts swirled like a relentless storm, each one louder and more suffocating than the last. The idea of possibly liking him—or worse, getting attached—clawed at your mind. It was a question you couldn’t stop asking yourself, no matter how much you wanted to bury it.
You clung to the hope that it was merely the second option, attachment. Even though you despised both possibilities, the latter felt like the safer bet. Safer, because it didn’t require vulnerability. Safer, because it didn’t come with the promise of heartbreaking pain.
But the thought of giving yourself to someone—as a lover, as a partner—sent a wave of nausea through you. It was too much. The mere idea of trusting someone with the fragile pieces of your heart again was unbearable. You’d rather push them away, let them detach cleanly and painlessly, than risk being left exposed, broken, and abandoned once more.
Hope? No, that was long gone. It had slipped through your fingers like sand, scattering into nothingness long before tonight. You had stopped believing in the gentle caresses and warm embraces of true love. Those things weren’t meant for you. They were for people who hadn’t already been shattered. People who hadn’t spent years picking up pieces they could never fit back together.
You slumped further into the couch, letting the weight of that realization press down on you. The silence wrapped itself around your thoughts, heavy and suffocating, as the void within you grew wider. If love had ever been a possibility, it wasn’t anymore. And you’d made peace with that. Or so you told yourself.
…🌺…
As the hours passed, your anxiety and stress got worse.
You were basically going to have a ‘date’ with Sae in less than 24 hours. And of course with the weight of this realization—it didnt help as Yuko was nagging your ear off as usual.
”Oh come on Y/n, are you even listening to me?”
“Sorry Yuko, what was that?”
You were pulled away from your thoughts as Yuko called you out.
Yuko gave you a slight scowl before returning to her unnecessary speech. However, as soon as she started speaking, your mind subconsciously ignored her words as you began to think about it Sae once more.
It started to become a habit now—thinking about Sae. It was indeed a troublesome habit you’ll admit, but you couldn't help it.
It’s weird. A guy with few words who started showing up at the place you worked at not that long ago—now starting to take such an impactful and heavy toll on you? It was something you could have never predicted.
“And then she thought it was a good idea too—Y/n!” Yuko shouted, grabbing your attention once more.
Your gaze snapped back to Yuko as you were met with an angry look. “Sorry Yuko.” you apologized.
“Are you serious Y/n? Is my story not that entertaining to you?” Yuko spoke as she took a step closer.
“No that's not it all. It's just…somethings been on my mind lately.” you spoke earnestly.
“Spill.” She demanded, not wasting a breath.
You let out a soft chuckle at her antics as you basically gave her a rundown on the encounter with Sae.
_______
“Y-You mean…its an actual DATE?!” Yuko shouted as a very unnatural, wide grin overtook her face.
“Uh I guess..” you sweatdropped, taking a step away from Yuko.
Yuko squealed like a fangirl as she ran up to you, squeezing the life out of you as she gave you her signature hug, pushing your face down to the plush of her breasts.
“Yuko! That's enough…” You mumbled out as she had you caged in.
Yuko reluctantly let you go as she gave you some space.
“Y/n, I told you. WHAT DID I SAY FROM THE BEGGINING! This man is into you! And its Sae Itoshi out of all these men!
“Yuko…its just a friendly date. He's not into me like that…I think.” You spoke with a bit of uncertainty.
“Why are you in denial Y/n?! I have never heard from the media or anywhere of Sae Itoshi inviting a girl he just met not that long ago to dinner just for ‘friendly talk’. I am telling you he's into YOU!” Yuko rambled on, getting some sense into your head.
“Yuko…i think your overlooking this maybe a bit too much,” you mumbled as you tried to drop Yuko’s accusations.
Yuko paused. She slowly turned her head towards you with a deadpan expression. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
“Y/n…are you fucking serious right now?” Yuko spoke with an alarming calm tone.
Yuko took a couple step towards you as she stared you down. An unreadable glint flashed in her eyes as she stood quiet. “If I could Y/n…i would beat you senseless if it means I can finally get this through your head. Its a shame I love you too much to do that.” Yuko finally spoke as she let out a sigh.
“Do I take that as a threat or…” you mumbled, slightly startled by her actions and words.
“Nope!” Yuko chuckled as she stepped away from you. “Ill let you be Y/n. But trust me when I say he’s interested.” Yuko voiced as she looked at you.
“How can you be certain though Yuko?” you spoke.
Yuko smiled at you before she left. Her steps slowly receding as she gave you one last glance before leaving you to do your job. “I know men, Y/n.”
…🌺…
“I'll pick you up. What's your address?"
"It's *****”
"Alright. I'll be there in about 10 minutes."
You set your phone down on the nightstand, releasing a shaky exhale. Even texting Sae was nerve-wracking.
Rising slowly from the couch, you headed into your bedroom to give yourself one last look in the mirror. You didn’t want to seem underdressed—not for a date with Sae. Oh, especially not with the Sae Itoshi.
Dragging your feet across the creaking floorboards, you pushed open the bedroom door. You stopped short in front of the full-length mirror, taking a moment to steel yourself.
You stared at yourself, your own reflection staring back. But the image before you felt foreign, like a mask you no longer recognized. The girl in the mirror seemed whole, unbroken, but you knew better—everything she showed was a lie. Beneath her composed surface was the weight of every heartbreak, every whispered promise that shattered like glass.
You saw your past in her eyes, a pool of anguish and betrayal. Men who touched but never stayed, who spoke of love yet only took what they wanted—leaving nothing but fragments of yourself behind. They had used you, consumed you, and discarded you, their intentions never pure, their affection hollow. You craved love, dreamed of it as something beautiful, but each experience taught you the same painful truth: love wasn’t real. It was an illusion, a cruel trick life played to make you believe in something that didn’t exist.
And yet, as much as you wanted to give up, as much as the mirror whispered that hope was foolish, you couldn’t stop the ache. The craving for love was carved within you. You wanted to be held, cherished, seen—not for what you could offer, but for who you were. But with each passing day, fear groped tighter around your heart. What if love would only break you again? What if the cost of trying was more than you could bear?
You longed for someone to prove you wrong, to show you love wasn’t just a fantasy crafted by movies and books. But even that hope felt dangerous. Could you risk it? Could you open the door to your heart one more time, knowing it could destroy you if it all fell apart again? If someone could rewrite what love means to you, would you let them?
It was odd. Very odd, indeed, that in the midst of such vile and upsetting thoughts, Sae appeared in your mind.
But why?
Why was it him who came to mind?
You’d only known the guy for barely two months. Was that really enough time to feel yourself growing... attached? The thought was confusing—so confusing it made your head spin.
A frown crept across your face. Yes, confusing was the perfect word. It was almost impossible to imagine Sae and love in the same sentence. The word felt foreign and distant, like it belonged to a language you could never hope to understand.
The sudden chime of your doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts. Sae was here. How much time had passed?
You grabbed your belongings in a rush, practically stumbling to the front door. Pausing for a moment, you let out a deep breath, steadying yourself. The nerves were hitting you like a shit ton of bricks, threatening to overwhelm you.
But you could manage. At least, you hoped you could.
You opened the door, and there he was—Sae Itoshi, standing casually yet exuding that air of quiet confidence he always seemed to carry.
Your eyes trailed over his figure, taking in his outfit: a brown blazer layered over a plain white T-shirt and a pair of fitted black pants that somehow managed to look both fitted and effortlessly relaxed.
As you took in his appearance, it seemed he was doing the same to you.
“You actually look decent for once. I was half-expecting your outfit to be as bad as those crappy work uniforms,” Sae remarked, his tone as dry as ever.
Of course. Not a single day passed without at least one of his signature insults.
“Thanks. You don’t look bad yourself,” you muttered, biting back your irritation—a skill you’d honed to near perfection in these past two months.
Sae let out a low hum, a sound that could almost be mistaken for agreement. The corners of his lips tugged upward ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “The car’s outside. Let’s go.”
You gave a short nod and stepped out, pausing only to lock the door behind you. The cool night air greeted you as you followed him down the path, nerves still fluttering in your chest but your steps steady enough to keep up.
You followed behind Sae as he led the way to his car, his confident strides making it clear he expected you to keep up. When you reached the sleek vehicle, he headed straight for the driver’s side without so much as a glance in your direction.
What a gentleman.
Suppressing an irritated sigh, you opened the passenger door yourself and slid into the seat. As you settled in, your gaze drifted—unbidden—to Sae. His hands, calloused and veined, gripped the handle firmly as he opened his door. Slim, strong, and steady, they were surprisingly... attractive.
A sudden warmth rushed to your cheeks, and you blinked, snapping yourself out of it. Really? Were you seriously paying attention to his hands? This wasn’t like you. But, embarrassingly, you could now understand Yuko’s endless rants about the appeal of a man’s hands.
You shook the thought away, pressing your lips into a thin line as Sae slid into the driver’s seat. He shot you a brief glance, his teal eyes sharp, curious, but ultimately uninterested enough to probe further.
“So, uh... you have a destination in mind?” you asked, your voice cutting through the awkward silence.
“Of course. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t have a place in mind, would I?” Sae replied, his tone matter-of-fact as he started the car.
“Yeah...” you mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed by your question. Why was it always so hard to hold a normal conversation with this man?
The drive was quiet at first, the low hum of the engine filling the space. But you couldn’t help noticing Sae glancing at you every so often, his teal eyes flicking toward you before quickly returning to the road. It wasn’t subtle—he was clearly taking in your appearance.
The attention made you squirm slightly in your seat, the silence growing heavier with every glance. Finally, you broke it. “Do I have something on my face or...?”
Sae’s gaze shifted fully to you for a brief moment, his expression calm but entirely unreadable. Caught in the act, it seemed. “No,” he said, his voice as smooth and detached as always. “I’m just... still surprised you managed to look this put together outside of your uniform.”
“Put together?” you repeated, eyebrows raising as you tried to determine whether or not to be offended.
“Yeah. You look good.”
The words landed like a wave out of the blue. Your eyes widened, and an undeniable blush crept across your cheeks.
Sae Itoshi—the Sae Itoshi—just said you looked good.
You opened your mouth, searching for a response, but nothing came out. All you could do was turn your gaze toward the window, attempting to hide the warmth that flooded your cheeks. Meanwhile, Sae returned his attention to the road, his expression as unreadable as ever, as if he hadn’t just sent your heart racing.
Your stomach churned, a confusing mix of queasiness and ecstasy, while your heart hammered relentlessly in your chest. You hated it—and enjoyed it at the same time.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Sae glancing at you through the faint reflection in the window. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, low and rich, breaking the silence in the car.
The sound sent a shiver down your spine. It was a rare, almost musical laugh that you hadn’t heard from him before.
Your ears perked up instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, you turned to look at him. Sae’s face, usually so composed and indifferent, held the faintest trace of a smile. The corners of his lips curved softly, and even his sharp teal eyes seemed to soften, crinkling ever so slightly with the expression.
His smile—rare and beautiful—was utterly mesmerizing. His smile resembled something of a masterpiece, delicate and breathtaking, like standing before the most sacred painting in a museum. The kind of art that pulls you in, making the world fade around you, leaving only the singular beauty in front of you. The curve of his lips, the gentle crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the faintest hint of warmth softening his usually stoic expression—it all felt impossibly sacred. It was the kind of sight that engraved itself into your memory, refusing to be forgotten.
"You laughed," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile perfection of the moment. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, wide-eyed and awestruck, unable to look away.
His expression shifted, the corners of his mouth faltered yet still tilted upward, though now tinged with faint curiosity at your reaction. You barely noticed. The sight of him like this—so unguarded, so human—had stolen every ounce of your focus, making your chest ache with something you couldn’t put into words.
“Am I not allowed? Why is it such a shock to you that I can smile?” Sae asked, the same soft expression lingering on his face as he spoke.
Your face flushed with embarrassment. “No, that’s not what I meant! It’s just... I’ve never seen you make any expression other than annoyance or indifference,” you said earnestly, your words tumbling out before you could stop them.
Sae tilted his head slightly, as though your statement was absurd. “I’m not some expressionless robot. You do realize that, right?” he replied, his usual sarcasm laced with a surprisingly lighthearted tone.
Before you could open your mouth to defend yourself, his voice cut in again, smooth and unbothered.
“Well, would you look at that—we’re here.”
_______
The restaurant was... nice. No, very nice. The kind of nice that made you sit a little straighter in your chair and second-guess your outfit. Everything from the polished marble floors to the soft glow of chandeliers above screamed luxury. You couldn’t help but feel out of place.
You’d never set foot in a restaurant like this before—linen napkins folded like origami, waiters moving with the precision of dancers. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Sae frequented places like this. He looked perfectly at home, his tailored outfit exuding effortless sophistication. Even his so-called “casual” attire seemed worlds apart from your own, and the subtle glint of jewelry he always wore hinted at an expensive taste you couldn’t begin to comprehend.
"Have you decided what to order yet?" Sae’s calm voice broke through your thoughts. He was still scanning the menu, his expression unreadable as ever.
You glanced back at the glossy menu in your hands, the rows of elegant dish names doing little to help your decision. "No, not really," you admitted, glancing up at him. "Everything looks good. I can’t decide."
Sae set his menu down, his gaze shifting to you with that steady confidence of his. "Then order whatever you find even slightly appetizing," he said, as though it was the simplest solution in the world.
You hesitated, your eyes lingering on him as you wrestled with a pang of guilt. "Are you sure? Is that okay...?" you asked softly, your voice trailing off. The weight of the prices on the menu and the sheer grandeur of the place were making you second-guess everything.
"Y/n, I have more than enough to cover the meal," Sae said, his tone as casual as ever. He leaned back slightly, glancing around the restaurant with an almost bored expression. "I could buy this entire place if I wanted to."
Wow. Nothing quite like Sae's unintentional flexes to remind you just how wide the gap was between your lives. Standing next to him on any given day was enough to make you feel like an unemployed, wandering vagabond.
"Ah, right. I forgot how disgustingly rich you are," you grumbled under your breath, a sigh slipping past your lips as you slouched back into your chair.
He didn’t react, just offered you a faint shrug as if to say, Well, it’s true.
Soon enough, the waiter returned, and you gave your order, still feeling a pang of guilt for indulging in food you weren’t even sure you’d like. But as the thought lingered, you steeled yourself. Actually, no—screw the guilt. If Sae wanted to flaunt his wealth and bring you to a place like this, the least you could do was enjoy it. Think of it as compensation for dealing with his bluntness and lack of tact on a daily basis. Yes, this was your reward.
Still, the moments after the waiter left were... awkward. Sitting across from Sae in silence was like waiting for a storm that may or may not ever hit. The quiet wasn’t necessarily tense, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. You debated pulling out your phone but ultimately decided against it. It would feel rude, and you weren’t about to be that person.
To your surprise, Sae broke the silence first.
"So," he began, his voice low but steady, "how was your day?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Uh... it was fine, I guess. Nothing exciting," you replied, wondering what had prompted him to initiate small talk.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of politeness. "Do you have any pets?" he asked next, his tone still casual but carrying a thread of genuine curiosity.
The question made you pause. This was... new. Sae wasn’t exactly known for his conversational efforts, and yet here he was, actively engaging. You decided to roll with it. "No, I don’t, but I’ve always wanted a dog," you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. "What about you? I can’t imagine you having time for a pet."
He shrugged again, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. "You’re right. Too much effort," he said simply, though there was a faint amusement in his tone.
The conversation had been flowing smoothly, surprisingly so, until Sae’s next question brought it to an abrupt halt.
"Have you dated anyone?" he asked, his voice casual but direct, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to avoid.
Your eyes widened slightly at the unexpected question, and for a moment, you froze. Quickly, you composed yourself, forcing a small, nonchalant smile onto your face. "Yeah, actually. I’ve dated a couple of people," you replied evenly, though your voice carried a faint tension that betrayed you.
Sae’s sharp eyes didn’t miss it. He wasn’t just observant—he was a prodigy at reading between the lines, piecing together the truths people tried to hide. The brief flicker of discomfort that passed over your face before you answered didn’t go unnoticed. He didn’t pry, though. Instead, he filed it away silently, as if respecting a boundary you hadn’t explicitly set.
"Well, what about you?" you asked, seizing the opportunity to shift the focus onto him. Your tone was light, almost teasing, though a part of you was genuinely curious. "Have you dated anyone?"
Sae leaned back in his chair, letting out a quiet hum as if considering how much he wanted to say. "Not really," he began, his tone even. "Just a couple."
You raised an eyebrow, surprised by his candor.
"The girls I dated were... aggravating," he admitted with a sigh, tilting his head back and closing his eyes briefly. His expression was calm, but the faint furrow in his brow suggested lingering annoyance. "They wanted too much. Too clingy, too demanding. I couldn’t stand it."
A small chuckle slipped past your lips, the sound light and unrestrained. "That’s surprising," you said with a laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as if to stifle it.
Sae opened his eyes at your reaction, turning his attention to you. For a moment, he didn’t speak, his gaze steady as it lingered on your face. He studied you—the curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Finally, he broke the silence. "How so?"
Your laughter quieted, but a playful smile lingered as you met his gaze. "Well, you don’t exactly look—or act—like the type of guy who indulges in relationships," you admitted, leaning back slightly in your chair.
Sae cocked an eyebrow, his expression unreadable at first. Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Really? That’s funny, because at first, you didn’t look like the type of girl to even know what a relationship is," he quipped, the smugness in his tone unmistakable.
You blinked, caught off guard by the remark, before narrowing your eyes at him. "Oh, come on," you muttered, deadpanning as you leaned forward. "That’s so unfair."
He chuckled softly, the sound rare but genuine, and you couldn’t help but feel the tension in your chest ease. "Jokes aside," he said, his smirk fading into something more sincere, "you’re quite the looker. You’re on the attractive side, you know." His tone was casual, but his gaze held steady, focused entirely on you. "I’m not really surprised you’ve been in relationships."
A faint blush spread across your cheeks as his words settled in, leaving you flustered in a way that made your heart race. Sae always had this way of throwing you off balance, his calm yet blunt remarks stirring a confusing mix of emotions. Why did he affect you like this? You glanced away shyly, mumbling, "Thanks, I guess... you’re not bad yourself."
You fiddled with the hem of your shirt beneath the table, trying to focus on anything but the heat rising to your face. But, of course, Sae couldn’t let you off that easily.
"I know I am," he said, his tone dripping with casual arrogance. "My looks are way above average, after all."
You snapped your head up at his words, a small grunt of frustration escaping your lips. Your narrowed gaze locked onto him. "You know," you grumbled, crossing your arms, "I liked it better when you were expressionless."
But even as the words left your mouth, you knew they weren’t true. If anything, you lived for the rare moments when Sae’s stoic mask slipped, revealing hints of his humor, his smugness, or even just his rare smiles.
Sae’s lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth as he shrugged. "Life doesn’t always give you what you want," he remarked, his voice calm and measured but laced with the slightest tease. "Guess you’ll just have to deal with it."
The sheer smugness in his tone made your irritation bubble over, and an exasperated scoff slipped from your lips. You glared at him, but Sae remained unbothered, his smirk now fully formed as he leaned back in his chair.
He was enjoying this—enjoying the way he was getting under your skin, the way he could pull these reactions out of you so easily
After a round of playful—and not-so-playful—bickering, the food finally arrived.
The dishes were plated with such precision and artistry that they looked almost too good to eat. Almost. The aroma wafted up, rich and tantalizing, and your mouth watered instantly. Your excitement was palpable, your gaze flitting from one dish to the next as the waiters carefully placed them on the table. Words failed to describe the sheer joy your taste buds anticipated, and your expression said it all.
Sae glanced up from his plate, his eyes settling on you. A soft chuckle, barely audible, slipped past his lips as he took in the sight of your excitement. It wasn’t loud or mocking—more like a quiet, amused acknowledgment of how endearing you looked. From his perspective, it was as if this was your first real meal. He found himself wanting to memorize the moment, the way your eyes sparkled, your lips curving into an unconscious smile at the sight of the food.
You didn’t waste a second. Grabbing your utensils, you dug in, the first bite sending a wave of satisfaction through you. The flavors were indescribable—rich, balanced, and utterly heavenly. Each morsel seemed to melt in your mouth, and your body visibly relaxed with each bite.
Meanwhile, Sae hadn’t touched his food. He rested his chin on one hand, watching you with a soft, almost imperceptible smirk. He wasn’t sure what was more fascinating—the way you seemed utterly transported by the meal or the unguarded happiness on your face. You were like an open book in this moment, and he found himself… intrigued.
When you finally noticed his lack of movement, you paused mid-bite, narrowing your eyes at him. "What?" you asked, your voice muffled by food but still laced with suspicion.
Sae shook his head slightly, his smirk growing. "Nothing. Just… you really like your food, huh?"
"Of course, I do," you shot back, quickly swallowing so you could defend yourself properly. "It’s amazing! How are you not eating yet?!"
"I was just enjoying the view," he remarked casually, his tone as calm as ever, though his words carried a teasing edge.
Your cheeks flushed, and you glared at him. "Well, stop staring and eat your food before it gets cold," you muttered, your irritation half-hearted.
Sae finally relented, picking up his utensils and diving into his own meal. The two of you ate in companionable silence after that, the earlier tension easing into something more comfortable.
Between bites, your gaze flickered to him, catching the subtle way his posture relaxed, the way he seemed content. Maybe it was the food, or maybe it was the company, but the moment felt… nice. Natural.
And though neither of you said it aloud, the quiet comfort of eating together spoke volumes on its own.
…🌺…
"The food was great. I really enjoyed it," you said as the two of you walked toward his parked car. The evening air was cool, and the soft glow of the streetlights painted everything in a warm, muted hue.
Sae glanced at you, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. "It sure looked like you enjoyed it, considering the way you stuffed your face," he remarked, his tone as deadpan as ever.
Your face instantly flushed a deep red, embarrassment creeping up your neck. "Hey!" you shot back, turning toward him with wide eyes. "You can’t criticize me for that! This was… new to me! I was just… excited, okay?"
The words tumbled out in your attempt to defend yourself, but the more you spoke, the more you realized how ridiculous you sounded. You huffed, crossing your arms as you stole a glance at Sae, waiting for his response.
But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just looked at you, his expression softening as a warm, genuine smile spread across his face.
It caught you completely off guard.
The embarrassment that had been bubbling inside you vanished almost instantly, replaced by a strange, calming warmth. There was something about the way he smiled—rare and unguarded—that made everything else seem trivial. For a moment, it was just the two of you, standing there in the quiet evening, and all the teasing, awkwardness, and uncertainty faded away.
This whole evening had been… different. Odd, yes, but enjoyable in a way you hadn’t expected.
Sae opened the car door for you, gesturing for you to get in. As you slid into the passenger seat, you found yourself sneaking one last glance at him, his faint smile lingering in your mind.
Maybe this wasn’t just dinner. Maybe it was the start of something more.
_______
"That’s your apartment, right?" Sae asked, pointing toward the familiar building as he brought the car to a stop.
"Yeah," you replied with a nod, unbuckling your seatbelt and stepping out of the car.
To your surprise, Sae stepped out as well, his movements casual as he fell in step behind you. You turned to face him, your brows furrowing in confusion. "What are you doing?"
He met your gaze, hands shoved into his pockets, his tone as calm and nonchalant as ever. "Walking you to your apartment. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to treat a lady?"
You blinked, caught off guard by his unexpected reply. Of all the times for him to act like a gentleman, now was the moment he chose? His words felt both sincere and teasing, leaving you feeling both confused and slightly amused.
Shaking your head, a small laugh escaped your lips. "Whatever," you muttered, rolling your eyes but unable to hide your smile.
The two of you walked up to the building together. As you reached your door, you fished around in your pocket for your key. The sound of metal jingling filled the air as you finally pulled it out and unlocked the door, turning the key with a satisfying click.
Pushing the door open, you stepped inside and turned around, expecting Sae to leave. But he was still there, standing just outside the doorway, his expression unreadable.
The longer he stood there, the more awkward the moment became. You felt a twinge of guilt, unsure if he was waiting for something or simply being polite. After a beat of hesitation, you sighed and pushed the door open wider, gesturing for him to come in.
"You might as well come in," you said, your voice soft but resigned.
Sae raised an eyebrow, as if slightly amused by your reaction, but he didn’t say anything. With a small nod, he stepped inside, his presence instantly filling the space in a way that felt both strange and oddly comforting.
Sae kicked off his shoes at the entrance and stepped further inside, his eyes sweeping over the room. His gaze lingered on the various pieces of decor and furniture, taking everything in with an unreadable expression. One by one, his eyes moved from the small bookshelf in the corner to the slightly mismatched throw pillows on the couch. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm and measured. "So this is your apartment, huh? Cozier than I expected."
You turned your gaze sharply toward him, a familiar irritation bubbling within you. It seemed Sae had an unmatched talent for making even his compliments sound like backhanded remarks. "You always think so little of me, don’t you?" you grumbled, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his casual inspection of your space.
Sae glanced at you briefly, unfazed. "I judge based on what’s shown on the outside," he said with a shrug, his hands still buried in his pockets. His tone was neutral, almost indifferent, but you could sense a hint of teasing beneath it.
Letting out a sigh, you brushed past him and made your way to the couch, the plush cushions welcoming you as you sank into them. You stretched out slightly, the tension in your body melting away as you made yourself comfortable. "Well, I guess that makes you the ultimate judge of character, huh?" you muttered, your voice tinged with sarcasm.
You slouched into the couch, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The day had been long, but the quiet hum of the apartment seemed to melt the tension from your body. You turned your head, and your gaze was immediately captured by Sae's piercing teal eyes, watching you with a calm intensity.
A strange warmth bloomed in your chest, fluttering like an unspoken secret between you. "So," you started, your voice laced with casual curiosity as you fought to push the feeling aside, "why did you willingly step into my apartment? Not exactly your usual scene."
He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as always. "Why not? I was bored." Sae's reply was as nonchalant as ever, but the way he strolled over to join you on the couch betrayed a certain comfort in being here. He sank into the cushions beside you, letting out the faintest of sighs, as if your living room had somehow become his sanctuary. "Besides," he added after a beat, "it was pleasant hanging out with you. I wasn’t ready for that to end yet."
His words struck you harder than you cared to admit, and a maddening blush began to creep up your cheeks. You quickly turned your head, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips as you scrambled to keep your composure. "So, you're saying I'm fun to be around, huh?" you teased lightly, hoping the playfulness would mask the sudden erratic rhythm of your heart.
For a moment, Sae’s face remained impassive, but then a subtle smile curved his lips—rare and fleeting, like a secret he allowed you to glimpse. "More or less," he said, his voice low but tinged with an undeniable warmth.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt charged, like the pause before a thunderstorm. You weren’t sure if it was the proximity, the way his knee almost brushed yours, or the way he looked at you as if he could see past every wall you’d carefully built.
"You’re full of surprises, Itoshi," you murmured, leaning back against the couch. The teasing edge in your voice was softer now, replaced by a quiet curiosity you couldn’t quite hide. "Never thought I’d hear you admit to enjoying anyone’s company."
He glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as though considering whether to respond. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes locked onto yours.
"Maybe you’re an exception," he said simply.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren’t sure either of you were ready to unpack. Your heart skipped a beat, and for once, you didn’t have a clever retort.
The faint sound of rain began to patter against the window, filling the silence. You turned your gaze toward it, your mind racing. "Exception, huh?" you finally murmured, trying to sound indifferent, though your voice betrayed the faintest waver.
He didn’t reply immediately, and when you dared to glance back at him, you found him watching you again, his expression softer now. "You don’t have to overthink it," he said, his tone a touch gentler than before. "I just… didn’t feel like being alone today."
Something in his admission made your chest tighten, but instead of pressing him further, you simply nodded. "Well," you said lightly, offering him a small smile, "good thing you’re here, then. I wasn’t planning on being alone either."
The rain continued its rhythmic melody, and as the evening stretched on, the distance between you seemed to shrink, both physically and emotionally. Neither of you said much, but in the quiet company of one another, there was a sense of understanding that didn’t need words.
The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the hum of the television filling the air. You glanced over at Sae, wondering what was running through his mind. After a moment, you decided to break the quiet.
"So, Sae," you began, your voice trying to sound casual. "Do you want to do anything, or...? I imagine you’re probably getting bored by now."
His eyes met yours, his gaze unwavering. He looked... contemplative, as if he were lost in thought about something important, though he didn’t seem eager to share.
"I’m fine," he mumbled after a long pause, though his words didn't match the slight tension in his expression. It was clear there was something on his mind, something weighing him down, but he wasn’t ready to say what it was.
You nodded, respecting his silence, and leaned back into the couch, glancing out the window. The evening sky was a soft mix of dark colors, but your mind kept drifting back to him. The way his demeanor shifted, how he seemed a little distant.
After a second, you decided to try again, pushing past the silence. "So, tell me about your career," you asked, your voice gentle but curious. "What’s it like—"
Before you could finish, Sae’s hand shot out, and in one swift motion, he grasped your chin, gently but firmly, and tilted your face towards his.
Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart skipped a beat. You were so close, your eyes wide in shock as you stared at him, feeling his breath against your skin. The moment hung between you like a fragile thread. You were frozen, not sure what was happening or what had made him do this.
He stared into your eyes, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes once more. Every movement of his felt deliberate, almost like he was studying you, and you couldn’t look away. It was as if the world had paused around the two of you, the silence between you thickening with each passing second.
You felt your heart pounding in your chest, its rapid beat deafening in your ears. It was as though your entire body was on edge, strung taut with anticipation, and yet you couldn’t move. You were frozen, caught in the intensity of the moment.
Sae shifted his grip, his fingers tracing your jawline before he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye. The touch was soft, almost tender.
And that’s when you saw it—love.
You almost flinched at the thought. His eyes were so focused, so soft, as if they were seeing you in a way no one ever had before. There was something vulnerable in the way he looked at you, something raw.
Love?
The word echoed in your mind, heavy and foreign. You hadn’t used that word in so long, not with anyone. And certainly not with him. It was difficult to fathom that someone like Sae—so guarded, so distant—could feel that way, could look at you like this.
The panic started to rise in your chest. If this was what he felt—love—then what did that mean for you? For this? You weren’t sure if you were ready to love again. Not like this, not so suddenly, and not with someone who seemed so far removed from the idea of it.
It felt as though the weight of the world was pressing down on you, immense and overwhelming. Would you let him love you like this? Could you let him?
More importantly, could you let yourself love him?
You weren’t ready. Every thought in your mind screamed for you to pull back, to protect yourself from whatever this was. What if Sae broke you? What if you let yourself fall into this and it all came crashing down, just like before? You didn’t want to be broken again. You didn’t want to be tossed aside, left alone to pick up the pieces of a love that wasn’t real.
It hurt. The weight of your own fears, of what could happen, felt suffocating. You didn’t know what to do, torn between wanting to return his feelings and the fear of what would happen if you did. You wanted so badly to let love consume you, to let him pull you in, but you couldn’t ignore the voice that warned you against it.
What if he was just using you?
You couldn’t risk it. The idea of being hurt again, of losing yourself in someone else only to be discarded, was too much to bear. But still, the desire to let go, to give in, lingered within you like a quiet ache. Were you really this hopeless? Pathetic, even?
Tears threatened to spill as you felt Sae’s palm still resting against your face, his touch a tender reminder of everything you wanted but couldn’t allow yourself to have. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it was no use. The tears slowly began to fall, too overwhelming to hold back.
Sae’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of you, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his other hand moved to cup the other side of your face, his touch gentle and careful, as though he was afraid of breaking you, too.
With a softness that took you off guard, Sae wiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. You didn’t know what to make of it. It was so different, so unexpected. No one had ever been this gentle, this affectionate with you before, not in the way Sae was. His touch felt like he was holding you together, not pulling you apart.
Sae’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite place—gentleness, sincerity, something that made your heart flutter in spite of the walls you had built. "Y/n," he whispered, his voice calm, almost tender. "Please don’t cry."
Quiet tears continued to fall, each one carrying the weight of everything you’d been holding back for so long. His thumb gently traced your reddened cheek, and his face leaned in closer, his presence both soothing and overwhelming. The warmth of his touch felt so different—so real.
"You don’t have to cry," he murmured again, his voice low and soft, carrying an unmistakable sense of care. "Y/n… I don’t know what happened for you to tear up like this, but I promise you… whatever happened in the past, I won’t replicate it." His words were sincere, the kind of promise that, for a brief moment, made the pain inside you seem a little more bearable.
For a split second, you searched his face, desperately trying to find any hint of insincerity, any trace of deception hidden beneath the calmness in his eyes. But there was nothing—nothing that suggested he was lying. His tone was steady, unyielding.
Could you trust him? Could you really let him in?
The vulnerability he was showing, the way he was looking at you, it warmed your heart in a way that felt so foreign. So safe. It was everything you didn’t know you needed, and yet it was right in front of you.
"You promise…?" Your voice was small, shaky, as the uncertainty you’d been carrying for so long finally slipped into your words.
Sae’s eyes softened even more, and he lowered his gaze slightly, as if he could feel the weight of what you were carrying, of the hesitation in your voice. He didn’t speak for a moment, just letting the silence stretch between you two, as if understanding how deep the scars of your past must have been.
Whatever had happened to you, whatever pain you’d endured before—it had clearly left a mark on you. A deep, unhealed wound that made it hard to trust, to let anyone close. Sae understood that, and for the first time, you saw that in his eyes: understanding, not judgment. Compassion, not pity.
"Yes," he finally said, his voice firm but gentle. "I promise."
The sincerity in his words felt like a lifeline, like the first breath of air after being submerged in water for too long. And in that moment, despite the storm of emotions inside you, you allowed yourself to believe him. Maybe you didn’t have all the answers, but you could take this one step.
You could let him in.
(Song recommendation: Im Yours - Isabel LaRosa)
Sae's smile softened at you, a warmth in his gaze that spoke more than his actions ever could. Then, without a word, he leaned in, slowly pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was soft at first, gentle as though testing the waters, but it quickly deepened as his hands moved to the side of your neck, holding you closer, grounding you in the moment.
Your hands instinctively moved to his chest, resting against the firm muscles you could feel even through his clothes. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, and you couldn't help but be drawn further into him.
For a moment, Sae pulled away, just enough to catch his breath, but his eyes never left yours. And then, just as quickly, he recaptured your lips in his, this time more urgent, more insistent.
His tongue gently brushed across your lips, a silent request, and you gasped, heart racing at the intensity of it all. He took that moment to slip his tongue into your mouth, and it was like electricity sparked between you. His tongue moved against yours in a slow, deliberate dance, each movement an invitation to fall deeper into him, into this moment.
Everything else faded away. The world outside, the thoughts racing through your mind—none of it mattered now. All that existed was the heat between you two, the closeness that felt like it had been building for so long.
Sae groaned softly into your mouth, his hand threading gently through your hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver down your spine. There was hesitation in the movement, as though he was aware of the fine line between desire and discomfort, but the tension in his touch made your pulse race.
The gentle tug on your hair pulled you back slightly, causing your lips to break apart for a fleeting moment. But before you could gather your breath, Sae's lips were back on yours, this time with a bit more force, more urgency. The kiss deepened, and the pressure pushed you slightly back onto the couch. Sae didn’t hesitate—he used the shift in position to his advantage, quickly climbing over you, his body covering yours, pinning you gently but firmly to the soft cushions beneath.
His legs shifted, placing themselves outside of yours, trapping you in place with a controlled intensity that made your breath catch. His chest pressed against yours, the warmth of his body melding with yours as you felt his weight settle over you.
After a moment, Sae reluctantly detached his lips from yours, his breath coming shallow and quick. He gazed down at you, his eyes no longer just filled with tenderness or care. There was something new there. Something darker, deeper. Lust.
His voice was soft, almost hesitant, but there was an undeniable edge to it. "Y/n... would you let me?" he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours, his body still hovering over you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of him.
A wave of emotion swelled within you, something foreign and stirring. Sae had asked for permission—something none of the others had ever done. Usually, it was a matter of taking what they wanted without a second thought, but not Sae. His consideration, his respect, made you pause. Maybe this was different. Maybe this could be different.
Your heart fluttered, a warm smile spreading across your face as you met his gaze. "Yes, Sae. I will."
Sae’s smile mirrored yours, soft and genuine, before he placed a tender kiss on your cheek—a silent thank you. There was an unspoken understanding between you now, a connection that was more than just physical. It felt like trust, like a promise he was making without words.
He stood, slipping off his blazer with a fluid motion, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Then, without hesitation, he pulled off his shirt, revealing his toned, muscular chest. The sight made your breath catch. He was... built. Strong, defined—everything about him was a reflection of strength, of control.
Your eyes lingered on his body, taking in every detail. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks as you tried to focus, your heart racing in your chest.
Sae noticed your reaction, a playful chuckle escaping his lips. His eyes twinkled with amusement, yet there was something more behind his gaze, something deeper.
"Don’t worry," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, yet filled with a hint of confidence. "It’s all yours, Y/n. You’re going to have to get used to it."
Your cheeks burned with a deep blush at his words, but before you could process it fully, his lips were back on yours, pulling you into the kiss with a hunger that matched your own.
As the kiss deepened, your hands instinctively trailed up the firmness of his abs, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. The sensation of his skin under your fingertips made your pulse quicken. Sae groaned into your mouth, his tongue seeking entrance, and this time, you didn’t hesitate—your lips parted, allowing him to deepen the kiss.
It was a kiss that was both aggressive and tender. Sae’s neediness was noticeable, desperate even, but there was a gentleness in his touch, a carefulness that kept the intensity from crossing into something too overwhelming. He was savoring the moment, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
His hand moved to the collar of your shirt, his fingers pausing, hesitating just for a brief second. He broke the kiss, his gaze locking with yours, silently asking for permission.
A soft laugh escaped your lips at the look in his eyes—this was different, this was him. There was no pressure, no rush. Just the quiet, mutual understanding between you two.
You nodded, giving him the confirmation he needed, and without another word, Sae yanked your shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly to the side.
Now, with both of you half-dressed, skin brushing against skin, the weight of the moment settled around you. Sae’s chest pressed against yours, his heartbeat as erratic as yours. The closeness was dizzying, but it felt right.
You shifted, slowly leaning up as you looked into his eyes, silently acknowledging what was next and what he wanted. Sae's gaze flickered down to you, a silent question in his eyes, asking if you were ready.
You nodded. Sae's hands trembled slightly as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra, the lacy garment falling away to reveal your perfect, plump breasts. His gaze raked over your exposed skin, drinking in every inch of you as he felt a familiar heat building low in his belly.
"Fuck, Y/N..." Sae breathed, his voice rough with desire. "You're so perfect."
He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss. It was hungry and desperate, as if you were the only thing keeping him chained to this earth.
One large hand came up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple almost earnestly. Although being gentle, there was nothing gentle about the way he wanted to touched you - he wanted to possess you, to mark you as his and his alone.
A low groan escaped your lips at his touch, and Sae's cock twitched eagerly in response. The sound of your pleasure was like music to his ears, spurring him on.
Sae's hands continued their sensual massage of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch. Each stroke of his fingers sent sparks of pleasure racing through your veins, stoking the fire building between your thighs.
Breaking away from your lips, Sae latched onto the smooth column of your throat, his mouth hot and demanding against your skin. He sucked and nipped, leaving a trail of marks in his wake as he made his way lower.
When he reached your breast, Sae took your nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. He suckled greedily, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Your back arched off the couch, a needy moan spilling from your lips.
He pulled off with a lewd pop, smirking up at you with pure, unadulterated lust. But there was something else in his eyes too - a tenderness, an adoration that made your heart skip a beat.
This time, you met his gaze head-on, not looking away. Because despite everything, despite the scars on your soul, you knew you were safe with him. Cherished.
Sae's smile widened as he took in the sight of you - flushed and panting, your body laid bare before him. He had done this, reduced you to a needy, senseless mess with just his hands and mouth.
"Look at you," he purred, fingers dancing along the hem of your pants. "So beautiful like this.”
He glanced up at you, seeking permission even in the heat of the moment. That was Sae - always making sure you were okay, that you wanted this as much as he did.
"Please," you breathed, lifting your hips in silent offering.
Something dark and possessive flashed in Sae's eyes as he slowly unbuttoned your pants, dragging the zipper down with agonizing leisure. He peeled the fabric away, leaving you clad in nothing but panties.
A noticeable dampness revealed your growing arousal, drawing Sae's attention. His breath hitched, his jaw tightening. An irresistible urge surged within him—he needed you.
Sae tossed your panties aside carelessly, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable beneath his intense gaze. Every inch of your bare skin was on display for him, a feast for his hungry eyes.
Bending lower, he nuzzled into your inner thighs, kissing and licking a path towards your core. You trembled beneath him, hands fisting in the fabric as he inched closer to where you needed him most.
Your body jerked at the contact, instinctively trying to close your legs. But Sae's strong hands on your hips held you open, keeping you spread wide for his ministrations.
"Open for me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice a heady mix of sternness and care.
Obediently, you let your thighs fall open, granting him unrestricted access to your most intimate places. Sae grunted approvingly as he took in the glistening pink of your aroused sex.
Gripping your knees, he pushed your legs back and apart, forcing you into a position of total surrender. The new angle had your entrance on full display.
"So gorgeous, Y/n,” he murmured appreciatively. "And all mine."
Slowly, teasingly, he slid a single finger into your dripping core. Your back arched off the couch as pleasure sparked through you, a needy moan spilling from your lips.
Sae crashed his mouth to yours, swallowing your moans as he fingered you with increasing intensity. Your velvety walls gripped him like a depravity, fluttering and clenching around his plunging fingers.
"You're so tight," he grunted against your lips. “I enjoy it. Your’e so good to me Y/n.”
He curled them just right, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. Your hips bucked wildly, seeking more of that friction, chasing the pleasure only he could give you.
Sae obliged, plunging his fingers faster, harder, driving into your soaked heat with relentless precision. Lewd squelching noises filled the air as he fucked you with his hand, the vulgar sounds spurring him on.
"That's it, Y/n," he groaned roughly. "Gonna make you feel good.”
He could feel you tightening, your inner muscles starting to flutter and ripple around him. Your moans grew higher, needier, and Sae knew you were close.
Sae's fingers stilled as he felt your walls start to quaver, signaling your impending orgasm. He slowly withdrew his hand, denying you that release.
Your eyes fluttered open, hazy with need and confusion. "Sae? Why did you stop?" you murmured breathlessly.
He smirked down at you, his voice low and commanding. "Not yet, Y/N. I want to feel you come undone on my cock."
With quick movements, Sae unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants down, kicking them off impatiently. He stood before you, clad only in a pair of straining boxer briefs. The sizeable bulge at the front left no doubt as to his arousal.
You sat up slowly, eyes widening as you drank in the sight of his powerful body. Sae's smirk widened at your reaction. He grabbed your hips, pulling you flush against him as he guided your hands to the waistband of his underwear.
"Pull them down for me, Y/N," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Trembling with anticipation, you hooked your fingers under the elastic and slowly dragged the fabric down.
Your eyes widened as Sae's impressive length sprang free, bobbing mere inches from your face. It was thick and heavy, the bulbous head already glistening with precum. A thrill of excitement mixed with nervousness raced down your spine. Could you really take all of that?
As if sensing your hesitation, Sae cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Don't worry, Y/n. You can handle it," he reassured, his voice a low rumble. "I'll start slow, ease you into it.”
He pushed you back onto the couch, his larger body covering yours. You felt trapped beneath him, pinned in place by his solid weight. Sae reached between your bodies, grasping his throbbing cock and giving it a few slow strokes.
Then, with agonizing leisure, he placed the tip against your entrance. You held your breath, every muscle tensing in anticipation. This was really happening.
"Tell me when, Y/N," Sae murmured against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "Remember, I'm yours. You're in control here."
He sealed his lips over yours in a long kiss, his tongue delving deep inside. You moaned into his mouth, your hands fisting in his hair as you lost yourself to the sensation.
When he finally pulled back, you were both panting harshly. Sae's eyes bore into yours, dark with desire but also filled with a tender understanding. He would follow your lead, let you set the pace.
All you had to do was say the word.
“Make me feel good, Sae," you breathed against his lips, pulling him in for a quick, heated kiss.
"Of course. Anything for you," he murmured back, a small smirk playing on his lips.
Sae's tip nudged against your entrance, teasing you. You squirmed beneath him, aching to be filled. His large hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he slowly pressed forward.
"If you need me to pause at any point, just say the word," Sae reassured, his voice low and soothing. "You can tell me anything, and I'll do it. This is all about you, Y/N."
You nodded, trusting him. Then, with a slow, deliberate push, Sae sheathed himself inside you. A low groan rumbled from his chest as your velvety walls stretched to adjust his girth.
He gave you a moment to adjust, peppering kisses along your jaw and neck as he waited patiently. When he started to move, it was with shallow, careful thrusts. Each roll of his hips sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.
Sae's breath came in ragged pants as he pounded into you, his brow glistening with sweat. Each thrust drew a groan from his lips, especially when your walls clenched around his throbbing shaft.
"Fuck, Y/N... so tight," he grunted, his pace growing more erratic. "Feels…amazing”.
You could only moan in response, your head thrashing on the fabric of the couch as he hit that perfect spot inside you over and over. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room.
"S-Sae," you gasped out, wrapping your legs around his waist.
His name coming from your lips made him eager, slamming into you with ease. The new angle had him nailing your G-spot with overwhelming precision, sending bolts of electric pleasure zinging through your nerve endings.
Sae's breath came in harsh, ragged pants as he pounded into you, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. The way your walls clenched around his throbbing shaft, the sting of your nails scratching his back, the breathy cries of his name falling from your lips - it was all driving him wild with lust.
"S-Sae..." you stammered out, your voice high and needy. "I'm so close..."
He could see it in the glazed look of your eyes, feel it in the way your body was starting to tremble and tighten around him. Sae knew he wouldn't last much longer either.
"Me too, Y/n," he grunted, his movements growing sloppy and erratic.
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the edge, grinding against your G-spot. At the same time, he reached between your bodies to circle your swollen clit with his fingers.
Sae let out a low, satisfied groan as he felt your warm essence dripping down his softening cock. With a final, shallow thrust, he pulled out completely, shooting his load onto your lower abdomen.
Exhausted, he collapsed on top of you, nuzzling his face between your breasts. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he caught his breath. You both lay there in the afterglow, the only sound the soft panting and huffing filling the room.
No words were spoken for a long moment, the silence comfortable and intimate. You gently ran your fingers through Sae's hair, massaging his scalp soothingly. He let out a contented hum, burrowing further into your embrace.
"Hey Sae..." you murmured softly, breaking the quiet.
"Hm?" he mumbled, his voice slightly muffled by your skin.
You bit your lip, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "Everything you said... did you mean it? About me being yours, and you wanting to take care of me and make me feel good?"
The words tumbled out in a rush, tinged with uncertainty. In the heat of passion, it had all seemed so real, so intense. But now, in the calm aftermath, doubt began to creep in.
Was it just dirty talk, empty promises made in the act of lust? Or had Sae truly meant every word, genuine in his desire to cherish and care for you?
You needed to hear him say it again, unclouded by the haze of sex. You had to know if this was something real, something that could grow into more than just a physical connection.
You held your breath, waiting for his response, your heart fluttering with a mixture of hope and fear.
Sae lifted his head from the plush of your breasts, his teal eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "I meant every word, Y/N," he murmured, his voice low and earnest. "I'll take care of you, I promise."
A small, shy smile tugged at the corners of your lips, hope blooming in your chest. Sae's hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your cheekbone.
"I like you, Y/N. More than you know. Maybe even love,” he confessed, his gaze never wavering. "These past two months, spending every day with you at the bakery... I've fallen for you. Hard."
He let out a soft chuckle. "To be honest, you're the only reason I keep going there. Just to see you, to be near you, even if it's only for a few minutes."
Your heart swelled at his words, a warm sensation flowing through your entire being. This was everything you'd secretly hoped for, dreamed of, but never dared to believe could be real.
Until now.
Leaning into his touch, you let yourself get lost in the depths of Sae's eyes, seeing the sincerity and affection shining there. In that moment, you knew with absolute certainty what you wanted, what your heart craved.
You wanted this. You wanted him.
The walls you'd built around yourself, the barriers you'd made to keep people out and protect your fragile heart... they crumbled to dust, swept away by the force of your feelings for this incredible man.
Now, it was time to let him in, to entrust him with your heart and let yourself be loved in return. No more holding back, no more running from what you truly desired.
"Sae..." you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. "I... I think I'm falling for you too. I want this, I want you. I'm ready to let you in.”
You gazed up at Sae, your heart swelling with a love so profound it threatened to burst from your chest. In his warm teal eyes, you saw a reflection of everything you'd ever wanted, everything you'd been searching for all these years.
Comfort. Affection. Devotion. Love.
With Sae, you felt safe, cherished, whole. Like all the broken, jagged pieces of your soul had finally clicked into place, forming a beautiful painting of love and trust.
"Let me be in your life, Y/N," Sae murmured, his voice raw with emotion. "Let me love you, the way you deserve to be loved."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his words. How had you gotten so lucky, to find someone who saw past your walls, your wounds, straight to the tender heart underneath?
"And I shall let you love me, as I will love you, Sae," you whispered, a radiant smile blooming on your face.
This was everything you'd ever wanted, everything you'd never dared to dream possible. A love that healed, that uplifted, that made you feel invincible.
With Sae by your side, you finally felt complete. Like you'd found your home, your haven, your happily ever after.
"I'm yours," you breathed, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Now and forever."
Sae surged forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that poured every ounce of his love, his commitment, into the press of his mouth on yours. You melted into him, losing yourself in the exquisite taste of his devotion.
In that perfect moment, the rest of the world fell away. There was only you, only him, only the infinite love binding your hearts and souls together.
Forever and always.
a/n: omg im so sorry this took so long I didnt expect it to take a while😭
Btw sorry if the ending is rushed and crappy I just wanted to end it since it was getting too long. Plus…he was a bit too ooc for me🙁
I was originally going to make two parts but somehow I didn't so it took longer to post!!! I'm so sorry!!!
I should've made this a wattpad instead…yo wait hold up⁉️ I should make a wattpad‼️
Regardless…SAE IS SO FINE WHAT. He looks so scrumptious in these new bllk episodes😫 (Rin’s better tho. THE BETTER BROTHER!)
Yum😋
#bllk#blue lock#writeblr#anime x reader#bllk x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#female reader#angst#blue lock x you#itoshi sae#sae itoshi#sae x reader#sae x you#sae blue lock#sae itoshi x reader#sae itoshi x you#sae itoshi x y/n#sae itoshi fluff#sae itoshi smut#itoshi brothers#bllk smut#smut#fem reader#x reader#fluff#slow burn#bllk x you#bllk slowburn#blue lock x reader
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₊˚ʚ Rain in the woods (Ford Pines x fem!reader) ₊˚✧ ゚.
part 3
author note: wow. oh. I can’t believe i finished this :')
this ridiculous, tender unhinged love letter to Ford (and to all of you) has been such a wild ride. tbh i started writing this fic as a half-joke, half-desperate need to get the scenario out of my head and now it’s grown into something so much more intimate than i ever imagined
to everyone who liked, reblogged, who wrote to me such wonderful sweet comments - i read every one and I love you more than Ford loves overthinking. seriously :) your support means everything, and I hope you'll like this final chapter. I’m so grateful for you all <3
ALSO sorry if there are a lot of kisses here….... ummm well I mean, you can't really blame me bc if Ford had let me, I would have just eaten him whole
nsfw, minors DNI
You don’t notice, but his hands are trembling when he reaches for the first aid kit he’d somehow already brought with him. Had he been planning this? Or maybe. . . he just couldn’t stay away, couldn’t bear the thought of you trying to deal with it on your own.
Ford tries to maintain his usual level of calm composure, but the sight of your exposed thigh makes it so much harder than he anticipated. He feels so conflicted, his thoughts are somewhere between concern, desire and disgusting guilt. He’s a scientist, an explorer, a goddamned professional, not some pathetic old man fantasising about—
“This is going to sting,” Ford warns, trying to not look at your underwear along with your exposed body parts. He can’t be the one to make you uncomfortable now, not when you’re already in pain. “I’ll try to be quick, but it will hurt. I won’t push it, but. . . you need to stay still.”
He avoids meeting your wide, doe-like, scared, no, more like nervous eyes. Those eyes had undone him countless times before, always so trusting, so impossibly soft, curious, full of life. He dies every time when you look at him like that.
“Yes, okay,” you answer, though you’re not sure if it’s for him or for you. He pours the disinfectant into a cotton pad and just as he prepares to press it to your skin, you tense. “Ford, please. . . be gentle, okay?”
“I will, if it’s too much just tell me.” Ford still doesn’t dare meet your eyes, not when he knows his own will betray him. Instead, he focuses on the wound, on the crimson smear of blood that trickles down your skin. But it’s not that damn injury he wants to fix, it’s you, all of you. He wants to be needed by you, to be the one who makes you whole again.
Ford prepares himself and trying his best, he gently presses the cotton pad to your skin what makes you gasp, oh, sweet mercy, that voice of yours. It’s all he can do to stop himself from leaning in and capturing your lips in tender kiss, getting between your legs and taking you right there. He keeps going, though, his big hands too careful, like you’re made of porcelain. He doesn’t want to hurt you, never, but he just wishes he could be inside you right now, show you how much he’s desperate for you.
“Ahh! Ford, h-hurts!” your fingers are gripping his wrist so tight, nails digging in, and fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking this. You are hurt, in pain, for god’s sake, but all he can see is you beneath him, making those same sounds for an entirely different reason as he makes love to you.
“Shh, I know, I know it does. I know, but you have to let me do this. If I don’t, the wound could get infected. Tetanus, sepsis are not things to take lightly.”
Goddamn, why he’s so close to places he shouldn’t even be thinking about. You’re laying there so beautiful, helpless, voice pleading with him to stop, it’s driving Ford crazy. His cock twitches in his pants and he hates himself for it, hates how his mind creates an image of you crying out his name like that, begging him to keep going instead of to stop.
He feels the throb in his chest, but in his groin too.
“N-no more, fuck, ugh!” obviously it’s a plea for mercy, but to his traitorous brain, it sounds like—
Ford frowns, looking way too serious than usual as he tries to make his dirty thoughts go away, tries to focus on the wound and not the way your skin feels, but goddamn why are you so soft and warm and why he’s so damn close to you. And then his gaze betrays him, lowering down to the curve of your inner thigh, so close to where the hem of your panties teases him mercilessly.
“That’s enough, please!” you begin, biting down on your lip as the pain grows.
“Don’t move too much, it’ll hurt more,” Ford’s tone sounds rougher than he meant to. “I’m almost done.”
She’s in pain, you disgusting old idiot. She’s fucking suffering and you’re—
“Please, stop!”
Ford freezes, stiffening. That’s enough, you’d said, but it’s not, it’s fucking not. It’s never enough. Not your skin, not your voice, not the way you cling to him, not the way you beg, not the way you look at him.
The cotton pad is soaked now in your blood too, pressing too hard against your skin before Ford even realises it. You wince, gasping again and Ford can't help it anymore. His eyes drop to your panties, how they hug your body and his cock twitches in his pants.
He’s a grown man. He should be able to handle this. But all he can see is you, laid out before him like this, looking at him with those needy eyes, begging him to take you, to fuck you.
“Just sit sti—” before he finishes his sentence, he unintentionally presses the cotton harder into your wound, too lost in his own fantasies and the sharp burst of pain makes you hiss so you move involuntarily, your leg jerking straight into his crotch and—
You feel it.
Your foot accidentally brushes against something unmistakably hard. You didn’t mean to move that way, absolutely. But the second your limb drags against him, you feel it. The hardness beneath his pants. His body reacting to you. To this.
And neither of you move.
Ford is first to speak.
“I— I’m sorry,” he blurts. “It’s a natural physiological response. Adrenaline, heightened states of focus, they can trigger. . . well, unintended reactions. Nothing to do with— nothing to do with you.”
The sharp pain in your thigh momentarily forgotten. “Physiological response?” you repeat. “Ford, are you seriously trying to explain away your. . . uh, situation with biology?”
“It’s not what you think. It’s involuntary. Biological. A man’s body doesn’t always obey his mind. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He sounds so awkward, so flustered and you don’t know what to think. He’s not usually like this. . . well, not around you. Around you, he’s always so collected, always the smart, serious, intellectual Stanford Pines who wouldn’t bat an eye at anything that didn’t involve research.
You try to click pieces together, processing. He feels something for you. That’s the only explanation. He wouldn’t be this flustered, this desperate to excuse himself, if he didn’t.
And now you know. Ford’s just as human as the rest of us. And he wants you, too.
You move again, brushing your leg against him again and Ford wants to die because he makes the loudest surprised gasp in the room. “Doesn’t mean anything, huh?” you ask innocently. “so if I just move like this—” you press just a little firmer, feeling him growing harder. “it’s still just biology. Nothing to do with me at all?”
He’s silent.
“Ford, Is that. . . is that really how you feel?”
He sighs and darts his hand out to grip your leg to stop your teasing. “Don’t,” he warns, saying your name. His eyes meet yours for the first time all evening. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
His eyes stay locked on yours. You’re silent now too.
“Don’t— don’t look at me like that. You don’t understand. I. . . shouldn’t have let it go this far.”
But you do understand, more than he could ever realise.
“But why?” your foot slides all over his hard clothed length and Ford’s body responds with his needy cock twitching at your touch.
“This isn’t funny,” he bites out. “this isn’t a game. I’m not a young man, im not— I’m not what you need.”
“You don’t get to decide what I need, Ford.”
“But you’re too young—”
“Stop treating me like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what she wants. I’m an adult, Ford, an adult!”
“An adult?” he repeats, while your foot is still rubbing over his very obvious bulge. “an adult who can't even get dressed normally for the weather?”
You grin, leaning closer to his face. “uh-huh. And here you are, all worked up over me, right?” you press on his cock harder and Ford nearly finishes in his pants.
He grabs your ankle, even though he doesn’t push you away.
“This. . . now this is inappropriate.”
You rolls your foot over his bulge what makes hips buck just slightly. You bite your lip, grinning at how badly he’s losing control.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?” you lean closer and murmur into his mouth. “you’re so worried about what I can handle, but look at you. You’re the one who’s hard as rock right now, who can’t control himself.”
“Enough, I’m serious, stop.”
“Make me.”
That’s all it takes. It’s your smirk that gets him, your teasing voice, your dirty remarks, even as you’re sprawled out on the bed with that horrible wound on your thigh.
Ford is on you in a second. His mouth crashes against yours and you don’t even realise what’s happening yet. His kiss is messy and needy, like he’s trying to consume you whole. And you give yourself to him completely, your body melting into his. Every surprised gasp of yours is swallowed by him, his big hands gripping your face as he deepens the kiss. It’s so messy, the way Ford literally fucks your mouth with his tongue.
And you can’t help but tug at his clothes, dragging him closer until he’s on top of you. Ford’s weight presses into you and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling at it as your body presses against his, your heart pounding so hard you swear he can hear it too. Ford is barely restraining himself from ripping off the rest of your clothes, that oversized T-shirt and panties, and fucking you right here, making all his fantasies come true, which he wrote down in his journal.
His mouth devours yours like he’s starved for you, his hands yanking you closer like he’s holding on for dear life. You let him claim you, let his kiss swallow every thought in your head until there’s nothing left but him, just him, him, him, him. You’re drunk on the way he feels. His hands are everywhere, pulling and tugging at you like he’s losing control. And oh god, you feel it.
You can’t get enough of it. You want more.
Ford is too lost so he lets six-fingered hand slip lower, brushing the side of your thigh and then it lands right where it shouldn’t.
Your fresh wound.
You gasp in pain, breaking the kiss.
“Damn,” Ford instantly pulls away, and his hand is next to your wound, concern and fear are visible on his face. “i’m sorry, i didn’t—”
“Fuck it,” you interrupt, pulling him closer. “worry about that later. I need you now. Please, Ford, just kiss me again.”
But looks like Ford is interested in your wound more than in kiss now.
He’s already inspecting the bandage, ignoring your begging, his brows furrowed with guilt. “i wasn’t thinking, im sorry, does it hurt? did i—”
Why men are so stupid, you think and grab his chin, forcing him to look at you, but he talks first.
“Let me—” he clears his throat, blinking before continuing. “no, let me bandage your leg. We need to, uh, stop the bleeding.”
“Ford,” you groan. “It’s fine. It’s not even that bad now.”
“Not that bad?” he looks you with a glare that’s somehow equal parts concern and anger. “that’s not how infections work, young lady. You could lose a limb if this festers.”
You groan in frustration, rolling your eyes, but he’s already kneeling in front of you. “This is really what you’re worried about right now?” you drawl, raising your brow.
“Yes, this is what I’m worried about.”
And here he is again, between your legs, his hands are still careful as they work, bandaging your inner thigh. Ford is trying so hard not to look at the very place he’s so devastatingly close to. He pulls the knot of the bandage just too tight what makes you let out the softest, unintentional moan.
“You— you cannot make noises like that right now. Stop making this harder than it already is.”
The corners of your lips curl and you lean back on your palms, unbothered. “Says the man who’s between my legs right now.”
“You got a point,” Ford lifts his brows as he clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a rueful grin. “clever girl.”
When he finally finishes tying off the bandage, he proudly looks at the work he done and pulls away, wait, pulls away? However, you don’t let him get far. Your hands drag him back down with a force that surprises him and maybe yourself.
The kiss you pull him into is anything but delicate. It’s urgent and hungry. Ford groans against you as if you’ve stolen the last bit of air he had left. Your fingers fist the fabric at his shoulders and when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeps over your bottom lip.
“Been waiting for this,” you confess between gasps. “Ford, I need you.”
His forehead presses against yours. “You think I don’t? I’ve needed you. God, you have no idea. You drive me insane.”
“Need you,” you breathe, arching up into him. “Ford, please. . . need you so bad.” he swallows your words with another passionate kiss, this one deeper, slower. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling a whimper from you that goes straight to his cock.
His lips trail lower, pressing kisses along the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck. His teeth graze against your skin making you shiver because you feel like on damn fire, so sensitive for him.
“Ford, ah,” you breathe, tilting your head to give him more room as his kisses grow bolder, hungrier. He’s so desperate he can’t seem to stop himself, mouthing at your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach while he mutters how beautiful you are.
Your hand trembles as it finds his, wrapping around his wrist and guiding him down. “Ford, please, touch me there,” you whimper against his lips now, spreading your thighs apart to make space. “need you. . . need your fingers, your hand, please.”
Ford hesitates at first, as if he doesn't fully believe what he sees in front of him, the object of his fantasies, his clever girl, which he wrote about in his journal, right beneath him, begging for his touch, for his love. It seems like his genius brain cannot comprehend what is happening yet.
Finally his hand moves, two fingers, one extra, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties and the sound that leaves your mouth sounds like a desperate needy sob. His forehead drops against yours as his fingers press against the dampness pooling there.
“You’re so wet,” Ford drags his thumb slowly over your clit. “is this all for me?”
“Yes, yes, all for you,” you gasp, writhing under his touch, bucking your hips up into his hand. “only you, Ford— fuck, just keep touching me, please, need more— need you. . .”
“I know,” he mutters, kissing you hard enough to steal the words from your tongue. “i know, sweetheart, i know.”
Ford’s fingers tugs your panties to the side and you both groan when he finally touches you bare. You squirm, swaying your hips to grind against his hand and he curses again, moving his lips to your neck, kissing and nipping as if he can’t stand being apart from you for even a second.
“Y-you’re driving me insane,” he breathes. “been dreaming about this, you have no idea, been wanting you for so long.”
“Good,” you manage a weak smile, whimpering when he circles your clit with his thumb. You curl your nails into his shoulders. “then fucking do something about it.”
Stanford groans at your words, his cock twitches, begging to be taken care of, but his pleasure doesn’t matter now. You’re so hungry for his touch and Ford needs to touch you badly, so he slips his fingers through your folds, caressing you while still rubbing your clit in torturous circles. “like this? does this, does this feel good?”
“Yes, yes, oh my god! more, more, give me more,” you cry when he sinks one finger into you, curling it just right.
“God, I wanna—” but he cuts himself off when his eyes notices that damn bandage on your leg.
“What?” you question and press a light kiss to his cheek, your eyes searching his face. “what do you want?”
“You,” he admits. “I want to be inside you, want to feel you around me, want to, b-but you’re hurt, and I— fuck, I can’t, I can’t risk it.”
You whine, your head falling back as his fingers keep moving, sliding in and out of your pussy, brushing against that spot that makes you see stars. “don’t care,” your thighs clenching around his hand. “i don’t care, just need you, need your cock— fuck, please!”
“Please, don’t say that, don’t say that when I can’t give it to you.”
“Ford, please, I need it! I’ll be fine, I swear—”
“No, you’re hurt, this is all i can give you right now. . . but i swear, I swear i’ll make it up to you, honey, when you’re better, when you’re not hurt, i’ll—” his fingers thrust deeper into your wetness with his thumb circling your clit in time and you interrupt him with loud cry.
“Ford! please, just don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
Ford nods and watches you. Letting his fingers curl inside you, penetrating deeper into your pussy. His movements growing more confident as your body reacts to him, your beautiful moans spurring him on. His lips find yours again and you both get lost in the kiss, in the way your breaths mix, in the way your bodies press together like you’re trying to fuse into one.
Your moan breaks into a cry as you arch your back, eyes closed tight when Ford’s fingers pumping into you faster, your spongy walls tightening around his digits. Oh fucking heaven, that extra finger feels too good. “Ford, please! oh, god— fuck, you’re gonna make me—”
“That’s it,” Ford’s lips trail up to your ear, kissing and biting it as he presses his thumb on your sensitive bundle. “let me take care of you, sweetheart, cum for me.”
His tone and praise is what sends you on edge as you clench around his fingers, moaning his name and cumming while his fingers, slower, but still thrusting into you. You feel so weak and tired, but your Ford is right there to catch you, whispering soft praises into your hair as you shake in his arms.
Ford’s fingers still buried deep inside you as he watches you come down from your high. And it’s so obvious that he putted your needs before his own because his cock, hard as a rock now, strains against the fabric of his pants, creating the most painful bulge you ever seen. He shifts awkwardly, hoping maybe you won’t notice but you do. Oh, you do.
“Ford,” your voice sounds honeyed as you regain your strength. Your gaze drops pointedly to the tent in his pants. “you’re. . . so hard.”
His face flushes and he tries to pull away, to create some distance between you, but you grab his wrist, stopping him.
“Don’t,” you whisper softly. “don’t hide from me. you’ve been so good to me, let me. . . let me do something for you.”
“No,” he says quickly. “you’re hurt. I can’t, you need to rest.”
“Just look at you, you’re aching. You don’t have to do anything to me, just let me help.”
“Oh my god,” he says your name as if ready to scold you. “you’re impossible, you know,” but his shaky hands move to his belt anyway, unsure, like he’s warring with himself even as he undoes it.
“Yeah?” you lean back. “you’re about to jerk off in front of me, Ford, what does that make you?”
Ford cant find any smart or logical response to that because you’re absolutely right, he’s the mess here, the impossible one, the desperate old man. He takes a breath, finally pulling his cock free and fuck, he’s so hard as if he’s going to explode, the head flushed and leaking.
Ford’s cock is already in his hand, the first strokes making him whimper under his breath. His other hand rests on your thigh, fingers nervously flex like he’s desperate to touch more of you, to hold you, to worship you properly like his clever girl deserves, but he’s so lost in this intimate moment, in you, that he can barely think straight.
You’re watching him, trying to control yourself because if you won’t, you might just jump on him and you can't vouch for yourself.
You’re sprawled out in front of him like a dream come to life: t-shirt rucked up, legs spread, panties pushed to the side, leaving your pretty glistening pussy on full display for his starved gaze. Fuck, you look so hot like that, from everything he’s already done to you. He’s trying not to stare and you think he’s so silly when it’s specially show made only for him, so you shift your hips just enough to catch his attention, drawing his eyes like a magnet.
“Touch yourself for me. Show me how much you want me.” your eyes locked on him, drinking in the sight of his hand moving over his length.
Ford’s chest heaves, his hand grips his cock, which is twitching and flushed an angry red at the tip. But looks like poor old man can’t even jerk himself off properly, so you reach your hand out to brush against his wrist.
“Here,” you purr, guiding his hand with your smaller one, wrapping your fingers around his, forcing him to stroke himself teasingly. At that, Ford’s hips jerk up into your shared grip, and you hum approvingly, watching as his lips part in a groan. “yes, like this, honey. Let me help you.”
“S-sweetheart. . . you don’t— ah— you don’t have to—”
“But I want to,” you lean back against the bed, shifting your hips, making sure he has the perfect view of your soaked, glistening slit. “Don’t hold back, i want you to feel good.”
Ford lets himself get a bit more vocal as he groans, his hips buck into your joined hands and his cock twitches against your palm. He’s so fucking hard, leaking against your skin, and the sounds he makes as he strokes himself are too good to be true, yet here he is, in front of you, jerking himself off, moaning your name.
“You. . . o-oh god, sweetheart, you’re incredible,” he whines as you guide his hand again, showing him exactly how to squeeze, how to work himself the way you know he needs it. Meanwhile his other hand braces against the mattress near your head, his knuckles white as he struggles to keep himself together.
“You’re so big, Ford,” your eyes glued to his dick, watching every move with hungry fascination. “you’re so handsome, so beautiful. I could look at you all night.”
He groans at your praise, more pathetic this time, his forehead dropping forward as he stares at where your bodies almost meet. “Christ, you’re gonna ruin me, love.” that’s when his strokes falter for and you take over completely, your warm hand wrapping around his length and pumping him up and down.
“Keep going,” you urge, feeling yourself getting wetter too. “i can’t stop thinking about how good you’d feel inside me. id take all of you, id make you feel so good, Ford. I need you, all of you.” soft whisper into his lips while all Ford can do is fuck your hand pathetically, your thumb sweeping over his tip, smearing the slick there.
Ford digs his fingers into your thigh, trembling. “Don’t— oh god, don’t say that,” he gasps. His eyes are locked on your opening, on the way your arousal glistens, your folds so wet and swollen and inviting.
“Don’t you want to touch me? Don’t you want to feel how wet i am for you?”
“God, I do,” he breathes as his hand joins again, moving together with yours, faster, jerking himself off faster. “I want you so much it hurts. I’d do anything. . . anything for you.”
“Then come for me,” you whisper, reaching out to thread your fingers into his hair when you kiss the corners of his parted trembling lips.
“I can’t— oh god, sweetheart, I can’t hold on much longer.” thick ropes of his cum spills across your thighs and even stomach, marking your skin as he makes a mess of himself. His hot seed drips down over your hand where you keep stroking and caressing him, milking every last drop forcing whines and mewls from him.
He collapses forward after and buries his face against your shoulder.
“I need you so badly,” he murmurs into your skin. “you don’t know how much I want you. You don’t know what you do to me.”
You hum softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair as you press a tender kiss on his forehead.
***
It’s morning and sweet scent of batter and syrup fills the air. The noise and conversations are coming from the kitchen and there’s only one explanation for the chaos: Stanley is cooking “stancakes.”
You’re by his side, propped against the counter, balancing on your good leg, watching Stan cook. Spatula in one hand, the other parked on his hip and he radiates confidence, as if he is ready to host his own cooking show.
“Now listen up, kid,” he says in a voice full of pride. “these are world-famous stancakes. they’ve been called ‘edible’ by at least two people, well, three, if you don’t count the pig.”
“Oh.”
“Oh” he repeats, incredulous, spinning to face you with mock offense. “don’t tell me you’ve never had stancakes before?!”
You grin, shaking your head. “not once. I think Ford’s been keeping them all to himself.”
Stan looks like you’ve just offended him.
“That’s practically a felony in this house! what, Ford never mentioned ‘em? selfish bastard.”
You laugh softly.
“but i gotta ask,” Stan continues. “any allergies to elbow grease? or, uh, whatever was at the bottom of the flour jar. pretty sure it was flour. maybe. . .” he winks and you roll your eyes, however the conversation continues good and friendly between you.
Your hand rests on the counter for balance and you look down, at the faint tug of the bandage around your leg, which works as reminder of the night before. Memories of Ford’s hands, his mouth, the way he moaned your name, how he touched you, heat your cheeks until you force yourself to focus on Stan.
His spatula waves in your direction again. “so, what’s the story with yer leg? take a tumble down the stairs, or was it somethin’ spooky out there in the woods?”
You give him a wide smile. “let’s just say it’s a story. remind me to tell you later.”
Stan raises a brow curiously, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he turns back to his stancakes with a grunt. “hmph, fair enough. just glad you didn’t end up worse. Y’know, if ya ever need lessons on landing on yer feet—”
Before he can finish, his brother steps into the room and you immediately turn your gaze to him. Honestly, he looks like he’s spent the entire night replaying everything.
“Ah, there you are,” Ford murmurs when his gaze finds you, then he clears his throat and nods to his twin. “good morning, Stanley.”
Stan doesn’t miss a beat, gesturing with his spatula. “yeah, mornin’, sixer. Yer just in time for the best damn pancakes this side of the multiverse.”
At that, Ford’s lips curve into a polite smile as he glances at his brother. “that’s good to hear.” then his focus changes, locking entirely on you. His intonation changes into something warmer as he speaks your name. “would you mind if i borrowed you for a moment? just for a quick talk.”
You nod a little too eagerly. “sure, of course.”
Stanley lets out a dramatic sigh, waving his spatula at Ford. “don’t keep her too long, poindexter. She’s gotta try these pancakes before they go cold!”
Ford leads you to his study and you follow, heart thundering in your chest. You’re grinning like an idiot, barely containing your excitement. He’s finally going to say something, but you’re so fucking ready to hear, to discuss, to scream the loudest “YES” when he’ll ask you to be his girlfriend.
When the door clicks shut behind you, he turns and you finally see his face. He’s always so serious, just like right now. But what did you wait? It’s Ford Pines, it’s his normal state. However, you’re so excited you sure he can see the way you’re literally glowing.
You really try to act casual, but inside, you’re absolutely going insane, nervous, happy, excited at the same time. Last night still feels like a fever dream, you can feel the ghost of his touch on your skin, the heat of his body against yours, the way his fingers slid so perfectly into you. . .
And now he’s here, just the two of you, and you’re hoping he’ll finally acknowledge the thing that happened between you.
But then he opens his mouth.
“So, about the anomaly. . .” he begins and the words hit you like a slap.
No, no. No no no. Are you hearing this right?That’s what he’s leading with?! After everything that happened last night, he’s just. . . no, he’s talking about the damn anomaly like he didn’t just leave you trembling with the memory of his fingers inside you.
Your smile falters fucking immediately, your shoulders stiffening as he goes on, completely oblivious to the storm of disappointment brewing inside you.
“I’ve been reviewing the notes I took last week. If my calculations are correct, the creature’s molecular structure—”
What the actual fuck.
Your jaw clenches. You stare at him, thinking it’s some kind of joke. He’s talking about science. Fucking science. After everything that happened, this is what he wants to talk about? He’s here, rambling about molecules and rain like none of it ever happened.
You can’t stand it. The frustration takes over you.
“Ford,” you hiss as you shove him back against the wall.
His eyes widen in surprise, but you don’t let him speak. You press your palms flat against his chest, pinning him there, your voice shaking with anger. All you can think about is how he’s standing there like some fucking genius, talking about molecules and data when last night, you’d literally devoured each other.
“Are you kidding me? This is what you wanted to talk about? You’re seriously standing here, talking about anomalies and notes like last night didn’t fucking happen?”
For a second, he just looks at you, his face calm and that makes you practically vibrate with rage, the intensity of your emotions making your head spin.
And then. . . he smirks.
The bastard smirks.
“I wasn’t aware we had plans to debrief, sweetheart,” your fingers tighten against his chest and he raises a brow, clearly amused by your reaction. “Though I must admit, you’re surprisingly strong for someone with an injured leg. Should I be worried?”
Your face burns as you glare up at him. “Ford, don’t you dare—”
“Well?” his gaze piercing through you. “What is it you want me to say, sweetheart?”
His fucking teasing is driving you crazy.
“Are you seriously just gonna pretend like it didn’t happen? That you didn’t— god, Ford—"
“Pretend? Oh, but don’t get ahead of yourself.
I think you’ve got a lot more to say about what happened than you’re letting on, huh?”
Your cheeks burn hotter than they ever have before. You didn’t expect that. You really didn’t.
“Are you seriously gonna tease me about last night? You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re so worked up now that you don’t even care. You push yourself closer, getting right up in his space, your chest touching his, and now you’re just fuming.
“I’m the one who teases you? Interesting. . .” he leans to your face, brushing his lips against your ear. “What else did I do to you that made you so worked up last night? I didn’t think I was that good with my hands.”
“You bastard.” you hiss as you pin him against the wall harder.
He tilts his head at your words. “Careful, love, I wouldn’t want you to strain that leg of yours again. Especially not after I spent so much time taking care of you last night.”
Your breath catches in your throat. The nerve of this man! You want to slap him, to push him away, but instead, you pull him closer
“You better watch yourself, Ford.” You give him a dangerous smile. “You think you can just pay with me like this? You’re not as clever as you think.”
Ford’s smirk widens. “Oh? You think you’ve got the upper hand? I’ve got you pinned right where I want you, sweetheart.”
And then his hand trails down your arm to your waist.
“And if you’re still mad, I can think of a few ways to work out that frustration.”
Your body goes cold and hot all at once, and it takes everything in you not to melt into him.
Ford is still against the wall where you pushed him, calm as ever, obviously enjoying every second of this, he thinks he’s the one in control.
Your pulse hammers in your ears, your hands trembling against the chest of his sweater. He’s so warm, and god, you hate that even now, even while you’re mad at him, you can’t stop remembering the way he looked last night. The way he sounded when he let himself fall apart under your touch.
“You’re insufferable. Worse than Stan.”
“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re the one pinning me to a wall. Quite forcefully, might I add. It’s a little ironic, don’t you think? Considering how you were. . . what’s the term? Begging for me last night?”
Your jaw drops.
“Begging? You think I was begging for you?”
Ford looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Well, I seem to recall a certain. . . eagerness on your part. Particularly when—”
“You don’t get to talk about my eagerness.” you cut him off, your cheeks flaming. “Not when you were the one moaning my name like your life depended on it.”
That shuts him up.
His smirk falters slightly, and you see the faintest hint of red creeping up his neck. Oh. Oh. Fucking finally. You’ve got him now.
“That’s right. Stanford Pines, world-renowned genius, reduced to a trembling mess because I—” and to kill him for sure, you lean in to whisper into his lips. “jerked you off.”
Ford goes completely still.
There’s nothing but silence. His genius mind working, his lips parting slightly like he wants to say something, but no words come out. His face is a mess of conflicting emotions, embarrassment, frustration and something you can’t quite place but looks suspiciously like agreement.
“Got nothing to say now, huh?” you tease, grinning like an absolute maniac. “What happened to all that confidence, Professor?”
“Well played.”
***
Life at the mystery shack doesn’t feel much different, not outwardly. Stan still grumbles about the bills, the tourists still gawk at the exhibits, and Ford. . . Ford is still Ford, except now he’s yours.
Yours.
The nights are quieter between you both, more intimate, full of moans and groans, petting and foreplay. Like last night, when his clever hands had slipped beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, his soft and needy voice told you he wanted to make you feel good.
God, he did. You’d come on his fingers so good, trembling as he whispered your name and called you his good girl, while kissing your cheeks, wiping your tears of pleasure away. And he’d let you touch him too while your hand worked up and down on his pulsing cock and then he spilled against your skin, while you silenced him with a kiss.
No, it actually feels good, really. It’s better than nothing, than not touching him at all, but. . . you crave, you need something else. Something that is not just his fingers, mouth, or hands.
Ford is so careful, so cautious about your stupid leg, his gentle excuses about your injury making you want to scream into a pillow. Like, yeah, it still hurts sometimes, but you can walk, run, pin him against a wall, fuck him six ways to sunday if he’d just let you.
Ford has his own fears, even if he won’t admit them outright.
But you’re not afraid.
The woods, your anomaly huntings, are different now too. More dangerous, you’d say.
You’re pressed against a tree as Ford’s mouth claims yours. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up under your clothes, pulling you closer, closer, like he can’t get enough.
“Ford, aah, please,” you whimper, pulling him down to kiss you deeper. His knee nudges between your thighs, pressing against you and you swear you’re about to melt into a puddle right there in the dirt.
“Quiet, sweetheart, don’t want the whole forest knowing how desperate you are for me.”
But it’s him. . . it’s fucking him who’s desperate, dropping to his knees to pull your pants down just enough, fingers slipping into your panties to find you already soaking.
“So wet already, holy multiverse,” and then his fingers are inside your pussy as he presses kisses to your thighs and stomach.
But you need to touch him too. Your hands are on him again, tugging at his belt, fumbling with the button of his pants. His cock is hard when you pull him free and you stroke him until he’s shaking, gasping against your neck.
“My love, i’m gonna—” his hips jerks into your hand as he cums, splashing his hot and thick seed all over your fingers. But he doesn’t stop, his own six fingered hand working you until you finish with a strangled cry, pussy clenching around him as you nearly fall, when he catches you, whispering how beautiful you are.
You both collapse against each other, sticky and hot, despite coldness of autumn, grinning like idiots. And then Ford leans in to kiss you again, like he’s already planning the next round.
At dinner, it’s you who starts it.
Your leg brushes his teasingly under the table that has him choking on his water. Stanley doesn’t notice, too busy ranting about some tourist who tried to haggle over a snow globe, but Ford shoots you a warning look.
You just smile sweetly while also agreeing with Stan about his tourist speech as you press your foot higher until you’re brushing against the hard line of his length beneath the table.
The lab is worse.
He’s sitting at his desk, scribbling in his journal with you perched on his lap, your arms around his shoulders, your hips rocking against his as you kiss the side of his neck.
“You’re distracting me,” says fucking Ford with his hands on your hips, guiding your movements as his already hard cock strains against his pants.
“Good,” you kiss his cheek, grinding down harder, feeling him twitching beneath you.
But every time you try to push it further, every time you reach for him, ask for more, he stops you.
“Your leg,” but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.
“But i’m fine—”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “i’m not risking it, not yet.”
***
The November crisp air bites at your skin. The faint smoky warmth of the fire crackling in the yard. Well. . . It was Stanley's idea to do this, he said something about rekindling childhood memories, family bonding and roasting marshmallows like it was summer camp, but he's not here. Something about a "quick run to the diner for pie" turned into him being away for whole evening, leaving you and Ford alone under a shining starry sky.
“You know, for a guy with six fingers, you’re surprisingly bad at this,” you tease, leaning back on your hands as you watch Stanford squint at the marshmallow impaled on his skewer. It's already starting to charred, the edges curling into blackened flakes as the fire devours it. “do they not teach you how to roast marshmallows in the multiverse, professor?”
Ford chuckles softly at your words. “Oh, excuse me, but i’ll have you know i’ve mastered much more complex techniques than this primitive. . .” the marshmallow slides clean off the stick and lands with a soft plop into the embers. Ford stares at it, annoyed. “cooking method.”
You can’t help how cute he looks so you laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you brush your shoulder against his, smiling. “here, let me show you.” Ford nods, handing you the stick. “first rule,” you skewer a new marshmallow. “don’t hold it so close to the flame. you want it golden, not a cremation. You’ve gotta keep it turning. Patiently, like this.” you rotate the stick slowly and Ford actually watches, his gaze is not on the fire, but on you.
“i see,” he says thoughtfully. “golden, not charred.”
“Exactly,” you let marshmallow toast evenly. “you just have to—” you glance up to check on him and Ford’s still watching you. It steals the breath from your lungs and you gulp awkwardly. “. . . focus,” you finish a little quieter. “why you’re looking at me like that?” you smile.
Ford laughs. “maybe in some universe, you do dress appropriately for the weather?”
You blink at him, thrown off for a second, before realising. Oh. . . oh, right. Your teeth chatter slightly, fingers cold and you’re shaking slightly, it’s so obvious. “i guess no?”
Ford doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, he’s already shrugging out of his coat and draping it over your shoulders before you can protest, but it’s not like you wanted to anyways. His trench coat is heavy and smells just like him and your smile couldn't get any wider.
“Thanks, again. . . heh,” you try to sound nonchalant, but the coat is still warm from him and you clutch it around you tighter.
“So, you were saying?” Stanford prompts, tilting his head toward the marshmallow in your hand.
You clear your throat. “Right, uh, where was i? oh, yeah. so, you’ll know it’s ready when it’s this perfect golden brown all over, not a single—”
“Give me a kiss,” Ford says suddenly, interrupting you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You’re not sure who leans in first. You, probably, but he meets you halfway. Ford’s lips are warm, so soft against yours. Your heart stutters in your chest as blood rushes in your ears, one of his hands comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing feather-light against your cheek. Your hands find his chest, fingertips pressing into his sweater as you you sigh into him.
The kiss deepens, not hurried, but like you’ve both waited far too long for this moment. Ford leans into your touch like he’s been craving it just as much as you.
When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours and none of you speak, both quiet and only fire is crackling softly beside you.
“I think i might be terrible at marshmallows.” Ford smiles shyly.
You blink at him, you lips still tingling from the kiss, your head feeling too light to even process his words at first. Oh god the whole moment so tender, so beautiful, so intimate it almost makes you want to cry.
“Ford,” and he hums softly in response.
“Hmm?”
“Give me another.”
Ford doesn’t need to be told twice.
This time, it’s you who closes the distance, but his lips crash into yours like he’s been waiting, holding himself back and now he simply can’t. His hand slides to the back of your neck as the kiss deepens, hotter, hungrier. You sigh into his mouth, your knees going weak beneath you, but Ford steadies you, holds you.
His coat slips off one of your shoulders as your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer until there’s no space left, and even then, it doesn’t feel close enough.
“Ford—” you manage to groan against his lips and he pulls back just slightly.
“What is it?” the way he’s looking at you, fuck, like he’s already undressing you in his mind, makes you feel dizzy.
You pause, staring at him, at the mess of his hair, the faint flush dusting his cheeks, the way his lips are already red from kissing you. This man. This ridiculous, brilliant, beautiful man.
“My leg,” you feel nervous out of sudden, afraid he might reject you again. “it’s— it’s healed now, you know. . . i can— i can handle more.”
Ford freezes, thinking. And then. . . Oh.
He kisses you again, but this time it’s different, this time, there’s no holding back, no careful hesitation.
"Inside," your voice is trembling with anticipation. "please, Ford, let’s go inside."
And god help you both, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to say no.
***
Ford’s whole body is pressing you into the mattress as though he’s trying to meld you both into one. His hands grip the sheets beside your head and he’s so warm against you. He kisses you messily and desperately, too eager.
“Ford, please,” you whimper, lifting your hips and grinding up against his hard, pulsing length.
“Yes, Ive got you, I’ve got you,” his own voice trembling as one hand dives down, gripping your hip, trying to keep you still but failing miserably because he can’t stop himself from rutting into you. “im right here, my love, i’m gonna take care of you.” the bed creaks beneath the weight of both of you, but neither of you can hear it over the needy moans you two share.
You can’t stop the high pitched whine that escapes you as his knee slots between your thighs, pressing against you just right and you swear you’re losing your fucking mind. “Nngh, Ford, Ford, please,” your voice so fucking needy it feels embarrassing.
Ford stops, just for a second, pulling back to take a good look at you. His eyes are blown wide, pupils black as they devour every little expression you make. “tell me, tell me what you need.”
You nearly cry. “touch me,” you plead.
“Oh sweetheart, my good girl,” his trembling fingers brush the hem of your clothes, slipping underneath to glide against your skin, being so careful like you’re too delicate, too fragile for him, he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he’s not gentle. “i’m not going anywhere,” he promises, dragging his lips down your jaw, going lower to the sensitive skin of your neck. “i love you so much.” and before you can even think to respond, his mouth is on yours again, swallowing your moans because he’s desperate to consume every single piece of you.
Oh, sweet fucking hell, you think when Ford lowers himself between your thighs looking like a man on his knees at an altar and you’re the goddess he’s about to worship. He spreads your legs wide, his six-fingered hands curling into the plush of your thighs and he just stares for a moment like he’s seeing heaven itself. His lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet them, the hunger in his gaze as if he can’t believe this is real.
"My love," he groans. "so pretty, you’re so pretty. . . this is all mine, isn’t it? tell me, sweetheart, say it, say it’s all for me."
“It’s yours, Ford,” you melt under his gaze, feeling so exposed and he hums in approval.
“Good girl,” and then he dips his head down, brushing his lips against your inner thigh, kissing your healed wound.
You grow impatient with every second, and fucking finally, he’s right here, his face hovering over your throbbing pussy which needs his attention so bad, and he takes a deep breath.
Ford presses a kiss just above where you’re all wet and your hips jolt, seeking more.
“F-Ford! fuuck. . . fuck fuck fuck!”
“Shh, just like that, i’ll take care of you,” he presses one hand firmly on your pelvis to keep you still. “just relax, darling, let me have you.”
You’re too far gone to even respond coherently, only letting out pathetic whimper as he drags his lips lower and lower until his warm mouth hovers right over your soaked folds.
His tongue presses flat against your pussy, slowly and oh fuck, you taste so damn sweet, Ford growls and that vibrates straight through you. “oh, god," he pants, pulling back before diving in again, "you taste. . . you taste so good, so sweet, like you were made for me." Ford’s voice muffled against you as his tongue flattens, dragging through your slick, tasting you.
His hands grip your thighs tighter to hold your squirming body in place as he tilts his head to get a better angle. His lips seal around your puffy clit, sucking gently at first, then harder when your hips jerk up into his face. He holds you open because he’s not letting you go anywhere, his tongue flicks over that sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re sobbing his name.
“Ford. . . oh god! Ford, too much—!”
You’re trembling and panting as his tongue circles your little clit in soft lazy strokes that have your back arching off the mattress. You fist your fingers into the sheets as his lips seal around your sensitive clit, sucking gently before releasing you with a soft, wet pop.
“Taste so good,” Ford says more than all to himself. He licks into you now, dragging his wet tongue through your soft folds, lapping up everything you’re giving him like a man possessed. “g-give me more, darling, please. . . i need more of you.”
“Ford, Ford! Ford, i—” you buck your hips against his face as the wet sounds of his mouth on you fill the room.
“Mmhm, that’s it, sweetheart,” his voice muffled against your cunt as his lips brushes your clit, letting his fingers slide lower to tease your dripping entrance. “just let me make you feel good.”
Ford pulls back just enough to gasp for air, his lips and chin shiny with your slick and you swear he looks drunk, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. “you taste so good,” he groans, diving back in immediately, never having enough, moving his mouth against you like he’s kissing you there, sloppily, noisily and so damn messy.
You’re not damn ready for what comes next. When his fingers finally slip inside, you nearly scream, two of them, then three with his extra middle one sliding into your soaked pussy, while another circles your clit, working in perfect tandem with his tongue. "so tight, so wet for me," his voice muffled as he sucks your clit into his mouth again. "give it to me, sweetheart. . . let me have it, be a good girl for me, yeah?"
His pace quickens as your walls flutter around his fingers. But he doesn’t stop, not even when you’re writhing and tears streaming down your cheeks from the pleasure. He licks, sucks and slurps at you, addicted to the way you taste, the way you feel. “Ford, I’m gonna cum—”
You cry out and jerk your hips against his face as you do. He growls, gripping you tighter, holding you still as his mouth moves faster, hungrier. Your walls spasming around his long fingers, your clit pulsing between his lips.
But Ford’s mouth doesn’t lift and doesn’t slow, even when your thighs tremble and your fingers push weakly at his hair to tug him away.
“No, Ford, please,” you gasp as he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it in slow circles. “i-i can’t— too much. . . im sensitive, Ford—”
But he doesn’t give a fuck, his grip tightens on your thighs to keep them spread wide. “Just one more, sweetheart,” his words slurred, drunk off the taste of you. “please-please, i need. . . one more, just one more for me.”
You can’t hold back the loud cry that escapes you as his tongue dives back in, licking and lapping. Your legs jerk, trying to close, but his strong hands keep them locked open. “don’t fight me, let me, let me have you.”
“Ford, oh god—” your voice is broken as his tongue works all over your pussy, it’s overwhelming and unbearable, your entire body feels like a live wire as he devours you, never giving you a moment to recover.
“that’s it, love, cum for me, please. . . be a good girl and cum on my face.”
And you do again, god, you do, because there’s no stopping it. Your orgasm crashes over you again, ripping a scream from your throat as your back arches off the bed. Your vision whites out, your mind blank as your release floods through you.
Ford moans into you as you come, his mouth latched onto your clit, his tongue lapping up every drop. When you start caressing his hair as if thanking him, he presses wet sloppy kisses to your trembling thighs.
You’re still shaking and gasping for air, when he finally lifts his head, his chin glistening as he stares down at you and smiles. But you still can’t have enough, not satisfied, not when he haven’t been inside you and fucked you properly, you’ve been craving this for months and you totally go for it now. “Please, need you, Ford, please, i need you inside me.”
He doesn’t even make any excuses this time when he kneels between your legs, his cock flushed and throbbing, the head slick with pearls of precum. “you sure?” is all he asks as his hands come up to cradle your hips.
“Yes, god, yes,” you plead, spreading your legs wider, your eyes glazed with need. “please, i can’t wait anymore! i need you.”
He knows you do because he’s in absolutely same state as you, needy and desperate to fuck you, that’s why he’s pressing into you, the thick head of his cock stretching you open and you both moan loudly when he slides deeper, his girth filling you.
Ford is trembling above you, sweat slicking his brow as he inches himself inside carefully, terrified he might hurt you or worse, lose control. But you’re ready, so ready, your nails digging into his shoulders, “more, please, i can take it.”
Ford’s hips stutter as he bottoms out, his cock buried to the hilt. “Y-you’re so tight, sweetheart, so damn tight. i don’t— don’t know if i can move. . . feels too good. . . god, you’re perfect.”
You’re no better because your walls clench around him and your voice so high and breathless as you cry, “so full, Ford— oh my god, you’re so big.”
“I know, love, i know,” he soothes, finding your parted lips with his as he starts to move slowly, making shallow thrusts that have you both gasping. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well, feels like heaven, baby.”
You feel every inch of him, every twitching vein as he sinks deeper, the stretch delicious, making your head spin. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him on. Your wet pussy squeezes his dick so good he nearly loses it right there.
And it’s too much, too good to be true, both of you letting out incoherent sounds and slurred praises as he thrusts into you, moving faster, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. You try to move together with him, creating a perfect sync.
“You feel so good, sweetheart, too good. i don’t— I don’t think i’m gonna last.”
“It’s okay,” you reply, cupping his cheek when you look right into his dazed eyes. “fuck me harder, Ford, please. . . need you so bad.”
He hears you, snapping his hips against yours, his pace quickening as he loses himself in you. Your moans about how good it feels fill the air while your hands are clawing at his back, nails biting into his skin as you try to pull him closer where it seems impossible. His scars feel rough under your touch as your fingers trace them blindly, making Ford moan at the sensation. His hips jerk forward, driving deeper and you cry out.
“So tight,” he groans into your ear. “you’re squeezing me, love, c-can’t think. . . you feel— oh, sweetheart, pussy so good.”
Your nails dig deeper, leaving crescents in his skin as he fucks into you with deep thrusts that have you gasping. “more, please, more,” you beg and he obeys without question, burying himself deeper, harder into your cunt.
“That’s it, love,” his hand slips between your hot bodies to find your aching clit, circling his fingers over the swollen nub with featherlight touches. “look at you. . . so beautiful, so good for me, you’re perfect, love. . . my perfect girl.”
Your vision blurs when he thrusts into you, at the same time his thumb presses down on your clit and a sharp cry spilling from your lips as the pleasure builds.
“Ford!” you whimper while your hands clutch at him. “oh god, i—”
“I know, love, i know, i feel it, let go for me, sweetheart, cum for me.
His beautiful voice and words are enough to pull you through another powerful orgasm, your body tense as you finish, breathless, boneless, drunk on his cock.
Ford’s dick throbs as your release slicks his length, dripping down to pool at the base of him. “you’re so wet, sweetheart, good girl.”
You cant think, not really, too fucked out and tired, your body trembles and you can barely take a breath, but Ford doesn’t stop, determined to fuck your brains out. His thumb circles your clit again and your hips jerk away, the overstimulation making you whimper. “n-no, wait— I’m sensitive—”
“Just one more, love,” he pleads. “please, baby, just one more for me. you can do it, I know you can.”
You try to close your legs and your body twitches with every touch, too much to handle, but Ford holds you open firmly, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach. “you’re so good to me, so good, can’t get enough of you.”
He continues thrusting into you, filling your pussy to the brim and pulling out, slamming back again, you feel good, you do, especially with right amount of pressure being applied to your clit, but pleasure borders with sensitivity and little pain from overstimulation as he drags against that tender spot inside you. “Fuck, please! i can’t—”
“You can. You’re my good girl, you can give me one more, please, baby, cum on my cock again.” his words light a fire in your veins because the coil of pleasure tightening and building again despite the ache, despite all these overwhelming sensations. He fucks you so deliciously, grinding his hips into you in deep, slow rolls that make your toes curl and eyes roll, your nails scraping across his shoulders and back, all over his old scars. Ford groans at the sting.
“That’s it, love, just like that, let me have all of you.” he wets his fingers with saliva before bringing them on your sensitive nub again. “you like that? y-you like it when i touch you here, sweetheart? tell me, tell me how good it feels.”
“So gooood. . . feels so good, ford, don’t stop, please don’t stop, fuck me, fuck me!” and then you break again, another orgasm crashing over you, but this time you literally scream from how good it feels, your body convulses, your nails dig into his back with such force that blood comes out. Ford watches you come undone as he fucks you through it, his cock coated in your juices once again.
Ford cant hold himself anymore because you notice how his thrusts grow more deeper, harder, more erratic. His sweaty forehead is pressed against yours, his groans changing into desperate pants and you feel how close he is because his cock twitches inside you, his body trembles as he fights to hold on. “don’t w-worry, don’t worry, I’ll pull out— I’ll—”
“No!” the word bursts out of you in a panic and immediately, you lock your legs around his waist to prevent that. “no, no, Ford, please, don’t, you can’t, don’t leave me, please—” your words tumble out in a frantic, incoherent mess, more sob than speech honestly as you cling to him like your life depends on it. “please,” you babble, your nails scraping against his skin, pulling him impossibly closer. “need it, need you, don’t pull out, please, please, please—”
His surprised eyes fly open as he processes your words. “but—”
All you do is nod frantically in response, hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, your legs squeezing around his waist to keep him in place. “yes, inside, cum inside me, I need it, I need you to cum inside me”
Ford groans as he gives in, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes you cry out. He holds your thighs, spreading you wider for himself as he buries himself to the hilt, as deep as he can go. He growls as his head falls back, he squeezes his eyes shut and just loses himself. “gonna— g-gonna cum inside you. . .”
It happens, finally, his hips slam into you one last time and he finishes, his cock pulses as his cum paints your walls white. He hides his face into your neck while loud sound tears from his throat, halfway between a groan and whine. He rolls his hips, continuing to sloppily and lazily thrust into your pussy, grinding against you, unable to stop because he needs to give you every last drop of himself. “you’re— my love, so good, I feel so good. . .”
You lay under him and take it all, milking him for everything he has. Your fingers tracing his beautiful scars, ones you gave him now and his own ones, smearing a little blood over his skin, your legs tightening around him as you whimper, feeling every pulse of him, every twitch of his cock inside as he fills you. Oh god, such intimacy leaves you dizzy, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst.
“Thank you, Ford,” your body arches into him, asking, no, seeking more, always more. “feels so good. . .”
Ford finally comes back to his senses upon hearing your voice, he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he shudders through the last waves of his orgasm. He presses kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders. “I love you, i never want to let you go.”
He pulls out with a shaky groan as he tries to catch his breath, his cock still glistening and twitching. But the loss of him leaves you feeling achingly empty, your walls clenching around nothing as a soft whimper escapes your lips.
Ford is frozen above you, though, his chest heaving, his wide eyes fixed between your legs. The sight of his warm thick seed slowly trickling out of you renders him completely silent.
You let out a deep sigh, dazed, a dumb little smile curling at your lips as you look up at him, completely blissed out and so beautifully ruined. You trail your fingers down slowly, maybe to tease him once more, until finally dipping between your thighs to catch the mess he’s made.
You circle your clit gently, then lowering your fingers to your hole, collecting his cum, covering your fingers with this sticky mess and Ford tracks every movement. And then, oh, you push it back inside, curling your fingers deep, your head falling back with a quiet moan as you savour every drop.
Ford fucking whimpers at the sight as he watches you pump his sperm back into yourself.
“Don’t. . . don’t want to lose it,” you smile, looking at your scientist through half-lidded eyes, gaze unfocused. “don’t want it to go to waste, want to feel you.”
Before you can say another word, he’s on you again. His hands spread your thighs wides when he positions himself at your entrance. Without word, he pushes back in, groaning as he stretches you open again. “you’re beautiful,” he gives you a kiss, while slowly fucking his cum back into you again, making sure to not miss a drop, letting it stay where it belongs.
You hold him close, caressing his face and looking into his beautiful eyes. “I love you so much,” but you get interrupted by a little sudden thrust he makes. “oh, ah, Ford!”
“Shh, i’ve got you, love,” Ford gives you a warm loving smile, rocking his hips gently. “you were so good for me, sweetheart.” he looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered, like he’d give you the whole world if you asked and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your crazy heart thunders in your ears as you hug and cuddle him, lost in the way he fills you so completely, so perfectly, like you were made for this.
The two of you don’t even bother moving because there’s simply no energy left to clean up. Ford stays buried inside you with his heavy body on top of yours like a blanket. For the first time in life, you feel that safe, good and loved, warm and. . . full in every sense of the word.
Sometime later. . . hours? you’re not sure, but the soft gray light of dawn creeping through the curtains. You feel Ford’s broad chest pressed against your back and suddenly his hand skims up your thigh.
“Ford,” you murmur, half-asleep as his lips brush the curve of your shoulder. His hand finds your leg, gently lifting it as he settles himself against you. “yes, please. . .” you smile, closing your eyes as you feel his cock rubbing against your folds.
He kisses the side of your neck. “just need you again, can’t help it. . . need to feel your pussy around me.”
You moan softly as he slides into you from behind. The angle is perfect as he fills you, sending shivers through your sleepy body. His hand lays on your thigh, holding you steady as he starts rocking into you, slowly, still sleepy, but fucking deep, each thrust making you sigh and whimper.
“I’ll never get enough of you,” his free hand skims over your waist, cupping your breast and playing with your nipple.
Meanwhile your hand reaches back to clutch at his hip and your head falls back onto his shoulder, Ford drives deeper into your pussy. “Ford. . . oh, Ford, yesss. . . just like that.” you mewl sleepily when you feel his fingers on your clit.
You dont know what time is it, probably very very early morning, but you let him take you. There’s no rush, no urgency, just sleepy, languid thrusts and quiet soft moans you two share in the early morning while being half awake.
The sun is higher now, casting autumn golden streaks across the room, when you wake again. You’re alone in the bed and your body deliciously sore, marked with the evidence of last night. . . and this morning. Faint marks of kisses and hickeys bloom along your skin, the ache in your thighs reminds you of how thoroughly he’d claimed you.
The blanket is all over you, keeping you warm despite your nudity. You stretch out, yawning and blink away the last traces of sleep, but you notice him at the edge of the bed. Ford sits with his scarred back to you, hair messy, but his posture is perfectly straight as he leans over his. . . ah, yeah, now you see it, journal.
He’s scribbling something down there, intense focused, face serious and you just lay there, enjoying comfortable silence and watching him, taking in the way he looks so handsome even in his rumpled state.
“Morning, genius,” you murmur finally.
Ford glances over his shoulder. “Oh, good morning, love,” he says warmly, setting the journal aside and moving to your side of the bed. He leans down to kiss you, brushing his hand over your hair. “how are you feeling?”
“Sore,” you admit with a smile as you stretch beneath the blanket.
Ford studies you. “i’d say that’s to be expected. Rest a bit longer, okay? I’ll make us something to eat soon.”
“You better hurry because i’m so starved,” you yawn, covering your mouth with your hand.
“Starved, are you? well, you’re taking a shower first,” he says seriously, though his tone remains gentle. “you’re not wandering around covered in. . .” he stops himself as his cheeks flush a little, trying to find right words to use.
“Hm? Covered in what, ford?” you tease, propping yourself up on one elbow.
“You know what, honey, don’t make me say that.”
Your eyes flick to his journal. “what are you even writing in there, anyway? can’t believe you’re making notes after the night we had. Is it, like, some x-rated research?”
Because of your question, Ford straightens up, his face expression changes, the earlier embarrassment melting away as excitement takes its place. He looks like he’s just cracked the secret of the universe. “actually,” he begins, adjusting his glasses, “i think i’ve finally solved the equation for that anomaly we’ve been tracking! The one that disappeared because of the rainstorm, remember? I had a theory about the dimensional distortion rate and this morning, it all just clicked!” Ford launches into an explanation now.
You, however, just blink at him and knowing grin spreads across your face. “so, what you’re saying is. . . my pussy literally makes you smarter?”
Ford stops mid-sentence as he stares at you, flustered. “i— I wouldn’t put it like that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, looking everywhere except at you. “but. . . perhaps there’s a correlation. . .”
You just laugh, dropping back onto the pillows as you watch his awkward attempts to compose himself. “yeah, yeah, Ford, I got you.”
He grumbles something about inappropriate comments, but the corners of his mouth betray him, curving into a shy smile.
“So, my pussy is the key to unlocking the mysteries of the universe? Who knew i was a genius all along.”
Ford groans, hiding his face in his hands, “Oh my god,” he says your name. “you’re impossible.”
#gravity falls#x reader#gravity falls smut#gravity falls x reader#gravity falls x you#ford pines x reader#ford pines smut#stanford pines#ford pines x you#stanford pines x you#stanford pines x reader#gravity falls fanfiction#grunkle ford
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🔔 It's December! That means it's One Direction Advent fic season! Advent fics are generally posted daily from December 1 to December 24/25. Don't forget you can subscribe to the author to get a daily email reminder to read their Advent fic! 🔔
🕯️ All The Lights by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28 {Fic post}
“As you know, every year Syco Industries throws the Holiday bash of the year. Their annual Christmas Eve charity ball, held in the building’s lobby.”
Louis arches a brow. “Robbing a Christmas charity? That’s your brilliant idea? That’s a little low don’t you think?”
Niall snorts. “The only charity that money is going to is in Simon Cowell’s pocket and we both know it.”
He’s not exactly wrong.
“Alright sure, but I’m pretty sure Santa still frowns upon stealing.”
Niall just grins.
“Being on the nice-list is vastly overrated anyway.”
(Or a holiday heist featuring a rag-tag team of lovable criminals, a pair of exes who hate each other except for when they don’t, and a lot of festive chaos along the way).
🎁 You Should Be Here With Me by @lululawrence {Fic post}
The festive period is a traditionally hectic one in the world of Premier League football, and this year is no different. A lot is riding on how Manchester United is able to come through the fixtures in the coming weeks.
Louis and his teammates know all too well the pressure that is on their shoulders. They need to prove, not just to fans of the club but the entire league, that they still have what it takes to be a team worthy of fighting for the top of the table.
Throw in the fact that Louis is all too aware that he's not getting any younger in a profession that demands your peak physical fitness year round and the incredibly fit Harry Styles, who is part of the club's social media team, and this year's festive period might just be the most important one yet.
🎅 Your Reign is Free (to give along to Santa) by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {Fic post}
It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a totally normal Christmas Eve. Harry and Louis have some friends coming by, and some totally normal birthday and Christmas plans. It’s a totally typical totally normal Christmas Eve.
A fic that takes place over 24 (+1) hours where surely everything will go totally to plan.
🦌 You'll Never More Roam by @tommokat {Fic post}
Harry likes his job as a traveling nurse. It pays well, it allows him to travel across the country, and he doesn't have to worry about an annoying coworker past an average of 13 weeks. The pros of never staying put have always beat the cons. Until one of those cons has bright blue eyes, a fluffy companion, and a heart of gold.
Tax exemptions don't hold a candle to Louis Tomlinson. And as Harry's about to find out, neither does his heart.
🌟 Find a light, hold tight by louisismycat / @liminalkittyfics {Fic post}
a fic about finding light and holding tight - hanukkah for everyone!
Told from the gentile perspective of Louis, recently widowed and trying to cultivate his son’s connection to his paternal Jewishness, Find a light is intended for everyone — Jews and gentiles alike — who might find comfort in the light, wisdom, and warmth of Hanukkah.
🔔 Larry Xmas Countdown by 28goldensfics / @28goldens {Fic post}
Harry and Louis will stop at nothing to make each other happy, even if that means robbing Buckingham Palace for a set of priceless bells they use to ring on Christmas morning.
✨ Twinkling Lights, Fated Nights by Darling28 / @darling-28 {Fic post}
Louis is an Omega who doesn't like being told what to do and is happy with his single life in the snowy town of Frostbrook after a terrible previous relationship. But then Harry turns up - an Alpha who is anything but the typical macho. Instead of giving commands, he makes an effort to understand Louis, which annoys him more than anything. But Harry doesn't give up.
And maybe that's exactly why they fit together so well: Two people who don't fit the cliché at all, but who suddenly feel more for each other than they would have expected. In the midst of lights, snow and mulled wine, something begins to grow that neither of them had planned - even if Louis would rather not admit it.
A story about healing, love and finding home in each other.
❄️ Fluffcember 2024 by Candy_Kittens / @candyfloss-kittens
A collection of one-shots for Fluffcember 2024. All of these one-shots will be for One Direction rpf.
🌲 Through the Riots – Will You Guide Me When I'm Lost? by childofthelarents
His hands had a death grip on Harry's arms, making him unable to push back. "Fuck you," Harry growled, looking like he was seconds away from punching Louis straight in the face. The softness of his features had been replaced by pure fury, the green of his eyes burning into Louis' soul. As the seconds passed, Harry seemed to realize the lack of space between them, his eyes growing less piercing and more irritated as he scanned Louis' face.
~ Louis had his heart set on rooming with his best friend Zayn, but fate—or a cruel housing assignment—stuck him with Harry, who seems to hate him instantly (and boy, is that feeling mutual). Determined to find a way out, Louis quickly realizes that their fiery clashes only make things worse, fueling the hostility between them. Yet, as tempers flare and boundaries blur, their battles take an unforeseen turn, shifting into something neither of them expected.
☃️ Fading Shadows by Arezou_Styles
A cosy tale of life in 2024, almost canon, centers on Harrys and Louis marriage, their family life and quite some self-discovery that this year brings for both of them. Loads of info on ADHD included.
🎄 Christmas Play by @itstilliswhatitis
December is Harry's favourite time of year. The neighbourhood he bought a house in three years ago has a yearly Christmas decoration competition, and this year, he's set on winning. At least until his new neighbour, Louis turns out to be a grumpy Christmas Grinch. To make matters worse, his new neighbour happens to be his co-star in the new play Harry just bagged, playing the love interest to his role as first lover. The play is like a really bad fanfic, and everything is a disaster. This might be the worst December ever!
❤️ Hearts All Whole by @justanothershadeofblue {Fic post}
Father Louis Tomlinson hasn’t seen or talked to his high school boyfriend in over a decade, not since they went to different colleges and slowly grew apart. This means it’s a bit of a surprise when he looks out from the pulpit on the first Sunday in Advent and sees Harry Styles’ unmistakeable head poking up from a pew halfway back and on the left. How’s a priest supposed to make it through the madness of the holiday season with his very friendly, very attractive ex distracting him at every turn?
🛷 You are my home, my home for all seasons by starryhaze / @starryhaze28 {Fic post]
“I love you,” Louis says quietly, his voice tender. Harry’s not sure if Louis is talking to him or the camera, but either way, the words settle warmly in his chest.
Louis moves closer, holding the camcorder up, and Harry blushes as the lens focuses on him. “Look at your mummy,” Louis coos, directing his words at their unborn baby. “Isn’t he just the prettiest, carrying you?”
Harry giggles, shaking his head. “Your daddy is ridiculous,” he responds, looking pointedly into the camera, his voice light and teasing.
Or the one where Harry is seven months pregnant and he and Louis navigate the chaos of Christmas as they try to juggle festive traditions, their families, and friends while preparing for the greatest gift of all, the arrival of their baby.
🎁 Wrapped it up and Sent it by downcamethelightning / @downcamethelightnings {Fic post]
Harry was the only real crush he’d ever had. There had been people he’d shared classes with, or seen in the school hallways who he’d thought were cute, but he never had any interest in anyone beyond that point. Louis had always felt like he simply didn’t care enough about anyone to actually dedicate any time or energy to liking them, or going out with them.
But Harry was the exception.
With some (heavy) convincing from his friends, Louis decides to risk it all and tell Harry how he feels about him, and Christmas seems like the perfect time to make a move. Everyone's happy during the holidays anyway. Maybe it'll weaken the possibility that Harry will hate him forever if he doesn't feel the same.
An incredibly fluffy, teenage Christmas advent fic.
🧣2024 Advent Calendar by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way
Harry is on a shitty date. the NJ Devil is his savior.
#Advent#adventfics2024#honestly if i'd known how long this would take me i probably wouldn't have put this together lol#onedirectionfanfiction#Larry fanfiction#also writers if you have one and it's not on here let me know!#or if I couldn't find your fic post let me know where it is!#I know of one more still posting so i'll add that when it does post
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PHD IN LOVING YOU! — gojo satoru x (south asian) female reader [oneshot]
summary: you’ve perfected the art of running your classroom with all the intensity of a courtroom drama, leaving most of your students sweating bullets. enter gojo satoru — chaos incarnate, immune to your terrifying presence and oddly persistent in his antics. when his usual charm fails in the lecture hall, he decides to take up a part-time gig at a restaurant you frequent, just to catch you off guard. falling for someone? totally against his rules. but for you? maybe he’s willing to rewrite the script. after all, what’s love without a little melodrama?
content warnings: fluff & crack. sunshine gojo x grumpy reader. slightly “tsundere” reader. age gap of barely a few years [gojo is in his last year of college, reader has recently finished college]. mentions of alchohol, drunken confessions, frat party. food as a metaphor for love. he fell first, s/he fell harder trope. oblivious idiots in love. mentioned characters: nanami and suguru. many south asian and desi vocabulary/references, non-english words have been italicized - can be read with poc reader if you’d like.
read on ao3!
“you know, around here, they call me the strongest.”
you didn’t even bother looking up from your notes. the voice — a mix of arrogance and charm that seemed to be dripping in its own self-confidence — was impossible to ignore. you clicked your pen shut, deliberately slow, and turned your head just enough to give him the most unimpressed look you could muster.
“wow,” you said, voice flatter than a pancake in a hydraulic press. “should i clap or…?”
he grinned, and lord help you, it was the kind of grin that made people weak in the knees. unfortunately for him, you were built different. built on hard work, resilience, and the occasional well-timed tea break.
“clapping’s optional. fainting’s encouraged,” he quipped, leaning against the desk like he had all the time in the world and none of it was for anything remotely productive. his hair was somehow whiter than freshly washed bedsheets in an ad, and his sunglasses — indoors, mind you — screamed “i’m better than you” energy. he radiated main character syndrome.
you hated it already.
“yeah, no thanks,” you replied, finally closing your notebook and looking him over. he was tall — ridiculously so — and gave the impression of someone who breezed through life. his uniform was slightly undone, tie askew, and his energy screamed chaos. how was this guy even a student? better yet, why was he bothering you?
“what’s your name?” he asked, tilting his head like a curious puppy.
“assistant professor,” you deadpanned. “yours?”
he chuckled, and you immediately hated how smooth it sounded. “gojo satoru,” he said, sticking out a hand. when you didn’t take it, he dramatically clutched his chest. “ouch. is this how you treat everyone? or am i just special?”
“special, alright,” you muttered, gathering your notes. “special cases need special patience.”
he laughed again, entirely too amused for your liking. “oh, i like you. you’ve got bite. most of the other assistants here just nod and take notes.”
“maybe they’re smarter than me,” you said, shoving your notebook into your bag. “because clearly, engaging with you is a waste of time.”
his hand shot to his chest again, like he was physically wounded. “harsh. let me guess — you’re not from around here?”
“nope. just an exchange student,” you said, trying to sidestep him, but he moved to block your path with the kind of speed that made you pause. his grin widened.
“ohhh, so you’re fresh meat. perfect.”
“i’m what now?” you asked, tone incredulous.
“fresh meat. new blood. the newbie. means you need someone to show you around — and lucky for you, i happen to be the best tour guide on this campus.” he said it like it was a fact, like the sky being blue or tea being superior to coffee. “and by best, i mean me. obviously.”
“oh, obviously,” you said dryly, finally losing your patience. “listen, gojo-san —”
“just call me satoru,” he interrupted, and you could swear the man was physically incapable of shutting up.
“fine, satoru.” you narrowed your eyes. “i don’t need a tour guide. i’ve been here two weeks, and i’m doing just fine without whatever… circus act you’re trying to sell me.”
“two weeks?” he repeated, looking genuinely surprised. “and i’m just meeting you now? tragedy. an absolute tragedy. who’s been hogging all your time?”
you pinched the bridge of your nose. “my job, satoru. you know, work? responsibilities? ever heard of those?”
“vaguely,” he said, waving his hand like the concept was beneath him. “but they don’t sound nearly as fun as whatever we could be doing. come ooonnnn, i’ll even buy you lunch. do they have the food you like here? no? okay, we’ll work with what we’ve got.”
you stared at him, wondering what karmic sin you committed to end up here. but as much as you hated to admit it, he was…kind of funny. infuriating, sure, but funny.
not that you’d tell him that.
“why are you so determined to bother me?” you finally asked.
“because,” he said simply, leaning down until he was eye level with you. “you look like the only person here who won’t bore me to death. and i’m the strongest, remember? you should be honored.”
your eyes twitched. “the only thing i’m honored by is how incredibly patient i’m being right now. do you ever stop talking?”
“not when i’m around someone interesting,” he shot back, straightening up and casually stuffing his hands in his pockets. “so, assistant professor — what’s your name?”
you debated lying, but something about the way he looked at you — like you were a puzzle he was determined to solve — made you relent. “it’s y/n.”
“y/n,” he repeated, like he was trying it out. then, with another blinding grin, he pointed finger guns at you. finger guns.
“well, y/n, you’re stuck with me now.”
you sighed. “this is gonna be the longest exchange program of my life.”
⟡ ₊ . ༄
gojo wasn’t the type to waste his time on newbies. fresh faces didn’t interest him, and assistant professor types were even lower on his list of people to bother. but you? you were something else. and not in the way where people threw around the word "exotic" like it was a compliment when really it made your blood boil. no, what made you different was your no-nonsense, whip-cracking, grade-A work ethic that had the entire campus buzzing.
rumor had it you’d leave the university with a teaching badge instead of your certificate, and honestly? no one would be surprised. you were that good. the kind of good that made nanami — notoriously stoic nanami — actually praise you. it wasn’t swooning, obviously; nanami would never swoon. but if he was capable of admiration beyond his rigid work-life balance philosophy, you had earned it. the rest of the student body?
terrified.
genuinely, pant-shitting levels of fear. because for the first time in, well, forever, students were completing assignments on time. early, even.
fear, respect, or some chaotic cocktail of the two, no one dared question it. the unspoken rule? just do your work before you end up on the wrong side of assistant professor y/n.
gojo? oh, he saw all of it. the storm you stirred up, the iron grip you had on a campus that thrived on chaos. he knew you wouldn’t let him get away with his usual antics. not the skipping class, not the snarky comments, and definitely not his self-declared celebrity status. you were a buzzsaw of accountability, and gojo loved it. not in the way you think, though — don’t get ahead of yourself.
because gojoism — yes, that’s a thing; yes, he coined it — has a very clear rule: don’t get attached. people, places, things — they’re all just pit stops in the grand marathon of gojo satoru versus the world. getting attached? getting sentimental? that’s for suckers who don’t know how this game works. and catching feelings for an assistant professor? please. that would be career suicide.
but here’s the thing about gojo: he thrives in contradiction. so while he’d never admit it, he couldn’t get enough of the way you refused to be impressed by him. not his titles, not his abilities, not even his very charming face (his words, obviously). the way you rolled your eyes at his jokes instead of laughing? addicting. the way you’d cut him off mid-sentence with a pointed look? chef’s kiss.
he’d push your buttons — because of course he would — and you’d push back harder. sometimes literally, if he got too close.
“gojo,” you’d say, voice clipped as you slammed a stack of papers onto the desk he was currently lounging on, “do you even know what deadlines are?”
“do you even know how cute you look when you’re mad?” he’d shoot back with a smirk, only for you to grab the stack of papers and smack him on the head with it.
“i’m docking points for that,” you’d reply.
“good thing i’m not in that class,” he’d say, rubbing the back of his head but grinning all the same.
you weren’t like anyone else here. and while gojo would never admit it — never — you made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, attachment wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
not that he’d act on it. he had a reputation to maintain, after all.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
your hometown wasn’t kind to its students, and for women? the hurdles were sky-high. if you made it past the expectations of marriage by twenty-five, you were already considered lucky. but leaving the country? going all the way to japan to work as an assistant professor? it was practically unheard of. you fought tooth and nail for this opportunity, and everyone in your life — your parents, your friends, and especially your sleep-deprived self — knew it.
your parents bore the brunt of it back home, of course. aunties with too much time on their hands whispered about how you’d “slipped away from their hands” and speculated with relish about what a young woman like you must be doing all alone in another country. you heard about the comments in their phone calls, the carefully worded complaints disguised as updates. but you? you silently flipped every single one of those people off and worked harder.
and when you got to japan? well, you expected the students here to match the academic rigor you were used to. surely, you thought, at a prestigious institution like this one, students would treat education with the respect it deserved. but what you found instead was chaos. procrastination, laziness, and a classroom full of students who had clearly never experienced the kind of academic discipline you grew up with.
so you showed them. you brought the fire and brimstone that only years of being forged in the relentless grind of your own education could provide. your methods were strict, your expectations sky-high. deadlines weren’t suggestions; they were law. a harsh approach? maybe. but you weren’t here to make friends — you were here to do your job. and, to your satisfaction, it worked.
assignments started coming in on time. some students even began submitting them early. the whispers in the hallways stopped being about how scary you were and turned into grudging admiration. you weren’t just another assistant professor anymore; you were the assistant professor. the one who could whip an entire class into shape.
but there was one exception to your reign of order. one glaring, white-haired exception.
gojo satoru.
no amount of stern talking, rule-enforcing, or pointed glares seemed to get through to him. while the rest of his peers buckled down and locked in, gojo remained steadfastly, infuriatingly gojo. he treated your class like a casual hangout session, his assignments as optional suggestions, and your authority as a particularly amusing joke.
you tried everything. you talked to him one-on-one (he just grinned and offered you candy). you imposed stricter penalties (he seemed genuinely delighted to rack up a record number of deductions). finally, in frustration, you tried reverse psychology: ignoring him altogether.
if you thought that would deter him, though, you clearly underestimated how much gojo thrived on attention — especially yours.
at first, he made a game of it. raising his hand obnoxiously in class, only to say something irrelevant when called on. loudly announcing how much he missed being scolded by you. once, he even showed up early, leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin as if daring you to acknowledge his punctuality.
“oh, wow, professor y/n,” he said with mock sincerity, “do i finally have your attention, or should i try harder?”
you didn’t even glance up from your notes. “if this is you trying, then maybe you should quit while you’re ahead, gojo-san.”
he pouted. actually pouted. “cold as ever. don’t you think this is a little mean? ignoring one of your best students?”
you finally looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “best at what? wasting time?”
the class laughed. gojo didn’t. instead, he grinned, a slow, deliberate grin that made you feel like you’d walked right into a trap.
“oh, you’re good,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering over to his seat. “but i’m better.”
and that was the thing about gojo: he wasn’t just a student. he was a problem. an unshakable, incorrigible problem. and as much as you hated to admit it, ignoring him was harder than it should’ve been. not because you cared what he thought, obviously. but because he was just so damn annoying.
and, if you were being honest with yourself, a tiny part of you begrudgingly respected his ability to get under your skin. not that you’d ever let him know that.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
gojo knew what you were doing the second you started doing it. reverse psychology? seriously? please, he’d been playing that game for years, mostly with girls trying to “tame” him, and he always came out on top. so when you turned that tactic on him in the most mundane, academic context possible, he thought he’d laugh it off.
except, he wasn’t laughing.
it stung. not in the obvious way, like a slap or a scolding — those he could handle with ease. no, this was a slow, persistent sting that gnawed at him. he told himself it was just the principle of the thing. after all, he was gojo satoru. he didn’t get ignored. not by students, not by professors, and definitely not by some assistant professor whose job was to notice him.
so, naturally, he did what he did best: he tried to annoy you back into paying attention to him.
he showed up late with the loudest excuse he could think of, dumped his belongings on the desk noisily, and waved like he hadn’t just interrupted the lecture. “don’t mind me!” he’d said with a grin, as if the entire class wasn’t already staring.
you didn’t flinch. didn’t even pause. just kept writing on the board like he didn’t exist.
then he started asking the most absurd questions in class, his hand shooting up every five minutes. “uh, do you think math could ever, like, save the world? or is it just numbers pretending to be important?”
without missing a beat, you replied, “math can’t save the world, but it might save your grade. if you pay attention, gojo-san.”
still, you didn’t really look at him.
and that’s what got him. no matter what he did — no matter how big his antics got — he felt like you were slipping further away. it was maddening. why was he so perturbed by your lack of attention? it wasn’t like he was starved for it. hell, there were at least three girls giggling at him from the back row, clearly waiting for him to flash a grin their way.
but he didn’t. he couldn’t.
because all he wanted, all he needed, was for you to look at him. just once.
and when you finally did — fleeting, barely a second — he swore it knocked the air clean out of his lungs. it wasn’t a soft, affectionate gaze. it was clinical, assessing, like you were deciding if he was worth wasting your energy on. and yet, it made his heart race like he’d just run a marathon.
he coughed, choking on his own spit like an idiot, and the giggling girls behind him burst into laughter. he barely noticed. his entire brain was short-circuiting because of one tiny glance from you.
oh no, he thought, panic creeping into the edges of his mind.
because if this meant what he thought it meant — if the flutter in his chest and the heat rising to his cheeks were any indication — then he was cooked.
and not in the cool, suave, gojo-satoru-untouchable way. no, he was the other kind of cooked. the pathetic kind. the “i might have it bad for you” kind.
and that? that was unacceptable. because the rules of gojo-ism were clear: no attachments. no crushes. no letting someone get under his skin.
but as he caught himself sneaking another glance your way, only to find you resolutely ignoring him, he realized something even worse.
it was already too late.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
the exhaustion from the week was creeping up on you, and all you wanted was the comfort of home — specifically, a plate of steaming hot rice served just the way you like it: with spices, gravy, and soul. you had a list of places to try, but tonight, your craving led you to a cozy little restaurant tucked into the corner of the town, its windows fogged from the heat of its bustling kitchen.
the moment you stepped in, it was like being transported back home. the air was thick with the scent of turmeric, cumin, and garlic sizzling in oil. old 90’s hits blared from the bose speakers, their crackly charm only adding to the vibe. the tables were covered in laminated menus adorned with bright pictures of curries and rice dishes, and the faint clinking of plates and laughter of families made the place feel alive.
you inhaled deeply, a small smile tugging at your lips as you muttered, “finally, some real food.”
but just as the nostalgia began to settle, so did the chaos.
“auntie, i swear, if you add me on instagram, i’ll give you an extra drink on the house!”
you froze. that voice was unmistakable.
slowly, you turned your head toward the noise, and there he was — gojo satoru, in all his obnoxiously white-haired glory, standing at a table of middle-aged aunties who were giggling like schoolgirls. he was holding a menu in one hand, the other gesturing wildly as he leaned in with his megawatt grin.
your first instinct was to turn around and walk out, but it was too late. his stupid sixth sense or whatever it was must’ve pinged because his gaze snapped to yours.
for a moment, he froze, his grin faltering slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. then, like the human embodiment of chaos he was, he lit up.
“well, well, well,” he said, straightening up and strolling toward you, the menu still clutched in his hand. “if it isn’t assistant professor y/n. what brings you to my establishment?”
you blinked. “your establishment?”
“yepppp,” he said, popping the “p” with a smirk. “i work here now. part-time, of course. y’know, givin’ back to the community and alla that.”
“giving back?” you repeated, skepticism dripping from your tone as you glanced at the aunties still swooning over him.
“what can i say?” he shrugged dramatically. “the people love me. i’m a man of the masses.”
you narrowed your eyes. “last i heard, you said part-time jobs were, and i quote, ���too lame.’”
“ah, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck, the smirk slipping for just a moment before snapping back into place. “turns out, this place has… sentimental value.”
you raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but before you could press him further, the manager — an older man with a sharp mustache and a no-nonsense attitude — poked his head out from the kitchen.
“boy! less talking, more working!”
“right, right,” gojo called back, waving him off. then, turning to you, he added with an exaggerated bow, “your server for tonight, at your service.”
“oh, god,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“don’t worry,” he said, grinning as he led you to a table near the window. “i’ll make sure your dining experience is unforgettable. five-star service, guaranteed.”
you sat down, glancing around at the restaurant. the energy was warm and lively, the kind of place where families lingered over their meals, and you couldn’t help but relax a little despite gojo’s antics.
but as soon as he returned with the menu, you realized relaxing wasn’t on the agenda tonight.
“so, what’ll it be?” he asked, placing the menu on the table with a flourish.
you reached for it, but he held on, his hand lingering just long enough to make it awkward.
“gojo,” you said flatly.
“right, right,” he said, quickly letting go and stepping back. “just thought i’d help you decide. you know, spice levels, portion sizes, all that jazz.”
“i think i can handle it,” you said, scanning the menu.
he nodded, rocking back on his heels like he had too much energy and no idea what to do with it. “cool, cool, cool. uh, so… how’s the food situation at the dorms? still… uh, bad?”
you looked up, startled by the shift in his tone. was he… making small talk?
“it’s fine,” you said cautiously. “why do you ask?”
“no reason,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck again. “just, you know, wondering. totally normal thing to ask. not weird at all.”
you stared at him, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked… nervous.
“gojo,” you said slowly, “did you…get this job just so you could talk to me outside of class?”
his eyes widened, and for a second, you thought he might actually deny it. but then, to your utter disbelief, he groaned, running a hand through his hair.
“okay, fine,” he admitted, throwing his hands up. “yes, i might’ve suggested to the manager that hiring me would be a strategic move. but can you blame me? you’ve been ignoring me for weeks!”
“oh my god,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.
“but hey, look,” he said, leaning on the table with that infuriating grin, “it worked, didn’t it? you’re here, we’re talking, and you’re not ignoring me anymore.”
you peeked at him through your fingers. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet,” he said, winking, “you’re still here. coincidence? i think not.”
you couldn’t help it. despite yourself, a laugh escaped you. maybe it was the smell of the spices or the familiar music or the sheer ridiculousness of gojo trying to be suave while fumbling a menu, but for the first time in weeks, you felt… lighter.
“fine,” you said, sitting back with a sigh. “just get me some biryani, and maybe — maybe — i’ll stop ignoring you.”
“coming right up!” he said, snapping his fingers and spinning toward the kitchen.
and as he walked away, practically bouncing with energy, you realized something unsettling.
you didn’t hate this. not as much as you thought you would.
for all his loud boasts and infuriating antics, gojo somehow managed to deliver on his promise of five-star service. you weren't sure whether to be impressed or mildly alarmed by how committed he was to the bit. the complimentary lassi arrived first, its frothy top sprinkled with crushed pistachios and saffron strands.
“on the house,” gojo said, placing it in front of you with a flourish, his grin as bright as ever.
you raised an eyebrow. “on the house? or on your paycheck?”
he clutched his chest in mock offense. “you wound me. can’t a guy just be generous without being interrogated?”
you took a cautious sip, the cool, sweet tang of the lassi immediately soothing your tired soul. okay, maybe he wasn’t completely useless. but you weren’t about to let him know that.
“it’s good,” you said grudgingly, setting the glass down.
“good?” he repeated, looking almost scandalized. “it’s amaaazzing. i personally quality-checked the batch this morning. and by quality-check, i mean stole a glass when no one was looking.”
“why am i not surprised?”
he laughed, loud and carefree, before turning back toward the kitchen. “don’t go anywhere. the main course is coming up, and trust me, it’s gonna blow your mind.”
“i’ve had biryani before, gojo,” you called after him.
he paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder with a wink. “yeah, but you’ve never had biryani here.”
you rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips.
when the biryani finally arrived, it was accompanied by a plate of papad so stacked you thought it might topple over at any moment. gojo set the dishes down with exaggerated care, his expression comically serious.
“i present to you: the finest biryani in town,” he announced, stepping back like a magician revealing his latest trick. “and, of course, an appropriate amount of papad.”
“appropriate?” you said, staring at the pile. “are you trying to feed me or an army?”
“details, details,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.
you took a bite of the biryani, the warm, spiced flavors instantly transporting you back home. for a moment, you forgot where you were, lost in the sheer comfort of the food. gojo, who had been watching you like a hawk, grinned triumphantly.
“knew it,” he said, crossing his arms. “you love it.”
you looked up, your expression neutral. “it’s okay.”
“okay?!” he exclaimed, clutching his head in mock despair. “this is a masterpiece! an edible work of art! you should be weeping tears of joy right now.”
“maybe if you’d actually cooked it, i would,” you shot back.
his grin faltered for the briefest second, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. “give me time,” he said softly, almost to himself.
“what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
“nothing!” he said quickly, the grin snapping back into place. “anyway, don’t fill up too much. dessert’s coming.”
“dessert?” you repeated. “i didn’t order dessert.”
“i did,” he said, smirking.
you groaned. “gojo, i —”
“truuuust me,” he interrupted, leaning on the table. “you’ll thank me later.”
and sure enough, minutes later, he returned with not one but four different desserts, ranging from gulab jamun to kulfi.
“are you trying to kill me?” you asked, staring at the spread.
“what? no,” he said, feigning innocence. “just making sure you have options.”
“i grew up eating this stuff, you know,” you said, picking up a spoon.
“yeah, but now you’re eating it here, with me,” he said, his tone oddly earnest.
you looked at him, surprised by the sudden shift. he was still grinning, but there was a softness in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before.
“you’re really going all out, huh?” you said, trying to keep your tone light.
he shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “what can i say? you’re worth it.”
your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he straightened up, the grin back in full force.
“now, hurry up and eat,” he said, waving at the desserts. “i’ve got a reputation to uphold as the best server this place has ever seen.”
you shook your head, laughing despite yourself.
and as you dug into the desserts, gojo lingered nearby, shooing away any other server who dared approach your table.
“she’s got me,” he said to one particularly annoyed coworker. “go help table six.”
you rolled your eyes, but deep down, you couldn’t deny that you appreciated the effort.
because for all his theatrics and ridiculousness, gojo was trying. and maybe — just maybe — that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
the air in the restaurant was thick with the aroma of spices, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. it felt like a piece of home transplanted into a foreign land, and you couldn’t help but soak it all in. across the room, families leaned into each other, sharing plates and stories, while a gaggle of aunties erupted into loud laughter.
you glanced at them and caught gojo in the middle of an animated retelling of what looked suspiciously like a made-up story. he gestured wildly, miming what might have been a tiger fight or possibly a dramatic fall into a ditch.
“and then,” he said, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “just as i thought it was all over for me, i —”
“slipped on a banana peel,” one of the aunties interjected, to the uproarious laughter of her companions.
gojo clutched his chest. “how dare you ruin my heroic tale! i was going to say i wrestled the tiger with my bare hands!”
the aunties waved him off, and one of them, a silver-haired woman with a cheeky grin, called out to you. “dear, you need to keep this one in check. he’s too much.”
you snorted, raising your glass in mock salute. “believe me, auntie, i’m trying.”
gojo turned to you with an exaggerated pout. “i thought you were on my side!”
“i’ll be on your side when you stop embellishing your life stories,” you shot back, smirking.
“ouch,” he said, clutching his chest again, this time as if you’d shot him. “right in the heart.”
shaking your head, you turned your attention back to the rest of the room. a group of kids at a nearby table was sneaking curious glances at you. when you caught their eye and made a funny face, they shrieked with laughter, their giggles cutting through the hum of the restaurant.
one of the little girls tugged on her mother’s sleeve and whispered something, and the next thing you knew, she was waving shyly at you. you waved back, smiling, and the shy wave quickly turned into an enthusiastic flurry of hands.
“look at you,” gojo said, leaning against the edge of your table, watching the interaction. “miss popular already.”
“it’s not that hard,” you said, shrugging. “kids are easy. you just have to know how to talk to them.”
“oh yeah?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “and what about me? am i easy to talk to?”
“no,” you said flatly.
he burst out laughing, tilting his head back dramatically. “you wound me again! how many times is that tonight? three? four?”
you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound surprising you. it wasn’t one of those polite, measured laughs you reserved for acquaintances. it was genuine, a sound that seemed to echo somewhere deep inside you, loosening a knot you hadn’t even realized was there.
gojo must have noticed because his expression softened, just for a moment. “you should laugh more,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.
you looked at him, startled by the sudden change in tone. “what?”
“you,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “you’re always so serious. it’s nice to see you, you know…relax.”
you opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you looked down at your plate, suddenly feeling exposed.
“anyway,” he said, his usual grin slipping back into place. “don’t forget to leave me a glowing review. something like, ‘best server ever, would definitely recommend.’”
you rolled your eyes, the moment broken. “sure, i’ll write that right after ‘most annoying person in the world.’”
“i’ll take it,” he said, laughing as he straightened up.
as you lingered a little longer, watching the bustle of the restaurant and sharing quiet smiles with strangers who felt like kindred spirits, you let out a sigh you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let yourself enjoy this moment. and maybe a little bit of that had to do with gojo.
the restaurant door jingled shut behind you as you adjusted the strap of your jute satchel on your shoulder, the warm scent of spices still lingering on your clothes. the streets were quiet now, a soft breeze carrying the distant hum of city life. you were about to start your walk back to campus when the sound of a dramatic skid on the wooden floor made you pause.
“hey, wait up!” gojo’s voice rang out, followed by the thundering clatter of his sneakers against the floor. you turned just in time to see him stumble slightly as he reached you, grinning like a fool.
“what now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as he bent over, hands on his knees, panting dramatically.
“shift’s over,” he wheezed, straightening up with an exaggerated flourish.
“is it?” you asked skeptically, glancing over his shoulder to see the restaurant manager yelling furiously in a mix of japanese and some choice words that sounded suspiciously similar to the ones your dad and uncles would yell when things went sideways back home.
“absolutely,” gojo said, completely ignoring the manager’s tirade. “and besides, it’s unsafe for you to walk back alone. what kind of guy would i be if i let that happen?”
you rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, twitching into a small smile. “oh, please. like anyone would dare mess with me.”
“you’re scary, sure,” gojo said, falling into step beside you. “but even the scariest people need someone to walk them home. it’s, like, basic chivalry.”
“is it basic chivalry to leave your bike at the restaurant?” you asked pointedly, watching as his confident stride faltered for a split second.
“details, details,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “i’ll get it later. this is more important.”
you snorted, clutching your bag tighter as you walked. “you’re unbelievable.”
“and yet, you’re letting me walk with you,” he shot back, grinning. “what does that say about you?”
“it says i’m too tired to argue,” you replied, though your tone lacked any real bite.
gojo stuffed his hands into his pockets, occasionally stumbling over uneven pavement as he talked — no, rambled — about anything and everything. from the latest anime episode he watched to a bizarre dream where he was somehow the ruler of a pancake kingdom.
“and get this,” he said, nearly tripping over his own feet. “the pancakes? they talked. like, actual conversations. one of them was trying to unionize —”
“how do you even come up with this stuff?” you interrupted, shaking your head in disbelief.
“it’s a gift,” he said, flashing you a grin. “i’m a man of many talents.”
“like tripping over your own feet?” you teased as he stumbled yet again.
“it’s called multitasking,” he said, puffing out his chest. “walking and being charming at the same time is no easy feat.”
“you’re definitely failing at one of those,” you muttered, though the warmth in your voice betrayed your amusement.
as you reached the dormitory gates, you stopped, turning to face him. “well, thanks for walking me back. now you can go fetch your bike and actually get home.”
“right, right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. but he didn’t move, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long.
you tilted your head. “what?”
“nothing!” he said quickly, holding his hands up. “just…y’know. goodnight.”
you rolled your eyes and turned to walk away, only to pause as the realization hit you. “wait a second.”
gojo blinked, confused. “what?”
“you don’t even stay on campus, do you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. “your bike’s still at the restaurant, and you just walked me all the way here. now you have to walk back.”
his grin faltered, replaced by a sheepish expression. “uh…surprise?”
you stared at him, torn between annoyance and something softer that you didn’t want to acknowledge. before you could stop yourself, your hand shot out, delivering a solid whack to his chest.
“idiot,” you muttered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you turned away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
gojo, however, was too busy clutching his chest dramatically, a mix of mock pain and genuine delight lighting up his face. “owwww! was that necessary?”
“completely,” you called over your shoulder, refusing to look back.
“ya know,” he said, his voice carrying through the quiet night, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you’re warming up to me!”
“don’t push your luck,” you shot back, your pace quickening.
as you disappeared into the dorm, gojo stood there, a stupidly wide grin plastered on his face. he pressed a hand to his chest where you’d hit him, feeling the faint ache beneath his palm.
“totally worth it,” he muttered to himself, practically skipping as he turned to start his long walk back.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
gojo satoru had many things in his arsenal — charm, wit, absurd confidence — but subtlety was not one of them. so when he started showing up to campus hours earlier than necessary, or when steaming boxes of samosas began appearing on your desk, the culprit was obvious.
the first time it happened, you’d barely set your bag down before spotting the box, the smell of spiced potatoes and crispy dough wafting up to greet you. your eyes flicked to the door, just in time to catch a streak of white hair and the sound of hurried footsteps retreating down the hall.
inside the box was a sticky note. the handwriting was atrocious, barely legible, and at the bottom was a crude drawing of a tiger that looked more like a cat with a mohawk.
“thought you’d like these. you’re grrr-eat! – g.s. :3”
you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out of your head, but your lips betrayed you, curving into a reluctant smile.
by the end of the week, you had a growing collection of these notes in your desk drawer. one had a lopsided peacock that looked like it had been attacked with a blue highlighter. another had a flower that could generously be called a lotus if you squinted and tilted your head.
the students noticed the change in you almost immediately. your usual stern demeanor softened ever so slightly, and while you were still a stickler for deadlines, you now nodded understandingly at genuine excuses.
“did you hear? professor assistant’s in a mood lately,” a student whispered loudly to their desk mate.
“yeah, but why though?”
“maybe she’s —” the student leaned in dramatically, eyes wide —“dating someone.”
gojo, who had been lounging in the back row pretending to nap, shot upright. “dating? her? no way!” he said, loudly enough for the entire class to hear.
all heads swiveled toward him.
“i mean,” he said, backtracking with an exaggerated wave of his hands, “it’d have to be someone really cool. maybe, like…an alien prince? yeah, that’s it. she’s totally in an intergalactic love affair.”
the class burst into laughter, and while the gossip shifted to debating the plausibility of alien romances, gojo stole a glance at you. you were shaking your head, lips pressed together in what he hoped was an attempt to hide a smile.
it wasn’t just the little gestures, though. gojo had also started reigning in his usual chaos. sure, he still submitted assignments late, but only by a day now, and the answers — stolen from nanami or not — were at least complete. he even started hushing other students when they got too rowdy, shooing them with a dramatic, “respect the queen, peasants,” before earning a chalk stick to the head from you.
“owwwww! abuse!” he’d whine, rubbing his head as the class laughed.
“then stop acting like a child,” you’d retort, though there was no real venom in your words.
one day, after a particularly chaotic lecture, you caught him lingering outside the classroom.
“something you need, satoru?” you asked, crossing your arms.
he froze, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “uh, no! just, um, making sure you’re not, y’know…kidnapped by aliens or something. it’s a dangerous world out there.”
“right.” you raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “and the real reason?”
he hesitated, shoving his hands in his pockets. “just…wanted to see if you liked the samosas.”
you softened, just a fraction. “they were fine. but you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
“doing what?”
“whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “i don’t need bribes to do my job.”
“it’s not a bribe,” he said quickly. “it’s just…you work hard. too hard, maybe. figured you could use a little something to remind you of home.”
your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.
“besides,” he added, his grin returning, “i’d never bribe you. i’m saving my bribery skills for the day you actually give me detention.”
you snorted, shaking your head. “get out of here before i reconsider.”
as he walked away, practically skipping, you found yourself clutching your satchel a little tighter, feeling the faint weight of all the silly notes tucked inside.
and gojo? as he left campus that day, he was grinning like an idiot, hand pressed to his chest like he’d just won the lottery. sure, he was falling for you, and yeah, maybe it was a little terrifying. but if falling meant more moments like these, he figured it was worth the risk.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
exam season turned the already bustling campus into a pressure cooker, and you found yourself at the center of it all. drafting question papers, aligning marking schemes, coordinating with the examination department — your plate was not just full; it was overflowing.
amid this chaos came the final straw in the saga of gojo satoru: his ban from the staff room.
it started innocently enough — if delivering steaming boxes of samosas to a restricted area could be called innocent. but when the coordinator raised an eyebrow too many and rumors of "the assistant professor's favorite student" began making rounds, the decision was swift and final.
"satoru, this is the last time. you’re banned from the staff room,” you’d told him sternly, pointing a finger for emphasis.
his response? a dramatic gasp and a hand clutching his chest. “you’re banning me? your number-one supporter? your — your cheerleader?”
“yes. cheer me on from a distance,” you said, turning away before he could see the twitch of your lips.
what followed was a week of gojo-level theatrics. he’d pout like a scolded puppy when you walked by, groaning loudly to anyone who’d listen. “my heart’s been broken,” he’d lament to his classmates, sprawling across desks like a tragic hero. “she cast me out. me!”
by day four, you were done.
you found him loitering by the library, feet propped on a bench like he owned the place, a pair of obnoxiously bright sunglasses perched on his nose.
“gojo,” you said, arms crossed.
he sat up straight at your tone, glasses sliding down his nose. “yes, teach?”
“why are you making such a big deal out of this?” you demanded, exasperation lacing your voice.
“because it is a big deal,” he shot back, standing now, his height making you tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. “do you know how stupid i feel? sneaking into staff rooms, drawing peacocks that look like roadkill, trying to get you to notice me — just for you to shut me out? it sucks, okay?”
his words hung in the air, leaving you momentarily speechless.
you weren’t good with emotions — back home, vulnerability was a luxury few could afford. confrontation wasn’t much better. and yet, here you were, faced with both.
“satoru, it’s not —” you started, faltering as his gaze bore into yours, uncharacteristically earnest.
you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “look, i… i appreciate what you’ve done. the effort, the —” you gestured vaguely, “ — everything. but this is a professional setting, and you make it really hard to keep things, well, professional.”
his lips quirked up at that, a hint of his usual cockiness returning. “so, you’re saying i’m distracting?”
“don’t push it,” you warned, though your tone lacked heat.
he took a step closer, his grin softening. “i get it. i do. but, y’know… you could’ve just said ‘thank you.’”
you rolled your eyes. “thank you, gojo. for the samosas. and the terrible art.”
“you’re welcome,” he said, stepping back with a mock bow, the tension between you easing ever so slightly.
as you turned to leave, he called after you, “but, hey, just so you know… i’m not giving up. banned or not.”
you didn’t look back, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away entirely.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
you stared at the stack of papers on your desk, each one a potential pandora’s box of missed grammar, nonsensical arguments, and uninspired prose. english papers were always a minefield, and you had somehow drawn the short straw for grading them this term. but it wasn’t just the sheer volume of work that made your stomach churn.
it was gojo’s essay.
his name glared at you from the corner of the page like a taunt.
you sighed, running your thumb along the edges of the papers, already bracing yourself for the absurdity to come. he wasn’t exactly known for his academic prowess, and his past submissions had ranged from thinly veiled comedy skits to outright gibberish disguised as poetry.
but as you started reading, your brow furrowed.
"yearning," it began, in unusually elegant script.
his handwriting was still a little messy, but there was care behind each stroke, like he had taken extra time to make it legible.
the essay itself, though…
at first, you thought it was a joke. some elaborate prank he’d written to make you second-guess your sanity.
“yearning is the ache of a soul reaching for something it knows it shouldn’t want but can’t bear to let go of.”
you paused, scanning the words again, waiting for the punchline. it didn’t come. instead, the essay unfolded into something — god help you — poignant.
gojo described yearning as a quiet, persistent tug. an itch in the chest that worsened in silence and swelled in proximity. he wrote about the way it demanded attention, yet he danced around the specifics, cloaking his examples in poetic vagueness.
“it’s the way someone’s voice lingers in your mind even when they’re scolding you. it’s noticing the shape of their smile, even if it’s not meant for you. it’s knowing they’d call you a fool for feeling this way and somehow wanting to hear it anyway.”
you blinked at the page, heart stuttering as the words sunk in. this wasn’t just any essay.
it was about you.
you fought the urge to throw the paper aside, suddenly hyper aware of the way your pulse quickened.
“yearning is seeing someone’s dedication to the world and wanting, selfishly, to be a part of it. to have them look at you with the same seriousness they reserve for their passions. but it’s also knowing that some things are too good to reach for — that trying might ruin the very thing you admire.”
you sat back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as a wave of emotions rolled through you.
was this… sincere?
was it some convoluted joke? a test to see how far he could push you?
but the writing was too raw, too heartfelt to be a simple prank. you could feel him in the words, the way he stumbled through emotions he probably didn’t fully understand.
and yet, there was still that hint of gojo: the irreverence, the humor.
“yearning is stupid, really. because no one wins. either you tell them, and it’s weird, or you don’t, and you’re stuck writing essays about it like some tragic hero in a bad movie.”
you snorted despite yourself, rubbing a hand over your face.
what were you supposed to do with this?
your instincts screamed at you to fail him. this was wildly off-topic, an indulgence of personal feelings instead of academic analysis.
but another part of you — the part that softened at his ridiculous peacock drawings and earnest (if misplaced) attempts to make you smile — couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
you picked up your pen and, after a long moment of deliberation, scribbled a tentative B- in red ink. it wasn’t an outright failure, but it wasn’t exactly encouragement either.
as you set the paper aside, your thoughts swirled, torn between exasperation and something you didn’t want to name.
because even if you didn’t want to admit it, his words had reached you in ways you weren’t prepared to confront.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
when gojo walked into class that day, his usual swagger was amplified tenfold. he was practically glowing, strutting past his peers with his essay held aloft like a trophy. the grin plastered on his face was so wide, it threatened to split his face in half.
“behold, ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, tapping his paper against nanami’s head for good measure, “the masterpiece that is my essay. highest grade i’ve ever gotten. third highest in the entire grade.” he puffed his chest out dramatically, looking at you as if expecting a standing ovation.
nanami rolled his eyes, snatching the paper from gojo’s hands to inspect it. “an a-minus isn’t exactly groundbreaking, satoru.”
gojo gasped, clutching his chest as if wounded. “it is when it’s me, nanami! you don’t understand the emotional labor that went into this! the blood, the sweat, the tears —”
“the copied half of my notes, you mean,” nanami muttered, handing the paper back.
you tried to focus on setting up the lesson, suppressing the urge to smirk. his antics were nothing new, but this time, you couldn’t help but feel a faint tug of pride, even if it was mingled with irritation.
when it was finally time to hand back the essays, you made your way down the rows, handing out graded papers with your usual neutral expression. but when you reached gojo, his bright, expectant eyes locked on yours, you hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
you handed him the paper, your fingers brushing his momentarily, and he took it with both hands, holding it up like it was a sacred artifact.
“a b-minus bumped up to an a-minus,” he said with a faux gasp, loud enough for the entire class to hear. “why, teach, you playing favorites?”
you shot him a warning look, but it only made his grin grow wider.
“don’t push it, gojo,” you said evenly, though your tone lacked its usual edge.
he leaned back in his chair, still gloating as he turned the paper over and over in his hands. but behind the theatrics, you caught the flicker of something genuine in his expression — a quiet kind of satisfaction that spoke louder than his words ever could.
to everyone else, his boasting was just another act. but to you, it felt like something more, like he was seeking validation in the only way he knew how.
and for some reason, that thought lingered long after class ended.
when the bell rang, gojo didn’t rush out like the others. instead, he waited until the room was nearly empty, shuffling awkwardly near your desk.
“soooo, uh,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “you read it, huh? like… really read it?”
you didn’t look up from the stack of papers you were organizing. “i wouldn’t have graded it if i hadn’t.”
he let out a dramatic sigh, slumping against the desk. “not what i meant. did you get it? like… the deeper meaning?”
you finally glanced up, meeting his gaze. his usual bravado was still there, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost nervous.
“i got it,” you said quietly, and for once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback.
his grin softened, and he straightened up, spinning the paper in his hands again. “cool. just… cool.”
and with that, he left, his usual bounce in his step. but as he reached the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, giving you a look that said more than words ever could.
you shook your head, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. whatever this was between you and gojo, it was unspoken and strange, but maybe, for now, it didn’t need to be anything else.
and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
it was a rare sunny day on campus, and most students were sprawled out on the grassy fields, reveling in the freedom of post-exam bliss. the air buzzed with chatter and laughter, a stark contrast to the usually tense corridors filled with murmurs of last-minute cramming. and yet, instead of being the ringleader of some over-the-top celebration, gojo was trailing behind you like a shadow, a paper box of samosas balanced precariously in one hand and a bottle of mango lassi in the other.
“seriously, gojo,” you said, glancing back at him. “don’t you have somewhere else to be? like, i don’t know, with your friends?”
“what, and miss the chance to see you enjoy my samosas?” he quipped, flashing that obnoxiously bright grin. “besides, i’m everyone’s favorite. they’ll be fine without me for a bit.”
you rolled your eyes but didn’t shoo him away. in truth, the quiet after exams was unnerving, and his chatter filled the void in a way that was oddly comforting.
at some point, he insisted on feeding you. the first few times, you outright refused, giving him a look that could curdle milk. but then, for reasons you couldn’t quite fathom — maybe the post-exam haze, maybe the sheer persistence in his puppy-dog eyes — you caved.
“fine,” you relented, leaning slightly forward. “but if you drop even one crumb —”
“relaaax,” he said, his voice dipping into something annoyingly smooth. “you’re in good hands.”
and to his credit, he was careful, holding the samosa with an exaggerated delicacy as if it were made of glass. you bit into it, the crunch loud in the quiet that had suddenly fallen between you two.
he beamed like he’d just won a nobel prize. “seeee? told you i’d make the experience unforgettable.”
“unforgettable, my ass,” you said, brushing crumbs from your lips.
gojo laughed, the sound loud and unrestrained, drawing a few glances from passersby. “you just admitted i’m unforgettable. it’s okay, teach, you don’t have to hide your feelings anymore.”
you smacked his arm lightly, and he let out a mock yelp, clutching it as if you’d injured him.
the box was gone faster than you expected, mostly thanks to gojo’s bottomless pit of a stomach. he flashed you a sheepish grin, crumbs still clinging to the corners of his mouth.
“uhhh… i think i ate more than half,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
“think?” you snorted, shaking your head.
the two of you started walking aimlessly around campus, the kind of companionable silence that only came after shared food and banter settling between you.
at one point, gojo said something so utterly ridiculous — something about how samosas were the perfect metaphor for love, with layers of spice and warmth. you snorted so hard, you nearly tripped, your laughter ringing out clear and unfiltered.
“god, you’re such an idiot,” you said, whacking his chest lightly, only to immediately regret it.
why was his chest that solid? it was like hitting a brick wall wrapped in a hoodie.
“owww,” he said dramatically, rubbing the spot as if you’d actually hurt him. then, before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist.
“hey,” he said softly, his voice losing its usual playful lilt.
you froze. his hand was warm around your wrist, his touch firm but gentle, and when you looked up, his eyes were — god, they were so blue, it was like staring into a summer sky.
the world around you seemed to blur, the distant hum of campus life fading into nothing as he took a half-step closer.
“you ever notice how weird this feels?” he murmured, his tone uncharacteristically quiet. “like… i’m standing here, and you’re right here, but it still doesn’t feel close enough.”
his forehead brushed against yours, and suddenly, you forgot how to breathe. the space between you was practically nonexistent, and yet, it felt like he was somehow closing a gap you didn’t even realize was there.
“gojo…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the rest of the words died in your throat.
“satoru,” he corrected softly, his eyes never leaving yours.
the proximity was overwhelming, every detail amplified — the faint scent of whatever cologne he wore, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“don’t worry,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “i’m not gonna kiss you. not unless you want me to, of course. i’m not that forward.”
the laugh that bubbled out of you was equal parts disbelief and nervousness. “you’re literally the most forward person i’ve ever met.”
“yeah, but not with you,” he admitted, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart stutter.
you pulled back slightly, breaking the moment before it could swallow you whole. “you’re such a drama queen.”
“and yet, you still stick around,” he teased, his grin returning, but this time, it felt softer, less of a mask and more of a truth.
as you walked back to your dorm, his hand brushed against yours, and though neither of you said anything, the warmth lingered long after he’d waved goodbye.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
it was a friday night, the campus buzzing with whispers of the party of the semester. gojo’s name was on every other tongue, along with exaggerated promises of free drinks, loud music, and the type of chaos only he could orchestrate. you tried to brush it off as you walked past clusters of students gossiping on the quad.
“you comin’, miss?” one of your more confident students called out, giving you a cheeky grin.
“unlikely,” you replied, raising an eyebrow but offering a small smile. “don’t think i’d blend in at a college party.”
“oh, trust me,” another chimed in, “you’d be the star of the night. even gojo would agree.”
you waved them off, feigning nonchalance, but the comment lingered.
it wasn’t like you wanted to go to his stupid party. you were a teacher, not some college kid with zero inhibitions. and yet, there was something about the idea of gojo hosting this wild bash, completely in his element, that gnawed at you.
you sighed, staring at your reflection in the mirror. the bindi perched perfectly on your forehead, your jhumkas catching the light as you moved. why not? you were in japan — far from home, far from prying eyes, and definitely far from anyone who’d lecture you about propriety.
dressed in a fusion of your traditional style and something a bit more casual, you hailed a cab, heart racing as you approached the house blaring music loud enough to rattle the street.
the party was exactly what you expected — students spilling out onto the porch, laughter and music mixing with the smell of cheap alcohol. heads turned as you walked in, your attire catching more than a few curious glances.
you ignored the whispers, stepping further into the house. the atmosphere was electric — lights flashing, bodies swaying, drinks being passed around.
and then you spotted him.
gojo was in the middle of it all, a drink in hand and a stupidly wide grin on his face. his glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed, the telltale signs of someone thoroughly drunk.
you were about to turn and leave — because clearly, this was a terrible idea — when his voice rang out.
“oh. my. god,” he said, pointing vaguely in your direction. “you look… so familiar!”
you froze. surely, he wasn’t —
“no, seriously!” he stumbled closer, squinting at you. “you remind me of someone. someone important.”
he was too close now, his breath smelling faintly of vodka and whatever sweet mixer he’d drowned it in.
“you’re drunk, satoru,” you said, your voice steady despite the laughter bubbling up inside.
“i’m not that drunk!” he protested, swaying slightly. “okay, maybe a little. but listen! you look just like — like her!”
“her?” you prompted, folding your arms and trying not to smirk.
“yes, her!” he exclaimed, his voice dipping into something uncharacteristically soft. “she’s… she’s amazing. drives me insane, but in a good way, ya know? like, i wanna punch a wall and write poetry at the same time.”
“sounds intense,” you said, raising an eyebrow.
“it isss! she’s so smart, and — and kind, but also terrifying,” he continued, his words slurring slightly. “she doesn’t take my shit, which is honestly hot as hell. and her laugh — oh my god, her laugh! s’like… like a warm hug, but for your ears.”
you bit your lip, trying to hold back your laughter. “sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
“i doooooo!” he groaned dramatically, leaning against the wall for support. “but she doesn’t even like me! well, maybe she does? sometimes? she whacked me the other day, and i think that’s a good sign.”
at that, you couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing, the sound lost in the thrum of the party. gojo blinked at you, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning realization.
“wait a second…” he said, leaning closer, squinting as if trying to piece together a puzzle. “no way.”
“yes, way,” you said, your laughter subsiding into a soft chuckle.
his jaw dropped, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“oh my god,” he finally managed. “you’re her! you’re you!”
“brilliant observation,” you teased.
he groaned, covering his face with one hand. “this is so embarrassing. please tell me you didn’t hear all of that.”
“every word,” you said, grinning.
“kill me now,” he muttered, sliding down the wall dramatically.
“don’t worry,” you said, crouching down to his level. “i’ll keep your little rant our secret.”
he peeked through his fingers, his cheeks somehow even redder. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“maybe,” you admitted, standing up and offering him a hand. “come on, let’s get you some water before you embarrass yourself further.”
he took your hand, his grip surprisingly steady despite his inebriated state. “thanks… for not, like, running away or something. you’re cool, you know that?”
“yeah, yeah,” you said, rolling your eyes but smiling nonetheless.
as you led him toward the kitchen, you couldn’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — this ridiculously charming idiot was starting to grow on you.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
gojo wanted to be anywhere but here.
okay, scratch that — he wanted to be here, with you, but also wanted to dig a hole in his living room floor and yeet himself into it. his brain, muddled with alcohol, was doing its best to keep things together, but with you suddenly here — looking like that — his chances were rapidly dwindling.
he adjusted his arm around your waist, a loose but deliberate gesture that made his heart stutter. it was a casual hold, or at least he hoped it looked casual, but the warmth of your body pressed lightly against his side was sending his brain into overdrive.
“and this,” he said, gesturing grandly with his free hand to what was very clearly the kitchen, “is where the magic happens.”
“the kitchen?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your lips quirked into a smile that had his knees dangerously close to giving out.
“obviously?!” he said, leaning into the theatrics to keep himself from spiraling. “you see that microwave? legendary. best instant ramen in town. and that fridge? it’s seen things. horrors, really. we don’t talk about it.”
you laughed, and he swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard.
“right, sure,” you said, shaking your head. “what about actual food? do you ever cook anything that’s not from a packet?”
he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “are you accusing me — me — of being a heathen who doesn’t know his way around a kitchen? i’ll have you know, i make a mean lassi.”
“oh, do you now?” you teased, clearly enjoying his antics.
“absolutely,” he said, grinning. “one day, i’ll prove it to you. you’ll be begging me to cook for you every day.”
“we’ll see,” you said, but there was a softness in your voice that made him wonder if you actually meant it.
his heart was racing now, the alcohol loosening his tongue in dangerous ways. he should probably stop talking. any second now.
“you know,” he said, his voice dropping slightly as he glanced down at you, “i can’t believe you came.”
“why wouldn’t i?” you asked, tilting your head to look at him, your expression curious but open.
he wanted to say because i thought you’d never want to be in the same space as me outside of class, but that felt too raw, too real. so instead, he shrugged, trying to play it off.
“i dunno,” he said, looking ahead. “you just… don’t seem like the house party type.”
“i’m not, usually,” you admitted. “but… i figured, why not? life’s too short to say no to everything.”
“huh,” he said, his voice softer now. “that’s… cool. you’re cool.”
“am i?” you asked, laughing lightly.
“so cool,” he said earnestly, and then immediately wanted to slap himself. shut up, satoru. shut. up.
but then you smiled at him, and he thought maybe he didn’t mind sounding like an idiot if it meant he got to see that look on your face.
as the two of you tried to navigate the packed living room, someone bumped into him, and instinctively, his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. you didn’t pull away, and he was pretty sure his heart was about to explode.
he tried not to think about how you fit so perfectly against his side, or how your scent — something faintly floral and familiar — was making him dizzy. he definitely tried not to think about how easy it would be to lean down and —
nope nope nope. bad idea. terrible idea. the worst idea.
“you okay?” you asked, looking up at him with a hint of concern.
“y-yeah!” he said, his voice a little too high-pitched. he cleared his throat, forcing a grin. “totally fine. just, uh, making sure you don’t get trampled.”
“how chivalrous,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching as if you were holding back a laugh.
“always,” he said, his grin widening despite himself.
but inside, he was panicking. this was too much. you were too close, too warm, too everything. he needed to get his shit together before he did something stupid, like —
confess to you.
kiss you.
pass out.
or, god forbid, all three.
oh shit.
the bass thudded in your chest, a constant pulse that seemed to sync with the frenetic energy of the house. people were dancing, shouting, laughing, and the chaos around you was almost comforting in its anonymity. that is until satoru — flushed, swaying slightly, and clearly far more drunk than you’d initially realized — gripped your arm like it was a lifeline.
“i need to tell you something,” he blurted, his words loud but barely cutting through the music.
you blinked at him, trying to read his expression in the flickering multicolored lights. “what?” you shouted back, leaning closer to hear him.
he leaned in too, his mouth near your ear. “i said, i need to tell you something!”
“okay! so tell me!” you yelled back, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
“i…” he trailed off, his face scrunching up in frustration as he tried to string his thoughts together. he took a deep breath and then, to your utter horror, yelled at the top of his lungs, “I LIKE YOU!”
you froze, sure you’d misheard him. the bass was too loud, the room too crowded, and his words had gotten lost somewhere in the noise.
“what?!” you shouted, your voice rising in disbelief.
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, his cheeks flushed red— n ot just from the alcohol, you suspected. “I SAID —”
but even in his drunken state, he realized the futility of trying to out-shout the music. with a sound of pure exasperation, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the crowd. your protests fell on deaf ears as he led you to a slightly quieter corner, away from the worst of the noise.
“what are you doing, gojo?!” you hissed, but he didn’t answer.
instead, he pressed you gently against the wall, his palms flat against the surface on either side of your head, caging you in. his head dipped low, his nose brushing against yours, and your breath caught as his blue eyes, even hazy with alcohol, locked onto yours.
“i said,” he murmured, his voice lower now but no less intense, “i like you.”
your brain barely had time to register the words before he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. it was desperate, clumsy, and so full of unspoken emotion that it stole the air from your lungs.
you gasped against him, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his shoulders. the solid warmth of him under your fingers was grounding, but the way his body pressed against yours, shielding you from the world, sent your heart into a frenzy.
his lips moved against yours with an urgency that bordered on possessive, and when he tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, a small sound escaped you — something between a gasp and a moan.
that was when he pulled back, just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.
“don’t… don’t pull away,” he whispered, and the vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache.
“gojo —”
“call me satoru,” he cut in, his eyes fluttering shut as if even saying the words was too much. “please.”
you opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his body seemed to sway, his weight leaning more heavily against you.
“satoru, are you okay?” you asked, your hands sliding to his chest to steady him.
“huh?” he mumbled, his voice distant. then, with a slight slur, he muttered, “oh, no. no, no, no —”
and just like that, the man crumpled.
“satoru!” you yelped, barely managing to catch his ridiculously lanky frame before he hit the floor completely.
someone nearby shouted, “man down!” and the phrase seemed to echo through the room, followed by a ripple of concerned and amused voices.
“oh my god,” you muttered, crouching down beside him. his head lolled slightly, and his mouth was parted as he let out a faint snore.
he was out cold.
you pressed a hand to your face, your cheeks still burning from the kiss. the memory of his lips on yours was vivid enough to make your knees weak, but the reality of the situation — of this ridiculously tall, ridiculously dramatic man passing out at your feet — brought you crashing back down to earth.
“can someone help me with this idiot?” you called out, your voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and concern.
a couple of guys came over, one of them laughing as he said, “dude’s got no tolerance, huh?”
“none,” you muttered, sighing as you tried to get a grip on yourself — and satoru. his confession and the kiss replayed in your mind, and you knew you were in for a long night of trying to sort out your feelings.
for now, though, you had to deal with the immediate problem of hauling his ridiculously heavy frame to a couch. the emotional fallout could wait until tomorrow.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
the room had descended into a chaotic mess of unsolicited advice, mostly coming from half-drunk college students who thought they were experts on everything, including reviving a passed-out satoru.
“try shaking him harder!” someone shouted.
“just pour water on his face!” another chimed in.
“give him coffee. wait, do we even have coffee?”
you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. amidst all this nonsense, nanami stood off to the side, arms crossed, his expression screaming this is beneath me.
“he’s not dead. just let him sleep it off,” kento said flatly, his voice cutting through the chatter.
“oh, thanks for the revolutionary advice, nanami,” you snapped, the sarcasm lacing your words.
then there was geto, leaning against the wall with an air of detached amusement. “honestly, i knew this would happen. saw it coming a mile away,” he said, flipping his hair dramatically.
“yeah? well, maybe next time warn the rest of us,” you shot back before turning your attention back to satoru’s unconscious form.
you knelt beside him, sighing deeply. “alright, everyone back off. i know how to handle this.”
“what are you gonna do?” someone asked, curious.
“something tried and tested.” you raised your hand high and delivered a firm slap across satoru’s cheek.
the sound was loud. so loud, in fact, that the room collectively gasped.
satoru bolted upright, clutching his face as if you’d just smacked the soul out of him. “what the hell was that?!” he screamed, his voice loud enough to rival the bass music that was still pounding in the background.
“welcome back to the land of the living, drama queen,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.
“did you just slap me?!” he exclaimed, his wide, watery eyes staring at you like you’d betrayed him.
“oh, i’m sorry, was that not enough? i can do it again,” you said, raising your hand threateningly.
“no, no! i’m good! fully awake!” he yelped, scooting back like a scared puppy.
“good. now drink this,” you said, handing him a bottle of water.
satoru grabbed it, but instead of drinking, he sniffed it suspiciously. “this isn’t vodka, right?”
“no, genius,” nanmi said, stepping forward and plucking the actual vodka bottle from the floor. “this is vodka, and you’re done with it.”
“oh, c’mon, nanaminnnn, don’t be such a killjooyyyy!” satoru whined, though his pout faltered when you shot him a glare.
“shut up and drink the water, satoru,” you snapped.
he obeyed, gulping it down dramatically before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “ugh, water’s so boring.”
“you want excitement? i’ll slap you again,” you threatened, and a few people in the room snickered.
“you’re so mean,” satoru muttered, but then his gaze softened. “wait… you stayed.”
you blinked. “what?”
“you stayed,” he repeated, his voice quieter now. “even after… you know.”
“oh, you mean the part where you screamed out a love confession, kissed me like your life depended on it, and then passed out in front of half the student body?” you said, raising an eyebrow.
“don’t remind me,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “i wanna die. nanamin, can you just — i don’t know — throw me out a window or something?”
“tempting,” kento muttered.
“look, dork,” you said, kneeling back down in front of him. “you’re not getting out of this one. you did all that, and now you have to deal with the consequences.”
“oh god,” satoru mumbled, peeking at you through his fingers. “what are the consequences?”
you tilted your head, pretending to think. “well, for starters, you owe me samosas for the rest of the semester.”
“done,” he said immediately.
“and,” you added, leaning in slightly, “you have to stop being such a dramatic idiot.”
“that one’s harder,” he said, flashing you a sheepish grin. “but for you? i’ll try.”
“good.” you stood up, brushing off your knees. “now, get your act together. and maybe next time, don’t drink yourself into oblivion before confessing to someone.”
“wait, does that mean —” he started, his eyes lighting up.
“i didn’t say anything!” you cut him off, walking away as the room erupted into laughter at his bewildered expression.
“she likes me,” satoru whispered to himself, a goofy grin spreading across his face.
“oh, shut up, satoru,” nanami said, but even he couldn’t entirely hide his smirk.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
it was almost miraculous, really, how none of these college kids managed to piece together the details of what actually went down at gojo’s house party. you’d think with all the drunken chaos, someone would’ve remembered you storming in like a heroine, slapping satoru awake, and then, well, the incident. but no. all they seemed to retain was that the super cool, smoking-hot assistant professor had swooped in to save satoru from... something.
the specifics? conveniently erased from their collective memory, thanks to cheap vodka and loud bass.
but you? you weren’t so lucky. gojo’s confession — or whatever that messy string of drunken words and one life-altering kiss could be categorized as — played on a loop in your head. not that you wanted it to, but come on, how were you supposed to forget the feel of his lips against yours, the way he’d pressed you against the wall like he couldn’t get close enough? and then, the audacity of the man to crumple to the floor like a marionette whose strings were cut? you still couldn’t decide if you wanted to slap him again or — ugh, no, you weren’t finishing that thought.
“stop,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing your temples as you sat at your desk, the pile of papers you were supposed to grade staring back at you accusingly. “focus. you’re an adult, not a hormonal teenager.”
and yet, that little voice in your head — your grandma’s voice, no less — crooned in your mind, “what kind of boy is he? does he play cricket? is he an engineer?”
“no,” you grumbled under your breath, “he’s an overgrown man-child who flirts through samosas and makes me question my entire existence.”
the reality of it all was... you weren’t equipped for someone like gojo. back home, dating was simple. boring, but simple. you liked someone because they played cricket well or because their math grades could rival einstein’s. the bar was low, and your teenage self still barely scraped over it.
but satoru? he wasn’t just attractive in that this-is-gonna-get-me-into-trouble kind of way. no, he was ridiculously charming, stupidly funny, and utterly chaotic — so much so that he somehow managed to bulldoze his way past every defense you’d painstakingly built.
and that left you here, with a pile of grading untouched, your thoughts veering dangerously off-course.
what do i even do with him? you thought. he’s not even the type i should go for. he’s immature, irresponsible, a complete disaster of a human being…
... and yet, all you could picture was his stupidly lopsided grin when you’d handed back his essay. that grin that said, you gave me a B-, but i’m taking this as an A+ in your heart.
and then your mind went straight to climbing him. like a tree. a tall, stupid tree with an even stupider face.
“oh my god,” you muttered, dropping your head onto the desk. “get it together, girl.”
you groaned into the wood grain, mentally kicking yourself. this was getting out of hand. you needed to lock it in. focus. channel your inner no-nonsense professor and figure out how to deal with gojo without losing what little composure you had left.
and maybe — just maybe — figure out how the hell you were supposed to climb a man-child and maintain your dignity in the process.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
gojo had been avoiding you — not intentionally, of course. he would never do that on purpose. it was just… he was terrified.
gojo satoru, the guy who could ace a test he barely studied for, host the best parties on campus, and make a joke out of literally any situation, was absolutely crumbling under the weight of his own feelings. gojoism did not account for feelings like this. and yesterday? he’d completely fallen — literally and emotionally. now, there wasn’t a subreddit or thread in existence that could save him from the mess he’d created.
his shift was dragging, a mix of customers and yelling from his half-indian, half-japanese manager filling the air. his coworkers kept glancing at him like he was a stray dog caught in the rain, but he didn’t care. he was in the middle of wiping down tables when he caught sight of you through the window.
you. walking by. not even glancing toward the restaurant.
his heart sank. did you hate him now? was this how it was going to end?
without thinking, gojo bolted out the door, ignoring the string of colorful curses his manager hurled at him. “oi, boy! you’re paying for this if you don’t get your ass back here!”
he didn’t stop. the second he caught up to you, he practically tackled you from behind, arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost dropped your satchel.
“what the hell, gojo —”
“please don’t move!” he blurted, his face buried in your shoulder and neck, his lanky limbs curling around you like some desperate octopus. you froze, unsure whether to be annoyed, amused, or alarmed.
“are you serious right now?”
“yes! extremely!” his voice was muffled against the fabric of your shirt. “listen, i’m an idiot. the biggest idiot ever. i shouldn’t have kissed you like that while i was drunk. or passed out. or confessed. or all three. god, that was so stupid. i’m so stupid.”
you sighed, your heart racing at how tightly he held you. “satoru, what are you doing?”
“i’m fixing this. please, just — lemme say this. properly this time.” he tightened his hold even more, as if letting go wasn’t an option. “i like you. a lot. like, so much it’s actually pathetic. and i know i’m a dumbass most of the time, and i mess things up, but i promise i’m serious about you. so, like… if you don’t feel the same way, you can say no. just don’t hate me, okay? i can’t deal with you hating me.”
you felt his breath against your neck, his voice wavering just enough to make your chest ache.
“satoru…” you started, turning your head slightly to glance at him, his stupidly handsome face now fully pressed against you.
“say something,” he mumbled, the weight of his confession sinking deeper into the air.
you turned in his arms, making him loosen his grip just enough for you to face him. his blue eyes were wide and unsure, a rare sight from the usually cocky gojo satoru.
“you done?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“uh… yeah?” he said, unsure.
without another word, you grabbed his collar, pulling him down to meet you as your lips pressed against his. the world seemed to fade away — his coworkers, the restaurant, the yelling manager. all of it dissolved as he melted into the kiss, his hands sliding down to hold your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
when you finally broke apart, his lips parted in shock, his cheeks flushed. “wait, does this mean —”
“yes, you absolute idiot,” you huffed, shoving at his chest lightly, though you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
he grinned, wide and stupid. “i knew you couldn’t resist me.”
“oh, shut up before i change my mind.”
“never,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again, completely ignoring the cheers of his coworkers from the restaurant door.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
did you expect to be leaving japan with a full-grown manchild trailing behind you? absolutely not. but here you were. did you expect to cheer for said manchild when he finally got his degree? obviously. the man deserved it — barely, but he did.
you’d both agreed to keep things under wraps, citing the whole student-teacher dynamic as a big no-no. so, of course, when the graduation ceremony rolled around, satoru had to make things dramatic. he dropped to one knee — mid-stage — held his degree out like a trophy, and loudly declared, “this is my phd in loving you!”
“that’s not a phd, satoru,” you muttered, face buried in your hands as the crowd chuckled.
“close enough!” he beamed, earning a mix of applause and groans from his peers.
graduation break was spent in the usual push and pull — you pushing him away from his over-the-top antics, him pulling you right back into his orbit with that ridiculous grin. every time his pout got too exaggerated, you’d give him a quick kiss just to shut him up, which only made things worse because he’d cheer. cheer. in public. like a child who just got a gold star.
“you’re the worst,” you mumbled after one particularly dramatic cheer, covering your face as passersby laughed at his antics.
“and yet, here you are, willingly in my presence,” he shot back, smug as ever.
“god help me,” you groaned.
satoru, of course, wasn’t just sunshine and chaos with you — he had this annoying charm that endeared him to literally everyone. the aunties who came by the restaurant giggled like teenagers when he served them, and the little kids gathered around him like he was a walking anime character. “white-haired older brother” became his unofficial nickname, and satoru leaned into it hard, regaling them with wildly exaggerated tales of his life.
“and then, i fought off a gang of ninjas to save her,” he’d say, winking in your direction.
“satoru, stop lying to children!”
he’d just shrug, grinning wider. “it’s not lying if it’s entertaining.”
it was funny how he’d originally gotten the part-time job just to talk to you, but now he genuinely liked it. still, some habits died hard — he continued to bring you samosas daily, despite your protests.
“satoru, if you don’t stop, i’m going to develop a permanent aversion to these,” you warned, eyeing the familiar paper bag he held out to you.
“blasphemy!” he gasped, clutching the bag to his chest like you’d insulted his firstborn.
eventually, he started pestering you about meeting your parents.
“so, when can i meet them?” he asked one afternoon, grinning like he’d already been invited.
“never,” you deadpanned, whacking him on the chest for good measure.
unbeknownst to him, you’d already told your parents about him. they were eager to meet the man who’d apparently stolen your heart and managed to survive your stubbornness.
all in due time, though. for now, satoru could continue proudly showing off his “phd in loving you.” and maybe, just maybe, you were okay with letting him.
⟡ ₊ . ༄
[epilogue]
it felt almost surreal how gojo transitioned from serving at the restaurant to outright owning it. the previous manager had retired with teary eyes, handing the keys over to satoru with a heartfelt, “please, i beg you, don’t ruin this place. my wife and kids will haunt you if you do.”
gojo, in true fashion, had laughed, draping an arm around the man. “don’t worry! i’ll make this place legendary. maybe even name it after me.”
“over my dead body!” the manager had shot back.
and, of course, satoru didn’t miss the chance to ask you, “so, when’s it gonna be us? two kids, a little restaurant legacy — what do you say?”
you smacked him on the back of his head, rolling your eyes. “focus on not burning the place down first, romeo.”
under gojo’s ownership, the restaurant thrived — though not without his signature flair. he introduced a new “special offer,” one that quickly turned into a local superstition: if two people shared a plate of samosas, they’d fall in love, and their love life would prosper.
“just like us,” gojo would tease every chance he got, holding up a plate dramatically.
“you’re insufferable,” you’d reply, trying not to laugh.
but you couldn’t argue with results, especially after dragging this white-haired menace home to meet your parents. they’d absolutely adored him, of course, stuffing him with so much food you swore he left glowing.
“your mom’s cooking? divine. i’d marry you just for the biryani,” he joked, leaning back against the car seat as you drove to the airport.
“good to know your priorities,” you shot back, though your smile betrayed your words.
and as much as satoru joked about weddings and kids, the two of you agreed there was no rush. after all, between the restaurant, his endless antics, and your job, life was already chaotic enough. not that gojo made your work any easier — especially during exam season.
“paper checking is ruining us,” he’d complain dramatically, sprawled across the couch as you ignored him in favor of a particularly stubborn essay.
“us?” you raised an eyebrow, not looking up.
“yes, us,” he insisted, standing up to scoop you into his lap without warning.
“satoru!”
“what? if you’re gonna ignore me, at least let me help,” he said, plopping a spoonful of biryani in your mouth.
you glared at him, but he just grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. and as much as you hated to admit it, moments like this were when you realized just how good life was.
chaotic? absolutely. ridiculous? always. but trading it for anything else? not a chance.
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Friendly reminder that Viktor is asexual (mostly) canonically
EDIT: I also strongly suggest reading the comments as it explains why its not a 100% valid and/or canon thing. Don't forget to view both sides of the matter!
Co-creator of arcane had said that they'd seen viktor as an asexual and had written him in a way where, although theres love involved between Jayce and Viktor, its represented in a way that doesn't have to be sexual (is the best way I can summarize it) *TLDR summaries will be mentioned.
Something similar is said in reddit post below which also links a vod from where it was said by the co-creator
reason why I say mostly is because they worded it in a weird way and—although its mostly confirmed based on a bunch of other sources also saying this and proof is sourced—its in German and I cannot confirm if it was said, but based on a lot of other posts and that they linked a vod, it sounds valid. feel free to take it with a grain of salt*, but (TLDR:) I'd strongly advise it (Viktor being ace) be considered when writing, drawing or implying anything related to Viktor and his love life, even if its an implied canon and not a written canon.*
ALSO a reminder that asexuals can feel love and still be in relationships
Its stupid I have to say this because asexual and aromantic are obviously two different words, but a lot of people—even the co-creator made it sound like they dont know what they're talking about entirely—always mix up the two for some actually stupid reason. JUST because someones asexual doesn't mean they (for example Viktor and literally any other asexual–including me) can't be romantically involved. (TLDR) So let this be a reminder that asexuals can still feel romantically towards others. This means that Jayvik is also still heavily implied to be canon.
also asexuality is a spectrum. Look into it, I can't tell you everything. I'm just a mostly biased teen online, take shit as you will 🗣🔊
#arcane#arcane season 2#arcane spoilers#arcane s2#arcane thoughts#arcane theory#arcane tv show#arcane league of legends#arcane league of lesbians#jayvik#arcane viktor#viktor arcane#jayce x viktor#asexual#acespec#ace
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First of all, the way Stolas immediately knew what the trial was about when all he saw was Blitzo about to be executed means that Stolas knew what he was doing was illegal. He just loved Blitzo more than he cared about the law.
Stolas KNEW it was illegal to let Blitzo use the grimoire. Someone of his status? He absolutely KNEW it was illegal, he knew there would be consequences (maybe not what they were, but that there would be), and he let Blitzo use it anyways because.
BECAUSE. Letting Blitzo use the grimoire was an excuse to keep seeing him. Stolas knew it was illegal and did it anyways because he's in love with Blitzo.
SECOND OF ALL, Stolas didn't HESITATE. Stolas showed up and took Blitzo's place on the chopping block while under the impression he was going to be killed for this crime.
He immediately knew what the trial was about, saw what the consequences were, and then didn't hesitate to put himself in Blitzo's place. ESPECIALLY when he kneeled down to be executed.
He was GENUINELY going to give his life for Blitzo to live, and he was genuinely so surprised when he was told he wasn't going to be killed.
THIRD OF ALL, god. Fuuuuck. It is so interesting to see Stolas' thought process here, because Stolas genuinely didn't think that the consequences for imps vs goetic demons for breaking the same law were so drastically different.
Sure, Stolas can play the part and spout the same classist nonsense about imps that he very likely grew up hearing. He knew that was what he had to do to get everyone in there to listen to him and let Blitzo go. But HE HIMSELF genuinely doesn't think of himself as above Blitzo or any of the other imps when he shows up in that courtroom. (It's also why he later gets Blitzo the crystal to use instead of his grimoire; he's aware of the classism in their relationship, but isn't familiar with how to navigate it, especially when the other person in the relationship is Blitzo, but that's a WHOLE OTHER ESSAY.)
Anyways, that's why Stolas kneels down on the chopping block after successfully taking Blitzo's place, AND it's why he's so surprised he isn't going to be executed. The look on Stolas' face was very, "Wait, you guys actually believe you're better than imps? You're not just playing a part? I thought we were being serious right now."
Stolas is aware there's a class difference between him and Blitzo, but he genuinely didn't believe in it, and genuinely didn't think it was an issue. He genuinely didn't think anyone else believed it either! His theatre kid ass probably thought it was all an elaborate social act and that nobody really thought that imps were lower than other demons. (side note, from an autistic person, that's so autism coded of u stolas.)
And that indifference Stolas has about their class difference is EXACTLY what drove Blitzo's fears about the nature of their relationship in the first place. For the entirety of Season 2, we've seen that it's been an issue for Blitzo's ENTIRE life! It's what he built his business on!!! And his last words?
"All I was trying to do was rise above the stupid fucking place YOU ALL FORCED US INTO!"
But now, Stolas IS on the level of imps. Not only is he going to experience the classism the rest of hell holds towards imps, but not even the IMPS like him! And with the sudden HUGE fame Blitzo's gained, Stolas and Blitzo have effectively SWITCHED PLACES.
The difference is, this time, they'll be able to help each other.
#god i could write a fucking master thesis about this shit. STOLAS AND BLITZO YOU ARE SO INTERESTINGGG.#helluva boss#stolitz#helluva boss spoilers#helluva boss mastermind#i need to pick the brains of the people who write helluva boss im so fucking AOURHGHHHH.#maedia analysis
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@yallemagne Saw your tags and wanted to say that interpretations that incorporate the sexualities are totally fine! Thanks for being so interested in the game and thank you for asking, I appreciate it- Personally, when writing for Vince his queerness was apart of his character but just wasn't a defining aspect of his arc. I don't mind people shipping them or writing about them being romantic or exploring that at all, I think it's a cool thing that blooms from fandom and exploring those character dynamics are what I find most engaging making the games in the first place. Don't feel anxious to post your thoughts on our games, even in the off-chance its not something I would agree with it's still enlightening to hear peoples interpretations of the stories I work on.
The thing with queerbaiting I wanted to address [spoilers ahead] was specifically people feeling cheated out of an ending where they get together.
I've seen people say that they were expecting a possible ending where Rody and Vince become romantic partners and that it felt like the story was pushing in that direction with the implication that they were queerbaited. I think it's alright to feel upset by an ending of a story and a lot of the criticism towards Dead Plate has been things I think I should take into account with future projects- but to expect an ending where two queer characters ultimately get together purely because the story explores ideas of queerness with the characters doesn't mean you were queerbaited when you didn't get that ending.
Because any ending where Rody and Vince got together wouldn't be indicative of the story we were trying to write. If Rody and Vince were to be romantic with eachother by the end it would undo all of the build up and kind of erase the entire point of their dynamic- Rody's entire issue was that he only knew how to live for others while Vince's issue was that he only knew how to live for himself. Their dynamic allowed each of them to see things from the other perspective, giving Rody the chance to change and grow by living for himself and ultimately punishing Vince due to his inability to change despite wanting to.
But yes- To answer your concern, it's fine to explore different interpretations of the game. I don't want people to be scared off from expressing their feelings on a story because they're worried its not what the authors were going for- Stories arent some secret problem to be solved, theyre an ongoing discussion with the media and the audience. Even with what I've written here I still think if people disagree it's a net positive for them to explore that opinion. And also a discussion on Rodys internalized biphobia contributing to how he treats Vince and Manon sounds sick as hell
edit: I wrote this in like january and realized it was still in my drafts, sorry about that. Currently cleaning out all my asks/drafts so apologies if I start spamming for a bit
Since you confirmed Rody and Vince as both queer, I was wondering: did you write them with the idea of them being queer in your head, or was this an afterthought bc of the fan’s reactions?
Their sexualities were already a part of the characters back in February 2023 long before the game was developed and released. For example Rody being bisexual was always there as a fact as shown in the screenshot below which is from my private discord server where I store character infos/drafts:
Their sexualities weren't brought up in the game because it wasn't relevant to the story + they are characters who just happens to be queer and regardless of their sexuality the events in the game would still happen/remain the same, one doesn't effect the other. Instead of heavily highlighting it we wanted to treat it as another piece of fun fact since their sexualities doesn't define their character/personality.
We will never change or add anything to our characters or narratives just because of fan's reactions or suggestions, we only tell stories we want to tell!
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If you don't mind oc questions, how does Nyoka, Emilio and Cecil feel about the prefect?
Do they see MC as a nuisance? Or someone interesting for managing to deal with 4 overblots? Excluding Jamil, Vil, and Malleus since it wasn't public to the entire school and since book 7 isn't finished yet
I ACCEPT OC QUESTIONS!!! they keep me from dwelling on doom :’) 💖 I know I answered something similar to this before but I’m going to use this to do better since this is non-specific (my old answer sucked anyway since I was unprepared). For simplicities, sake I’m going to disregard all OBs since the general Prefects involvement with them is barely addressed in a diegetic way to begin with outside of Book 3. So that’s a non-factor going forward.
——
Across all three boys I think they probably find the Prefect/MC to be a nuisance. But mostly framed under that “NRC great-mages-in-training with huge egos” finding the fact that a human with NO magic gets to be a student there (with Grim) for #reasons to be kind of insulting. It’s just a territorial and pride thing common for majority of the students there. These three aren’t exempt from that. But, they do act out in different ways.
Since Emilio is so shameless, Emilio will take any potshot to undermine the Prefect’s status, accomplishments (if any) and their popularity, even is this popularity is more so “infamy” than anything else (which it is). They are in the same grade level, so encounters are more frequent. I think he probably sees a bit of himself in the Prefect, and ends up projecting onto them more than he should. He’ll probably warm up eventually though depending on how development goes, but it will not be an easy task, assuming this Prefect is a general good faith person. And yes, he would apologize and take every moment to atone for his behavior if they ever became friends.
Cecil, despite his own issues, would rather ignore the Prefect and generally wants nothing to do with them. I don’t think he’d be mean like Emilio, just a little snarky if they crossed paths. But he’s just naturally pretty snarky despite his bumbling nature. He wouldn’t do anything though. He doesn’t know it yet but it’s not really in him to be all that mean. He does know that Housewarden Malleus regards the Prefect highly, but can’t understand why. If the Prefect were to an extend a friendly hand first towards Cecil and remain persistent (persistence is key), then Cecil would eventually come around tenfold. I think a Prefect friendship would do Cecil some good. Maybe even improve his magical performance even— who knows 👍
Nyoka sees the Prefect as prey. A mouse, even. That is food. However, in general Nyoka doesn’t regard the Prefect at all and would rather ignore them. This is pretty easy to do since they wouldn’t be too likely to cross paths. If they did though, in a non-confrontational way provided they keep a respectful distance, he would be deferential and civil. On paper this sounds good, but this is not exactly a warm scenario. Rule of thumb is to just not engage. If they did somehow frequently cross paths and a Prefect were to remain respectful of his space (and perhaps engage with his interests) then maybe that civility would become genuine. He might find the idea of a predator becoming slightly chummy with prey a little amusing, in its own way.
lol like how I spun this into “BUT WHAT IF FRIENDS???” Scenario
THANKS BYE
(OH right. @servamp01 )
#cozy ask#my art#twstposting#twst oc#ERRRM OKAY LETS TAG SOME BOYS#Emilio estrada alvarez#cecil mugwort#nyoka wadjet#twst grim#starring grim as the placeholder
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IDFC | BILLIE EILISH.
୧ ‧₊˚ your best friend comes home drunk again, and you realize that hiding your love for her is dawning on you more than you thought.
pairings & aus. billie eilish x fem!reader warnings. angst & nothing but it | unrequited love | no happy ending (but do tell if you want a part two...) author's note. hello second upload of the day!! (this is so unlike me) but i had this revolutionary idea while listening to idfc by blackbear...so here's this very angsty fic lmao! enjoy! word count. 2.7k
falling in love with your best friend has got to take the cake for the ‘dumbest shit i’ve ever put myself through’ award, you think.
you didn’t mean for it to happen— of course not, and it all happened so quickly that you didn’t realize how deep you were in it until months later.
you and billie had became friends in an odd way, you knew someone who knew claudia and of course, billie did too— so the both of you mingled at her birthday party a couple years back, when the both of you were just shy of eighteen.
nobody could seperate the two of you if they tried, and that trait carried on with you and billie until you stepped into adulthood. moving in together seemed like such a good idea in the past— you two were tight, and billie wanted to live separately from her family now— it should’ve been so easy, right?
well no, of course not.
before meeting billie, you assumed that you were straight. but as teenagers, that when lines start to get blurred and things start to mess with your head, and you would sometimes catch yourself staring at her for a little too long, or your heart twisting whenever she texted you.
it killed you to fall in love with billie. it was painful and long, and with every day that passed— she only made it worse.
because she was billie eilish, she would unintentionally flirt with you, but that’s because she did it with everyone, of course she wasn’t going to treat you any differently. she always called you nicknames like ‘baby’ and ‘mama’, which wouldn’t have bothered you that bad if you understood the friendly connotations behind it. but you wanted her to be yours so damn badly, and every time she called you anything but your name, it made your skin fiery to the touch.
but the worst of the worst, god— the thing that’ll haunt you forever, was when she had kissed you in your shared apartment after your 20th birthday. compared to her at the time, you were much more innocent, and hadn’t hardly kissed anyone in your entire life. and with your own speculation that you may not be strictly into men, you had drunkenly asked her to take your ‘girl kiss virginity’ away, and she obliged like it was nothing.
you didn’t like the kiss at all. not because she wasn’t a good kisser— she was a damn good one, but it was because the kiss was deep and passionate, and her hands were roaming all over your body as one kiss turned to two, and two turned to three, and you don’t even know how long the both of you were wrapped in each other until she complained that she was tired and that she was going to go to sleep.
it made you feel like shit. she had slipped out of your room and left you lonesome, and you brushed your fingertips over your lips to try to make sense of what just happened. you had just made out with your best friend, which wasn’t the issue, the issue was that you liked it.
you eventually had to pick a side, if you were going to let your little crush get in the way of friendship, or if you were just going to sweep all of those romantic feelings under the rug. and that’s exactly what you did— you pretended like it didn’t hurt when she would get into relationships, or come to you asking for help to plot on someone she wanted to be with.
you were just being a good best friend by helping her out. she would always ask you why you didn’t ever date, and you just made up some lame excuse about how that wasn’t what interested you. which wasn’t entirely a lie, it didn’t interest you, because only she did.
in current time, it’s half past two in the morning when billie stumbles through the door of your shared apartment, keys jingling on her carabiner against her jean-clad thigh when her eyes meet yours. you’re sitting idle at the kitchen island with a bowl of cereal in your hand, clad in nothing but a pair of billie’s boxers and a lacy white tee. you shoot her an inquisitive look, “where have you been dude? it’s like, two in the fucking morning, and i’ve barely seen your face all day.”
she gives out a nonchalant shrug, closing the door with her foot, and you can just tell by her sluggish body language that she’s anything but sober. she’s smiling too much and not talking enough, and when billie gets like that, it’s usually because she’s had a couple of drinks.
you’ve been out all night, don’t know where you’ve been, youre slurring on your words, not making any sense— but i don’t fucking care.
“where have you been, billie?” you ask her, dropping your spoon in your empty bowl as you looked at her, waiting on your answer.
she’s moving so slow that it starts to piss you off, and she just gives you another drunken shrug with a wave of her hand, “don’t worry a-about it, mama, just..a l-little get together.”
the nickname that she gives you makes your skin crawl, and you slide off of your stool and grab your phone, placing your bowl in the sink without saying a word billie. you don’t have the energy to entertain her shit tonight, so you walk up the stairs quietly, slamming your room door in contrast to your silence.
you don’t expect her to bother you for the rest of the night, but billie being billie, she unsolicitedly opens your bedroom door, leaning against the door frame with one arm resting above her head, the other at her side, holding a cup of juice.
“what did you do���tonight?” billie’s words are choppy, and you try your best to not pay any mind to her. usually when she’s drunk, you’d take such good care of her, getting her into comfier clothes and letting her sleep in your bed. but you were irritated now, and you tried your best to fight the urge to be your usual, hospitable self.
“nothing, i waited on your ass to get back so i could sleep.” you responded coldly to her, walking over to your dresser to grab a hoodie to slip on. your eyes scanned the array of clothing, and you bit your lip when you realized that all the clean hoodies you had belonged to billie.
you pretended like it didn’t bother you and grabbed a gray essentials hoodie, pulling it over your head and fixing the hood, “i’m gonna go to sleep, so…”
billie sunk into the oak wood of your door, and of course, when you turn your head for five seconds, she slips and falls straight to the floor.
“fuck!”
you quickly whipped your head around, and you wanted so badly tonight to just keep to yourself and not deal with billie’s shenanigans, but you couldn’t control yourself as you ran over to her, kneeling down and grabbing her face. her eyes were closed like she was asleep, and you tapped her cheek lightly but frantically, “bils? talk to me, are you awake?”
“i-i’m fine.” billie breathes out after a couple of moments, sitting up with her back pressed against the wall. she lets out a deep sigh that makes you let out one in relief.
even though you spoke against it at first, you were determined now to put her to bed safely. you offered her your water bottle that was on your dresser as you promised her that you’d be back, venturing out into the hallway and stepping into your bathroom.
you drew a hot bath for billie the way she liked it, leaving a change of clothes on the toilet, paired with a towel.
your blood was pumping adrenaline through your veins so hard that you could feel it heat your forehead. you weren’t even angry anymore— you just felt weak now, upset with the fact that billie always seemed to have this hold over you.
you loved her too much. it was becoming an issue now, but there wasn’t anything you could do or say, so the only option you had was to stay silent and suck it up. and although it hurt, really damn badly, those were your only options.
so you walked back into your bedroom and helped billie to the tub that waited for her, helping her strip out of her clothes that reeked of burberry perfume and tequila. her shirt was now discarded on the floor along with her pants, and the only thing she was in now was her bra and underwear.
of course, billie being your best friend— you’ve seen her naked plenty of times, but it still shocks you a little when she slips out of her undergarments, sinking into the bathtub, resting her head on the side of it.
“will you stay and talk to me?” billie murmurs, a little more sober now, and you nod silently, sitting crossed legged on the floor next to her.
it takes everything in you not to kiss her right now. she’s resting her head on her arms and looking at you with soft, tired eyes, her eyelashes drooping as she fought against sleep. her lips were pink and a little swollen, and she parts them to whisper lowly, “i’m….sorry.”
“sorry for what, billie?”
silence hangs in the air for a second until you hear her move in the water, taking a loofah and lavender scented body wash. she starts with her arms, head leaned against the wall behind her, “such a mess. i am— i-i’m sorry that you…have to put up with my shit.”
“it’s okay.” you mutter silently, “i do it because i love you.”
that makes billie smile, yet she’s got no idea that the love you’re describing is so much deeper than either of you could ever imagine. but you mask it well, flashing her a fake and small smile, throwing your head back to rest it on the toilet seat lid.
you honestly start to fall asleep until you hear the water drain, and billie grabs her towel and clothes behind you as you rub your eyes, jolting awake.
there’s no talking between the two of you. you just wait until she’s done putting on her t-shirt and sweats and when she’s ready, you lead her back to your bedroom instead of her own. you didn’t trust her to be alright on her own, so you let her sleep in your bed.
when you turn all of the lights off, billie climbs into bed next to you, her face so close to yours that your noses are almost touching.
her hand touches yours for a brief moment, “thank you…for always taking c-care…of me. i love you, y/n.”
billie falls asleep before you can even reply, and you eventually do the same, a tear slipping down your cheek silently.
the morning after is quiet, too quiet. the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes you want to scream just to break it. billie is still asleep when you wake up, her face turned toward you, the sunlight peeking through the blinds casting lines across her freckled skin. her lips are slightly parted, her breathing soft, and it makes your chest ache in that stupid way it always does when you look at her for too long.
you slide out of bed as carefully as you can, trying not to wake her, but even in her sleep, she stirs when you move. her hand stretches out to the space you just left, searching for you instinctively. it’s not fair how effortlessly she makes you feel like you belong to her, even when she doesn’t mean to.
the kitchen is the only refuge you have. you busy yourself making two cups of coffee, your hands shaking just enough to make it hard to pour the water into the machine. every sound feels too loud—the clink of the mug against the counter, the hum of the coffee pot, the low groan of the fridge door as you open it. your head is swimming with the memory of last night—her drunk apologies, the way her voice broke when she called herself a mess, and how much you wanted to hold her and never let go.
but you can’t. because she doesn’t love you like that.
she shuffles into the kitchen a while later, her hair a mess and her hoodie hanging off one shoulder. she looks like chaos wrapped in comfort, and it’s unfair how effortlessly beautiful she is. she rubs her eyes, leaning against the doorway as she watches you. “morning, mama,” she says, her voice still scratchy from sleep.
you don’t even bother correcting her nickname this time. it’s a battle you’ll never win. “morning,” you mutter, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter toward her.
she takes it, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic, and gives you a soft smile. it’s the kind of smile that would make anyone else’s heart flutter, but for you, it just feels like a weight. “you didn’t have to do all that for me last night, you know,” she says quietly, her eyes downcast.
“it’s fine, billie,” you reply, your voice more clipped than you intend. “you were drunk. i couldn’t just leave you like that.”
she frowns, her brow furrowing like she’s trying to figure you out. “are you mad at me?”
you laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “no, billie. i’m not mad at you. i’m mad at….myself.”
her frown deepens, and she sets the mug down on the counter. “but why? you didn’t do anything wrong.”
her response makes you want to scream. you want to tell her everything, every little thought that’s been eating away at you for months, years even. but instead, you bite your tongue, because you can’t risk losing her. so you lie, like you always do. “forget it. it’s nothing.”
she doesn’t believe you—of course she doesn’t. but she doesn’t push, which almost makes it worse. because deep down, you wish she cared enough to dig. you wish she could see past the walls you’ve built up and realize that every time you look at her, it feels like your heart is breaking all over again.
the day passes in a blur of nothingness. billie spends most of it curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone and occasionally singing along to whatever song is playing softly in the background. you try to distract yourself with chores, cleaning the apartment until your hands are raw from scrubbing. but no matter how much you busy yourself, your thoughts always circle back to her.
it’s late when she finally speaks again, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “do you ever feel like you’re…stuck?”
you glance up from where you’re folding laundry, startled by the vulnerability in her tone. “stuck how?”
“like…like you’re not where you’re supposed to be. like you’re waiting for something to happen, but it never does.”
your throat tightens, because that’s exactly how you’ve felt since the day you realized you were in love with her. “yeah,” you admit quietly. “i know what that feels like.”
she doesn’t say anything else, but her eyes meet yours across the room, and for a moment, it feels like she’s trying to tell you something without words. but then she looks away, and the moment is gone.
later, when she’s fallen asleep on the couch, you sit beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. the lyrics to “idfc” play in your head like a cruel mantra: “tell me pretty lies, look me in my face, tell me that you love me even if it’s fake.”
you reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, your fingers lingering for just a second too long. “i love you, billie,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of her breathing.
but she doesn’t hear you. and maybe that’s for the best. because no matter how much it hurts, you’ll keep pretending. you’ll keep being her best friend, her safe place, even if it kills you. because as much as you wish she could love you back, you’d rather have her like this than not at all.
and so you sit there, the weight of your unspoken feelings pressing down on you, and you let the tears fall silently, knowing that tomorrow, nothing will have changed.
#billie eilish fluff#billie eilish x you#billie eilish fanfiction#billie eilish x reader#billie eilish smut#billie eilish#billie ellish lyrics#billie eilish x y/n#billie eilish x female reader#billie eilish x fem!reader#billie eilish blurb#billie eilish fic#billie eilish imagine
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Piltover girl* ੈ✩‧₊˚ Sevika
Pairing: Sevika x gn reader (leaning towards fem)
summary: Sevika found out your secret. An argument breaks out
Word count: 1.3k (somethin light)
Warning: this is my first writing ever so ntm. Always willing to take tips where needed thanksssss
* ੈ✩‧₊˚ You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you didn’t really need but could hardly ignore. You had seen this before: the quiet distance she created between herself and the world, a barrier so thick that not even the closest people could reach her. But tonight, that barrier felt thicker than usual. Her eyes rarely met yours, and whenever you tried to speak to her, her responses were curt and dismissive.
Something was wrong, and you could feel it in the pit of your stomach.
You had always been there for Sevika, no matter what. Through her rough times, through the dark nights in the underbelly of Zaun, through every gamble she’d thrown herself into, you had been a constant presence. But tonight, it felt like she was shutting you out in a way that stung. The space between you seemed to grow with every word she ignored, every glance she avoided.
You’d tried, earlier in the night, to offer support as she gambled away her winnings, the old familiar tension in her eyes—frustration, anger, but more than that—something darker. Something you couldn’t understand.
“Sevika,” you said again, sliding into the chair across from her. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting strange all night.”
She didn’t even look up, focusing intently on the cards in her hand. “I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice tight, laced with a sharpness you hadn’t heard before.
“No, you’re not,” you pressed. “What’s going on? You’ve been... distant.”
Her jaw tightened, her grip on the cards faltering for a moment as she glanced at you, her gaze icy. “Drop it, alright?” Her tone was colder than usual, sharper than a knife’s edge. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
You frowned. Something didn’t sit right. You weren’t going to just let it go.
“Sevika, please. Talk to me. I’m just trying to be here for you,” you said, your voice soft but insistent.
But Sevika's eyes darkened, her expression hardening. She leaned back in her chair, a deliberate move, as if she was putting even more distance between you. “You think you know me, don’t you?” she snapped, her voice a low growl. “You think you know what I need. You think you can just come here, show up, and act like you’re the answer to my problems. But you don’t know anything. Stop trying to play a hero.”
Your heart skipped a beat, a rush of confusion and hurt flooding your chest. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You couldn’t mask the hurt in your voice. “You think just because I haven’t faced as much troubles as you I don’t understand you? I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve always been here.”
She scoffed, a bitter smile curling on her lips. “Always there, huh? You don’t even know who I am, where I’m from. I’m just a street rat from the depths of Zaun. You don’t belong here. And you never will.”
The words cut through you like shards of glass. You had never heard her sound so angry, so... cold. It felt like a betrayal, but you couldn’t understand why she was pushing you away so violently.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, voice trembling with a mix of frustration and sadness. “I’m not some savior, Sevika. I just want to be with you. I want to understand to you to…love you.”
Her eyes flashed with something darker, something you couldn’t place. “understand me? I’ve seen enough of Piltover’s elites play pretend. You think you’re different?”
You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, she stood up abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. The room seemed to close in as she towered over you, her entire presence heavy with something unreadable.
“What the hell’s going on with you tonight?” you asked, exasperated.
“Let’s just say... I found out your little secret,” Sevika said, her voice dangerously calm. The words hung in the air, and your heart froze in your chest.
You swallowed, your blood running cold as the truth began to dawn. “What secret?” you managed to whisper, your voice suddenly small, trembling.
“Don’t play coy,” she spat, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but I didn’t want to believe it. But you’re not *just* a Piltover girl, are you? You came down here to escape something, didn’t you?”
A rush of dread filled you, and your mind scrambled to make sense of what she was saying. “Sevika, I—”
“I know who you are,” she interrupted, her voice low but cutting. “I found your file. The one from the upper city. The one with your name on it. The one that says you came here to run from your precious little life in Piltover. Hiding behind the streets, pretending to be someone you’re not.” Her tone was venomous, and the accusation hung in the air between you like a blade.
You froze. How did she—? But then it hit you: when you first met Sevika, you’d been careful about your past. Too careful, maybe. And now, it seemed, it had come back to haunt you.
Her gaze was harsh, unrelenting. “You don’t think I can see it? You think I wouldn’t figure out that someone like you could never belong here? No one from Piltover ever really gets it down here. Not the way we do.”
You could feel the weight of the lie you’d been living pressing on you, and it hurt. More than anything, it hurt because you had never meant to deceive Sevika. You just wanted to be close to her. To be someone *real*, someone who could stand beside her in a world so far removed from the polished streets of Piltover.
“You were just using me to get away from your perfect Piltover life,” Sevika’s words cut through the silence, and your heart shattered. “I guess I was just another distraction for you. Just another fucking game to play.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “That’s not true,” you whispered, but the weight of her gaze made it hard to speak. “Sevika... I didn’t want to hide it from you. I—”
She shook her head, her expression hardening. “Don’t, okay? Don’t pretend you came down here for me. This was just some… escape. And I’m not the damn place for you to run to.”
A silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You wanted to fight back, to tell her she was wrong, but the truth was, deep down, you knew she wasn’t entirely wrong.
Sevika was right about one thing: you had been hiding behind a mask of your own. But that didn’t change how you felt about her.
You didn’t speak. Instead, you turned and walked to the door, your heart aching with every step you took toward it. Sevika didn’t try to stop you. She didn’t even move.
Before you left, you glanced back at her—once more, but for the first time, there was no warmth in her eyes. Only cold, calculated distance.
And that was enough to tear you apart
#sevika#sevika x reader#sevika x you#arcane#mommy milkers#sevika x y/n#jinx arcane#arcane season 2#arcane season two
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Alright, I'm gonna rant one last time and repost this because it actually explains most of my issues with season 2. This is what I mean when I say that stuff gets too weird and suddenly anything is possible.
On one side you have magic, weapons, the environment, I don't know what to call it. This is important, because it sets the stakes. If that stuff doesn't get established to a point where I can roughly guess how powerful things are and how they can be used, then anything is possible. Viktor could've sent a gigantic skybeam down on Piltover and Mel could've ridden a magical unicorn to fly up and stop him and it would've been reasonable within the given lor because there wasn't any. An example that done better was actually Ekko's Z-Drive. It can rewind four seconds, nothing more, nothing less. There's no weird stuff where e.g. Ekko suddenly appears twice, and you're never left wondering "Why didn't he just go back further?" Because the boundaries were clear.
On the other side you have character motivation. This is what lets me connect to a character. This has been missing on so many parts! Just like the other post mentions, in season 1 even the most minor character like Huck had his motivation established. If he helps Vi first, why does he betray her later? Because he's shown to be weak and timid and shimmer makes him strong, so he's addicted to it! Now compare that to Maddie's betrayal. Maddie did it because she was... Evil? Heartless? I guess? Apparently she was just a tool for Ambessa just as she was a tool for the story.
Talking about Ambessa: What even was her goal? Weaponization of Hextech to use it against the Black Rose I suppose? She clearly wanted to protect Mel, but when Mel disappeared we didn't even get to see Ambessa's reaction! Ambessa generally felt like she was just there to cause conflict, like she just wanted to murder everyone in her way to take over Piltover... and then what? Fight the Black Rose? Who are they even? Honestly, up until the end I wasn't sure if they're actually bad, or just a resistance group that has resorted to dark magic and deception to take down Noxian warlords! It's still unclear actually...
Honestly, I liked act2 mostly for reuniting Vi, Jinx and Vander, and even that happened too quickly, but it still worked for me because of the build-up (you kow, for character motivation) in season 1. Isha also has no character, but at least we got to see Jinx connect with her like a sister.
And then there's Ekko, who's an interesting case. I didn't get disconnected from him, HE got disconnected from the plot! I understood his character for ep7, but when her returned in ep9 he was suddenly able to connect with Jinx despite not having seen her since their fight on the bridge only because he met an entirely different version of her that he liked in the almost perfect universe? And it's not even properly shown?! I get that it would move him to give Jinx another chance, but this made it seem like he suddenly understood her, even though AU!Powder has nothing to do with her. He just reappeared after months of being gone, he has no idea what happened and what state she's in! And then he says one proper line and it just cuts away.
Many people praised season 1 for often going the "Show, don't tell"-route, but season 2 was neither show nor tell...
Anyway, like I said, last rant to put my frustration into words, I'm tired...
what made season 1 so stunningly good was that every scene could be explained with stuff that happened on screen.
Why did Vi know where to find Vander after Silco took him? well of course because of Ekko who was established in the first few minutes of the first episode to be the character to be on look out.
Why did Powder follow the others to the abandoned building? why because she wanted to feel useful, she wanted for her stuff to work and she wanted to help. She wanted to not be the Jinx. This was all established through character moments that were natural and normal human interactions.
Why did Mel invest in Jayce? Why because first of all her own mother sent her away so seeing Jayce's mother stand up for her son must've hit her. And we see her talking about having to find new investments. Of course she would. He sounds interesting enough. Why not try it? If it doesn't work banishment is still on the table.
Why did Viktor help Jayce? Because he didn't want to stand in Heimerdingers shadow as just an assistant anymore. He was sick and knew the problems of the undercity first hand, he wanted to help. Of course he would, if there was a chance hextech could do it.
Why did Marcus continue to help Silco even after Graysons death? Why, because of his daughter or course. He could be threatened, molded and used. He wanted to establish big things, and was hasty in his youth, and we see 1. Silco exploit that and 2. Marcus regret that.
Why did a shimmer induced Huck help Caitlyn out? Why because as early as the very first episode in Vanders first speaking scene he gets help from Vander and well why wouldn't he then show that help for Vi, knowing he can?
literally every scene makes sense, everything can be explained with stuff that we SEE in the show. There isn't anything "off screen" or just not there.
Now tell me
Why did Caitlyn suddenly switch sides again in season 2 act 2? Why and how did Mel know that her brother wasn't actually her brother? Why did she know how to solve the puzzle? Why is Viktor suddenly floating in the universe? Why does Ambessa just ignore her daughter being abscent outside of that one throw away line? Why do Maddie, Loris and Isha exist? Every chatacter existed for a reason that wasn't just Plot even if they sometimes were just for Plot in season 1. But Maddie, Loris and even ISHA for gods sake, really are just Plot. Isha not as much as Maddie and Loris and thank god for that but still, her character, while I still hope it isn't true, existed to die and further Jinx's pain.
it's just so ugh
Edit: A lot (and I mean a LOT) of people have told me how Kino did make sense and I agree with that now. Though I stand firm with my opinion that we should've gotten to know him before so we could have figured it out even easier with Mel, there were actually signs I didn't notice myself before. Thank's for that.
Plus I will not back down on the fact that Mel just knowing the solution to the puzzle "makes sense cause sHe WaS ShOwn TO Be gOoD WiTh PuZZLes" is stupid. Yes, I know she is smart and good with that. But that's like a whole different thing. It's such a leap I don't know how some of you don't see it.
#arcane#arcane season 2#arcane spoilers#arcane critical#feels kinda good to realize WHAT actually bothers me#and the other post brought it right to the point#act3 wasn't even out when it was written#I'll try to stick to the good parts now#like Sevika and Jinx teaming up
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One thing I'm realising about a good chunk of the avatar fandom is that they need to be hand held through every development in the entire franchise. Like I've had my suspicions for a while but the reactions to the new Mai comic really cement it for me.
There's this odd aversion to understanding that characters will grow and change. And even if the building blocks for a character's growth are set up earlier, so many people seme unable to extrapolate that potential + time = change.
I think part of the reason to this is that the most prominent character growth arc in the franchise is Zuko's. And it's a very well crafted storyline, but it is also very much spoonfed to us. Not just by us getting to go into Zuko's pov but even having Iroh helpfully narrate and explain what the fuck is going on in Zuko's world at the moment.
And I think this is why a lot of the fandom expects changes to the characters to be these explicitly shown, overtly prominent, dramatic affairs, perferably narrated by a conveniently placed old man. But Zuko's arc was quintessential to a deeper plot, and it had the drama and structure one would expect of a solid storyline. But this won't ring true for all characaters.
Taking Mai's character growth from the apathetic teenage girl who is resentful to the more established young woman who possesses more agency and seemingly has developed more radical views for example.
I've made a long ass post on this, so I won't bore you with the details, but the crux of Mai's character is that she was restricted and handled for most if not all of her life for multiple different reasons.
But at the end of the show, most of those reasons are removed. And this would, as you can imagine, trigger a change in the charcter.
But Mai's change wouldn't be like Zuko's, wouldn't involve wandering a foreign land, running a teashop and having allergic reactions to good decisions. Mai's arc would be her going about a normal life in that flowershop, learning to see the world from a different perspective and looking back at events and systems from her childhood and going "huh. That was fucked up."
And with the comic book format being much more streamlined, this just wouldn't cut it as a compelling plot, because it would basically be a less dramatic version of Zuko's deprogramming. But it doesn't have to. Because we have all the puzzle pieces. Hell, even the comic preview spells it out for us with this obvious metaphor.
I'm just surprised how many people seem to have such an averison to not having every plot point spelled out witg big bold letters. How many people won't go through the simple process of engaging with a piece of media rather than just consuming it.
And I don't mean to grandstand or act like I'm better than the fandom for doing something as simple as not reacting negatively to a slight shift in the fictional status quo.
#the object permanence is Not There™️#this is the media consumer version of my chihuahuas losing their minds over me changing my hairstyle where they didn't see me do it#mai#avatar#avatar fandom criticism#atla#ashes of the academy#atla mai#mai atla#zuko#iroh#avatar: the last airbender#the last airbender#avatar the last airbender
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