#she got everything and nothing at the same time

[alwaysanangelneverag0d]

Everything starts here

based off this prompt(thank u anon)

masterlist

a/n:sorry this is late y’all my life got crazy busy and extremely stressful i had no free time to sit down and write:(.THIS IS FREAKY AF THO).Might be some mistakes as well,didn’t do a huge proof read

content:Fluff then straight FILTH,sub!pxdom!a,mommy kink(i’m ovulating),fingering,oral sex,scissoring,faceriding,choking,spitting,edging,overstimulation,hair pulling..i think that’s it if i missed anything lmk

Wc:8.0k

————————————————————————-

Paige Bueckers might have been the luckiest woman on earth.

Not because of the cameras flashing in her direction.

No it’s because she was here—on Azzi’s night—as her girlfriend.

Draft night. The accumulation of Azzi’s hard work. Her blood,sweat,tears and damn near everything else. Paige had watched her grind for this moment with a quiet intensity few people understood—and now the payoff was soon to come. The Valkyries had the number one pick.And everyone knew who’s name they were calling

And Paige?Well..she looked great tonight. But more importantly she looked like she belonged next to greatness.

Brittany had chosen a simple sleek suit for Paige. Deep navy with cream piping at the edges,the kind that whispered power-it had been tailored to frame her shoulders,nipped in at the waist as if it had been perfectly made for her. The jacket produced a slight shine under the lights,just enough to catch the eye,but not enough to outshine Azzi.

She’d skipped the tie as Brittany suggested. Too stiff. Instead,she left the first two buttons of her shirt undone. Not enough to be obvious but enough to relax,just enough to make Azzi look twice. Her pants were cropped a fraction above her ankles—hugging her hips without clinging. The matte black Louis Vuitton loafers were her silent flex—not that Paige cared about labels,but damn..they made her walk different.

She decided to keep her hair in a classic slickback bun. Nothing too complex. Just simple. It was Azzi’s night

Her jewelry was another story though.

She had chosen small gold hoops—light,flashy,and clean.

She wore two rings. On her index finger sat another promise ring she and Azzi had picked out together—small but heavy with meaning. A 14k gold band with a slim row of topaz—Azzi’s birthstone—resting flush against metal as if it had always belonged there. She hadn’t taken it off since the day they bought them.

The second ring chosen by Brittany weeks before—minimalist perfection .A plain,gold band brushed with titanium. It was bare except for the words engraved on the inside proof not promise

And lastly the necklace.

The silver chain rested beneath her collar,barely visible unless you looked for it. But Azzi would look. The silver chain sat right over her neck—the same one azzi had given to her as a “good luck charm” the summer before her first year in college. Paige had never stopped wearing it outside of basketball. Not really. Not when she left for Connecticut. Not when they were trying to pretend they were just friends who occasionally slept together. And especially not now,on the night Azzi was finally stepping foot into the league.

She’d seen glimpses here and there of Azzi’s outfit in the group chat they shared. A cream coloured dress meant to match the dark navy of Paige's suit

When she opened the door to the room,She saw Azzi before Azzi saw her—Posing for photos as they were taken by the photographer in the lit room.

Which was good—-hell maybe even necessary. Because if Azzi had looked at her in that moment,Paige knew she would’ve cracked. Right there on the carpeted floor,cameras lingering in the room,the chaos of getting draft ready humming around them—Paige would’ve folded under the weight of her. Probably would have crossed the room and kissed her so passionately that it would make even the most hopeless romantic gag.

Azzi’s dress was cream.

Not exactly stark white. But soft and warm like sunlit silk. It wrapped around her frame in a way that made Paige forget her own name for a mere second. The dress gave her power and presence,but everything else about it was quiet yet deliberate—cinched at the waist ,fabric catching just enough light to glow like it was lit from within. The hem of the dress hit midcalf. Showing just enough skin to make Paige choke on a breath—caramel skin contrasting the color in a way that made her want to do things she couldn’t do in public. And the gold button accents down one side? Yeah. The image was gonna live rent free in her mind for a long,long time.

She wasn’t covered in jewelry—simplicity had always been her style. Just a pair of gold droop earrings that danced when she moved,and a matching cuff around one wrist. Minimal. But elegant. Deadly to paige

She turned slightly adjusting her clutch,and Paige caught a glimpse of her back—defined yet soft muscle dipped clean down her spine. Paige’s jaw tightened. She stared

God how was this the same girl she used to watch fall asleep on her shoulder with a hoodie over her face?

She looked grown.

She looked like everything Paige had spent years trying to not want loudly.

Like a woman who was born to play in the league.

Like the kind of woman you rewatched interviews of time and time again—-just to hear her voice.

Like everything Paige used to dream about when they were stuck between almost and never.

The moment she had dreamed about since she and Azzi were on the same team in a U16 tournament. It was here.

And then Azzi turned fully—as if she sensed Paige watching. Looked past the assistants smoothing down the hem of her dress

And she smiled

Soft—almost shy.

But Paige caught it—the real one,the smile only reserved for just her. She thought she couldn’t fall even more in love then she already was—but in that moment she did.

Azzi made her way towards Paige ,heels clicking softly against carpet. Her smile grew,Paige’s chest tightened at the sight. She took in a moment to admire Azzi’s hair for the night.

Azzi had worn it down—long stunning goddess braids cascading over her shoulders and down her back like ink poured in slow motion. The braids framed her face like a halo,highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbones,the softness of her lips,the strength of her jaw.

Paige’s knees suddenly felt weaker than they ever have.

She had seen Azzi sweaty in a practice shirt,bare faced and sleepy on long flights,laughing in oversized t-shirts over FaceTime. Even seen her with the same hairstyle. But she had never seen her like this—elevated,radiant,ethereal.

There was power in it. In the way Azzi wore her beauty through pride.

And yet she still looked at Paige like she was the one who hung the stars.

She nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You clean up nice Bueckers”Azzi whispered when she neared close enough for her to hear it,eyes flicking down to the navy suit Paige wore,the undone buttons,the chain peaking out of the collar.

Paige gave her a slow once over in return—not caring who was watching “You think so?”

Azzi smirked”You wore that suit on purpose” her voice was soft—but it carried an undertone that was only shared in moments of lust.

“I wore it just for you.”

Then Azzi moved

She stepped forward slowly and slid her arms around Paige’s neck-not rushed, just real,as if it was second nature. Her fingertips grazed the hair along Paige’s nape,warm and soft,then settled there.

The press of her body was grounding. Paige froze for half a second—like she was 17 again and Azzi Fudd had just wrapped her arms around her. Then instincts kicked in and her hands moved towards Azzi’s waist,settling just above the curve of her ass. Fingers brushing the edge of the dress where fabric met skin.

She felt the rise and fall of Azzi’s chest.

In that moment everything else disappeared. The makeup artists kept moving in the background. The camera clicked with a shutter again. Brittany murmured something to Azzi’s assistant. But Paige heard none of it.

Azzi was close enough now that her breath was right over her ear,light and steady. Her cheek lightly brushed Paige’s temple—and Paige closed her eyes at the familiar sensation. The scent of her,the way her nails lightly pressed at the back of her neck like she needed to be touching her there.

“Are you trying to kill me before the draft even starts?”Paige whispered— loud enough for only the two of them to pick up on.

She felt Azzi’s lips curve against her skin.

“No,I’m trying to make sure you remember what’s waiting for you after this.”

Paige squeezed her waist tightly at this,letting her thumbs rub along the exposed skin on her back.

She leaned in and whispered with a low sultry tone

“If you keep talking like that…”She paused her voice dragging with heat “I’ma make you regret wearing something I can’t rip clean off.”

She felt Azzi’s breath hitch at this,nails pressing hard into the pale skin of her neck.

They stood in silence after that longer than they should've.Long enough for a makeup artist to clear their throat.But neither of them pulled away quite yet.Azzi leaned back far enough to look her in the eyes

“I’d say we look pretty coordinated tonight” she said softly, fingers still brushing the skin of Paige’s neck.

“We do” she paused”Brittany did her thing”

Azzi just gave her a smile—dimples on full display.

Azzi sighed “I would kiss you right now if it didn’t smudge my lipstick.”

Paige just laughed at this “Lipstick can always be reapplied ma” she moved a hand towards Azzi’s face,cupping her cheek bone “Come here.”

Azzi unwrapped her arms around Paige’s neck and shoved her playfully

“I had to sit in that chair for hours getting this done no way im letting you mess it up”

Paige groaned mumbling under her breath “I’ve been banned from kissing..what kind of girlfriend would so such a cruel thing”

Azzi just rolled her eyes at this and grabbed Paige’s arm

“Let’s get our photos taken together before someone drags us over there”

And Paige just followed behind her.Eyes lingering maybe a little too long on the curve of Azzi’s ass

Yeah.She was definitely the luckiest woman on earth.

————————————————————————

She was seated at Azzi’s draft table,tucked between her parents and Geno,half—listening to Tim chat about the upcoming WNBA season.Paige nodded at the right moments ,but her eyes kept drifting—drawn like a magnet to the woman beside her.

Azzi sat nearly still,but Paige caught the way her teeth tugged anxiously at the soft skin of her bottom lip.

Without a word Paige slipped her hand under the table,resting it gently on Azzi’s upper thigh.She squeezed

Without a word Paoge slipped her hand under the table,resting it gently on Azzi’s upper thigh.She squeezed

Azzi didn’t speak just t turned her head and gave her that look.

The one that made Paige feel like her chest would split open from how much love it was holding.The one she’d spend the rest of her life chasing.No cameras.Just Azzi and those eyes,full of everything they’d survived to get to this point.

Then the commissioner stepped up to the mic.The entire arena hushed as she greeted the crowd.

Paige didn’t look at the stage.She just looked at Azzi.

“With the number one pick in the WNBA draft” the commissioners voice echoed off the walls. “The Golden State Valkyries select…Azzi Fudd, University of Connecticut"

A wave of cheers and applause broke out.Accompanied by the shuttering of cameras.The sounds felt distant to Paige like she was underwater

Azzi rose slowly from her seat,braids slipping back over her shoulders as she stood.

And them,without hesitation she turned to Paige first

She didn’t think.Just wrapped her arms around her tightly and held on.

Azzi’s arms wove tightly around her back.Paige felt the silk dress against her chest,the slight tremble of Azzi’s breath,the heat of the skin where her hand met her bare back.For a second nothing else mattered but them.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Paige whispered into her ear

Azzi didn’t say anything, just nodded into her shoulder,silent but soft.

Then she turned to hug Tim,Katie,then Geno—who was definitely crying,and definitely getting teased for it later.

And then was walking towards the stage.

Paige sat down and watched as Azzi took the crisp Valkyries jersey with her name in bold print—holding it with the quiet grace she always carried.The quiet grace Paige had fallen in love with the moment they met.The crowd roared and Azzi smiled—wide,with those dimples anyone could fall in love with.

Paige had to bite the inside of her cheek hard—-almost enough to draw blood.

Because at that moment?

She wanted to run up there.She wanted to kiss her stupid.She wanted to press her forhead to Azzi’s head and tell her how much she deserved this,how much she earned this.She wanted to rewind every second of this night just to feel it again.

Instead she just sat perfectly still.Eyes burning with tears

She had dreamed of this night more than her own.Dreamed of watching the woman she loved—after injury,after doubt ,after the world kept asking if she would come back—finally step into the light that was meant for her.

She was sure she had never felt more proud in her life

Azzi Fudd.Number one pick

The love of her life.

Her Valk.

——————————————————————-

A week later Azzi had been invited to a private tour of the Valkyries Facility.She had insisted Paige accompany her.Even though Paige would soon be an opponent.She still wanted her moral support to steady her nerves(which she would never tell Paige was the reason).

The Valkyries facility was pristene—new wood,new glass,new history waiting to be made.Azzi tried to act unphased as she walked through the wide double doors,but her chest was tight with nerves she hadn’t expected.The last few days had been a blur—the draft,press,fittings,cameras,and now here she was,officially part of the W.

She glanced beside her as Paige followed her in,sunglasses tucked into her collar, a relaxed half smirk on her face like she owned the place,even though it wasn’t her team’s practice court.

“You’re not gonna like it too much right?” Azzi teased under her breath.”I still have to play against you.”

Paige just grinned “Im just here to be a supportive girlfriend.Totally neutral”

Azzi gave her a look

“Fine” Paige added.”I’ll clap quietly when you get you in a shot.Maybe”.

They didn’t get much further before a familiar voice called out from across the hallway.

“Well,well,well.Look who brought her ex-teamate-slash rival to work”

Azzi turned to see Kate Martin Jogging over, a wide grin stretched across her face.Tiffany Hayes and Veronica Burton weren’t far behind,looking equally amused

“I didn’t bring a rival” Azzi said,trying to steady her voice.

Tiffany raised an eyebrow “That looks like Paige Bueckers to me.Pretty sure she cooked us last season”

“She had 24” Kate added,helpful yet annoying”We lost in OT”

Azzi groaned

“She’s not here to spy” she said “She’s here for moral support.And i wanted her to see the facility.”

“Mhmmm” Tiffany said,eyeing Paige”And how moral is that support,exactly?”

Paige stepped forward,hand on Azzi’s hip,a spark of mischief bouncing in her eyes”You know i offered to keep it professional.But someone begged me to come”

Azzi shot her a glare “I did not beg.”

She’s not here to spy” she said “She’s here for moral support.And i want her to see the facility.”

Kate whistled”Damn its like that”

Azzi just shook her head in annoyance

Veronica nudged her “They’re just saying—bold move bringing in your former backcourt partner info enemy territory.Not sure Coach would approve”

“I already cleared it” Azzi said and turned,starting down towards another hallway”Tours happening anyways.If anyone wants to act normal for 5 minutes”

Behind her Veronica whispered loud enough for everyone to hear,”Act normal?Girl that was us being polite”

Paige laughed,low and pleased,jogging to catch up with her agitated girlfriend.

“I think they already love you” she said as she fell into stride with Azzi.

“I don’t know.They seemed kind of standoffish” Azzi muttered,biting her lip.

Paige bumped her shoulder lightly “They were teasing.Everyone loves you” She paused smiling “Though no way they will love you as much as I do”

Azzi laughed,mumbling a returned I love you.She reached over enclosing her hand in Paige’s

It was a new court.A new team.

Yet Paige still felt like her home

——————————————————————

Paige hated to admit it but the Valks facility was immaculate.High ceilings,sleek floors—a clear sign of a new building.Azzi was practically glowing as she walked through it all—the hardwood court stretching beneath her feet,the rafters where banners filled with accomplishments would be hung in the future.Watched as she introduced herself to team staff—a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

Paige stood a little to the side,on the edge of these moments,trying her best to not look too obvious.But she couldn’t help it.Azzi was radiant,her energy infected as she toured the facility like it was made for her.She’d always been so calm,so composed on the court,but in this moment,in this space—her new space—she looked giddy.

Paige’s eyes traced every movement,every flicker of excitement on her face.When Azzi reached the locker room,she ran her fingers over the new locked with her name embroidered on it,the plaque catching the light.Azzi’s fingers lingered for a moment,brushing across the surface, like she couldn’t believe it was real.Paige had seen her confident,focused,driven, and excited.But now she was amazed…She was seeing it,living it,all for the first time.

Azzi grinned at the nameplate shaking her head slightly,”This is crazy” she whispered to herself,but Paige caught it—and something in her chest swelled. Azzi was so genuine in this moment.So unguarded.Her excitement was as bright as her smile,and Paige was lost in it.

When Azzi turned and caught Paige looking she blinked for a second—as if she had just realized Paige was watching her.There was no embarrassment,no hesitation,it felt for a second like the whole room disappeared.The way her lips parted, just enough to speak.The way her eyes softened,in the the way they only did when she looked at Paige.

“You okay baby?” Azzi asked,the spark still in her eyes,her voice still laced with excitement.

Paige swallowed,forcing herself to breathe again.”Yeah” she said,but a tear escaped the corner of her eye

Her emotions were a traitor

“Im just so fucking proud of you” she choked

Azzi’s smile widened,and her heart skipped a beat,smiling knowing she was this loved.

“Thanks P” she said softly,eyes never leaving Paige “It still feels like a dream.”

Paige’s chest tightened,as she looked at Azzi standing there,so full of life,so full of hope in this moment.Her heart was full of something that somehow felt stronger then love,it almost hurt.

Azzi turned back to the locker for a minute,then shot a look over her shoulder,meeting Paige’s gaze again.”I’m just…I never thought I'd be here.You know?After everything.”

Paige didn’t say anything for a couple seconds,too caught up in the rawness. of it all,but she shook her head,her smile softening

“I know” she said quietly”I know exactly how you feel”

Azzi smiled—turning back in the direction of the court she would soon call hers.”I can’t wait to get out there”

Paige didn’t move.She didn’t need to.Just watched,her heart swelled with something so deep and soft for Azzi that it made everything else blur.

It was the same feeling Paige had when they were together,back at UConn .But here in this moment,Paige bathed in it—Azzi was living her dream right here,and it was something Paige would never grow tired of watching.

Azzi walked back towards her new home court with that same quiet confidence,but there was something different about her today.She was more than just a rookie.She was home.And Paige standing in the background,was once again reminded that she was already in love with the way Azzi moved through the world,the way she embraced her victories,no matter how small.And Paige vowed in that moment to be there for every single victory—always watching in awe.Proud.Always in Azzi’s corner

——————————————————————

A few weeks later,Azzi found herself in the depply cursed ritual known as moving.

Boxes were stacked like a skyline around her brand new apartment,the scent of fresh paint still lingering in the air.Sweat clung to her temple,her hair hung low and clinging to her back in the effort.She’d forgotten how much she loathed this process.The hauling.The lifting.The chaos of unpacking cardboard.

Good thing she had a tall,annoyingly helpful hot blonde girlfriend who made a sport out of it.

“Bet you wish you had guns like these” Paige teased,attempting to lift a heavy box with one arm like she was in a strongman competition.Her biceps flexed under the strain,and she flashed Azzi that cocky smile—the one that always walked the fine line between charming and maddening.

Azzi raised an eyebrow,failing to bite back the smile at her lips.”Less flexing,more unpacking,Captain Biceps”

The taller girl chuckled,clearly undeterred and shot her a wink.”The sooner we finish the sooner we can break in your new bed.”

Azzi rolled her eyes,turning away so Paige wouldn’t catch the way her cheeks flushed—embarrassed that a groan worthy line was so effective.

They settled into a silent rhythm,the kind that came with knowing each other for years,Unpacking turned into a simple waltz of lifting,folding,and tossing memories into new places.Occasionally they’d bump hips,exhange a heavy glance, and maybe sneak a few makeout sessions during breaks that were definitely longer then necessary.

At one point Azzi left to grab her water bottle from the kitchen.But when she returned to the living room and caught sight of Paige her knees buckled.

Paige had peeled off her white t-shirt and slipped on the brand new Valkyries jersey Azzi had intended on giving her.It hung on her frame,brushing the tops of her black corduroy shorts.She stood in the middle of the room doing a dramatic pose in front of the mirror they left propped against the wall,flexing again.This time in Valkyries purple

Azzi froze,throat dry.Paige glanced up at the sound of her footstep,grinning like a fool.

What ya think princess” Paige paused,spinning on socked feet “Purples my colour huh”

Azzi rolled her eyes “Wearing the opposition's colors is a bold move. Even for you.”

Paige just laughed and closed the distance between them,wrapping her arms low above Azzi’s waist.Her hands—predictably,found Azzi’s ass,and Azzi didn’t even bother swatting them away this time.Instead she braced herself against Paige’s solid bicep,her fingers digging into the muscle with intent.

“You like me wearing your jersey baby?” Paige whispered,her tone suddenly gone of playfulness.

“ Does it make you wet?”.Azzi nearly collapsed at this.She didn’t answer,just grabbed Paige’s face aggressively before smashing their lips together.The kiss started off slowly at first,molten and unhurried —-as if their mouths had forgotten they weren’t starving.But it quickly grew heated as her tongue forced its way past Paige’s lips.She couldn't help but let out a moan,moving her hands to grip Paige's skin under the fabric of the jersey.

Paige broke the kiss and moved towards Azzi’s neck,lips biting into caramel skin—-then tracing gentle strokes of her tongue to contrast the harshness.Azzi surrendered to the sensation a breathless moan of Paige’s name leaving her lips.

Paige grinned against her skin.In that moment clarity struck Azzi.Tonight she wanted to be in charge

With sudden strength Azzi grabbed Paige’s bun and tugged hard,pulling her girlfriend’s mouth away from her neck.Paige whimpered but quickly shifted gears,her voice dropping into a low tone

“C’mon mama,quit playing.Let me take care of you” she whined,gripping Azzi’s ass tighter,trying to prove a point.Azzi’s breath hitched but her resolve hardened.

“No.”she remarked,low and final.

Paige’s eyes widened in confusion “What?”

“I’m in charge tonight” Azzi declared,one hand gripping Paige’s jaw,the other still tangled in her hair.Paige let out a soft frustrated whine.

“Youre gonna let me do whatever I want,and you’re gonna listen.Does that sound good baby?”

Paige nodded,suddenly too desperate for words.And Azzi hadn’t even really touched her yet

Azzi crushed their lips together again—no hesitation this time.The kiss was fierce.Hard.Messy hungry.She guided them toward the black leather couch,still gripping Paige’s bun.When they reached the couch,she released her grip,their mouths wet with shared lust.

“Take you clothes off.”

Paige didn’t respond.She just followed instruction.Fingers clutching the waistband of her shorts,sliding them slowly down to her ankles,Her boxers followed,legs trembling under Azzi’s stare.She reached for the hem of the Valkyries jersey but Azzi quickly stopped her.

“Keep it on” she commanded,voice thick and rough “I want you to wear it while I ruin you”

Paige nesrly collapsed backwards onto the couch.Azzi chuckled,loving Paige’s desperation.She pushed Paige onto the cushions,watching with heated eyes as she shed her croptop,revealing black lace that barely contained her curves.

Her hands slipped into the waistband of her own shorts,peeling them off until she stood before Paige in nothing but a matching dark set.

Straddling Paige’s lap,Azzi crushed their lips together again

Paige’s hands instinctively moved towards Azzi’s hips but Azzi slapped them away with a playful tut.

“Who said you could touch?

“But—“

Azzi silenced her with a hand over her mouth.”Can you be a good girl for me?”

Her fingers danced Paige’s scalp,the power of dominance humming through her veins.The rare kind Paige rarely let her hold.

Azzi’s lips found Paoge’s neck with a deep hunger,seeking a pulse point.Her teeth bit hard on pale skin.Then slow and calculated,she traced the mark with her tongue,licking up the entire length of her throat—teasing,claiming and owning.

She quickly sat up—effectively no longer straddling Paige.

Azzi rolled her eyes “Wearing the opposition's colors is a bold move. Even for you.”

Paige just laughed and closed the distance between them,wrapping her arms low above Azzi’s waist.Her hands—predictably,found Azzi’s ass,and Azzi didn’t even bother swatting them away this time.Instead she braced herself against Paige’s solid bicep,her fingers digging into the muscle with intent

“You like me wearing your jersey baby?” Paige whispered,her tone suddenly gone of playfulness.

“ Does it make you wet?”.Azzi nearly collapsed at this.She didn’t answer,just grabbed Paige’s face aggressively before smashing their lips together.The kiss started off slowly at first,molten and unhurried —-as if their mouths had forgotten they weren’t starving.But it quickly grew heated as her tongue forced its way past Paige’s lips.She couldn't help but let out a moan,moving her hands to grip Paige's skin under the fabric of the jersey.

Paige broke the kiss and moved towards Azzi’s neck,lips biting into caramel skin—-then tracing gentle strokes of her tongue to contrast the harsh harshness.Azzi surrendered to the sensation a breathless moan of Paige’s name leaving her lips.

Paige grinned against her skin.In that moment clarity struck Azzi.Tonight she wanted to be in charge

With sudden strength Azzi grabbed Paige’s bun and tugged hard,pulling her girlfriend’s mouth away from her neck.Paige whimpered but quickly shifted gears,her voice dropping into a low tone

“C’mon mama,quit playing.Let me take care of you” she whined,gripping Azzi’s ass tighter,trying to prove a point.Azzi’s breath hitched but her resolve hardened.

“No.”she remarked,low and final.

Paige’s eyes widened in confusion “What?”

“I’m in charge tonight” Azzi declared,one hand gripping Paige’s jaw,the other still tangled in her hair.Paige let out a soft frustrated whine.

“Youre gonna let me do whatever I want,and you’re gonna listen.Does that sound good baby?”

Paige nodded,suddenly too desperate for words.And Azzi hadn’t even really touched her yet

Azzi crushed their lips together again—no hesitation this time.The kiss was fierce.Hard.Messy hungry.She guided them toward the black leather couch,still gripping Paige’s bun.When they reached the couch,she released her grip,their mouths wet with shared lust.

“Take you clothes off.”

Paige didn’t respond.She just followed instruction.Fingers clutching the waistband of her shorts,sliding them slowly down to her ankles,Her boxers followed,legs trembling under Azzi’s stare.She reached for the hem of the Valkyries jersey but Azzi quickly stopped her.

“Keep it on” she commanded,voice thick and rough “I want you to wear it while I ruin you”

Paige nearly collapsed backwards onto the couch.Azzi chuckled,loving Paige’s desperation.She pushed Paige onto the cushions,watching with heated eyes as she shed her croptop,revealing black lace that barely contained her curves.

Her hands slipped into the waistband of her own shorts,peeling them off until she stood before Paige in nothing but a matching dark set.

Straddling Paige’s lap,Azzi crushed their lips together again

Paige’s hands instinctively moved towards Azzi’s hips but Azzi slapped them away with a playful tut.

“Who said you could touch?

“But—“

Azzi silenced her with a hand over her mouth.”Can you be a good girl for me?”

Her fingers danced Paige’s scalp,the power of dominance humming through her veins.The rare kind Paige rarely let her hold.

Azzi’s lips found Paoge’s neck with a deep hunger,seeking a pulse point.Her teeth bit hard on pale skin.Then slow and calculated,she traced the mark with her tongue,licking up the entire length of her throat—teasing,claiming and owning.

She quickly sat up—effectively no longer straddling Paige.

She quickly settled on her knees between Paige’s legs.Paige was already trembling for her,thighs parted,folds glistening in the light of the room.The Valkyries jersey was ridden up to her hips.Leaving her cunt in perfect view

“Fuck baby…” azzi murmured,fingers grazing the pale skin of Paige’s thighs “This pussy is so soaked for me”.Paige whimpered clawing her fingers imto the leather of the couch.Azzi leaned in pressing a soft kiss just abive her mound.Then another.Then a third one much closer now.She dragged her tongue slowly through Paige’s folds,groaning as she tasted her—tangy and warm,just for her.

“God,you taste like heaven”Azzi rasped,nose brushing against Paige’s clit. Paige let out a choked noise,hips twitcjing into Azzi’s mouth

“Baby please”she whined,voice thin and needy.”Stop teasing me”

But Azzi didn’t respond with words.Instead,she tightened her grip on her thighs and spread them wider—staring up at her like she was about to destroy her.Which she was

“Beg.” Azzi stated simply

Paige’s head fell back,frustration evident in her tone”Please…fuck,Az,I need your mouth.I need you inside me—dont make me wait anymore”

“Good girl”

She dove in with no warning.Just her mouth devouring Paige’s pussy,tongue parting her folds in slow deliberate strokes.Paige gasped,arching up,but Azzi was ready—she flattened her tongue and licked up over and around her clit in tight circles before closing her lips around it and sucking hard.

Paige cried out

Her hands shot to Azzi’s head,fingers twisting into her hair,but Azzi caught her wrists and pinned them to the couch.

“Stay still”

Paige nodded frantically,panting as her legs quivered.Azzi released her wrists but didn’t break her rhythm—she licked paige with a steady intensity,tongue dragging slow then quick,relentless and then tender,building Paige’s orgasm with every motion.

She didn’t relent.She didn’t stop.She just stared up at Paige,pupils blown wide,as if this is what she was made for.

“Fuck,fuck Azzi your—tongue—“ Paige babbled,eyes fluttering,voice catching with each moan

Azzi growled low against her,causing Paige’s hips to twitch up in response.She switched her angle,tongue fucking deep into Paige’s entrance now,slow and watm—whilst her thumb circled her clit with maddened precision.

“You look so pretty when you’re falling apart for me” Azzi whsipered pulling back to speak—her mouth covered in Paige’s arousal.

“G-god fuck baby—“ Paige let out a wanton moan tilitiing her head back and closing her eyes..

“Keep those eyes open for me baby.I want to see you”.Azzi let go of Paige’s thigh in favour of spreading Paige’s folds open with her fingers—- allowing her tongue to go deeper inside her gummy walls.

Paige bit her lip hard—nearly drawing blood as she felt the coil in her stomach tighten.

“Fuck Azzi…just like that” she whimpered”Im so close baby”.She shook her head into Paige’s core as she fucked her with her tongue.Paige’s breaths started to quicken .Then Azzi hit a particularly spongey spot inside Paige—making her let out a guttural moan in response.

“Im so close Az,please dont stop—fuck,I’m gonna—-”

But Azzi pulled away.Completely

Paige let out an animalistic noise—somewhere between a sob and scream.Her whole body tensed—desperate,soaked and feral

“Why—“ she panted voice wrecked “Why’d you stop”

Azzi rose up slowly,abs tensing with the effort

“Because i want to watch you cum with my name on your back”.Paige just nodded—still panting from her stolen orgasm.

She grabbed Paige by the throat to force her into a sloppy kiss—Paigr moaned at the taste of her own arousal.Tongue darting outside to taste herself as much as she could. Azzi pulled back—a string of saliva connecting their mouths.

“Get up baby and bend over the couch for me”Azzi stroked her cheek.Paige’s lips were bitten and swollen—eyes glossy.

She rose,shaky on her legs,and bent over the arm of the couch,her breaths shallow.The Valkyries jersey clung to her back,sweat soaked and twisted enough for “FUDD” to stand out across her back in bold purple letters.

Azzi quickly followed,standing behind Paige.Azzi took a moment—maybe too long—just to stare.

The jersey,the curve of Paige’s spine,her ass perched perfectly,thighs trembling with anticipation.She was dripping down her legs.Waiting.Submitting.

Azzi hummed in approval,stepping forward to run her palms up Paige’s thighs,slow and reverent.”You wearing my name like this?Baby…you’re asking to get ruined.”

Paige whimpered pressing her forhead into the leather cushion “Please.Azzi.I need you.”

Azzi tucked paige’s jersey higher,folding it into Paige’s sports bra to keep the view clear.Then she spread Paige’s legs wider with a nudge of her thigh,biting her lip at the sight of her soaked,twitching cunt.

She hummed in satisfaction,thumb stroking along Paige’s ass before pulling back to give it a quick slap.Paige’s hips pressed back at the action—a whimper falling from her lips

“Arch more for me baby” Paige pressed her body further down into the couch at Azzi’s request—recieving another slap to the ass in response.

“Look at this pussy..” Azzi breathed.She dragged two fingers through Paige’s folds,fluid coating her fingers instantly.” So fucking wet.Is that all for me?”

Paige nodded furiously,gasping as Azzi teased her entrance with the pad of her fingers.

Azzi smirked then thrust inside—two fingers driving deep into her in one fluid motion.

Paige cried out,hands clawing into the leather.

Azzi didn’t give her time to adjust.She set a punishing rhythm right away,knuckle-deep strokes curling upward with each thrust,fingers fucking into Paige with intent,her palm brushing her clit on every pass.

“God,Mommy—fuck—“Paige sobbed,the words tumbling out as her hips rocked back against her hand “S-so deep”

Azzi leaned over,chest brushing Paige’s back,lips ghosting over her ear”You’re taking me so well baby,so tight for me.”

Paige had long since given up on being quiet— letting out loud guttural whines and babbling nonsensically.With every thrust she met Paige’s clit—red swollen and throbbing from the denial of the previous orgasm.With her other hand she traced the letters of her last name on Paige’s back—her name on full display as she ruined Paige.

She reached up and grabbed a handful of Paige’s now messy bun,yanking her head back so their eyes could meet in the reflection of the mirror left leaning on the wall across the room.

“Look at yourself. wearing my name like a slut.Are you my slut baby?”Paige’s eyes darkened at this she tried to get the words out but nothing came—-it was if she was too fucked out to speak.She moved her hand to roughly grip Paige’s cheekbones at this—-fingers still destroying Paige’s walls.

“I asked you a question baby” Paige moaned—eyes watering

“Y-yes fuck mommy I’m such a slut for you.” Paige moaned,gaze glassy,breath’s coming out in stutters.Her thighs were shaking,knees buckling between the pleasure.

The sounds in the room were absolutely filthy.Nothing but the sound of Paige’s slick filled the space—the creek of the couch as Azzi's fingers pounded into her.

“You close?” Azzi asked,voice low,almost teasing,she slid in a third finger without warning.

Paige screamed.

Her body jerked,hips grinding back frantically as her walls clenched around Azzi’s hand.She couldn’t answer.Just nodded over and over,face flushed eyes rolling back.

Azzi’s free hand came around to harshly circle her clit,quick and relentless.”Come for me.Now” she growled into Paige’s neck “Soak my fucking fingers.”

Paige shattered.

Her whole body convulsed,legs giving out as her orgasm hit her like a freight train.She cried Azzi’s name over and over,walls pulsing around her fingers,slick gushing down her thighs.

Azzi didn’t stop.

She kept fucking her through it relentless and deep,even as Paige whined,trembled—attempting to twist away from the overstimulation.Azzi’s hand reached back up and tighted around her hair.She yanked sharply,forcing her head back so their eyes locked—wild,desperate and starving.

Paige whimpered her mouth parting as Azzi leaned down and spat deliberately into her waiting mouth.The taste was raw,possesive

“Swallow” Azzi growled.

Paige obeyed without hesitation,swallowing the spit with a shaky gulp,eyes wide and completely undone.

Good girl” she pushed paige’s face into the couch cushion—muffling her loud moans.She felt Paige’s walls tighten around her—curling her fingers into Paige’s gummy spot.She drove harder—fighting the resistance of Paige's walls sucking her in.

“Stop mommy its too much” Paige gasped,desperation and want battling for control in her voice.But her hips betrayed her,chasing Azz’s fingers with frantic desperation.

Azzi just smirked “No baby.one more.You’re begging arent you?She’s still begging for me”

Paige nodded shakily letting out a breathless” Ok”

Azzi pulled back and removed her fingers out—slow and slick,strings of arousal clinging between her hand’s and Paige’s pulsing heat.

Paige groaned at the stark emptiness.Pushing her hips back and meeting Azzi’s eyes

“God” Azzi whimpered,bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking them clean.Paige whimpered at the slurping noise,at the look in Azzi's eyes—ravenous and in control.

Azzi dropped to her knees behind her,hands spreading Paige’s cheeks apart.She could see her twitching,the aftermath of the overstimulation written all over her body.The wetness had accumulated down to her thighs.

And yet she was still wet.Still throbbing

“She’s not done” Azzi murmured almost to herself “This pussy’s crying for me.”

Without warning she drove back in.

Her tongue licked through Paige’s folds with a purpose that was almost brutal.She flattened it against her entrance and dragged up in one long stroke before wrapping her lips around her clir and sucking.Hard

Paige shrieked.

Her hands clawed at the cushions,nails digging in desperately

“A-Azzi fuck,please,I can’t” she sobbed hips jerking in attempt to move away.

Instead Azzi held her down.Moving a muscled arm around her waist,the other gripping her thigh.

“You can” Azzi growled into her “You will.”

Her tongue flicked against Paige’s clit in tight,rushed strokes,her rhythm merciless.Then she dipped down again,thrusting her tongue into Paige’s cunt like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—like she’d die without it.

The blonde’s body twitched with overstimulation.Her head shook side to side in denial,but her hips still pushed back again—chasing every lick,every breath.She was unraveling.

“I’m gonna cum again” Paige gasped,voice high pitched and frantic.”I c-cant stop—Az,baby please—“

Azzi just hummed as a response.The vibrations pushing Paige over.

Her orgasm tore through her body like a tidal wave.She came hard,shaking,sobbing,gasping for air as her thighs clamped around Azzi’s head.Azzi held her through it,tongue still lapping through her folds,face and neck now entirely covered in Paige’s arousal.

When she finally collapsed,limp over the armrest,Azzi eased back,face soaked,shining with Paige’s release.She wiped Paige’s arousal off her face with her fingers and stared at her girlfriend— absolutely wrecked,body glistening.

Azzi leaned over and pulled her gently off the armrest,her touch a shocking contrast to how ruthless she had just been to her.Paige landed in a messy sprawl on the cushions,legs still trembling,lips parted and wet with spit.

She sat next to Paige and pulled her head gently into her lap and forced her mouth open

Paige knew exactly what to do

She sucked Azzi’s fingers clean,her tongue tracing every ridge and dip with eager devotion,swallowing every drop.Azzi slid her fingers deeper into Paige’s mouth,watching the way she gagged and drooled over them.

When satisfied she pulled her fingers free with a loud pop and with her other hand stroked Paige’s sweat damp hair.Whispering praise and sweet i love you’s into her ear as Paige settled,tears still streaking down her flushed face.

Paige closed her eyes.Finally feeling her soul come back into her body.

“Holy fuck,ma” Paige murmured after a long moment,voice hoarse “I should’ve worn that Jersey sooner if I knew i’d get your like that.”

Azzi laughed softly,pressing a tender kiss to Paige’s damp hair

“You did so good for me baby” she cooed,fingers still threading through Paige’s hair.

She helped Paige up,peeling the sweat soaked Valkryies jersey and bra from her glistening frame.

“Lets go clean up” Azzi murmured, voice tender,but low and steady.

Paige shook her head “I need to taste you” she pausied to lick her lips and lock eyes with Azzi.”Please”

Azzi hummed a slow approving sound,then nodded

“You want me to sit on that pretty face of yours? Azzi teased

Paige moaned softly in response,nodding eagerly as she sank back into the couch,skin meeting cold leather.Azzi straddled Paige’s hips first,then shifted forward,letting her wet heat brush against Paige’s defined abs.Her thighs trembled slightly at this,her arousal sticking to Paige’ skin.

“Take off the bra”Paige murmured

Azzi obliged,unclasping the delicate black lace and tossing it aside.Paige stared openly at her breasts,the way they moved slightly with the rise and fall of Azzi’s chest—the way her nipples peaked in the cold air of the room.

“You’re unreal” Paige whispered,like she didn’t even mean to say it outloud

Azzi then leaned down and kissed her.Not rough like before.This time slowing.Lingering,tongues brushing and lips catching

Azzi ground down against Paige’s abdomen,letting out soft whimpers muffled by their locked mouths.Then she pulled away, breath short.

Azzi hovered her slick,heated core above Paige’s eager mouth

Paige stuck out her tongue,teasing the damp fabric of Azzi’s thong before Azzi pushed the lace aside snd settled fully onto Paige’s waiting mouth.She let out a strangled groan at the firm contact of her girlfriend’s tongue.

Paige moaned like she was the one being ate.

Without hesitation she dove in,tongue swirling through Azzi’s folds like she was starved.Her moans of pleasure mixed in with the salty sweetness—hands finding Azzi’s ass,digging in,pulling her down deeper.Azzi didn’t protest—just this once—and began to rock her hips,riding Paige’s mouth in grinding circles.

Azzi’s fingers gripped Paige’s messy hair harshly,steadying her as she rocked back and forth slowly,riding the rhythm of Paige’s tongue. Paige took Azzi’s swollen clit into her mouth,nibbling then soothing it with lazy,sensuous swirls of her tongue.

Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s hair harder,moaning and fighting to hold onto the dominant power she claimed in their tangled heat.

“Does my pussy taste good baby?” Azzi’s voice broke with a teasing whine just as Paige’s tongue slipped deeper,flicking inside her slick canal.

Muffled by her girlfriend,Paige nodded eagerly and let out a low hum.Sending vibrations through Azzi’s core that that twisted the coil building in her stomach.

She loosened her hold on Paige’s hair and began teasing her own nipples—pinching and rolling them in time with the grinding of her hips against Paige’s face.

Paige groaned and slapped Azzi’s ass,making her let out a sharp,breathy gasp—fighting to keep control as Paige’s tongue didn’t miss a single inch,lapping and savouring every drop of her essence.

Azzi’s breath hitched as she neared the edge.

“Fuck keep eating my pussy like that,p” she gasped,rolling her nipples between her fingertips.Her hips bucked greedily against Paige’s face.

“I’m gonna fucking come for you.”

Paige didn’t relent,her movement fierce and eager,coaxing Azz over the edge with mounting moans that bounced off the walls.

Azzi crumbled with a loud,ragged moan,grinding through the peak of her orgasm before collapsing down onto Paige’s chest,attempting to gather her stuttered breathing.

Paige lay beneath her,thumb stroking Azzi’s bare back.Mouth parted in a dazed out haze,her pale skin gleaming in the soft glow of the room’s light

She couldn’t resist.Azzi stuck out her tongue and carefully cleaned every inch of Paige’s face,not missing a single drop of her own arousal.

Paige bucked her hips at this,and Azzi grinned,pressing a teasing kiss to the column of her neck

They lay there for a few minutes in silence,coming down from the intensity.

Then Azzi looked up at Paige—eyes still full of hunger

“Can you give me another baby?”Azzi smirked wickedly,her fingers tweaking Paige’s hardened nipples.Her voice dipped low and needy,dripping in lust.”I wanna cum on your pussy.”

Paige threw her head back at the filthy promise,breath hitching and eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Azzi took this as a yes

With slow deliberate movements, Azzi shifted her hips,sliding one of Paige’s legs up and resting it firmly on her shoulder,angling herself perfectly. The heat of Azzi’s core pressed hard against Paige’s, slick with their shared arousal. The contact sent an immediate shock through them, and a loud primal moan tore from their lips simultaneously.

Azzi started off slow, grinding in calculated circles, letting the friction build and tease. But as time passed, she quickened the pace,hips rocking with growing urgency. Their puffy clits collided repeatedly in a maddening tempo—each brush sending goosebumps of pleasure riveting through their bodies. The air around them thickened with the scent of arousal. Heavy breaths and wet sounds,the relentless friction creating a symphony of choked moans and ragged gasps.

Paige’s hands stayed firmly planted on the leather, hands gripping the edges so tight her knuckles whitened. She wasn’t sure if she had permission to touch Azzi yet—so she restrained herself, eyes locked on the way Azzi’s breasts bounced with every passionate grind.

Azzi’s voice pierced through the silence,breathless and light “You wanna feel them baby?”

Paige whispered a trembling “Yes.”

Azzi grinned cunningly, pulling Paige up slightly just enough to force her mouth onto her hardened nipples.Paige’s teeth grazed the sensitive peaks, biting and tugging with growing desperation.Azzi moaned, her fingers digging deeper into Paige’s shoulders as she pushed her deeper into pleasure.

“Do you love making mommy feel good?” Azzi purred, her hand suddenly closing around Paige’s throat, applying just enough pressure to elicit a shuddering whimper.

She pushed Paige’s head back down and guided her hands towards her ass. Paige caught the hint in an instant, wrapping her fingers around the softness and helping the curly headed girl grind harder and faster against her.

Paige let out a loud broken whine, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks again as the band inside her stomach snapped tighter and tighter.

“Mommy,I’m gonna come” she groaned, hands gripping Azzi’s ass with enough force to leave half moon marks.

Azzi responded,voice equally thick with need and desire “Me too baby.Hold it for me—I’m almost there.”

Their bodies moved in perfected sync, driving against each other with wild, unfiltered abandon.

“Hmmpphh—I’m cumming on this pussy” Azzi whimpered, her voice cracking with raw emotion.”Come with me honey.”

Their orgasms crashed into each other like tidal waves—moans mixing in breathless harmony as their control shattered. Azzi collapsed fully knto Paige’s chest, both girls shaking and gasping, sweat and slick lingering on their skin.

For a long moment neither of them spoke—just the sound of steadying breaths and the warmth of skin pressed to skin

Azzi finally sighed, voice low and amused “I might need a new couch after this.”

Paige let out a hoarse laugh “Totally worth it though.”She leaned down and kissed at the skin of Azzi’s temple,a tender comparison to the wildness moments before.

“We need to get up and shower. We can’t sleep like this baby” Azzi murmured, yet nuzzled deeper into the crook of Paige’s neck.

“I know” Paige whisperd back, palm rubbing slowly against Azzi’s bare skin.”Let’s just chill here a little longer.”

Paige wanted to imprint this moment deep into her memory—the feel of Azzi’s skin, the taste of her mouth, the comfort of her voice. Nights like this would soon be rare,separated by miles and clashing schedules. But no matter where it took them, they were chasing the same dream.

Together.

Just like Paige had imagined ever since that first day they met.

[prisvvner]

⋆｡𖦹 °. ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ pairing: satoru gojo x female reader

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ synopsis: you loved him once. then he ghosted you. now, years later, he's standing on your porch like he never broke your heart. but you still feel everything.

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ content: 12.5k, romance, heartbreak, mentions of burnout, past love, college sweethearts, angst, hurt, comfort

── ⟢ ·⸝⸝ author's note: this is my little surprise for reaching 100 followers on tumblr! it's sad, fluffy and emotional - enjoy <3

let me know if you guys liked it and i'll publish part two!

The front steps creak beneath your weight as you drop your bag down, the leather thunking against the old wood like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn’t mean to write.  

You pause there, one hand still gripping the rusted railing, as that familiar coastal wind sweeps up the porch—sharp with sea salt, softened by the sweet tang of sunscreen and the heavy perfume of overgrown hydrangeas that bloom like gossip around the gate.  

It’s a scent that doesn’t just hang in the air, it wraps around your skin and memory like a silk scarf left behind in someone else’s car. The kind of scent that belongs to a very specific kind of summer. 

The house, well, your mother’s infamous beach house, though she always referred to it as “the place”, sits quiet and stubborn as ever, perched at the edge of the dunes like it’s been waiting for you.  

It’s aged, but not tired, the way old debutantes age: white shiplap faded gently into a sea-washed gray, powder-blue shutters blinking sleepily in the afternoon light, their paint peeling just enough to feel nostalgic instead of negligent. The porch swing still hangs by its bleached ropes, sagging a little more now, cushion flattened into memory foam by teenage limbs and late-night phone calls you pretended weren’t about boys.  

This place smells like sun-warmed wood and old pages and something faintly medicinal that always clung to your mother’s linen drawers. It smells like every version of you that’s ever existed. 

Inside, almost nothing’s changed. 

The same woven rug sprawls inside the door, too rough against bare feet, too familiar to replace. The same ceramic turtle crouches beside it with his dopey painted smile, chipped on the shell where you dropped him during a tantrum in eighth grade—something about a missed sleepover and your mom saying no in that infuriatingly calm voice that meant it wasn’t up for negotiation.  

On the narrow table in the entryway, tucked beside a bowl of half-melted seashell candles, is the same frame. Whitewashed driftwood, corners worn soft, still holding that photo of you from the summer you were ten.  

In it, your arms are wrapped around a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, your eyes squinting against the sun, your hair stuck to your forehead. You’d named him Charlie. Begged for him all June. Got your wish in July. Sent him back to the breeder in August when your mother said she “wasn’t made for full-time pets.”  

You cried for a week. You still think about him every time you see a dog like that. 

But the difference now? 

You’re here alone. 

Well, alone-ish. 

The invitation—or rather, the politely guised suggestion—came from your mother in one of her characteristically breezy, emotionally evasive phone calls.  

“Take the house for a bit,” she’d said, her voice full of the crisp detachment of someone who believes that problems can be solved with ocean air and pressed juice.  

“To rest,” she’d added, as if rest was a thing you could uncap and pour over your shoulders like after-sun lotion. “You’ve been working too hard. Burning the candle at both ends.” 

She’d said it like burnout was an aesthetic choice. 

Like peace could be found at the bottom of a wine glass and not in the absence of an email inbox that never sleeps. 

You'd said yes because saying no would have involved explaining why you didn’t want to go back. Not just to the house. But to that version of you. 

Now you’re here, and the silence inside the house, apart from the slow tick of the wall clock and the distant wheeze of an old ceiling fan, is so complete that your heartbeat feels like an interruption. You drop your keys into the chipped ceramic bowl shaped like a hibiscus flower, its glaze spiderwebbed with age, and toe off your sandals. The floorboards are cool beneath your feet, familiar in their uneven rhythm. 

A salty breeze slips through the open screen door and rustles the linen curtains like applause from some distant room you can’t quite access anymore. 

And, for one traitorous moment, you let yourself think: Maybe this will be okay. 

But then you hear it. 

Laughter. 

Not the abstract kind that wafts from strangers in the distance. This is close. Immediate. Warm and low, carried on the breeze with too much familiarity to be anonymous. 

Your spine stiffens before your brain catches up. 

Male. Carefree. Just this side of cocky. 

Too familiar. 

Your stomach drops like a stone tossed into the tide. 

“Oh, no,” you mutter, already moving toward the porch again. 

The sun stings your eyes as you step outside, hand lifted to shield your gaze as you squint across the narrow stretch of windblown dune grass and faded wood fencing that separates your property from the one next door. The grass is taller than you remember. The fence shorter. And just past it, right where the wild reeds part near the path to the beach, he’s there. 

Of course he is. 

Satoru Gojo. 

Tall, barefoot, irritatingly relaxed in that way he’s always had, like someone who lives in the sweet spot between the world bending for him and him never needing to ask.  

He’s wearing linen pants that hang loose and lived-in on his hips, and a white button-down that looks like it costs more than your rent, open just enough at the collar to hint at sun-kissed skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up. His hair is windswept, gleaming silver and salt under the late-afternoon sun, and his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair like a crown. 

He’s tossing a red squeaky lobster toy in easy arcs for—of course—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, whose glossy copper coat shines like she’s just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. The dog yips, catches the toy midair, bounds around him like she’s in love with gravity itself. 

And then he turns. 

Spots you. 

Grins like the goddamn sun. 

“Hey,” he calls, too casually, as if this were inevitable. “You again.” 

You blink. “Me again?” 

He jogs the toy once in his hand and lets the spaniel snatch it back with a satisfied squeak. “You’re the one invading my peace.” 

“Your peace?” you echo, arms crossing before your chest as your voice lifts into polite disbelief. “Pretty sure this is my family’s house.” 

“Pretty sure you didn’t warn me you’d be this cute in sunlight,” he fires back without missing a beat, as if charm were currency and he’d never known debt. 

The words hit you in the chest and cheeks at the same time, hot, unwelcome, but not unfamiliar. 

Because, of course, you know Gojo. 

You’ve known him for years, in the way people who orbit the same social circles do. Family friends of family friends. Weddings. Charity events. He was always the one at the end of the hall with a glass of something expensive and a comment that walked the knife’s edge between outrageous and annoyingly accurate.  

You’d known him in sharp glimpses and long summers, too good-looking for his own good, too clever for yours. 

The last time you saw him, you’d both been at some rooftop bar in Tokyo, and he’d leaned in close, grinning that maddening grin, and said something like, “If we were ever in the same place for more than five minutes, you’d fall for me.” 

You’d rolled your eyes. 

And then maybe thought about it later. 

Now here he is again. On your porch. In your quiet. With that damn grin. 

The dog barks once, its tail a metronome of approval. 

You try not to smile. 

Fail. A little. 

He strolls toward you now, the dog at his heels, both of them moving like this lawn has always belonged to them. 

“You’re house-sitting for your mom?” he asks, stopping at the porch steps, one hand braced lazily on the railing like it’s all part of a script he wrote. 

You shrug, adjusting your stance like it might steady your pulse. “Something like that. She said the neighborhood was quiet.” 

His smirk softens into something almost tender. “Only till I moved in.” 

You glance down at his bare feet. His tan. That slouchy, ruinous charm that always feels like a dare. 

He looks like the kind of man you only meet once and spend years inventing better versions of. 

He looks like he belongs here. 

And that’s the problem. 

Because Satoru Gojo, the man in question, barefoot in expensive linen and looking like the human embodiment of a smug Instagram filter, is not supposed to belong here.  

Not on your mom’s sleepy little cul-de-sac, not this close to your peace and quiet, and definitely not this tanned. 

So you fold your arms and tilt your head in that way that usually scares off investment bros and Tinder dates with too much jawline confidence. “Okay, but seriously. What the hell are you doing here?” 

His smile twitches. “What, not even a ‘nice to see you’?” 

“Not until you explain why you’ve apparated into my beach exile like a preppy cryptid,” you deadpan. “Last I checked, you were the newly crowned corporate overlord of Gojo Holdings, terrorizing boardrooms and interns across Tokyo.” 

He snorts. “Overlord?” 

“I mean, CEO. But tomato, to-mah-to.” 

That earns you a low whistle and a slow, impressed grin. “Oof. That sounded rehearsed.” 

“Maybe it was,” you challenge him, arching a brow. “Maybe I practice in the mirror for moments just like this.” 

He slips his sunglasses back down over his eyes, probably to shield himself from the nuclear-grade sarcasm. Or from the fact that you’re right. 

“Well,” he grins, toeing at the edge of the bottom step. “Contrary to popular belief —and your excellent burn— I do know how to take a break. I took a sabbatical. Temporary, of course.” 

You narrow your eyes.  

“You don’t take sabbaticals,” you shoot back. “You take conference calls at 2 a.m. and fire people over sushi.” 

“Wow,” he says, mock-offended. “Have you been stalking my calendar?” 

“Please. If I wanted to stalk someone, I’d pick someone with less ego and more plausible deniability.” 

His laughter is low, easy. Annoyingly charming. The kind of laugh you can feel in your stomach even when you reallydon’t want to. 

But you keep going, like a freight train of petty. “So, let me get this straight. You, walking headline, just happened to show up next door to my mom’s beach house for a little R&R?” 

He stretches his arms behind his head, shamelessly. “Not everything’s a conspiracy theory. Sometimes I just like the sound of the ocean.” 

You squint at him. “Bullshit.” 

His smile flickers, like you’ve hit a nerve. And that’s when he says it, more casual than it should be. 

“The board and I had a... let’s say, difference of opinion.” 

You raise both eyebrows. “Did this difference involve yelling, threats of legal action, and you dramatically walking out with your sunglasses already on?” 

“Maybe,” he grins, smug. 

You roll your eyes. “God, you’re exhausting.” 

“And yet here you are, talking to me on your porch instead of slamming the door.” 

“Tempting,” you mutter. 

He grins. “Three-month leave. Unpaid. Voluntary, technically.” 

“Voluntary like a hostage situation?” 

He shrugs again, but this time it’s looser, weightier. Like something in the space between his shoulder blades has finally cracked under pressure. 

“They wanted a figurehead,” he tells you, softer now. “I wanted to rip the mold apart and build something that didn’t suck the soul out of everyone it touched.” 

You pause. 

Because beneath all the arrogance, there’s the same restless heat you remember. The same streak of recklessness that always ran just under his skin, like lightning waiting for somewhere to strike. 

And maybe that’s the part that gets you. 

Because if anyone knows what it means to walk away from something that looks perfect on paper, it’s you. 

“So,” you continue slowly, arms still folded. “Let me get this straight. You got bored of being Tokyo’s favorite capitalist nightmare and decided to tan in linen pants while throwing lobster squeak toys with a dog that looks like she owns a line of organic shampoos?” 

He glances down at the spaniel sitting obediently beside him, tongue lolling. 

“Her name’s Miso.” 

You blink. “You named your dog after soup.” 

“It’s cute and comforting. Like me.” 

You stare at him. “You’re not cute.” 

He smiles, teeth and trouble. “You used to think I was.” 

You try not to react. 

You really do. 

But the flush crawling up your neck is the kind of betrayal your sarcasm can’t cover. 

So instead, you gesture vaguely toward the house. “Right. Well. I came here to be alone, so if you and your soup dog could maybe tone down the charm offensive—” 

“Offensive?” he interrupts, mock-wounded. “Is that what we’re calling chemistry now?” 

You fix him with your best unimpressed glare. “Pretty sure what we had was called a mistake.” 

His gaze lingers on you a beat too long. 

And then: “Yeah,” he says quietly. “But it was a good one.” 

You don’t answer. 

You just turn on your heel and disappear back inside before the porch starts feeling like quicksand. 

But even as you shut the door, you swear you can still hear it: 

The faint sound of Miso’s squeaky toy. 

And the way Gojo Satoru says your name like it’s something that still matters. 

By sunset, the house feels too quiet. 

You try to make peace with it, pour yourself a glass of whatever your mom left behind (a buttery Chardonnay, of course), pad barefoot across the creaky floorboards, and plant yourself on the porch swing like it doesn’t still have your name carved into the underside in messy, hormonal eighth-grade script. 

You swing gently, wine glass resting on your thigh, eyes fixed on the horizon as if the ocean might offer some cosmic answer.

Or at least distract you from the fact that Gojo Satoru is next door, barefoot, tanned, possibly shirtless by now, and allegedly on sabbatical from being the cockiest CEO Tokyo has ever reluctantly admired. 

The sky melts into shades of apricot and mauve, the kind of palette you’d kill to capture in oil paint if you still did that. If you still had that version of yourself. 

Instead, you sip wine and pretend you don’t notice the shadow moving across the edge of your vision. 

You don’t look. 

You absolutely don’t look. 

You definitely don’t— 

“I brought an offering,” says Gojo’s voice, somewhere to your right. 

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Like the ghost of a Victorian woman mourning the loss of silence. 

“I thought the dog was the offering,” you mutter, still not looking at him. 

“Miso is offended. She wants you to know she’s far too good for bartering.” 

“I’m honored,” you deadpan, finally turning your head. 

He’s holding two beers. One of them is sweating in the golden light, already opened, clearly meant for you. 

You eye it suspiciously. “What if I don’t drink beer?” 

He lifts a brow. “You drank half a bottle of wine and told the porch swing it ‘wasn’t emotionally available enough.’ I think you’re past pretending to be picky.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You were eavesdropping?” 

He shrugs. “You were monologuing.” 

“… Touché.” 

You accept the beer with a grunt, scooting a few inches over on the swing. Not enough to invite him, exactly. Just… making room for the tension to sit somewhere that isn’t in your chest. 

But he takes it as an invitation anyway and drops down beside you with a sigh that’s irritatingly content. 

You sit like that for a while. 

Sipping. 

Swinging. 

Saying nothing. 

The breeze picks up. Somewhere down, a wind chime sings its glassy song. The first stars begin to surface, faint and far away. 

And still, he says nothing. 

Which, honestly, is worse. 

“Gojo,” you start finally, unable to take the silence. “Are you gonna give me the full story, or are you just here to haunt my summer like a shirtless corporate poltergeist?” 

He laughs. Quiet, this time. 

Then, after a pause: “I was supposed to propose.” 

You turn your head so fast it nearly snaps. “To who?” 

He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Relax. No one you’ve met. And it didn’t happen.” 

“…What stopped you?” 

His smile fades a little. Not completely, just enough to remind you there’s a person under all that charm. 

“I got to the dinner,” he says. “Sat down. Ordered the wine. Reached into my jacket pocket for the ring.” A pause. “And realized I couldn’t do it.” 

You blink. “You forgot the ring?” 

“No.” He looks down at his beer, rolling the bottle between his palms. “I looked across the table and realized I didn’t want to give it to her.” 

You stare at him. 

Not because he’s being dramatic, but because he’s not. 

And suddenly the tan, the linen, the sabbatical? All of it makes sense. 

You sigh. “So you torched your engagement and your job in the same week.” 

He tips the beer toward you in a mock-toast. “Efficiency.” 

You clink bottles. “You’re an idiot.” 

“You always said that,” he murmurs, and your stomach gives a little kick. 

“Yeah, well.” You look out toward the water again. “Some people grow out of being disasters. Some people double down.” 

“And which am I?” 

You exhale. “Ask me when the beer’s gone.” 

He smiles again, but this time there’s a softness to it. Something quieter. Realer. 

The swing creaks as it sways gently beneath you, and Gojo leans back, one arm thrown across the backrest, not touching you, but close enough that your skin buzzes like it’s reading too much into things. 

You hate how comfortable it feels. How familiar. 

Because the truth is, you’ve always known Gojo Satoru. 

Long before he became “the CEO of Gojo Holdings,” before the headlines, before the dog with the ribbon and the tan and the goddamn linen pants.  

Back when you were nineteen, and he sat behind you in that painfully boring ethics seminar.  

When he made up imaginary text messages to get you both out of class. When he kissed you one night at the vending machine outside your dorm and said, “This is probably a bad idea,” right before doing it again. 

When he ghosted you for a year. 

When he came back and said, “I wasn’t ready. I might never be.” 

When you promised yourself you’d never make that mistake again. 

And now here he is. 

Not in a bar or a boardroom or some reunion you could easily leave. 

But next door. 

At sunset. 

With beer and that damn dog and a smile you used to believe in. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re imagining things.” 

“Probably,” he hums. “But I’m also right.” 

You look down at your bottle. The label’s peeling. 

“So,” you drag the word. “What happens now?” 

He leans back, stretching his legs, gaze lifted to the deepening stars. “I was kind of hoping you’d fall asleep on my shoulder again.” 

You choke on your beer. 

“Excuse me?” 

“That’s what happened last time,” he says, casually. “Back in college. Under that awful cherry blossom tree. You fell asleep. I didn’t move for two hours.” 

You scowl. “You told me you left because you had a shift.” 

“I lied.” 

You blink. 

He turns to you, his cerulean eyes suddenly bright in the dark, no sunglasses, no smirk. 

“Didn’t want to wake you.” 

You open your mouth. 

Close it. 

Open it again. 

And then: “You’re still an idiot.” 

But you don’t move away. 

You stay exactly where you are. 

Letting the swing sway. 

Letting the ocean breathe. 

Letting the past become something more complicated than regret. 

And when your head eventually tips sideways, resting—accidentally, definitely not on purpose—against his shoulder, he just exhales. 

Soft. 

Careful. 

And says, “Told you.” 

Later, after the swing stops creaking and your beer’s gone warm beside your bare ankle, you say the five words you’ll probably regret until next morning. 

“Wanna walk down the beach?” 

You say it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t feel like a pulse between your ribs. Like it’s not 10:47 PM and your heart isn’t behaving like it’s 19 again. 

Gojo doesn’t answer with words. Just tilts his head like you’ve said something obvious and rises, barefoot and quiet, offering a hand that you do not take. You walk past him instead, stepping down from the porch with that practiced nonchalance you’ve weaponized since high school. 

The sand is cool, still warm in patches where the sun baked it for hours. The moonlight is silver and clean, the air thick with salt and the faint scent of plumeria from someone’s overwatered garden. 

You walk in silence for a while, just the two of you and Miso—the absurdly fluffy Cavalier—who bounds ahead like she’s scoring a Nancy Meyers soundtrack in real time. 

Gojo, to his credit, keeps pace a few steps beside you. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him. Far enough not to press. 

“Does she always have that much main character energy?” you finally ask, nodding toward the dog, who’s currently flopping belly-up in a dramatic sprawl of sand and moonlight. 

“She’s a Sagittarius.” 

You snort. “You did not just say that like it explains everything.” 

“It does,” he argues, dead serious. “Loud, dramatic, emotionally reckless with a deep need to be adored?” 

You arch a brow. “Sounds familiar.” 

He grins. “She and I have the same birthday.” 

You blink. “You’re joking.” 

“I would never lie about astrology.” 

You glance sideways at him, trying not to notice how moonlight makes his jaw look like it belongs in a perfume ad. “You used to lie about everything. Especially anything sentimental.” 

“I’ve changed.” 

“You say that like I’m supposed to just believe you.” 

He’s quiet a beat too long. 

And then: “I didn’t come here to make you believe anything.” 

You slow a little. 

Miso darts into the waves, barking like she’s confronting a personal betrayal. You stop just at the tide line, arms folding reflexively as the ocean brushes near your feet. 

Gojo stops beside you. 

The breeze lifts his hair. He doesn’t speak again until the waves hush low enough for you to hear the real quiet between you. 

“I came because I didn’t know where else to go,” he adds softly. 

You don’t look at him. But you hear it. That flicker of real. The chink in the Gojo armor. 

“I didn’t want Tokyo,” he continues. “Didn’t want the board. Didn’t want the goddamn apartment that looks like an Apple Store. Didn’t want the calendar reminders for when to sleep.” 

You laugh, dry and quiet. “So naturally, you picked the one place I couldn’t avoid you.” 

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“No, seriously.” His voice shifts, lighter, but earnest. “Your mom told me the place would be empty. I ran into her at some ridiculous charity function. She was wearing a scarf made entirely of orchids and told me to ‘come breathe for a while.’ I think she thought I was having a nervous breakdown.” 

“…Were you?” 

He hesitates. “Not officially.” 

You finally glance at him. 

He’s not smiling anymore. 

You both stand there, ankles damp, the horizon curling into shadow like a secret neither of you wants to name.  

And in the moonlight, he’s not the CEO.  

He’s not the boy who ghosted you. Not even the idiot who brought a beer as an apology for breaking your heart with silence. 

He’s just Satoru. 

Hands in his pockets. 

Hair blowing in the wind like it’s been waiting to fall apart. 

And, god help you, you feel your chest crack open like a badly patched window. 

“You could’ve called,” you say, and it’s quieter than you meant it to be. 

He nods. “I wanted to. So many times.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

He takes a breath. Then another. 

“I didn’t think I’d know how to talk to you without wanting more.” 

That hangs between you. Ugly. Beautiful. Honest. 

You swallow. 

The ocean presses against your feet, then pulls away again, like it, too, doesn’t know how to stay. 

Miso flops dramatically into the sand beside you both, exhausted from her own emotional subplots. You reach down and scratch behind her ears, giving yourself something—anything—to do that isn’t fall apart under his eyes. 

“So what now?” you murmur. 

Gojo steps closer. Just slightly. 

“I don’t know.” 

You turn to face him fully now. The distance is measured in inches. Heartbeats. 

He looks down at you like he wants to memorize something. Not your face, exactly. Something under it. 

“I don’t expect anything,” he tells you. “I just— I wanted to be near the version of me who used to be okay. And he only ever showed up around you.” 

It hits harder than you want it to. Because you remember that version of him.

You remember the jokes, the pranks, the late nights, the shared earbuds, the way he looked at you like you were something he’d found and couldn’t believe he was allowed to keep. 

You remember wanting to believe it. 

You remember what it felt like when he left. 

“I’m not your sanctuary, Satoru.” 

“I know.” 

“And I’m not here to fix you.” 

“I don’t want you to.” 

“Good.” You exhale, stepping away from him just enough to steady yourself. “Because I don’t trust you.” 

He nods, accepting it. No flinch. No charm. 

But then: “Do you miss me?” 

You laugh. Bitter, brittle. “You’re impossible.” 

“I know,” he says again. 

And then, softer: “But I missed you. And I’m not leaving yet.” 

You watch him. 

The breeze shifts again. Your arms are cold. 

He shrugs out of his linen button-down, wordless, and drapes it around your shoulders like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. 

He hasn’t. 

You don’t give it back. 

And you don’t say thank you. 

You just start walking again. 

And this time, he walks beside you, silent, respectful, annoyingly golden in the moonlight. 

Like maybe he understands that some forgiveness isn’t verbal. 

It’s just staying. Quietly. 

Even when you have every reason to leave. 

It's way past your usual sleep time, but you’re back in bed. The heat won’t let you sleep. Even with all the windows thrown open wide, even with the ceiling fan slicing the thick, sticky air into lazy ribbons that barely move, even with one leg kicked out from under the sheet like some sacrificial limb, it’s still too damn hot.  

Your skin feels like it’s remembering a sun you never even laid under today, the dampness at your roots clinging to your scalp, and your tank top—useless, threadbare—is doing nothing to keep you cool. 

And of course, Satoru Gojo is next door. Not helping. Not even a little. Because it’s not just the weather’s heat making you restless. 

It’s the heat of his laugh, that impossible smile, the way his sun-stupid white hair catches the moonlight just right, and that voice—yeah, that same voice that used to make your spine go weak in lecture halls and back stairwells and on that one couch in the library basement you were definitely not supposed to be making out on. 

You roll over. The pillow’s no cooler on this side, and the room smells like old salt and clean linen. Your brain, though? Total bitch. It drags you back to that one certain night.  

College, sophomore year, late October, when the campus was painted in yellow leaves and the cold bit into your lungs with every breath. You’d just bombed a midterm you were sure you aced—or at least almost aced—and there you were, crying quietly in the hallway outside the economics building. Not the kind of sobs that draw attention, but the kind that shrinks you down so small you feel like you might disappear.  

You couldn’t even explain it to your friends without sounding like a total drama queen, so you kept it to yourself. 

Then, like a storm you never saw coming, Gojo showed up. White hair slicked back messily with a headband, black hoodie half-zipped, iced coffee in hand as if the cold outside didn’t matter one bit.  

And that smile, the one that made girls trip over their own boots.  

“You look like you’re about to commit tax fraud,” he greeted you, cocking his head like he was part devil and part angel. “Need an alibi?” 

You hadn’t even looked at him. “I need you to go away.” 

“Rude,” he huffed, sitting down beside you on the cold stone steps like he owned your emotional meltdown. Your knee brushed his, and suddenly that little physical connection felt like a lifeline. 

“You failed something, didn’t you?” 

“I didn’t fail it,” you snapped. “I just didn’t ace it, which apparently means I’m now a disappointment to my entire bloodline.” 

He handed you his iced coffee without a word, and you took it, trying not to scowl as you sipped the weird lavender oat milk concoction that tasted like dirt and perfume.  

“Disgusting,” you muttered. 

He grinned. “Right? I get it every week just to remember what regret tastes like.” 

You wanted to stay mad, really you did, but he started talking, about his own test, about filling in Scantron bubbles in a pattern that spelled “BOOBS” just to make the TA laugh, about how grades didn’t mean much when you were already the heir to Gojo Holdings and everyone expected you to be brilliant even if you flunked out, about how he hated the pressure to be exceptional. 

Maybe it was the softness in his voice.

Maybe it was that he didn’t touch you or try to fix you, didn’t offer some magic solution—he just sat there, warm and solid and obnoxiously kind.  

And somehow, you leaned your head onto his shoulder. Just for a minute. Just until your hands stopped shaking. 

He shifted slightly so you could rest more comfortably. His hoodie smelled like citrus and laundry detergent, like safety. Like almost. 

And then he said it. Quiet. Almost too quiet to register. 

“I think I like you too much.” 

Your heart stuttered. Because that was the first time he’d said anything real—not a joke, not a flirt, not some outrageous one-liner designed to get a rise. Just honest.  

You lifted your head, looked at him, and his eyes were bluer than they had any right to be in that kind of dusk. For one reckless second, you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d kiss him. Maybe you’d let yourself believe in whatever this was between you, even if it came without a label and came with all the complications in the world. 

But you didn’t kiss him. You stood up. Told him you had to go. And when you looked back—just once, from across the quad—he was still sitting there, holding your coffee, looking like he’d just lost something he didn’t even know he was trying to keep. 

The house creaks softly around you, familiar and steady, and the waves keep folding over themselves outside, slow and patient.  

Somewhere next door, Gojo is probably sleeping soundly, that ridiculous dog curled at his feet. You turn over again. This time, the pillow’s cooler—but your heart isn’t. 

And that memory pulls you somewhere else.  

You remember another afternoon, sticky and overwhelming, the kind of early spring day when the campus feels like a sauna and your brain is too fried to care.

You’d slipped away from back-to-back lectures you barely survived, ducking behind the student union to the vending machine nobody ever used, desperate for a cold, sweet Diet Coke, the one small act of rebellion against the stress and noise. 

You stood there fumbling with your wallet, savoring the brief quiet, when Satoru appeared again, like some magnetic force you could never escape. He was leaning casually against the wall, his silver hair catching the light like a challenge. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you with that maddening grin, like he knew a secret you hadn’t figured out yet. You tried to keep your cool, telling yourself he was just being irritating as usual, but before you could move, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers warm and steady. 

“I don’t do casual,” he said, voice low and serious, flipping your stomach like a rollercoaster. “Not with you.” 

And then, without waiting for a reply, he leaned in and kissed you, soft, urgent, like he was trying to make up for lost time or prove something neither of you had the words for. It wasn’t rushed or careless. It was the kind of kiss that pulled the ground out from under you, left you dizzy and breathless in the quiet space behind that vending machine, surrounded by the hum of campus chatter and the faded smell of old books from the nearby library. His hand tightened on your wrist just enough to hold you there, grounded in a moment that felt impossibly fragile and fiercely real. 

When he finally pulled away, his eyes locked on yours with a seriousness that made your chest ache, and all you could do was stand there, heart racing, wondering if you’d crossed some invisible line. Or if maybe this was the beginning of something you never dared hope for. 

Still lying in the quiet dark of your mother’s beach house bedroom, the faint hum of cicadas outside mixing with the restless rhythm of the waves, the memory curls inside you like a bittersweet ache.  

It wasn’t just the kiss itself, but everything it meant and everything you weren’t ready to admit: the way he saw you, like you mattered more than you’d ever allowed yourself to believe, and the way it shook the careful walls you’d built around your heart. 

And maybe you thought that would be it. A moment, a lapse, a crack in the surface of whatever strange thing had always simmered between you. But it wasn’t. 

Because it kept happening. 

You didn’t mean to let it. Or maybe you did, and you just told yourself you didn’t, because wanting something too badly had always felt like weakness. 

But after that kiss behind the vending machine, something shifted. Not loud, not obvious, just a subtle reorientation of gravity.  

Suddenly, he was always near.  

Always looking at you like he knew your next breath before you did. He’d brush your hand when you passed each other in the library stacks. He’d find you in crowded hallways and murmur something stupid and sharp against your ear, and your whole body would hum like you were standing too close to an open flame. He’d catch your gaze across lecture halls like the two of you were sharing a joke no one else could hear, and you’d roll your eyes, but your cheeks would burn and you’d know he saw it. 

And then, more kisses. Behind closed doors, in shadowed corners, in places no one should ever have seen but never did—like the universe was conspiring to keep your secret safe. 

Once, in the quiet hallway behind the fine arts building, you kissed him with your back pressed to the peeling paint of an old classroom door, his hands cupping your jaw like he thought you might disappear if he let go.  

Another time, it was on the rooftop of the science wing, right before a thunderstorm, with the sky crackling above you and the wind tangling your hair and his laugh caught in your throat when he pulled you in by the belt loops of your jeans and said, “This is probably a bad idea,” right before doing it anyway. You kissed until it started to rain, warm and sharp, and you didn’t care if anyone saw. 

But no one ever did. Because that was the rule. Unspoken but ironclad. 

It was always behind something. Beneath something. Never in daylight. Never in public. Never where it could mean anything more than stolen time and bruised lips and breathless laughter shared between ghosts of who you were supposed to be. 

And you told yourself it was fine. That you were fine. That it didn’t hurt to keep him like this—half-kept, half-hidden, like a flame cupped in your hands just to keep it from going out. 

But something in him had already begun to fray. 

You saw it in the way his jokes came slower. In the way his silences stretched longer. In the way he looked at you, sometimes, like he was trying to memorize you... or forget you. You couldn’t tell which. 

And then one day, he just… wasn’t there. 

You’d texted him. Nothing. Called. No answer. You even went to that vending machine spot—waited there, like a fool, like a hopeful, desperate idiot with a Diet Coke sweating in her palm and a thousand things unsaid crammed between her ribs. 

He didn’t show. Not that day. Not the next. Not any day after. 

He was gone. Clean and total, like a knife had been taken to your memory of him and carved out the present tense. 

Gojo disappeared like he’d never been real at all. 

A year passed. 

Twelve long months where every piece of him you’d carried, his voice, his grin, the way he said your name when no one else could hear, turned into something sour and unfinished inside you. You told yourself you were over it. That people leave. That people grow up. That whatever you had wasn’t real. Couldn’t have been. Because real things don’t vanish. Real people don’t ghost you like that. 

But on nights like this, when the air clings to your skin like memory, and the ceiling fan’s doing nothing but reminding you how still everything is, and the sea keeps sighing outside like it knows exactly what you lost… you think of him. Not like a wound. Not even like a wish. 

More like a fact. A truth. A secret still burning beneath everything you never said. 

You shift again, eyes shut tight. You can’t tell if it’s the heat or your own heartbeat keeping you awake, but your chest feels tight with something that wants to rise. Not tears. Not even anger. Just the ache of a door that was never closed properly. 

And outside, he is somewhere next door. Probably asleep. 

Like nothing ever happened. 

The morning arrives like it’s apologizing for the night. 

Soft sunlight spills over the faded deck wood, pooling at your bare feet. It’s cooler than it was a few hours ago—still warm, still summer, but not the oppressive, feverish heat of midnight. The breeze off the ocean is lazy and salt-sweet, threading through your hair as you sit cross-legged in one of the old wicker chairs your mom refuses to throw out. The cushion underneath you is lumpy and a little sun-bleached, but you’ve staked it as your territory for the upcoming weeks. Yours. Sanctuary. 

You take a slow bite of your avocado toast, which you’ve baked in the oven like a fancy little gremlin because no one told you not to be dramatic with breakfast. It’s got lemon zest, chili flakes, and a smattering of crumbled feta because apparently the ocean air has turned you into someone who garnishes things before noon. You even dusted a little paprika on top. Paprika. Like you’re on a cooking show. Like the past isn’t still hanging around your collar like a too-heavy necklace. 

Your book is cracked open on your lap, a battered paperback you’ve already read twice but picked up again anyway, because it’s safe. Predictable. It doesn’t kiss you behind vending machines or vanish for a year. It doesn’t have blue eyes or a laugh that can gut you with a single syllable. It’s just paper. And ink. And peace. 

You manage to read the same paragraph four times without absorbing any of it. 

Because he’s still next door. 

You haven’t seen him yet, but you know he’s there. The silence is suspicious. Too quiet for someone like Satoru Gojo, who’s made an entire personality out of being un-ignorable. He’s probably still asleep. Or maybe he’s gone for a run, like he used to do in college when his brain wouldn’t shut up.

You remember him showing up to your 8 a.m. stats class in running shorts and sunglasses, still sweating, bragging about beating his own time and then promptly falling asleep during a lecture on chi-squared distributions. 

You hated how much you noticed him back then. 

You hate that you still do. 

You shake it off—mentally swat at the thought like it’s a mosquito—and turn your face toward the sun instead, letting it paint you in warmth. The sound of the waves is steady and hypnotic, that slow, hush-hush rhythm you grew up with. It’s supposed to calm you down. Ground you. Remind you that the ocean doesn’t care about boys who leave or memories that won’t stay quiet. 

You tell yourself you’re going to swim soon. Really swim. Maybe float. Maybe dunk your whole head under until you come up clean. Like a baptism, but angrier. 

You’ve already got your swimsuit on under your sleep shirt. The good one, the black one with the high waist and dramatic scoop back that makes you feel like you’re starring in a moody indie film called Girl, Unraveling. You plan on walking down the beach barefoot with your sunglasses on and not looking at the house next door even once. 

You're fine. You are so fine it’s practically suspicious. 

And maybe if you keep saying that, you’ll start to believe it. 

Your phone buzzes next to your plate, lighting up once. Just a calendar reminder. You ignore it. There’s nowhere you have to be. No one expecting you to perform productivity or pretend you’re thriving. This whole week is supposed to be about rest. Real rest. Deep rest. Nervous system reset kind of rest. 

But rest is hard when ghosts keep knocking on your ribs. 

You close the book, give up on pretending you’re reading. Pull your knees to your chest and let the breeze kiss the backs of your legs. 

The day is quiet. 

The toast is perfect. 

The waves keep whispering things you don’t want to name. 

And somewhere, inevitably, Gojo is going to step out onto his porch. 

And you’re going to have to figure out how to look him in the face without showing every single thing he used to make you feel. 

The towel is scratchy. The kind you only find in a beach house linen closet that hasn’t been updated since the early 2000s—sun-bleached, vaguely sand-scented, and questionably clean. But you sling it over your shoulder anyway, because you’re already committed. You’ve made the internal announcement: I am going swimming now. And even if the water is freezing or the tide’s moody or Gojo decides to do something annoying like exist within visual range again, you’re going. 

The house is quiet as you walk back through it barefoot. You pause in the kitchen long enough to rinse your coffee glass and leave it in the sink, pretending that a clean counter will give your brain the illusion of control. Then you push through the back screen door, towel in hand, sunglasses perched on your head.

The beach path is narrow, overgrown in that charmingly neglected way that makes every step feel like you’re entering a liminal zone between your overthinking and whatever the sea might offer instead. Sea oats sway on either side. The sand is already warm. And with each crunching footfall, the cottage and the porch and the phantom of Gojo drift a little further behind you. 

The water is visible now—gray-blue and glinting, restless under the morning sun. A breeze kicks up, salt-sticky and wild, threading through your hair like it remembers you from years ago. 

You step onto the sand proper, skin already prickling with heat, and drop your towel into the dune grass. The beach is empty. Perfectly, graciously empty. No joggers, no couples with floppy hats and matching towels, no loud teens blaring a Bluetooth speaker. Just you, the sound of the surf, and the soft hiss of the wind dragging across the shore. 

You breathe. 

You strip off your shorts and shirt. You walk straight into the water. 

It’s cold. Shocking. Glorious. 

You gasp when it hits your thighs, and again when it crests your hips, and by the time you dive under—clean, deep, all in—it’s like the heat has finally been silenced. Like your body has been reset, chilled into awareness. 

You float for a while. Let the salt cradle you. Let the sun turn you into nothing more than a shape among the waves. For one blessed minute, there’s no memory, no heartbreak, no Gojo. Just ocean. 

But of course, it doesn’t last. 

You’re swimming back to shore, hair slicked, breath even, when you see movement. A tall figure, walking down the same beach path you just came from. Shirtless again. Of course. Towel slung around his neck. A pair of goddamn aviators catching the sun like a personal spotlight. 

Gojo. 

You nearly laugh. Of course he’d follow. Not intentionally, probably. But it’s like he has some cosmic radar for where you don’t want him to be. 

You haul yourself out of the water and try not to look like a woman who’s just been ambushed by a memory in real time. You walk slowly, deliberately. Grab your towel and shake the sand off with practiced aggression. Pretend like this is all just a casual, regular morning, nothing strange to see here, no ghosts from college strolling barefoot into your peace. 

But he sees you. 

And waves again. 

Closer this time. 

“Water good?” he calls out, voice lazy and cheerful like he isn’t detonating your nervous system with every word. 

You squint at him from behind your sunglasses. “Cold enough to shut my brain up. You should try it sometime.” 

He grins. “Tempting.” 

And just like that, he’s standing a few feet away, his eyes scanning the waves like he’s debating whether to join you. Or maybe like he already has, in some other memory you’re trying very hard not to revisit while mostly naked and dripping saltwater. 

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who needs someone else to go in first.” 

“Nah,” he says, dropping his towel on the sand beside yours. “I’m more of a reckless dive kind of guy.” 

And then he walks straight into the water. 

You blink. Stand there, dumbfounded, while he dives in without a single flinch, resurfacing with a laugh and a shake of his head that sends water flying in every direction. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, wrapping your towel around your waist. “Of course he’s graceful when wet.” 

You sit down in the sand, heart doing that annoying thing again. Watching him out there in the surf, hair slicked back, sun bouncing off his shoulders like a cinematic filter—it's hard not to feel the old ache. The old longing. 

You wish you could pretend none of it mattered. That he’s just a neighbor. Just another idiot man with too much confidence and not enough sunscreen. But the truth is, he’s not. He’s Satoru. He’s your ghost. And now he’s right here, shaking the water from his eyes like he didn’t once disappear from your life for a year and ruined everything you two had with nothing but silence and shadows in his place. 

He shakes the water from his hair like a dog—messy, gleaming, careless—and drops into the sand next to you with all the elegance of a man who has never once worried about being wanted. There’s salt crusting his lashes. Sunlight glinting off the long, lean length of him like a challenge. 

And he’s too close.

 

Not touching you, but close enough that the hairs on your arm lift. Close enough that you can smell the ocean on his skin, bright and clean and sharp, like the memory of that night in the stairwell when everything changed and nothing was said outright. 

You pull your towel tighter around your waist, like it’ll guard you from things that are already inside you. You don’t look at him. Not really. 

“So?” he says, tilting his head, voice low and too amused. “You gonna just sit there wrapped like a little beach burrito, or are you coming back in?” 

You shoot him a sideways glance. “Wow, compelling pitch. Truly irresistible.” 

He grins. The full thing. Teeth and dimples and that damn light in his eyes like he already knows your answer. 

“I’m serious,” he laughs. “Come back in.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you didn’t stay long enough,” he says, his voice softening, just slightly. “You always do that. Dip your toes in and run the minute it feels good.” 

Your stomach flips. 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” 

His grin falters for a second. You watch it—how quickly the confidence cracks, then reassembles. How fast he recovers, like a reflex honed by years of not getting hurt unless he decides it’s time. 

He stands, brushing sand from his palms, and offers you a hand. 

“I’m not trying to win anything,” he says. “I just want you to come back in the water. It’s better with you there.” 

You look at his hand. 

You think about what it means, to take it. To step back into something you barely survived the first time. To pretend, even for a minute, that the past can be rewritten just by swimming next to someone you once loved more than your own good sense. 

You swallow. The breeze picks up. The waves crash and pull like they know your name. 

“Last time I followed you,” you add slowly, eyes on the horizon, “you vanished.” 

He’s quiet for a beat too long. 

“I know,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to forget that.” 

Another pause. 

“Just… come back in. You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to talk. Just—come float next to me like old times. Let the water shut everything up for a while.” 

You’re not sure if it’s a request or an apology. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s nothing. 

But his hand stays out. 

Open. 

Waiting. 

And God help you, you miss the weightlessness. 

So you take it. 

The second your fingers brush his, there’s that jolt again—like static, like déjà vu, like every bad decision you’ve ever made wrapped in sea salt and nostalgia. His hand is warm, steady, too steady, and the way he curls his fingers around yours feels almost reverent, like he knows exactly how badly he’s fucked up but is still hoping you might let him try again anyway. 

You let him pull you up. 

Your towel drops to the sand. The sun’s higher now, hotter. Your swimsuit clings to your skin in places you don’t want to think too hard about. But he doesn’t ogle or smirk or make some cheeky comment that would let you brush this off like it’s nothing. 

No, Satoru just walks beside you—silent, barefoot, careful—as you both head toward the water. 

The shoreline glitters ahead, all shimmer and motion. Your feet sink into the warm, soft sand. The waves are small this morning, gentle. The tide is coming in slow and steady, like it’s trying to lull you into some false sense of security. 

And maybe it’s working. 

When the water reaches your ankles, you hesitate. 

He doesn’t. 

He walks a few steps farther in, glances back at you with that same maddening softness he always wore like armor whenever he let his guard down. “You okay?” 

“No,” you say flatly. “I’m just trying to decide if this is an elaborate setup to drown me.” 

He laughs. It’s short, real, and laced with something that almost sounds like regret. 

“You’d see it coming,” he hums. “You always did.” 

Still, he waits. 

You take another step forward. The water slides up to your calves, cool and bracing. You inhale. Exhale. Tell yourself it’s just the ocean, just a swim, just a familiar body in a familiar place, nothing more. But the ache in your chest suggests otherwise. 

You wade in until you’re waist-deep. He’s already further out, floating, arms stretched behind him like he has all the time in the world. Like this isn’t weird. Like you didn’t just spend half the night reliving how he disappeared on you and ruined the only thing you weren’t brave enough to name when it mattered. 

You float too. 

You don’t say anything. 

For a long time, the only sounds are the rise and fall of the waves, the distant call of a gull overhead, and the occasional splash as one of you shifts just enough to stay buoyant. 

You don’t look at him, but you feel him. 

He’s always been like this. Loud in crowds, quiet in water. And somehow, it still makes you want to scream. 

You drift closer without meaning to. The current does what it wants, and maybe you’re just tired of resisting it. 

“Why are you really here?” you ask, finally, voice low and calm, like you’re not about to start something you might not be able to finish. 

He hums. 

“Because I’m tired,” he says after a while. “And Tokyo’s loud. And I couldn’t stop thinking about this place.” 

“This place,” you echo. 

He turns, just enough for his eyes to find yours. That blue is still dangerous. Still ridiculous. Still yours, somehow, in ways you don’t understand. 

“And you,” he adds softly. “I kept thinking about you.” 

You go still in the water. 

The waves rock you both like the universe’s worst lullaby. 

“You don’t get to just come back and say that.” 

“I know,” he says. “But I’m saying it anyway.” 

And there it is. 

No excuses. No charm. Just the raw nerve of it. Like a cut that never healed right. 

You look away. Let the sun blur your vision. Let the salt sting your throat. 

And you float. Right there beside him. Not answering. Not leaving. Not ready to forgive, but too tired to fight the tide anymore. 

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Probably that fluffy little gremlin of his. 

The water laps against your collarbones. 

His presence hums next to you like an old radio station just barely out of tune. 

And you think, maybe. Maybe there’s still something worth salvaging. 

But not today. 

Today, you just float. 

It’s been a few days since the swim. 

Gojo’s been hovering ever since. Like some glorified ghost with a tan and a terrible sense of timing. Not pushing exactly, just… lingering.

Appearing near your porch when you bring your coffee out. Asking if you want anything from the grocery store. Holding open the screen door when you’re bringing in the laundry like he’s the world’s most persistent Labrador retriever. 

You ignore him, mostly. 

Except for the times you don’t. 

Because for all your muttering and biting sarcasm and arms-crossed body language, your walls are thinner than they used to be. Or maybe it’s the summer heat melting them down, drip by reluctant drip.

Maybe it’s the way he’s been quiet lately, gentler than you remember. No slick one-liners, no dramatic flourishes. Just him, trying. Like he’s got something to prove this time and he knows he doesn’t get another shot. 

So when he ambles up the steps one morning, barefoot in cutoffs and a faded t-shirt that says I Heart Accounting (a lie if you’ve ever seen one), holding an iced tea in one hand and a flyer in the other, you already know you’re going to say yes before he even opens his mouth. 

“There’s a festival down at the docks,” he smiles at you, brandishing the flyer like it’s an ancient scroll. “You love dumb seasonal crap. There’s a Ferris wheel.” 

You narrow your eyes over the rim of your mug. “I don’t love dumb seasonal crap. I tolerate it.” 

He tilts his head. “You tolerated that haunted hayride in college so hard you screamed directly into my ear.” 

“That was a man with a chainsaw, Satoru.” 

“It was a weed whacker.” 

“It was still loud.” 

He grins. But not in that way he used to, the look-at-me, heartbreaker grin. This one’s quieter. Tentative. Hopeful, maybe. Like he knows he doesn’t deserve this and is still asking anyway. 

“Sooooo?” he asks. “One afternoon. We don’t have to stay long. You can mock everything. I’ll buy you cotton candy.” 

You sigh. 

The porch creaks beneath your bare feet. The heat’s already climbing. You can hear cicadas starting up in the trees like they’re daring you to stay inside all day. 

And maybe you’re tired of being angry. Or maybe you’re just bored. 

“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m not sitting through a puppet show or anything weirdly nostalgic.” 

He lights up like you’ve handed him a small sun. “Noted. No puppets. Just vibes.” 

And before you can change your mind, he’s already skipping down the steps like a kid who just got asked to prom. 

The docks are warm and bustling by late afternoon, the air thick with the smell of sea salt, fried dough, and sunscreen. Everything’s sticky and bright and full of motion. Colorful paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, little kids with dripping popsicles, old couples holding hands like they invented the concept. 

And Gojo, next to you in sunglasses and flip-flops, is trying very hard not to look like a golden retriever who’s just been let off leash. 

“You want one?” he asks, already halfway to a stand selling some kind of sparkling lemonade in pastel plastic cups. 

You shrug. “Sure. Why not. I’m already sweating through my bra, might as well hydrate.” 

He hands you a drink a few minutes later, plus a bag of sugar-dusted mochi for no reason other than the fact he remembered you used to like it. Then he gets himself a spiral-cut fried potato drenched in something horrifyingly orange and starts humming like this is the best day of his life. 

You side-eye him. “You gonna eat every weird thing you see?” 

“Yes.” 

“Didn’t you used to be lactose intolerant?” 

“Still am.” 

You stare. 

He pops a cheesy slice into his mouth anyway. “Worth it.” 

It’s absurd. It’s nostalgic. And it shouldn’t be this easy, falling into old rhythms, letting the breeze mess up your hair while he wipes powdered sugar off your cheek like it’s normal. But it is. And that’s the dangerous part. 

Because the more he makes you laugh, the more he buys you sweets without thinking, the more he smiles like that—genuine, unguarded, like the boy you met before all the bullshit—the harder it is to keep the distance. 

You try anyway. You shove your hands in your pockets and keep your comments sharp and your tone neutral. But you know he sees through it. You always knew. 

When the sun starts its slow descent behind the water, he nudges you gently. 

“Ferris wheel?” 

You glance toward the towering old thing at the edge of the dock, half-lit and creaking in the wind like it’s got secrets to tell. 

“I’m not sharing a car with you if you’re gonna start monologuing about life and fate and missed opportunities,” you threaten him half-jockingly.. 

“I would never,” he claims, looking scandalized. “I’ll be chill. I’ll be a man of few words.” 

You give him a long, skeptical look. 

“Fine,” he amends. “Fewer words.” 

You sigh and start walking toward it anyway, because he’s already bought the tickets and you’re a sucker for a skyline view, and maybe, just maybe, you’re tired of pretending you’re still mad just to protect yourself. 

You climb into the seat next to him. 

The wheel lurches. 

The wind picks up. 

And as you rise above the docks—sugar-sticky, sun-flushed, and one stupid heartbeat away from forgiving him a little—you pretend you don’t notice the way his pinky bumps yours on the worn bench between you. 

Just like you pretend not to want it to happen again. 

The Ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both higher, the metal groaning in that charming, slightly-threatening way old carnival rides always do.

Below you, the festival shrinks: kids screaming gleefully near the ring toss, some teenager failing miserably at whack-a-mole, the cotton candy stand glowing pink like a beacon for sugar addicts. 

Beside you, Gojo is suspiciously quiet. 

Which… is not a good sign. 

You side-eye him. He’s leaning back with his arms draped casually along the back of the seat, sunglasses perched on top of his hair, eyes fixed on the view like he’s contemplating the meaning of life. Or how to bring up something stupid in the most dramatic way possible. 

“I swear to god,” you mutter, “if you pull out a metaphor about life being a Ferris wheel—” 

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, mock-affronted. “But now that you mention it…” 

You elbow him. 

He laughs. The kind that starts soft and warm, from somewhere behind his ribs. It echoes in the space between you like a familiar melody, one you forgot you knew the words to. 

The ride halts briefly at the top, and for a second, the world goes still. The sea stretches endlessly before you, sun bleeding gold into the waves, the air heavy with that warm, end-of-summer hush. Below, the lights of the festival blink into life one by one, as if the night itself is remembering how to glow. 

Gojo exhales. “I used to dream about this, you know.” 

You don’t answer. You just stare ahead, hands gripping the edge of the seat. 

He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully. “Not this ride, exactly. But this— us. Talking again. You letting me be near you. I thought about it a lot.” 

Your stomach twists. 

It’s not fair, how easily he can throw your heart back into the past with a single sentence. How part of you still aches with the silence he left behind. The year of unanswered messages. Of trying to forget the feeling of his lips on yours, the weight of his laugh in your bones. 

“You shouldn’t have disappeared,” you whisper quietly. 

His face falls. Not dramatically. Just a slight softening, a flicker of real guilt that makes him look more like the boy you used to love than the man who ghosted you. 

“I know,” he starts. “I was— messed up. Scared, honestly. I thought I was doing the right thing. That staying away would… help you. Let you move on.” 

You turn to him, eyes hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me.” 

“I know,” he says again, softer. “I know. I thought I was being noble or whatever, but really I was just being a coward. I didn’t know how to face everything I ruined. I’m sorry.” 

The Ferris wheel lurches downward again. You don’t speak, don’t move. Just sit there with your jaw clenched and your heart thudding like it doesn’t know what to believe. 

“I think about you all the time,” he admits. “Not in a romantic movie kind of way—okay, sometimes in a romantic movie kind of way—but mostly just… everything reminds me of you. Still. After all this time.” 

You look at him. 

And there he is. 

Not the memory of him. Not the ghost. Just Gojo—sun-kissed and flawed and trying. 

And maybe you should say something scathing. Maybe you should tell him he doesn’t get to waltz back into your life with fried potatoes and Ferris wheels and expect forgiveness. 

But instead, you say nothing. 

Because the ride is almost at the bottom now. Because your heart is still processing. Because some part of you, however bruised and sarcastic and self-protective, never really stopped missing him. 

The gondola bumps to a halt. The gate swings open. 

He climbs out first, then turns and holds his hand out to you. 

You hesitate. 

Then—reluctantly—you take it. 

His fingers wrap around yours like he never forgot the shape of your hand. 

And for the rest of the evening, he doesn’t let go. 

But it makes you remember the last time you saw him. 

Not counting yesterday. Not counting the awkward, sea-slick moments at the beach or the way he stood a little too close by the goldfish scooping booth like he didn’t want to risk drifting away again. 

No. really saw him. 

It was two years ago, on that rooftop in Shinjuku, above the noise and neon, the kind of warm November night that tricked you into forgetting winter was coming.

Shoko had turned twenty-five and hosted the kind of party that felt curated for people who had their shit together, artfully messy hair, thrifted blazers, rolled cigarettes and half-finished PhDs. You hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d texted you six times, guilt-tripped you once, and eventually sent an Uber to your apartment with a bottle of wine in the backseat and a sticky note that said “Don’t make me regret inviting you.” 

And you’d thought—fine. One drink. Smile politely. Leave before midnight. 

But then he was there. 

In a stupid linen shirt, half unbuttoned like he lived on some cursed Riviera, drink in one hand and that too-white hair falling into his eyes. Like he hadn’t disappeared. Like he hadn’t blown a hole through you and called it mercy. 

You remember standing near the edge of the roof with a glass of flat champagne, talking to some guy who kept saying “conceptually” like it was punctuation, when you felt the shift in the air behind you. Like heat. Or gravity. 

And you knew. Before you turned around, you knew. 

He leaned against the railing next to you, too casual, like this wasn’t the first time you’d seen each other since everything had gone sideways. 

“Hey, stranger,” he said. 

You didn’t smile. Didn’t give him anything. 

Just a flat, “You’re late.” 

He grinned. “Traffic.” 

You could smell the citrusy cologne he still wore, the same one from college. Could see the faint scar on his knuckle from that dumb night he’d tried to open a wine bottle with a screwdriver. Everything in you screamed to walk away. To spit venom. To not let him see he still lived in your bloodstream like a bad tattoo. 

But instead, you drank your champagne. 

He watched you for a long time. Then, without warning, he remarked, “If we were ever in the same place for more than five minutes, you’d fall for me.” 

And you’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it wasn’t. Because of all the things he could’ve said—sorry, I fucked up, you didn’t deserve that—he chose a line that sounded like it came out of a half-written screenplay. 

You hissed, “You don’t get to joke about that.” 

And he said, too softly, “It wasn’t a joke.” 

And that was worse. 

Because there was no fight. No closure. No grand monologue. Just those quiet words, and the dull roar of traffic below, and the terrible weight of knowing he still thought he had a place in your life. That maybe part of you—traitorous, exhausted, aching—wasn’t sure he didn’t. 

You left before midnight. Didn’t say goodbye. 

And you hadn’t seen him again. Not until this summer. 

Not until this stupid beach town, this stupid house, this stupid festival. 

Now, as you walk beside him through the fairground crowd, his hand brushing yours every so often like it’s an accident, that memory keeps tugging at you. 

Because maybe he was right. 

Maybe five minutes was all it would ever take. 

And maybe that’s what scares you most.

The night air is heavy with salt and the faint scent of fried festival sweets, the laughter from the dock still echoing somewhere behind you as you and Satoru walk the short path back toward the house. The moon is low, casting long shadows across the sand, and everything feels a little too quiet now. Like the world is holding its breath. 

You stop at the front steps, key in hand, a polite smile tightening your mouth. “Thanks for tonight,” you say softly, eyes flicking toward the porch light, trying not to think about the hundred things fluttering under your skin. “It was… good.” 

“Hey,” he calls, just as you’re about to climb the stairs. His hand finds yours—not forcefully, not even tightly, just enough to stop you. His palm is warm, grounding. “What’s wrong?” 

You turn slowly, mouth already half-open with some deflection, some easy line to brush it off—but then you see his face. 

And you freeze. 

His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, stripped of their usual brilliance, of the arrogant shine they wore like armor. There’s nothing clever in his expression. No mask. Just quiet concern and a kind of quiet ache you don’t trust, because you’ve seen him turn it off before. But now it’s looking at you like it wants the truth. Like it could handle it. 

Something buckles in your chest. 

You try to swallow it, to tuck it all back down, but it’s too late. It’s already happening. 

The words burst out like a dam breaking. 

“I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “You can’t just show up like this. You can’t take me to a stupid festival and buy me strawberry mochi and laugh like we didn’t—like nothing ever—” 

Your hands shake. Your throat tightens. “You broke me, Satoru.” 

He flinches. 

You keep going, unable to stop now, unable to breathe around the weight that’s been sitting on your chest for years. 

“You kissed me like I meant something. Over and over again. In stairwells, behind the vending machine, outside my dorm—like it was a secret we were both protecting. You said things. I said things. And then you just—left. No goodbye. No message. Nothing. You disappeared like none of it mattered.” 

Tears are sliding down your cheeks now, hot and humiliating. You swipe at them angrily, but they just keep coming. 

“I waited for you. I checked my phone for months. I told myself you’d call, that something must’ve happened, that maybe I just misunderstood what we were. But you didn’t. You just left.” 

His eyes are wide, glassy. His breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t know,” he says hoarsely. “I didn’t know you—” 

“Loved you?” you snap. “No, of course not. Because I didn’t even know it myself. Not until after. Not until it was too late.” 

He reaches for you, eyes shining with something raw and unsteady, like he’s barely holding himself together. 

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, voice trembling. “I tried to. God, I tried to. My parents—they wanted me to propose to someone else. Someone safe. Someone good for business. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t even put the ring on her hand because I knew—” He swallows hard, like the words are knives. “—because it should’ve been you.” 

The porch light casts a soft glow over both of you now, and for a moment, all you can hear is your own breathing, your own grief trembling through every inch of you. 

“It’s always been you,” he says. 

And that’s what does it. 

You break. 

Your sobs come hard and fast, and you cover your face, but he’s already stepping forward, arms pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. You press your face into his chest, and he holds you—really holds you—for the first time in what feels like forever. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other wraps around your waist, anchoring you. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over, into your hair, into your skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

You shake your head, not ready to forgive, not ready to forget, but his arms are warm, and his voice is steady, and something inside you is melting, softening, despite the ache. Despite the history. 

He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face, his hand trembling at your cheek. His thumb brushes away a tear, and you look at him through your lashes, eyes red and rimmed, mouth parted. 

Then he kisses you. 

It’s not showy or sharp like you remember. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s asking permission with every movement, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he pushes too far. 

And for a second you let yourself kiss him back. 

Your mouth finds his, familiar and foreign all at once, and the kiss deepens, his hand tightening at your waist as yours tangle in the collar of his shirt. You melt into him, breath catching, knees weak, heart aching. 

It’s everything you remember and everything you forgot. 

It’s almost enough to believe in again. 

Almost. 

His lips move against yours with a tenderness that both soothes and ignites every nerve ending. The world around you, the porch, the night, the distant hum of the festival, fades into nothing but the rhythm of his breath mingling with yours. 

You cling to him, desperate to hold onto this fragile moment, even as the walls you built around your heart tremble beneath his touch. His hands trace the curve of your back, pulling you closer, as if to erase the years lost, the silence, the pain. 

When he finally parts from your lips, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven. 

“I’ve missed you,” he admits softly, voice rough with emotion. 

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you too,” you whisper. 

But even as you say it, a part of you fears what comes next. The questions left unasked, the promises broken, the scars neither of you have fully healed. 

Gojo’s gaze searches yours, vulnerability flickering there like a flame. 

“Let me make it right,” he pleads. “Not with words, but with time. With everything I have.” 

Your heart wavers, torn between hope and caution. 

Finally, you nod, a shaky but real start. “Okay.” 

He smiles—bright, genuine, full of relief—and pulls you into another kiss, softer this time, full of unspoken apologies and tentative beginnings. 

Tonight, beneath the stars and with the sea breeze wrapping around you both, there is a chance. A chance to rewrite the story that was left hanging for so long. 

And maybe, just maybe, that chance will be enough. 

goddd, i wrote this in one go after i watched a tiktok that reminded me so much of gojo :') it's bittersweet

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[rimzaaa]

The Night That Changed Everything

Oneshot! (Request)

Pairing: Inho/Young-il x Pregnant Fem!Reader (y/n)

Summary: Months after a one-night stand that meant nothing to him, In-ho joins the Squid Game undercover as “Young-il” — only to be blindsided by the familiar face of a pregnant woman among the players. She remembers everything. He remembers almost nothing. But when truth, rage, and buried emotion collide… one night becomes the moment that changes everything.

Warnings: 18+ | Smut(non vulgar term). Angst. One-night stand implications. Pregnancy themes. Emotional tension. Physical altercation. Death (minor character) Violence. Swearing. Frontman reveal. Canon divergence. Enemies to lovers(ish)

Author's Note: This one was an anon request and I really enjoyed writing it. I was thinking about writing on the same topic but then I got this request so I thought why not. Huge love to y'all. Keep supporting and reading 🖤

Words Count: 5K+

Tag list: Lemme know if you want to get tagged in LBH fics.

@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles

The Frontman scanned the rows of faces as the voting after the first game began.

Hidden behind the name Young-il, In-ho stood among the players, blending in like just another desperate man drowning in debt. No one knew who he really was. Not yet.

His real mission wasn’t the players — not directly. It was Gi-hun. He had joined the game a second time, intent on bringing down the entire system from within. In-ho had been sent in to keep an eye on him.

He was the last to vote.

The results lit up above them — majority ruled to stay and continue the game. He turned his head, gaze naturally drifting toward Gi-hun.

But then… something — someone — pulled his attention elsewhere.

As the players returned to their bunks, their faces twisted with disbelief, anxiety, and dread, his eyes landed on a woman seated alone on a lower bunk. Arms folded across her stomach, head lowered — not in fear, but as if she were hiding.

Something about her stopped him cold. The slope of her jaw. The flicker of her gaze as she briefly looked his way, then quickly turned aside.

Familiar.

His brows drew together as he watched her, unmoving, even as the guards entered with trays of food.

She didn’t speak to anyone. No alliances. No desperation. Just silence — and something in her eyes that didn’t match the panic surrounding her.

She knew him.

And she didn’t want to be seen.

She turned her face even more, subtly shifting as she stood to get her food — and that’s when he saw it.

The bump.

Full. Obvious. Heavy beneath the stiff uniform.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room.

“Is she pregnant…?”

“No way. How is she even allowed here?”

“What the hell?”

In-ho’s body went rigid.

Her hand instinctively came to rest over her stomach, protective.

And then it hit him.

A hotel room. A bottle of whiskey. Her laugh in the dark. Her fingers in his hair. Her body beneath his, breathless, soft, whispering his name again and again.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

His pulse spiked.

It had been more than six months. He hadn’t remembered her name. Hadn’t even clearly remembered her face.

But now — now that she was here, standing in front of him…

It all came crashing back like a tidal wave.

And the child?

Is that mine?

{FLASHBACK}

It was a rainy night when In-ho stepped into a dim bar tucked into the quieter part of Seoul. Since becoming the Frontman, he rarely went out — always hidden behind a mask, behind duty, behind secrets.

But tonight, he needed to unwind. He was sick of listening to the VIPs complain about Gi-hun — about how he was trying to expose the recruiter and dismantle the game from the inside.

He sat alone on one of the high stools at the bar, fingers curled around a glass of whiskey, letting the loud music and dim lights numb him — until she appeared.

A young, beautiful woman slid onto the seat next to him, brushing rainwater from her arms. He blinked, surprised. What was someone like her doing here, this late, alone?

“It’s not safe for girls like you to be out this late,” he said, leaning closer so she could hear him over the music, voice low and smooth.

She leaned in too, her smile teasing as her lips hovered near his ear. “Should I be scared of someone?” Her tone was playful. “You?”

As she tilted her head, her nose brushed lightly against his jaw. Their faces were close. Too close.

He smirked. Shrugged. “Maybe.”

Her cheeks flushed, and to cover it, she quickly extended a hand toward him. “I’m Y/N.”

He glanced down at her soft, delicate hand and took it gently into his much larger one. “Hwang In-ho.”

For a second, they just looked at each other. The tension was quiet but palpable.

She began to pull her hand away, but he didn’t let go. He tightened his grip, holding her there just a moment longer. Her eyes widened, caught between confusion and something deeper.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice lower now, eyes locked on hers. “Scared of me?”

“N-no,” she whispered.

And that was all he needed.

Without another word, he stood and took her hand, leading her upstairs to the private rooms above the bar.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing — maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the need to forget the weight of the Games. Or maybe… maybe it was just her. Something about her he couldn’t turn away from.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She followed quietly, heart pounding in her chest.

He opened the door, pulled her inside, and slammed it shut behind them. In the next second, he had her pinned gently against the door, crashing his lips onto hers in a kiss that left her breathless.

She gasped into the kiss, caught off guard by the sheer hunger in it — the way his lips claimed hers like he’d been starved for it. His hands roamed down her waist, gripping her like he needed to memorize every inch.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled against her lips, voice rough with desire. “Tell me to stop… or I won’t.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, she reached for his collar, tugging him closer. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

In-ho’s control snapped.

He spun her toward the wall, pressing against her back as his lips trailed fire down her neck. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head to the side, exposing the soft curve of her throat. His other hand slid boldly down the front of her dress, fingers teasing the hem.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all this time” he whispered darkly, lips brushing her ear. “Wearing that tight little dress, acting like you didn’t want me to ruin you.”

She whimpered as his fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming over her inner thigh. “I didn’t know you were this—”

“This what?” he smirked, dragging his mouth down to her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Filthy? Or desperate?”

She arched into him, breath hitching when he pressed against the wet heat between her thighs. “You’re not exactly innocent either.”

“Baby,” he chuckled, fingers slipping past her underwear. “I’ve never been innocent.”

He turned her around, eyes dark with lust, and lifted her onto the narrow counter, pushing her legs apart with no shame, no hesitation. She barely had time to catch her breath before he dropped to his knees in front of her, dragging her panties down slow.

“Let me hear you,” he murmured, lips brushing her thigh. “I want everyone downstairs to know who’s making you fall apart tonight.”

And when his mouth finally met her — warm, greedy, merciless — her head fell back with a cry, hands tangling in his hair as he devoured her like a man who had nothing to lose.

Every flick of his tongue, every groan against her skin only pushed her higher, until her body was shaking, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

And when she came, it was with his name on her lips, her fingers clenched tight in his hair, and his hands gripping her thighs like he never wanted to let go.

He rose to his feet, lips slick, eyes burning.

“You look so good when you come for me,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I’m not done yet.”

He lifted her up and sat her down on the bed and undid his belt slowly, eyes locked on hers the entire time. “Lie back, sweetheart.”

And she did.

Willingly. Desperately. Completely his.

Her dress was hiked up to her waist, her panties discarded carelessly on the floor. She lay back on the bed, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath, her hair fanned out beneath her like a halo — a siren dressed in red.

In-ho’s eyes raked over her body like a starving man.

“Look at you,” he murmured, stroking a hand slowly down her thigh, “spread out so pretty for someone you just met.”

Y/N bit her lip, eyes dark with desire. “Maybe I like living dangerously.”

He grinned, dark and crooked. “Then tonight’s your lucky night.”

He freed himself from his pants, his length already hard, throbbing in his fist. Her eyes dropped down instinctively and widened, her breath hitching just slightly. He noticed.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he rasped, stroking himself slowly as he leaned over her, pressing his tip against her entrance but not pushing in. “You were so brave before… come on, baby, show me how bad you want it.”

Y/N’s hips rolled up instinctively, chasing him, needing him to fill the ache he’d built inside her. He gripped her thighs tighter, pinning them open.

“Say it,” he whispered against her lips. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I—” Her voice caught in her throat.

His hand came up to gently grip her jaw, making her look at him.

“Say it,” he repeated, slower. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” she breathed. “I want you to fuck me, In-ho.”

That was all he needed.

With one thrust, he sank into her — deep, thick, and hot. She cried out, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“F-fuck, you feel so tight,” he groaned, burying his face into her neck. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He began to move, slow at first, grinding his hips with each thrust, dragging himself in and out of her like he wanted the memory burned Into every nerve. Each roll of his hips made her cry out his name, and he drank in every sound like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Her nails scratched down his back, her body trembling as he picked up the pace, slamming into her harder now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the private room, mixing with their gasps and groans.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled, eyes locked on hers as he pounded into her. “To be fucked like this? To be mine just for tonight?”

“Yes,” she moaned, voice breaking as her climax built again. “Yes, In-ho—God—don’t stop—”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he hissed, leaning down to bite gently at her collarbone. “Not until I hear you scream.”

She shattered around him, nails digging into his skin, mouth falling open in a silent scream as her orgasm hit like a wave — hard, wet, overwhelming.

And he followed.

With a low, guttural groan, In-ho gripped her hips, slammed into her one last time, and spilled deep inside her, his whole body shuddering as he rode out his release.

They stayed like that for a moment — tangled, panting, sweating.

Just two strangers who had just set each other on fire.

But neither of them knew then that this night… would never truly end.

Y/n lay boneless beneath him, her arms still wrapped around his shoulders, heart thundering against her ribs. In-ho’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word.

Just the sound of the rain pattering against the windows, the hum of music drifting up from the bar below, and the chaotic rhythm of two strangers trying to catch their breath.

Finally, she whispered, “You don’t seem like the type to bring girls up here.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and rolled to the side, pulling her gently with him so she stayed pressed against his chest. “I’m not.”

“Then why me?”

There was a pause. One that stretched longer than she expected.

In-ho stared up at the ceiling, his fingers drawing idle shapes on her bare back. “You laughed like you didn’t care who was watching. Like the world hadn’t crushed you yet.”

Her throat tightened at that. “That’s oddly poetic for a man who said I should be scared of him.”

He smirked, but didn’t respond.

She propped herself up on her elbow, watching him. “So… do I get your number, Mr. Hwang?”

He looked at her.

For a second — just a second — something shifted in his eyes. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… distant. Like he was already retreating.

“Let’s just keep this what it is,” he said gently, brushing a stray hair from her face. “A good night.”

Y/N tried to smile. She nodded like it didn’t sting.

But it did.

---

The sun peeked through the cracked curtains, casting soft golden lines across the tangled sheets.

She stirred, bare skin warming under the sunlight, a sleepy smile curling on her lips as she reached out—

But the space beside her was empty.

No warmth. No scent. Nothing.

She sat up quickly, heart sinking as she looked around the room.

His jacket — gone.

No note. No goodbye. Not even a name scrawled on a napkin.

Only silence.

Only emptiness.

And in her chest, something ached that she hadn’t expected.

She didn’t know his world. Didn’t know who he was. But she knew one thing

He left.

{PRESENT}

In-ho took a deep breath and finally stepped forward. He tried hard to remember her name, but it just wouldn’t come to him.

Y/N saw him approaching and immediately stood up, trying to slip away. But his voice stopped her.

“Hey—wait.”

He moved in front of her, blocking her path.

“I think I know you,” he said, gaze locked on hers. “You’re the girl I met months ago… in that bar, right?” His voice dropped low, shame creeping in. “But… I can’t remember your name.”

Y/N stared at him, her big eyes filled with disbelief and pain. “So you remember the night… but not my name?”

He scratched the back of his neck, guilty. “I’m… sorry.”

She didn’t answer. She tried to walk past him, but he caught her wrist gently, pulling her back.

“What are you doing here?” His voice lowered — rough, edged, unreadable. They stood so close now, pressed into the corner by her bunk. His grip tightened, not out of anger, but confusion. Desperation.

“Why do you care, huh? What’s your problem?” she snapped, struggling to pull free.

“Let me go, In-ho.”

His grip faltered the second she said his name — soft, familiar, and just as haunting.

“You… you still remember my name?” he asked quietly, as if he couldn’t believe it — or maybe he just wanted to hear her say it again.

She yanked her hand back and slammed her fist against his chest. “What else did you expect after getting me pregnant?”

His eyes widened. His gaze dropped to her belly.

“This… is this my child?” he whispered.

His hand reached out, almost instinctively — but he stopped halfway. Fingers trembling. Then, slowly, he stepped back.

And turned away.

Y/N watched him walk off, lips trembling, eyes stinging. It felt like he was leaving her all over again.

But In-ho needed air. Space.

He couldn’t breathe under the weight of what he’d just heard — what he’d unknowingly abandoned. For months, he’d lived in ignorance, while she had lived every second carrying his child.

Alone.

---

For the next game, the players were led into a massive hall — cold, echoing, and painted in colorful. At the center stood two large rainbow-colored circles on the floor, almost too cheerful for a place like this.

A robotic voice echoed from above.

“For the next game, you need to form groups of five.”

In-ho had already teamed up with Gi-hun, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho.

“We need one more,” Gi-hun muttered, scanning the scattered players around them.

“I know someone,” In-ho replied without hesitation, his eyes locking onto Y/N — her back turned, standing alone once again.

He walked over and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

She turned, immediately recognizing the touch — and rolled her eyes with a scoff. She turned to walk away, but he was already holding her hand. Gently. Firmly.

“Join my team. Uh..."

"Y/n" Her eyes flashed. “And don’t pity me. I don’t need your fake sympathy.”

The words hit hard, but In-ho didn’t let go. His voice softened to something almost unfamiliar — low, tender, nearly pleading.

“Please. It’s safer if you’re with me. Let me protect you… both of you.”

Y/N hesitated.

There it was — in his eyes. Not regret. Not guilt. But something else. Concern. Sincerity.

Without another word, she nodded.

He didn’t smile, didn’t gloat. Just quietly led her back to the others where the rest of the team waited.

And for the first time since she arrived, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

---

The players returned to the dormitory after completing the six-legged pentathlon.

Y/N walked over to her bunk and sat down heavily, exhaustion pressing down on her limbs like a second skin. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and every breath felt heavier than the last.

Across the room, In-ho sat beside Gi-hun, but his mind was far from the conversation. His eyes followed her — the woman carrying his child.

The woman whose name he couldn’t remember… but whose touch, scent, and the way she had moaned his name haunted him even now.

The front metal door hissed open.

Guards entered, distributing trays of dinner to the silent, drained players.

Y/N didn’t move.

In-ho noticed. He grabbed his tray and walked toward her, sitting beside her on the lower bunk. He balanced the tray on his knees and opened the milk carton, holding it out to her.

“You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes.

“At least for the baby?” he said gently.

Y/N’s gaze lifted, locking with his. For a moment, something unspoken passed between them. She took the milk box from his hand.

He opened his mouth to speak — maybe to finally talk things through — but Gi-hun and the others appeared, sitting around them with their trays.

“What are you doing here, Young-il?” Jung-bae asked, chewing noisily.

Y/N’s brows furrowed. She glanced between them.

“Young-il?” she echoed, confused.

“Yeah,” In-ho cut in quickly, his voice calm. “That’s my name. We never really got the chance to introduce ourselves.”

“I was just bringing Y/N some food,” he added, forcing a small smile. “Considering her condition…”

Y/N looked away, her mind racing.

Why would he lie about his name?

---

Lights out.

The room dimmed into silence, and Y/N shifted on her bed, a pressure building in her lower belly. She stood up quietly and walked toward the small bathroom door tucked in the corner.

She knocked gently.

A small window slid open, revealing the cold face of a masked guard.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said softly.

“No one is allowed after lights out. Wait until morning.”

Before she could argue, another shadow loomed behind her. In-ho.

“She’s pregnant,” he said firmly, standing behind her. “Let her go.”

The guard didn’t hesitate. The door unlocked and opened.

Y/N blinked in surprise. She looked over her shoulder at In-ho, confused, but said nothing as she stepped inside.

---

Y/n stepped out minutes later, she found In-ho leaning against the sink, waiting.

He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a note of alarm in her voice.

“We need to talk,” he said, walking slowly toward her until her back hit the tiled wall.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’re carrying my child. That changes everything.”

She scoffed. “You’re nothing to us. Just the man who used me and left. No number. No name. No trace.”

“I told you from the start it was just a one-night thing,” he said sharply. “How was I supposed to know you’d get pregnant?”

“You could’ve used protection.”

“You said you were on the pill.”

“Pills aren’t guarantees!” she snapped.

Silence fell.

Then his voice dropped, rough and confused. “Why did you keep the baby?”

Y/N stared at him, the question slicing through her like a knife. Her lips trembled as emotion welled in her throat.

“Because I loved you,” she whispered. “I fell for you that night. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

In-ho’s gaze softened. Before she could react, he cupped her face in his hands and crushed his lips against hers — hungry, desperate, full of confusion and longing.

She gasped, eyes wide, and pushed him back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, breathless.

He stepped forward again, resting his forehead against hers. His voice was low. Barely audible.

“If I’d known… if I’d known you felt this way — if I knew you were pregnant with my child — I would have never left.”

He kissed her again — softer this time. Her fists clenched into the front of his jacket, and she didn’t stop him.

When they pulled apart, his thumbs brushed away the tears that had escaped her eyes.

“Let me make it right. Let me take care of you… and the baby.”

She hesitated.

“I have questions,” she whispered. “Why are you even here? I thought you were rich. Why is everyone calling you Young-il?”

In-ho froze.

His hands dropped. He stepped back.

“I… I can’t tell you that. I have my reasons.”

Her face hardened. She scoffed bitterly and walked to the door, unlocking it.

“I knew you weren’t being honest with me.”

She turned back to him with burning eyes.

“Don’t come near me again unless you’re ready to tell me the truth. I’ve survived this long without you — I can survive the rest too.”

She walked away.

And In-ho stood there alone — heart racing, fists clenched, chest burning with everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

---

The next morning, the players were escorted into a vast hall unlike any they had seen before. The walls were painted in dizzying colors, and scattered around the space were vibrantly colored doors—each one numbered.

In the center of the room stood a large horse carousel, eerily out of place in the grim atmosphere, its painted horses frozen mid-gallop, their eyes blank and glassy.

It was the Mingle Game.

All the players were instructed to step onto a large platform in the middle of the vibrant, carousel-themed hall. Once everyone was in position, the platform began to rotate slowly, disorienting in its eerie, childlike cheerfulness.

As the robotic voice announced a number, the players had to form groups of that exact count and rush to find a matching room before time ran out.

Those who failed — died.

In-ho stood close to Y/N, his hand resting protectively on her lower back. But she didn’t respond kindly — her sharp glare was enough to remind him she was still furious. For abandoning her. For hiding things. For walking away when she needed him most.

The game progressed, bodies shifting, footsteps echoing, gunshots ringing out each time someone failed to find a room.

Then came the final round.

“Two players.”

Without hesitation, In-ho grabbed Y/N’s wrist. “Come on,” he muttered, pulling her quickly through the crowd.

He rushed ahead, spotting an empty room, and blocked the entrance to keep others out. “Y/N, hurry!” he called over his shoulder.

But before she could reach him, another player shoved her from behind. She stumbled hard, hitting the floor with a cry.

In-ho’s heart dropped.

“Y/N!”

He sprinted to her, crouched down, and helped her up, panic in his eyes. Together, they rushed into the room — only to find another player already there.

“I got here first!” the man shouted, fear evident in his voice at the sight of In-ho’s stormy expression.

“You pushed her,” In-ho muttered darkly — more to himself than anyone else.

And then, without warning, he lunged forward, grabbed the man by the throat— CRACK.

It was over in seconds.

Y/N stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.

“In-ho…” she whispered.

Reality seemed to snap back around him. He turned to her immediately, placing one hand on her cheek and the other gently over her belly.

“Are you okay? Is the baby…?”

She nodded slightly, still in shock.

Without another word, he pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her protectively as he buried his face in her hair.

“God,” he whispered hoarsely, “I thought I was going to lose you. Both of you.”

He pulled back just enough to press a trembling kiss to her forehead.

“You… killed someone. Just like that,” she said quietly, her voice trembling.

“He pushed you,” In-ho said firmly. “And if I hadn’t… we’d both be dead. It was only meant for two.”

She stared at him, words failing.

“I can’t lose you,” he said. “I need to get you out of here.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean? We can’t just leave.”

He met her gaze with something deeper. Something resolute.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Y/N hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“Then do exactly what I say. I promise—I’ll explain everything.”

Without waiting, he took her hand and led her out of the room. But instead of heading toward the dorms like the other players, he turned down one of the narrow, candy-colored corridors.

And for the first time, Y/N realized… he wasn’t just another player.

---

The corridor twisted into silence, the carnival colors of the game halls fading behind them. In-ho stopped at a discreet panel and keyed in a code.

A soft hiss echoed as the door opened to a private suite — dimly lit, sleek, and eerily sterile compared to the chaos outside. It looked nothing like the players quarters. No bunk beds. No peeling walls. No cameras in sight.

Just an expansive room filled with a big screen showing the footage of the dormitory, a leather couch, and a jazz music box.

Y/N stepped inside slowly, eyes wide.

“What… is this place?” she whispered.

In-ho shut the door behind them and didn’t answer right away. He moved to the couch, pulled off his player tracksuit jacket, and exhaled deeply like he had just removed a mask.

“In-ho,” Y/N said again, more firmly. “Tell me. What is going on? Where are we?”

He turned around slowly, eyes shadowed.

“I wasn’t supposed to bring anyone here,” he began, voice low. “But you’re not just anyone.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not a player, Y/N. I never was,” he confessed. “You already know my real name. And I’m the Frontman of this game.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her lips parted in disbelief. “What…?”

“I came in using the name Young-il,” he continued, stepping closer. “I had to. I’m here to keep an eye on someone — Seong Gi-hun. He came back to take this place down. I needed to be on the inside to control what happens.”

Y/N’s feet took a step back. “You’re… the one running this?”

He nodded once.

Her face paled.

“You lied to me,” she whispered, voice trembling. “This whole time — you’re the reason people are dying out there. You… you kill people for entertainment?”

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, panic rising in his voice. “I didn’t even remember—until I saw you. I swear to you, if I’d known—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, stepping further away from him. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, holding a protective hand over her belly. “Stay away from me and the baby!”

In-ho froze, guilt crashing over him like a wave.

“You’re a monster,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “All those bodies. All those people. And you sit up here in your private suite watching it all like it’s a damn game.”

His throat tightened. “I didn’t choose this life—”

“But you stayed.” Her voice cracked. “You let it go on. And now you’re trying to act like you care?”

He swallowed hard, a helpless ache in his eyes.

“I do care. About you. About the baby.”

She laughed bitterly. “The same way you cared when you walked away without a word that morning? The same way you couldn’t remember my name?”

In-ho took a small step forward. “Y/N, I can’t undo the past. But I brought you here to protect you. That has to count for something.”

She looked away, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

“You should’ve left me in that room,” she whispered. “At least there, I knew who my enemies were.”

---

Y/N stood frozen, heart hammering as she stared at the man before her — no longer just In-ho, the stranger who had touched her heart one night… but the Frontman. The very face behind death and destruction.

“I know how this looks,” In-ho said quietly, voice strained. “But I didn’t start here. I didn’t choose this life.”

She didn’t answer, eyes still wide, body tense like a deer about to bolt.

“I joined the games in 2015,” he continued, stepping away from her to lean against the dimly lit table, eyes clouded by memory. “Back then… I wasn’t this. I had a wife. We were going to have a child.”

That caught her off guard.

“I didn’t have money. She collapsed one day — turned out to be cancer. Aggressive. Unforgiving.” He let out a bitter chuckle, the sound hollow. “I thought I could save her. I thought if I won, I’d come back in time.”

He didn’t have to finish that sentence. Y/N felt the rest settle in the silence.

“You lost them,” she whispered.

He nodded slowly. “When I came back, they were gone. Both of them.”

Her eyes welled up. For a moment, she didn’t see the masked man anymore — just someone whose grief never had a grave to rest in.

“And so you stayed,” she said, her voice shaking. “You let them turn you into this.”

“I thought I had nothing left to lose,” he said. Then, with a trembling breath, he looked at her — really looked at her. “But now… you’re here. And you’re carrying my child. I can’t lose you too.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Tense.

He stepped closer, slow this time. Careful.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “I’m just asking for a chance… to not make the same mistake twice.”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, her breath shaky, her emotions warring.

She looked away.

He didn’t press her.

No promises, no certainty, just two people standing on the edge of something that could save them… or destroy them.

[viperstrikes]

¨༺ HALF A LEGEND ༻¨

<< CH 1

➠ Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x Reader ➠ Genre/Trope: Soulmates ➠ Type: Series ➠ Word count: 3.4k ➠ Warnings/Tags: angst (?), trauma, emotional damage, depictions of violence, canon-typical violence ➠ Author Notes: did not anticipate such a great response to the first chapter. you are all soooo sweet!! here's another chapter for u MUAH (sorry in advance for the angst tho)

+Ao3 Ver.

It had started with a cut.

A shallow slice across Toothless’ wing — nothing serious, but enough to make the Night Fury twitch and snarl whenever Hiccup came near with a cloth and salve. He had coaxed Toothless toward a quiet clearing near the cliffs, where the winds were calm and the sky wide.

In hindsight, Hiccup should’ve known better.

Toothless had heard it first — his head whipping to attention at the sound of a sharp crack of branches and whispers in the trees. The weighted thunk of a bola net came flying a few seconds later, wide and fast, nearly tangling Toothless before the dragon launched backward with a furious screech.

Unfortunately, the net had caught Hiccup instead.

There were three—no, five—men, with traps designed a little more dragon-scale and a little less for someone with half a leg and no backup.

Dragon hunters.

Hiccup had tried to free himself from the ropes, tried to get to Toothless, who was screeching and tugging on the net with him. It had been no use. “You have to go!” he shouted, pushing his friend with all his weight, eyes burning. “Go, bud! Now!”

Toothless hadn’t wanted to leave, that much Hiccup could tell. His pupils had narrowed, panicked and wild, wings twitching like he might stay and fight. But Hiccup forced the command again, gentler this time, and with a whisper he had used since the beginning, something he'd say when he needed his dragon to trust him more than instincts. “Go. I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Toothless had obeyed after that. Because he always did.

So now here he was.

Alone. Shackled. And worse—very, very aware of the pull in his chest.

He can feel you somewhere nearby.

Hiccup doesn’t know how, doesn’t try to explain it anymore, but the same tether that had lit up when your eyes met in the courtyard still burns now. Not pain—though there was plenty of that—but presence. A weight in his lungs that hadn’t been there before.

And guilt.

So much guilt.

He'd always known someone was out there. Every time he took a blow that didn’t belong to him. Every time he walked away from a battle and felt something lingering that wasn’t his own.

He knew.

And it makes everything he’s done sit like lead in his stomach.

He never thought he'd meet you. And if he did, he never expected you to be what you are.

You’re from this village—a dragon-hunter stronghold Toothless has flown over more than once, always with caution. Hiccup knew what kind of people lived here. Knew they trained their children young and taught them to kill before they could even count properly. He never expected to end up here. And certainly not like this.

Not chained.

Not half-conscious.

Not realizing—too late—that the girl who screamed when he got kicked in the ribs was the very same soul that had been shadowing him since childhood.

Hiccup closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. It’s like the gods have a twisted sense of humor.

Because Somehow, impossibly, you’re his soulmate.

Not someone from Berk. Not someone who believes in peace or flies on dragonback or understands that fire isn’t always a weapon. No, it had to be someone who would look at Toothless and see nothing but a target.

It’s cruel.

But not as cruel as the thought of Astrid.

He loves her. Truly, completely, and with a steadiness he’s never been able to explain. She’s been his constant—his fiercest ally, his sharpest critic, his first and only love—even when they both knew the truth. That she wasn’t his soulmate. That she never flinches when he’s hurt.

In a way, that has always made it easier.

She doesn’t feel what he does. Doesn’t suffer for his reckless decisions. Hiccup had made peace with that a long time ago.

Or at least he thought he had.

To be frank, he thought he knew a lot of things—because he’s Hiccup Haddock, stubborn at his core and headstrong above all else.

That all came crashing down once he saw you collapse across the dirt courtyard the same second a Vikings boot slammed into his side. Until he saw your expression—shocked, disbelieving, pained—and something in his ribs cracked that had nothing to do with the kick.

This changes everything.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

He wishes it didn’t.

It’s not that he regrets being with Astrid. He never could. What they have is real. But this—you—you're like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. A closed-off room in his soul, suddenly unlocked, flooding with all the pain he never wanted to cause anyone.

And now he knows your face. Your voice. The way your knees hit the dirt when he gets hurt.

How is he supposed to forget that?

A sound stirs in the corridor. Hiccup lifts his head just slightly, chest tightening.

He knows it’s you before he sees you.

“I know you’re there,” he says into the quiet. “if you're going to lurk, you could at least say something.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Just the dim torchlight flickering across the cell floor.

Then you step into view, quiet and sure. Your cloak brushes the stone, your eyes unreadable as you stop a few paces from the bars. You don’t speak at first. Neither does he.

Gods, you’re real.

You’ve always been real, but now you’re here. And he doesn’t know where to look—at your face, at the bruises you shouldn’t have, at the anger in your stance or the ache he can feel threading between you.

His breath hitches a bit. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, but he thinks it—it’s impossible not to. You’re stunning in a way that unsettles him. Like a storm on the horizon. Like something he’s known in dreams and tried to forget.

And he hates that he thinks that.

Because this shouldn’t matter.

Because he has Astrid.

You don’t say anything right away, and Hiccup doesn’t push. He just watches your gaze flick to the corner of the cell, eyes scanning the shadows like you’re checking for traps.

“How did you even get down here?” he asks, trying to sound normal. It comes out too flat to be anything but hollow.

“Snuck in through the eastern cellar vent. No one patrols it during the night shift.”

Hiccup blinks. “That’s… disturbingly efficient.”

“I know my way around, probably better than anyone,” you say simply.

And of course you do. Of course you’re smart, observant, tactical — of course you have qualities he admires.

Your eyes drift down then, something faltering in your expression. He follows your gaze and knows what you’re looking at.

His leg.

Or what’s left of it. The boot’s gone now, tossed to the side after one of the guards had searched him.

“I didn’t notice before,” you step closer, expression guarded. “Your leg…”

“It was covered,” Hiccup replies, trying to sound casual and failing. “The boot sort of hides it.”

You stare at it for a long time. He can’t read your face—only that it’s still. Too still. Then, your voice comes out quieter, more fragile, and not sounding like anything that came before it:

“I remember when that happened.”

Hiccup’s body tenses, breath caught.

“I was fourteen,” you continue, eyes sharp now, catching his. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I didn’t know what was happening. I screamed until I couldn’t breathe. My parents thought I was cursed. I wanted it to end, I wanted to–” You stop abruptly, swallowing hard,  searching his eyes for only a second before tearing your gaze away from him.

And Hiccup wants to be anywhere but here. Because you felt that. Every second of it. The fire, the tearing, the searing end of something he barely remembers himself. He was unconscious before it happened. Woke up in a bed with one less leg and a dull, ghostly ache.

You had lived the moment he never had to.

“I–” His mouth opens, but what does someone say to that? “I didn’t—I passed out before it–before I could feel it, I mean. I didn’t even think–”

“Exactly,” You snap, eyes flashing. “You didn’t think. You never think. You’ve been out there throwing yourself into danger for years, and now I have a clearer understanding. You were falling off dragons. Fighting alpha beasts. Crashing into ships. And every single time, I feel it. Not just you.  You break a rib, and I can’t breathe for a week. And you just keep going like none of it matters.”

“I didn’t know who you were,” he confesses after a moment, like that somehow makes it okay. “I didn’t even know if you were real. I just assumed... I’d never meet you. That maybe you were out there, but far away. Untouchable."

“That made it easier for you?” you ask, bitter.

He hesitates.

Then: “Yeah. Sometimes.”

The flicker of pain in your eyes is brief, but he sees it. Sees it and wants to tear something apart for putting it there.

“I’m sorry,” he says, small and useless.

“You’re sorry?” Your voice sharpens. “You’ve been a nightmare. Do you even realize how much pain you’ve caused? I’ve woken up screaming. I’ve passed out in the middle of hunts. I nearly drowned because you hit your head in some river gods-know-where.”

“That was one time—”

“That was one week,” you fire back. “You’re supposed to be smart. Aren’t you the genius dragon boy?”

“I am smart.”

“You’re a reckless idiot.”

Hiccup exhales, long and tired, letting his head fall back against the stone wall behind him. His shoulders sink with the weight of it — of everything. He doesn’t want to argue. Not with you. Not with the person who’s been suffering in silence every time he’s made a reckless decision. Not with the girl who’s felt his pain more intimately than anyone else ever could.

“There was always a war,” he says quietly, staring at the stone ceiling like it might hold the answer. “First with the dragons. Then with the people who feared them. Then the ones who wanted to cage them. I couldn’t stop. Not when there were lives at stake. Not when dragons were being hunted like animals.”

Your face twists. “So that’s it? Dragons over people?”

“I think dragons are people,” he replies, sitting forward slightly now, heat rising in his voice. “Or close. They’re not monsters. They’re intelligent. They’re loyal. They protect each other. Every time I saved one, it reminded me that peace was possible — that we didn’t have to stay trapped in the same cycle of blood and fear forever.”

You scoff, bitterness curling at the edge of your words. “Tell that to the ones who burned our fishing boats. Who took homes. Took my parents. I’ve fought dragons. Bled because of them. And while I was out there trying to protect my village, I got stabbed through the shoulder — not even from my fight, but because of yours.”

Hiccup stiffens. His jaw clenches, words catching in his throat. And then, before he can stop himself, the frustration breaks loose.

“I never asked for this,” he mutters, voice low, shaking just enough to betray how close he is to unraveling. “I didn’t ask to be your soulmate.”

You flinch, hard.

He regrets his words immediately, and his expression softens. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, gentler now, “I just—this wasn’t the plan...this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. I didn’t expect to find you. Not here. Not now.”

There’s something else behind your eyes now—something calculating. You’re not glaring anymore, not spitting accusations. You’re watching him closely. Reading him.

Hiccup sees the shift in you before he understands it. The way your head tilts, just slightly. The way your lips part like you're about to say something—the hesitation behind the action.

Then your expression clicks into place, and he knows you’ve figured something out.

You take a slow breath, the kind meant to steady.

“Who is she?” You finally ask.

The question lands with no warning.

Hiccup straightens a little. “What?”

“There’s only two reasons someone would be so careless with their soulmate’s pain,” you murmur, not blinking. “Either they’re truly heartless... or they’ve fallen in love with someone else.” You don’t look away. “And you don’t seem heartless.”

Hiccup swallows.

He wishes you hadn’t asked.

He wishes he could lie.

But you’re standing there, bruised from his injuries, years of pain etched behind your voice, and the least he owes you is the truth.

He shifts his shoulders against the wall, letting the cuffs bite into his skin as punishment for everything he’s about to say.

“Astrid.”

Your posture tenses.

Hiccups is looking away now, far away from your eyes that he can read so clearly despite never knowing you before today. “Her name is Astrid. She’s… she’s everything. I’ve been in love with her since we were fifteen. We’ve fought beside each other through every war, every loss. She’s strong and smart and brave and—she isn’t my soulmate. I know that. She’s always known that. But we fell in love anyway.”

He glances up, just once.

You’re still watching him, but your face has gone unreadable again. Carefully neutral. Too still.

And for some reason that hurts more than if you’d screamed.

He keeps talking, not because he wants to, but because silence might strangle him. “I didn’t know I’d ever meet you. I thought you were a shadow. A theory. I didn’t let myself think about it. Not really. Astrid was real. And I—I love her.”

Still, you don’t speak.

But your arms fall slowly to your sides, fingers curling once before relaxing again. You take a breath, then another, like you’re making sure the air still works.

When you finally speak, your voice is thin. “That’s fine.” You blink once. “You’re a dragon rider anyway. I didn’t expect anything else. You’ve betrayed every Viking before you who died trying to fight those monsters. You’re a traitor…in every form.”

Hiccup doesn’t flinch outwardly, but inside, he feels it like a blade to the gut. Not because it’s new—he’s heard worse. The people of Berk had said worse, once. His father, too. But it somehow hurts more because it comes from you. From someone who’s felt the fire of his wounds and still sees him as the enemy.

Hiccup watches you, unsure what he’s looking for. Anger. Tears. Even hatred. But you don’t give him any of it.

You’re hurt.

But you’re too proud to show it.

And that makes his throat ache worse than any bruise.

You step back half a pace, enough to make the gap between the bars feel like a wall again. “I didn’t come here to cry over fate, or have some emotional revelation, Hiccup.”

He blinks at the sharp use of his name—no softness to it, no weight of the word ‘soulmate’ underneath.

You lift your chin. “I came here to tell you to stop.”

He doesn’t understand. “Stop what?”

“Being so reckless.” You exhale hard, voice gaining momentum. “You don’t need me. I’m not asking for anything. But you need to stop acting like your life is the only one on the line. Because it’s not.”

You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “I spent years trying not to get hurt. I pulled back. Gave up combat. Skipped raids. All because I didn’t want my soulmate to suffer. And you didn’t even try.”

He swallows hard, guilt burning like fire in his throat. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you always have.”

Hiccup doesn't know what to say. Nothing could ease what he's put you through. And so, pathetically, he doesn't say anything.

“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” you say, tone leveling out again. “Just… stop being stupid. If you’re going to throw yourself into war, then be smart about it.”

Hiccup looks at you.

Not around you. Not at your fists, your posture, your tight mouth.

You.

And for the first time, he realizes how deep the damage goes. Not just the physical kind—but everything that comes with it. The isolation. The silence. The waiting. Hoping the next wound wouldn’t be fatal. That your soulmate wasn’t already dead somewhere far from you.

A long silence stretches between you.

Then, before he can find anything worth saying, you step back from the bars.

Your gaze lingers on him, just for a moment. He sees the shift, subtle as it is—the smallest flicker of something crossing your face. And he tries to hold onto it. Tries to read you, to understand you, to find some last trace of what you’re feeling. Anything to ground him. Anything to stop the terrible feeling in his chest.

But he can’t.

You were so easy to read a few moments ago, and now you blocked him out entirely.

Your footsteps are nearly soundless on the stone. You don’t look back. And Hiccup doesn’t try to stop you.

He knows he can’t.

And then you’re gone.

The torchlight flickers in your absence, casting long, restless shadows across the cell. The cold returns fast, filling the space you left behind like it’s reclaiming what never should’ve been touched in the first place.

Hiccup doesn’t move.

Not right away.

He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, letting the dampness press into his skin, hoping it might numb something. The chains rattle when he shifts, but he barely notices them now. He can still feel your voice in the air — the tightness in it when you told him to stop being reckless, the way you kept your expression still even after he told you about Astrid.

You’d hidden the hurt well. But not well enough.

He goes over every second of the conversation — the way your jaw clenched when he said Astrid’s name, the way you stepped back like it physically cost you something to stand that close to him. You didn’t ask him to choose. You didn’t accuse him of betrayal or demand answers or beg for anything at all.

You just told him to be careful.

Because it still mattered to you.

Even after everything — after years of pain he never acknowledged, after realizing he’d been loving someone else the entire time — you stood there and told him to be careful.

That’s what tightens something in his chest.

Astrid is still the center of his world. He doesn’t question that. But you’re carved into the edges now — this undeniable presence that has been stitched into his life from the beginning. Not loud. Not demanding. Just... there. Like a scar that never healed right.

And the worst part?

He’d gotten used to the pain.

For so long, he treated it like background noise. He let himself believe that his soulmate was some abstract stranger, a concept that would never cross his path, never complicate what he had with Astrid. He never thought his injuries were shaping someone else’s life — keeping you up at night, leaving you breathless, training you to fear your own body.

But now he knows.

Now he’s seen the cost of his choices etched into your voice.

He lets out a slow breath, chest tight.

He doesn’t regret loving Astrid. He never will. She’s been his anchor, his sword-arm, his partner. She kept him alive. She made him brave. He doesn’t want to imagine his life without her.

But you... you make him feel something else entirely. Something terrifying. Not a clean kind of feeling, not yet. But something aching and old and impossible to ignore. Like a bond forged in fire before either of you could understand what it meant. Like a blade pressed against both of your palms, sealing you together long before names were ever spoken.

And now that he’s met you — now that he’s seen your face and heard the quiet way you said “I didn’t come here to cry over fate” — he knows he’ll never be able to forget you.

His eyes start to burn, and he hangs his head between his knees.

What is he supposed to do with that?

What is he supposed to do when every choice feels like betrayal — to you, to Astrid, to himself?

The chains dig into his skin again as he shifts, and for once, he lets them.

Maybe he deserves the weight.

[mainstreamangel]

Could you write a smut fic where a is about to go on a date with someone else but p stops her due to her feelings towards a :)

treat you better, date you better, love you better.

summary: your friend convinces you to go on a blind date, but paige—your roommate is tired of loving you while you’re blind.

warning(s): uconn!paige x fem!reader, smut—minors dni.

masterlist / dallas locker room

“no, i’m not going.” you shook your head as you pack up your belongings.

“why not?” your friend whines. “it’ll be good for you, you know have a life outside of basketball and introvertness… and paige.” they hesitated.

they knew you had a crush on your roommate, paige bueckers; though you complained about not having a shot with her with your “status”. you always thought she was this star athlete who was just out of reach.

you had become good friends with her through the close proximity and learned a lot about basketball from her. even though she tries not talking about it too much off the court, it still lingers for a bit in every conversation.

“come on you said it yourself, paige isn’t gonna go for a commoner.” your friend states.

“why would you say that? thanks for believing in me.” you scoff.

“one date.”

“no.”

“please? i promise if it doesn’t work out you can go back to moping about paige.”

“i’m not moping and i’m NOT going on that date.”

“i’ll give you 100 dollars if it doesn’t work out.”

“what day?”

your friend smiles and shoves their hands in their pockets. “friday, 7 pm.”

you shake your head and feel your phone buzz.

lil paigey

hi u still up 4 movie on fri

you

ya tot what time

lil paigey

practice ends at 6 so i was thinking 7

you sigh, you would rather spend your friday with paige, cracking jokes and talking about everything under the sun.

but you wanted to look more into the future. i mean this could be the one. someone you can focus more than rotting with paige when she gets home from her busy life.

but what if paige is the one? i mean, who knows how long you have with paige before her career really takes off professionally.

you

oh shoot sorry cant do fri

what abt sat

lil paigey

oh? but we always watch movies on fridays

you

ya sry smth came up can u do sat or ill b home real late too and if ur still up we can watch it then

lil paigey

what u got going on

you

going on a date

you were hesitant on being honest but, you thought it wouldn’t matter because your feelings were unreciprocated.

paige was kind to everybody and surely if she was into girls she would be flirting with someone of her status. one of her teammate for example. you weren't jealous of her teammates, no. you had something special with paige, whether she realised it or not.

paige stopped responding after that. you just assumed she was busy doing something since she didn't have practice that day.

"look i gotta go." you said, pocketing your phone.

your friend nodded their head. "yeah same. catch you later? i'll text you the details of the date." they smiled.

you bid your farewells and walked off towards your place.

once you got to your place, you toss your belongings by the door and place your keys in the little dish on the ledge. you and paige had found that dish while casually shopping for your new wardrobe.

you brought her along because you admired her style, but also because you just wanted to spend time with her. at first you were too shy to ask her, but when paige asked where you were headed, you told her—asked if she wanted to come along, and that was that.

you saw paige's keys in the dish, now alongside yours. you furrowed your brows and looked out to the main area. it was empty.

"paige?" you called.

nothing.

you start to walk towards her door, it's creeked slightly open. you push it gently and reveal paige laying in bed... on that damn ipad.

"hey, you okay?" you ask, cautiously.

"yeah." she responds dryly. she flips on her side like a rotisserie chicken, her back facing towards you. you furrow your brows and walk over, you sit on the edge of her small bed and lay a hand gently on her side.

"rough day?" you try and strike up small talk. you never had to start small talk with paige, it just came naturally. so you knew something was up. she just hums and continues roughly tapping on her ipad.

"paige." you call softly.

"what?" she snaps, letting her ipad fall onto her bed, turning to look at you.

you remove your hand and distance yourself a bit. "what's going on with you? you're so…off."

"god nothing, just go have fun on your little date." she turns again and lays her head on her hands.

you quirk a brow and place your hand back on her hip. "my date? the one for friday? is that why you're upset? because i'm missing ONE friday movie night? grow up paige." you snap.

"grow up? sorry i'm not holding you hostage on movie nights. you're free to go." she sits up to face you.

"why do you care if i go on a date? it's not like you like me or anything."

"but i do." she yells. the room goes silent.

"what..?" you mumble.

"i'm in love with you. i have since we started rooming together. ok? i was just too pussy about it to confess." she pouts, crossing her arms like a child throwing a tantrum.

you let out a breath and push back a strand of hair behind her ear, admiring her face. before you can stop yourself, you lean in and capture her lips. you give her a chance to back out but she only presses further.

"i've been waiting for this moment, i always dreamed of it... i didn't think it would come true." you confess, unlatching your lips from hers.

"please don't go on that date." she begs.

you push her back down against her pillow. "i won't." you straddle her waist and lean in to capture her lips again. you deepen the kiss as paige's hands start to get handsy.

“i always thought i wasn’t good enough for you. that my status wasn’t good enough.” you confess, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck.

she sits up and lays against the wall, shifting you to straddle her core.

“fuck, it’s always been you—i’ve always just wanted you and nobody else.” paige lets out a shaky breath.

you tug at her shirt—silently asking for permission in which paige removed her shirt, leaving her in a sports bra.

you smile and take in the sight. “thinking about all the times i dreamt of having you like this and it’s actually happening.” you laugh nervously, looking down.

paige gently lifts your chin with two fingers, the sight of you looking up at her for mercy causing her arousal.

“it’ll only happen if you want to. i need your consent.” paige says, just above a whisper.

you swallow hard and nod. “i do.”

paige lets go of your face and brings you back up for a couple more sloppy kisses. she helps you remove your clothes and she removes the rest of hers.

you take a moment before kissing paige again. “god you look so perfect.” she moans against your lips.

“you were carved by God.” you mumble, squeezinf her bicep for a moment.

“oh these?” paige smirks she takes her arms and flexes.

you roll your eyes with a smile. “you’re killing the mood.”

“oh yeah? let me show what kind of mood i can be in.” paige says, flipping you.

she lays you down and starts kissing down your bare skin. she stops—paying extra attention to your breasts. “let me show you what loving someone in secret does to one.”

she wraps her lips around one your left nipple—sucking gently.

you let out a soft moan, letting your head gently stroke her hair. paige lets go for a moment before taking the hair tie on her wrist and tying her hair up in her signature messy bun.

she return to your hot skin, going lower and lower until she gently spreads your legs wider. she looks at you with a loving look. “is this okay?” she asks.

you nod and paige wastes no time in kissing your clit before gently sucking on it. she shifts her hand so she can spread your slick around your folds.

you feel her actions starting to cloud your mind as you let out soft sounds. her name falling upon your lips and praises sounding like music to paige’s ears.

paige licks a stripe, basking in your taste before going head on and flicking and flattening her tongue against your cunt.

your pleas and moans getting louder.

at some point you started whimpering, begging her to push you over the edge.

after a while you grip her hair. “fuck i’m close. paige don’t stop. fuck don’t.” you try and close your legs around her head but she roughly pushes them back open.

you let out harsh breathes as paige shifts her actions to bring you the best and fastest pleasure. with a soft moan you let go, waves of pleasure jerking through your body.

paige helps you ride out your high and when you feel finished, she doesn’t stop.

“paige stop-“ you try flinching away but she holds you down.

“hold on baby, it’ll be alright.” she coos.

before you know it you’re riding another high, a knot snapped in your core as you shout out paige’s name once again.

paige climbs back up towards you and watches as you watch her lick your cum from her fingers. she leans i. and gives you a long kiss as you taste yourself on her lips.

“still going on that date?” she asks.

“not a chance.”

@spideygoop @numberonepartyanth3m @phoenix32711 @we2222 @sevikasleftbicep @em-nems @addymmt @swiftie4evr @fandoms-bythedozen @pathecat14 @victoria149796 @fiction67 @ctkvi @toad-stool

[snuffysnuffles]

Hii I love the Eltingville oc and parents (especially Josh’s mom🫶) and your content

i wanted to see how would the Eltingville boys would look and act if the parents treated them nicely?

from: Zeno (have a nice day :3)

Great question, here’s my answers!

So starting off with Pete’s parents.

Pete’s mom is actually the only person who’s regularly nice to him, or at least somewhat regularly. She shows him affection and doesn’t really judge him, since he’s hit and pushed around a lot by almost everybody. She’s the only person who hugs him and compliments him. However, since she’s intoxicated most of the time, it makes Pete wonder if she would be this nice to him if she was sober.

And Pete’s dad. Pete’s dad is the complete opposite of his mom, he was Pete’s first ever bully, even before his brothers. The whole reason why his brothers pick on him so much is because Pete’s father conditioned them to “toughen” him up because he is seen as the runt of the family. (Olivia doesn’t count cause she’s a girl.) He’s verbally and psychically abused everyone in his family, even if he said something positive now, it wouldn’t even matter because all the damage he’s done. So Pete probably would think that his dad is either making fun of him still or he just doesn’t mean it at all.

Next joshes parents!

Joshes mom is regularly sweet with him when she gets the chance to be. She overly spoils him and treats him with love to the point Josh is very indifferent to it and doesn’t really care much. He only sees the value of gaining from her since she’s such a pushover. But Josh does care for his mom, he’d probably only realize her worth after she’s gone though.

Joshes dad is usually very strict with him or doesn’t talk to him at all, so if Joshes dad WAS nice to him he would probably see it as a chance to use his vulnerability to gain something from him. Making Joshes dad take back whatever he said nice about Josh.

Jerry’s parents!

His parents act very similar so I’ll put them in the same paragraph.

Jerry is usually really fed up with his parents. They very shallow and idiotic, they know nothing about him. They project everything onto him, their own hobbies, likes, dislikes, all of it. Jerry’s father would probably start off saying something slightly nice about Jerry before making it about himself and then acts like he gave Jerry amazing advice or gave him guidance. Jerry’s mom would probably do the exact same thing, but she would probably cut it short because she doesn’t see the value in interacting with Jerry. Her main reason she doesn’t see a reason to interact with him is because she doesn’t care what his view on her is because, 1: He’s a teenager so whatever he says is just meaningless, 2: He’s her son so he has to see her in a positive light.. if not then he’s the problem not her. Jerry’s mom wants to be seen as a saint by everyone else besides her own family because she has the notion that they already see her that way because he does her job as a mother and wife. (More on the mother part though.

And finally.. Bills mom.

I’m gonna be honest, Bill would not care, not even a little. He would probably think she’s just trying to butter him up for something, or trying to talk him into therapy or something along those lines. He ignores his mom unless she yells at him, which only catches his attention because when he was younger, the louder the got the more she got closer to physically hitting him.

I hope this answer made sense and that I wasn’t too out of character. But this is honestly just how I think they’d react. (Also my grammar is probably really bad, I wrote this all in one sitting.)

Thanks for the ask!

[date-everything-has-taken-over]

Could you write something familial with Teddy? His voice is so comforting I need to snuggle up to him while he reads me a bedtime story

I love Teddy, his stories are amazing, and honestly, if they made physical copies of his storybook, I'd want one so bad

Also, since the homeowner canonically has a bad relationship with their parents I'm using that

●When you first saw the familiar figure in front of you, you were hit with a wave of memories.

●The comforting presence by your side, chasing away the monsters in the dark as you hugged your childhood teddy bear. He was now standing in front of you, smiling down at you like no time had passed

●It was a little awkward at first. You felt bad for leaving him in the closet, but he kept reassuring you that everything was okay and he didn't mind the closest. After all, it was pretty peaceful (when Dunk or Kristof weren't trying to outdo the other)

●Soon, it was like nothing changed. He was now placed on the dresser, promising to keep away the monsters and telling you stories at night

●He gives the absolute BEST hugs! When you've had a bad day, he opens his arms for you, engulfing you in the softest, warmest hug he could muster

●It was almost like being a kid again. Laying in bed as Teddy told you the story of Aris & Leo. You were slowly falling asleep, only staying awake to hear the rest of the story. It was strange. You were an adult, and yet you were so invested in a children's story but Teddy was such a good story teller.

●He had quickly become like family to you. Checking on you, making sure you were drinking water and eating every day, helping you sleep properly.

●If you didn't already know he was a teddy bear, you would have thought he was the concept of meditation. Even after the most stressful of days, he could put you at ease with as little as a few comforting words

●You'd never really had a good relationship with your parents, so maybe that's why you got so attached to Teddy. Even before he was awakened, you went to him for comfort as a child. Hell, you even hugged him close after a bad day at school as a teenager (not that you'd ever let anyone know)

●And Teddy felt the same. As far as he was concerned, the scared child clinging to him in the night was the same person in front of him. He felt the need to protect you and make you make you happy

●You know the cliche where the potential lover meets the overprotective father, and they try to win him over. Well thats that's pretty much what happens to any of the dateables that try to get with you. The house has wordlessly acknowledged Teddy as your pseudo-father

●I feel like he wouldn't like Nightmare. She may be trying to help in her own terrifying way, but the fact that they cause you active distress doesn't sit right with him. When you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat from Nightmares' most recent lesson, he's by your side right away. Teddy pulls you into a tight hug, promising that you're okay and that he'll stay by your side until you fall asleep

[livfastdieyoung69]

belgian malnois hybrid!reader who loves loves loves horsing around with soap

quite often, it starts after she’s done eating. she eats way too fast, just shoves everything in her mouth while the boys are chatting, and then she’ll get antsy sitting around waiting for them to finish.

sure, she could just get up and find something to do but why would she leave when everyone she would go to bother is right here??

she just starts shoving johnny a lil, pushing her thigh against his. adds a couple pokes. he’ll start side eyeing her halfway through his lunch. she’ll pinch him when he doesn’t pay her any more attention, and he’ll finally look over to her. but she just whips her head in the other direction, like nothing happened. if price is sitting next to her, she’ll lay her head on his shoulder, and he’ll wrap an arm around her like the sweet, little baby angel she is.

or sometimes, when johnny’s working out (which happens the same exact time every day) and she’s a little bored, she’ll just wonder on over to the gym. as soon as she spots him, soap is immediately being tackled and/or jumped on. usually ends with her in a headlock, or getting tossed around, her favorite part.

simon’s usually there too, has taken apart in the goofing off many times. always, “what’ve we got here, johnny? who’s this?” in the middle of stealing her from soap and throwing her over his shoulders. simon tried to tickle her once, got kicked hard in the gut and quickly learned his lesson.

johnny delivers her back off to price, still full of giggles and doing that thing where dogs pant but refuse any water given to them. he’s always got some smug remark, like, “you put your attack dog on me, price, or she just love me this much?” while he lets her fall from the fireman’s hold.

price used to try and put an end to it with a few gruff exclamations, or a withdrawal of movie time with gaz, but it seems soap enjoys it just as much.

[cosmowgyral]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝~ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲: 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐨

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated but do not repost. Hope you enjoy!

One day, while I was walking with Emma, watching the ocean bathed in deep crimson—

She suddenly leaned in close, grinning like she was up to something.

Emma: Silvio, do you know what day it is today?

Silvio: Huh? Not a clue.

I replied curtly, but a certain memory crept into my mind…

--flashback--

Silvio: You're gonna devote your heart and soul to me, and give me everything you've got.

Silvio: And I'll cherish you and take care of you for the rest of your life.

Emma: I love that about you, too.

Silvio: You're so damn sassy.

Silvio: But.... as a special favor, I'm gonna let you get away with that, Emma.

--flashback ends--

(....)

(If I tell her I remember, she’s definitely gonna make me say those same damn words again. No thanks.)

Emma: You really don’t remember? It’s a day that has something to do with us, Silvio.

Silvio: Not a damn clue.

Emma: It’s the day something happened… right here, in this exact spot.

Even though I pretended not to know, Emma clearly had no intention of giving up.

Emma: Then I’ll give you a hint!

Silvio: Hey—!

She yanked me by the arm down to the edge of the waves, and before I knew it, we were standing thigh-deep in the tide.

As the waves pulled at the sand beneath us, I wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close so she wouldn’t lose her footing.

Emma: Did that help you remember?

Silvio: Nope, nothing. Bein’ in the ocean’s not exactly a rare event.

(Tch… back then she was so hesitant to get in the water, and now she’s the one draggin’ me in.)

I couldn’t help but let out a wry chuckle. Unlike me, Emma stared up with serious eyes, then quietly spoke.

Emma: Silvio, I love you.

(…So that’s where this was goin’.)

Silvio: Where’s this comin’ from all of a sudden?

My heart kicked up a beat—because she said it with the same feeling I’d been tryin’ to ignore in my own chest.

I barely kept myself from stumbling over my words… but then, Emma spoke again.

Emma: From that day on… my heart’s been yours, Silvio.

Emma: This feeling will never change, no matter what.

Emma: I’ll always, always love you.

Her cheeks and ears were so red, I could tell it wasn’t just from the sunset.

(How many damn words are ya tryin’ to squeeze outta me…)

(Sayin’ all that while blushin’—you’ve got some nerve.)

Even if it was part of her plan, the sheer honesty behind it almost broke down my guard.

Emma: So… have you remembered yet?

Silvio: Not one bit.

Emma: Then I’ve got no choice… mm—

Trying to recreate that day, she leaned in to kiss me—but I caught her chin in my hand and sealed her lips first.

When I finally pulled away, she just stared at me, mouth slightly open in shock. I couldn’t help but smirk.

Silvio: Hah. Still don’t remember, but… I gotta admit, today ain’t bad.

Emma: Th-that face…! You totally knew from the start, didn’t you?

Silvio: Tch. I saw through your little scheme from the get-go. Give it up already.

Emma: Mmm…!

To make sure she got the message, I kissed her deep—stealing not just her words, but her breath too.

Instead of saying what I felt, I tangled my tongue with hers, holding her close as her strength slowly melted away.

(I'd remember it even without a grand celebration or some sweet, sugary words.)

(That was the day I finally got what I’d been starvin’ for—somethin’ money could never buy.)

With the same waves crashing and seabirds calling, just like that day, I kissed her again—this time pouring in everything I had.

[charmnyu]

 ᘏᘏ seven times you and luke castellan almost kissed! (and the one time you actually did)

‿◞ ♡ word count — 6.0k i don’t have an explanation give it a chance bae 😞

‿◞ ♡ synopsis: you and luke castellan are enemies, (hence why you’re a child of athena an he’s the son of hermes)— but theres tension. heavy tension. thats why you almost kissed luke six times (and plus the one time you succeeded!)

lovequeue ୧ notes: fluff 2 angst again ?? kissing, blood, scars, injuries and thats all i know of 😞 lmk is theres more i’m so tired.. i love u lei be the mother 2 my kids u guys say ty to leilani for being a proofreader and the bringer of this idea 😛🤑 also u don’t now how many times i almsot got caught in my cabin writing ts i’m crying

the thing about being athena's kid is that you're supposed to be smart. strategic. you're supposed to see three moves ahead, anticipate every outcome, never get caught off guard. but luke castellan has this way of making all that wisdom feel useless, like he's playing a completely different game with rules you never learned.

you hate him with the kind of intensity that makes your siblings worry you're gonna to do something stupid. which, to be fair, you probably are. (can you blame them?)

— . INCIDENT #1

the first time it almost happens, it’s in the dead of knife, sharpening your knife because you can't sleep. again. insomnia runs in your family, along with the tendency to overthink everything until your brain feels like it's going to explode. you're sitting cross-legged on the floor, zoning out and letting your mind wander, when the door creaks open.

"figured i'd find you here," luke says, and you don't look up because you know that voice, know the way it sounds when he's tired and his guard is down just a little.

"go away, castellan."

but he doesn't. instead he settles down across from you, close enough that you can smell the shampoo and something else that's just him. and for a while you both just sit there in the dim light, taking care of your weapons in silence.

"you know," he says eventually, "most people would be asleep right now."

"most people aren't planning how to beat you in tomorrow's sparring match."

he laughs, soft and low. "is that what you're doing? because i hate to break it to you, but sharpening your knife isn't going to help when we're using practice swords."

you finally look up, ready to snap something back at him, but he's closer than you expected. close enough to see the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, close enough to count his eyelashes if you wanted to. which you don't. obviously.

"i have other plans," you say, but your voice comes out quieter than intended.

"yeah? like what?"

and suddenly you're leaning forward, drawn by something you can't name, and he's doing the same. the space between you shrinks to nothing, and you can feel his breath against your lips, warm and unsteady. your heart is doing something warm in your chest, and for a second you forget why you're supposed to hate him. (you can’t count how many times this has happened to you. gods, he’s so pretty it makes your brain all fuzzy and makes it feel like it’s going to explode…)

then the door slams open and clarisse walks in, looking for her spear, and you spring apart like you've been burned. luke clears his throat and goes back to polishing his sword, and you focus very hard on your knife, cheeks burning.

clarisse gives you both a weird look but doesn't say anything, just grabs her weapon and leaves. the moment is gone, shattered like glass, and you can't figure out if you're relieved or disappointed.

“y’guys are so weird,” she says without looking at the both of you. “too obvious.” and she slams the door, a hint of arrogance and bitterness in her tone of voice. embarrassing.

luke shifts awkwardly. "i should go," luke says after a minute, standing up and giving you a small, nervous smile.

you nod, not trusting yourself to say anything that would make him want to stay. it takes you another hour to finish with your knife, and you tell yourself it's because you want it perfect, not because your hands won't stop shaking and your mind keeps wandering, and you keep thinking what would’ve happened if clarisse didn’t walk in?

the second time is a couple of months later, during capture the flag. your team is currently winning, and you've been tracking luke through the woods for the better part of an hour. he's good – annoyingly good – but you're better at reading the signs. broken twigs, disturbed leaves— everything.

you find him by the creek, crouched behind a fallen log with the red team's flag in his hands. he hasn't seen you yet, too focused on the sounds of battle echoing through the trees, and you take a moment to study him. there's dirt smudged across his cheek and his hair is falling into his eyes, and something in your chest does this stupid fluttering thing that you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

you step on a branch on purpose, loud enough to make him spin around, sword already in hand.

"hey there, castellan."

his face breaks into that grin that makes half the camp (specifically the aphrodite children) go weak in the knees. not you, though. definitely not you.

"should have known they'd send their best tracker after me."

"flattery won't save you." you draw your own sword, settling into a fighting stance. "drop the flag."

"come and take it."

the fight is brutal and beautiful, the kind of dance you've been perfecting for years. he's stronger but you're faster, and you know his tells – the way his left shoulder dips before he strikes, how he favors his right side when he's getting tired. you drive him back step by step, until he's pressed against a tree with nowhere to go.

your sword is at his throat, the flag forgotten on the ground between you, and you're both breathing hard. there's sweat beading on his forehead and his shirt is torn at the shoulder, and you realize with a start that you're standing between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"give me the flag," you say, but it comes out breathless.

his eyes drop to your mouth. "make me."

and god, you want to. you want to close the distance between you and find out if he tastes like the strawberries he's always stealing from the dining pavilion. want to run your fingers through his hair and see if it's as soft as it looks. the want is so strong it makes you dizzy, makes you forget why you're supposed to be enemies.

you lean in, just a fraction, and his breath hitches. his free hand comes up to rest on your hip, thumb brushing against the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, and you're about to do something incredibly stupid when a horn blows in the distance.

game over. your team won.

you step back so fast you nearly trip, and luke's hand falls away from your hip like he's been burned. the flag is still on the ground between you, forgotten, and you can't quite meet his eyes.

"good game," he says finally, voice rough.

you nod and grab the flag, needing something to do with your hands. "yeah. good game."

you leave him there by the creek and try not to think about the way he said your name when you walked away, soft and wondering.

the third time happens during the summer solstice celebration. there's a bonfire and music and more alcohol than chiron would probably approve of if he knew about it. you're sitting on a log at the edge of the festivities, nursing a cup of something that burns going down and watching your siblings attempt to teach some of the younger campers new tricks and skills.

you're not much of a party person. too loud, too chaotic, too many variables you can't control. but annabeth had given you that look – the one that says she's worried about you spending too much time alone with your books – so here you are, making an appearance.

"not dancing?"

you don't have to look to know it's luke. he settles beside you on the log, close enough that his knee bumps against yours, and you take another sip of wine to steady yourself.

"not really my thing."

"come on, where's your camp spirit?"

you snort. "i think you've got enough for both of us."

he's quiet for a moment, watching the dancers spin around the fire. the light flickers across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. you force yourself to look away.

"you know," he says eventually, "we don't have to hate each other."

"says who?"

"says me. says the fact that we're both going to be here for— forever. it might be nice to not want to strangle each other every time we're in the same room." "but where's the fun in that?"

he laughs, and the sound does something warm and dangerous to your insides. "you're impossible."

"so i've been told."

the music changes to something slower, more melodic, and couples start pairing off around the fire. luke stands and extends a hand to you, and you stare at it like it might bite you. you cringe at it— it’s exactly like those high school romance movies you were forced to watch with your siblings.

"dance with me."

"i told you— i don't dance."

"i'll teach you."

and maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the way the firelight makes his eyes look gold instead of brown, but you find yourself taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. he leads you away from the crowd, to a secluded area with a fewer amount of people and where the music is softer and the shadows deeper.

his hand settles on your waist and yours goes to his shoulder, and suddenly you're swaying together in the darkness. you've never been this close to him for this long, never noticed the way he smells like leather and something clean and sharp that might be vanilla.

"see?" he murmurs, breath warm against your ear. "not so bad."

you're about to make some sarcastic comment when he spins you out and back in, and you end up pressed against his chest with his arms around you. your faces are inches apart, and you can see every detail – the flecks of gold in his eyes, the small scar on his chin, the way his lips part slightly when he looks at you.

the world narrows to just this: his hands on your back, your heart hammering against your ribs, the space between you that's getting smaller by the second. you're going to kiss him. you're actually going to do it this time, consequences be damned.

"luke! there you are!"

chris appears out of nowhere, slightly drunk and completely oblivious to what he's just interrupted. "we need you for the sing-along. connor bet travis he couldn't remember all the words to those american girl songs, and now they're arguing about it."

luke's arms drop from around you, and you step back, trying to look like you weren't just about to kiss your supposed enemy in front of half the camp.

"i should..." luke starts, looking between you and chris.

"just go," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds. "they’re waiting for you"

he hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but then chris is dragging him away and you're left standing alone in the shadows, heart still racing and lips tingling with anticipation for something that didn't happen.

you go back to your cabin early that night and lie awake staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way luke's hands felt on your waist or how right it felt to be in his arms.

— . INCIDENT #4

the fourth time is during a thunderstorm in late july. you're in the big house library, researching something for a project annabeth assigned, when the power goes out. (how amazingly cliche…) the old building groans and settles around you, and rain lashes against the windows hard enough to make them rattle.

you're not afraid of storms – athena kids don't really do irrational fears – but there's something unsettling about being alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of thunder and your own breathing.

“ugh,” you groan, letting out sigh of annoyance. “damn it.”

you get up and (terribly) try and navigate yourself out of the big house using the dark light from outside. terrible idea. which—! is very rare for you; your ideas are always well-thought and planned.

"hello?" luke's voice echos, and then he appears in the doorway with a battery-powered lantern in his hand. "saw the light go out from the hermes cabin. figured someone might be stuck in here."

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you nearly wince at the sight of luke’s face go from smug to a frown. “…well. thanks, i guess. i’m fine.” you say automatically, even though you're clearly not fine, considering you're still groping around in the dark like an idiot.

he sets the lantern on the table, casting everything in a warm yellow glow. "what are you working on?"

you gesture to the books scattered across the table. "research. annabeth wants a full report on pre-classical greek military tactics by tomorrow."

"of course she does." he settles into the chair across from you, making no move to leave. "mind if i wait out the storm here? hermes cabin is basically a wind tunnel right now."

you shrug, trying to look indifferent. "free country."

but you're hyperaware of his presence as you go back to your books, the way he drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking, the soft sound of his breathing. the storm rages outside, and the library feels smaller somehow, more intimate in the flickering light.

"you know," he says after a while, "you don't have to prove anything to her."

you look up from your notes. "excuse me?"

"annabeth. you don't have to be perfect all the time. she's not going to love you any less if you turn in a report that's only mostly comprehensive instead of completely exhaustive."

the observation hits closer to home than you'd like to admit. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"sure you don't." his voice is gentle, understanding in a way that makes your chest tight. "it's okay, you know. to want people to be proud of you."

"what’s are you—"

"i do it too," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "i’m guilty of it. unfortunately.” he looks away from you, a visible frown on his face.

“try to be what everyone needs me to be. the perfect counselor, reliable brother, the guy who always has his shit together. it's exhausting."

you stare at him, this boy you've spent two years thinking you understood, and realize you don't know him at all. there's something vulnerable in his expression, something raw and honest that makes you want to reach across the table and touch his hand.

"luke..."

thunder crashes overhead, loud enough to make you both jump, and the moment breaks. but then the lights flicker back on and immediately go out again, plunging you back into darkness. the lantern has died too, leaving you in complete blackness.

"shit," luke mutters, and you hear him moving around. "hang on, i think there are more batteries in—"

there's a crash as he runs into something, followed by a string of creative curses that would make mr. d proud. you can't help it – you start laughing.

"it's not funny," he says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

he can’t help but admire and savor your laugh— from out of all your siblings, they’re pretty stoic. a cold and uncaring facade on most of them. (your a victim) he almost forget that their human, sometimes. hearing your laugh made his heart stop for a moment and made his stomach turn.

"it's a little funny."

you're both moving toward each other in the dark, hands outstretched, and you collide somewhere in the middle of the room. his hands land on your shoulders and yours end up pressed against his chest, and suddenly you're not laughing anymore.

"woah," he whispers with an amused tone. “miss me already?”

his thumb traces along your collarbone, and you shiver. you can't see him but you can feel him everywhere – the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the way his breathing has gone shallow and quick.

"we should find those batteries," you say, but you don't move away.

"probably."

neither of you moves. his hand slides up to cup your cheek, and you lean into the touch without thinking. this is dangerous territory, the kind of moment that changes everything, but you can't bring yourself to care.

"i can't see you," he murmurs, "but i bet you're beautiful right now."

your breath catches and you cover it up with a snarky remark. "your so corny."

he's leaning in, you can tell by the way his breath gets warmer against your lips, and you're tilting your face up to meet him when the lights suddenly blaze back to life. you spring apart, blinking in the harsh fluorescent glare, and the spell is broken.

luke runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. "i should... the storm's probably passing."

"yeah," you agree, even though you can still hear rain against the windows. "probably."

he leaves without another word, and you sink back into your chair, touching your cheek where his hand had been and wondering what might have happened if the power had stayed out just a little bit longer.

the fifth time is the worst one, because it happens right before everything goes to hades.

it's late august, just a few days before luke's supposed to leave on his quest. the whole camp is buzzing with excitement and nervous energy, and you've been avoiding him like the plague because something about the way he's been looking at you lately makes your chest feel a little too tight.

you're in the strawberry fields, helping with the late harvest because physical labor is sometimes the only thing that shuts your brain up. the sun is setting, painting everything golden, and most of the other campers have gone to dinner. you're reaching for a particularly stubborn berry when you hear footsteps behind you.

"you're missing dinner."

you don't turn around. "so are you."

luke settles beside you in the dirt, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when he reaches for the berries. you work in silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter from the dining pavilion.

"i leave tomorrow," he says eventually.

"i know."

"aren't you going to wish me luck?"

you finally look at him, this boy who's been driving you crazy for two years, and something in your chest cracks open. he looks older somehow, more serious, and there's something in his eyes that you can't quite read.

"you don't need luck," you say. "you're luke castellan. you'll be fine."

he's quiet for a long moment, turning a strawberry over in his hands. "and if i wasn’t?”

the question catches you off guard. luke doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't show weakness or doubt. he's always so sure of himself, so confident, and hearing him sound uncertain makes something protective flare up in your chest.

"you’d be fine either way," you say firmly. "you're the best swordsman camp has ever seen. you're smart and brave and—"

"and what?"

you realize you've been staring at him, cataloging the details of his face like you're trying to memorize them. the way his hair falls across his forehead, the scar that cuts through his eyebrow, the exact shade of blue his eyes turn in the golden hour light.

"and you're going to come back," you finish quietly. "you have to."

something shifts in his expression, goes soft and wondering. "would you miss me if i didn't?"

the question hangs between you like a challenge, and you know this is your chance to deflect, to make some sarcastic comment that will restore the careful balance you've maintained for two years. but looking at him now, with the sunset painting him in shades of gold and amber, you can't bring yourself to lie.

"yes," you whisper. "i would."

he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and cups your face in his hands. his palms are warm and slightly rough from sword work, and you lean into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

"i've wanted to do this for so long," he murmurs, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.

"then why haven't you?"

"because you hate me."

you laugh, soft and breathless. "i don't hate you, luke. i never hated you."

"no?"

"no. i hate that you make me feel things i don't want to feel. i hate that you're always in my head, that i can't stop thinking about you even when i try. i hate that you're leaving tomorrow and i don't know when you're coming back."

his eyes search your face like he's looking for something, and whatever he finds there makes him smile – not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller and more real.

"i'm going to kiss you," he says, "unless you tell me not to."

you should tell him not to. you should remind him that you're supposed to be enemies, that this is complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.

“tell me to stop and i will.” he’s breathless, almost panting.

instead, you close your eyes and whisper, "fine."

he leans in slowly, so slowly it's almost torture, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs. his breath is warm against your lips, and you're just about to close the distance between you when—

"luke! there you are!"

annabeth's voice cuts through the moment like a knife, and you spring apart so fast you nearly fall over. she's standing at the edge of the strawberry field with her hands on her hips, looking annoyed.

"chiron's been looking for you everywhere. you're supposed to be getting ready for tomorrow, not—" she stops, taking in the scene, and her expression shifts to something you can't quite read. "oh."

luke clears his throat and stands up, brushing dirt off his jeans. "right. sorry, i was just—"

"helping with the harvest," you finish, proud of how normal your voice sounds. "we lost track of time."

annabeth looks between you and luke, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. she's too smart not to know what she interrupted, but she doesn't say anything about it.

"well, come on," she says to luke. "chiron wants to go over the quest details one more time."

luke nods and starts to follow her, but then he turns back to you. for a moment you think he's going to say something, but then he just nods once and walks away.

you sit in the strawberry field until full dark, touching your lips and wondering what might have been.

luke comes back from his quest three weeks later, and everything is different.

he's different – quieter, more serious, with shadows in his eyes that weren't there before. the scar on his face is new, a jagged line that runs from his eye to his jaw, and he won't talk about how he got it. won't talk about much of anything, actually.

you try to approach him a few times, but he deflects every attempt at conversation with jokes or excuses or simply walking away. it's like the boy who almost kissed you in the strawberry field never existed, replaced by this stranger who looks like luke but acts like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

the truth comes out two days later, when word gets out that he’s recruiting campers for kronos and betraying the gods.

he tries to burn down the camp.

you're in the big house when it happens, talking to chiron about some paperwork, when bloody and wounded kids come rushing into the place, babbling incoherent nonsense about ‘hermes kid tried to kill me!’

and you realize.

it’s luke they’re talking about.

you're already running, feet pounding against the wooden floors as you race outside. you're looking for annabeth, for your siblings, for anyone who can tell you what's happening, when you see him.

luke is standing at the edge of the woods, and even from a distance you can see that something is wrong. his posture is different, more rigid, and there's something in his hand that glints in the firelight. a sword, you realize. his sword.

you start toward him without thinking, pushing through the crowd of panicking campers. he sees you coming and his expression shifts, becomes something cold and unfamiliar.

"don't," he says when you're close enough to hear him over the chaos. "don't come any closer."

"luke, what did you do?”

he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "what happened? i'll tell you what happened. i went on a quest for my father, and you know what i found? nothing. absolutely nothing. the gods don't care about us. they never have."

"that's not true—"

"isn't it?" his eyes are wild, desperate. "when was the last time your mother talked to you, huh? when was the last time any of them bothered to acknowledge that we exist?"

you take a step closer, hands raised like you're approaching a wounded animal. "stop that— your talking stupid! what’s wrong with you?”

"i'm done pretending that this is okay, that we should be grateful for the scraps they throw us."

"what are you talking about?"

he's backing away from you now, toward the woods, and you realize with growing horror that he's leaving. actually leaving.

"i'm talking about revolution," he says. "i'm talking about making them pay for what they've done to us."

"luke, please—"

"come with me."

the words stop you cold. "what?"

"come with me," he repeats, and for a moment his mask slips and you can see the boy you almost kissed, desperate and pleading. "we could do this together. we could make them listen."

you stare at him, this person you thought you knew, and feel something breaking apart in your chest. "i can't."

"why not?"

"i… this isn’t you," your voice cracked, your hands slowly coming to rest at your sides sadly. “luke wouldn’t say that— he wouldn’t do this.”

his face hardens again. "you don't know who i am. you never did."

he's almost to the tree line now, and you know that if he disappears into those woods, you'll never see him again. not the real him, anyway.

"luke, wait—"

but he's already gone, swallowed up by the darkness between the trees. you stand there for a long moment, staring at the place where he disappeared, before turning back to help some of the injured people.

"are you okay?" she asks, and there's something in her voice that makes you look at her more closely.

"i'm fine. why?"

she hesitates, then pulls something out of her pocket. it's a piece of paper, folded small and slightly singed around the edges.

"i found this," she says quietly. "it has your name on it."

you take the paper with shaking hands and unfold it. luke's handwriting stares back at you, messy and hurried like he wrote it in a rush.

‘if only you knew, how much i really did love you deep down.’

it’s so vague, but you understand it completely. you knew deep down all those times he *did* want to kiss you— all the times the moment was stolen away and you’d ignore him for weeks— even months. you knew.

. — INCIDENT #7 (the time you did)

two years pass before you see luke again.

two years of nightmares and suffering in solitary, of jumping every time someone says his name, of wondering if you could have stopped him somehow. two years of telling yourself you hate him, that what you felt was just a stupid crush, that you're better off without him.

you hear someone call your name, and you turn to see luke standing twenty feet away with his sword drawn.

he looks older, harder, with new scars and a coldness in his eyes that makes your heart ache. but he's still luke, still the boy who taught you to dance and almost kissed you in a strawberry field, and seeing him again makes something in your chest flutter back to life.

"hey." he says, and his voice is different too – rougher, more controlled.

"luke." you raise your own sword, muscle memory taking over. "you shouldn't be here."

"probably not. but i needed to see you."

"why?"

he doesn't answer, just circles you slowly like a predator sizing up prey. but there's something else in his expression, something that looks almost like longing.

"you look good," he says finally. "older. stronger."

"you look like shit."

he laughs, and for a second he sounds like the old luke. "always so honest. i missed that about you."

"don't." the word comes out sharper than you intended. "you don't get to say things like that. not after what you did."

"what i did was necessary—"

"what you did was betray everyone who ever cared about you."

his jaw tightens. "they betrayed us first. all of us. you know that."

"that doesn't make this right."

you're still circling each other, swords raised but neither of you making a move to attack. around you the battle rages on, but it feels distant, unimportant compared to this moment.

"come with me," he says suddenly, echoing his words from two years ago. "it's not too late. you could still—"

"no."

"you don't even know what i'm offering."

"i don't care what you're offering—! the answer is no!”

something flickers across his face – hurt, maybe, or disappointment. "you always were stubborn."

"and you always were an idiot."

he suddenly stops, letting a deep breath out, one of realization yet stress.

"i dream about you," he says suddenly, voice rough with exertion. "every night. i dream about what might have happened if i'd stayed."

the confession hits you like a physical blow, and your grip on your sword wavers. he could take advantage, could end this right now, but he doesn't.

"luke..."

"i dream about kissing you in that strawberry field. about what would have happened if annabeth hadn't interrupted us."

"stop."

"i can't." his free hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin like he did all those years ago. "i've tried to forget you, tried to convince myself that what i felt wasn't real. but it was. it is."

you're staring at him, this boy who broke your heart and burned down your world, and you can feel yourself wavering. because underneath the coldness and the scars, he's still luke. still the person who danced with you in the firelight and made you laugh in the armory and looked at you like you were something precious.

"it doesn't matter," you whisper. "it's too late."

"is it?"

and then he's kissing you.

it's nothing like you imagined all those years ago. it's desperate and fierce and tastes like blood and regret, like all the words you never said and all the chances you never took. his hand tangles in your hair and you drop your sword, reaching up to grip his shirt like he might disappear if you let go.

for a moment – just a moment – you let yourself fall into it. let yourself remember what it felt like to want him, to believe that maybe you could have something good together. his lips are soft and warm and familiar, like coming home after a long journey.

but then reality crashes back in. the sounds of battle, the smell of smoke, the weight of everything that's happened between you. you push him away, hard enough that he stumbles backward.

"no," you say, and your voice is shaking. "you don't get to do this. you don't get to kiss me and expect it to fix everything."

he stares at you, chest heaving, and for a second he looks like the sixteen-year-old boy who used to sneak into the armory just to talk to you.

"i know i can't fix it," he says quietly. "i know i've ruined everything. but i needed you to know – i needed you to know that it was real. what we had, what we could have had. it was real."

tears are streaming down your face now, and you hate yourself for crying in front of him. "it doesn't matter anymore."

"it matters to me."

you pick up your sword with shaking hands. "you need to go. now. before i do something we'll both regret."

he nods slowly, like he expected this. "for what it's worth," he says, backing away, "i'm sorry. for all of it."

"so am i."

he disappears into the woods, and you sink to your knees in the dirt, touching your lips and tasting salt. the battle is winding down around you, but you can't bring yourself to move. you just kneel there in the aftermath, mourning the boy you loved and the future you'll never have.

later, when the monsters are gone and the wounded are being tended to, annabeth finds you still sitting in the woods.

"are you hurt?" she asks, settling beside you.

you shake your head, not trusting your voice.

"i saw him talking to you. what did he say?"

you're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to explain. how do you tell someone that the person who betrayed everything you believe in just kissed you like his life depended on it? how do you explain that for one perfect, terrible moment, you kissed him back?

"he said goodbye," you finally manage.

annabeth nods like she understands, and maybe she does. maybe she knows what it's like to love someone who's chosen the wrong side, to have your heart broken by someone you trusted.

you sit together in the woods as the sun sets, and you try not to think about the way luke's lips felt against yours, or the look in his eyes when you pushed him away. try not to wonder if things could have been different, if you'd made different choices or said different words.

but deep down, you know the truth. you know that no matter how many times you almost kissed, no matter how real your feelings were, it was always going to end this way. because luke chose his path, and you chose yours, and sometimes love isn't enough to bridge that kind of divide.

the taste of him lingers on your lips for days afterward, a bittersweet reminder of what was and what might have been. and sometimes, late at night when you can't sleep, you let yourself remember the way he looked at you in that strawberry field, young and hopeful and full of possibility.

but then morning comes, and you get up and train and try to build something good from the ashes he left behind. because that's what you do. that's who you are.

and if sometimes you dream about a world where he stayed, where you got to find out what forever might have looked like with luke – well, that's between you and him, and no one else needs to know.

7/14 : did i cook with this chat

[thranduel]

for those unfamiliar with skam france (the bottom pic), lucas is gay, but in this scene he was still in the closet, hadn’t fully accepted himself and had a girlfriend who he always seemed uncomfortable around, especially when she showed physical affection or kissed him like this

the way his eyes are wide open reminds me of mike at the end of season 3 when el says “i love you” and kisses him (and he doesn’t even say it back, he just stares at her and stands there uncomfortably). mind you, skam france season 3 also came out just a few months before stranger things season 3 😅

in both scenes, there's plenty of time for the boys to put their hands on the girls' faces just like the girls are doing to them, or even just to simply close their eyes and kiss them back, but they don't. their hands don't even MOVE from their sides and they're just standing there with absolutely no emotion. and it's not like they were "surprised because it was a sudden first kiss" - both couples had previously made out before, and in some of the previous kisses, it was actually lucas AND mike who initiated a few of them, not the girls. but here, when their relationships have been official for a bit and things are starting to feel "serious" and the girls start to initiate all this physical touch and affection, they seem more and more uncomfortable. even if they were taken by surprise, why didn't they at least smile at their girlfriends? why didn't they pull the girls back in for more kissing if they liked it? i mean, we obviously know why lucas is extremely uncomfortable because he's canonically gay and the audience is aware of that since the start, but mike is displaying the exact same behaviour especially in this specific scene. it was just extremely awkward and not romantic at all

people always say "it was confirmed mike was just insecure and scared to lose el in season 4 so that's why he was scared and didn't tell her he loves her!!" but that argument will always be absolutely ridiculous to me (and very awful writing). both of them should've already been aware they loved each other in previous seasons (especially s3 with all the making out and how they'd always run off from their friends - the words "i love you" shouldn't be needed to prove that if you're already doing all those couple things), and mike actually DID blurt out that he loves el in front of everyone and she heard it, hence why she says "i love you TOO" in the above scene because she's replying to his (indirect) first confession, but he just looks uncomfortable hearing it back and then being kissed.

his actions in season 4 and the way he made her feel horrible and REFUSED to say "i love you" to her face when she was begging makes it even more silly. like you know EXACTLY what she wants to hear and you know that if you don't say it, you'll lose her because you'll upset her, but you refuse to say it because... you're afraid of losing her???? what????????? he was also about to lose her in the above scene too because their relationship was about to become long distance and he wouldn't have been able to see her. you're seriously telling me he didn't want to hug her and kiss her for longer knowing she was about to MOVE STATES?????

i'm not invalidating mike's feelings or insecurities - they're very real fears that i completely understand, but i'm saying how the writers handled everything makes absolutely no sense from a story perspective. and to make things EVEN more ridiculous? the writers decided to drag will into this and make him in love with mike. like what was the point of doing all of this if it wasn't to build up byler? why create unnesseccary issues in mike and el's relationship that got dragged out for so long? why create awkwardness between mike and will (especially on mike's end - the airport hug, for example) if there was nothing deeper going on between them?

[opiumwings]

prank'd — kim minjeong

kim minjeong x female reader – you tell minjeong that you scheduled your breakup – 674 words

minjeong was peacefully lounging on the couch, legs tucked underneath her, completely unaware that you were about to turn her day upside down. when she got up to grab a drink from the kitchen, you used the opportunity to set up a camera in the corner of the room. your heart pounded as you made sure the ring you bought a few days ago was secure in your pocket.

once she returned to the couch, you let a few minutes pass, casually watching tv with her. then you turned the volume down slightly and shifted to face her. minjeong picked up on your change in body language instantly. she set her drink down and gave you her full attention.

“we should probably talk about what we’re gonna do when we break up,” you said, trying to keep your tone serious.

“huh?” she blinked, caught completely off guard.

“it’s happening pretty soon, so we should start preparing,” you added.

“what do you mean it’s happening soon?” minjeong asked, brows furrowed.

“umm... have you not noticed?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“i didn’t think there were any problems,” she said slowly.

“i just think it’s time to stop dating,” you said carefully.

“but why? i thought we were doing well?” minjeong’s voice was soft, almost hesitant.

“it’s just about that time,” you shrugged.

“it doesn’t need to be, though,” she countered.

“it could be though,” you said, keeping your cool.

“and if i don’t agree?” she challenged.

“i personally just think this is better for the both of us,” you replied.

“better for you, maybe,” she muttered. “what led you to this? was it something i did?”

“i just don’t wanna be your girlfriend anymore,” you said, watching her face fall.

“that’s wild considering we were just talking about how much we loved each other last night.”

“i do love you,” you said quickly.

“but not enough, apparently,” minjeong looked down at her hands.

“i’ll always love you.”

“you’re saying that but also want to break up with me at the same time?” her voice cracked with confusion.

“well, yes.”

“have you always been like this?” she asked, visibly hurt.

“nothing’s different about me,” you chuckled gently.

“okay, so you’re just a really great actor,” she sighed, still trying to make sense of everything.

“hmm, maybe i am,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“maybe this is for the best, since you’re showing your true colors right now,” minjeong said bitterly.

“we really should get it all out there before we get married,” you added casually.

“what?” minjeong’s head snapped toward you.

you stood up, heart racing. “i’m really sorry for being like that. but i really hope you’ll stop being my girlfriend,” you said, walking around to face her.

“you’re so confusing today,” she shook her head.

“and become my wife,” you finished, dropping to one knee and pulling out the ring.

“y/n,” minjeong said, breath caught in her throat.

“yes, my love?” you looked up at her with a grin.

“i’m gonna fucking kill you,” she muttered, eyes already watering.

“i’d let you. but marry me first so i can put you in my will and you can get all my money,” you said.

“why would you do it like this?” she asked, voice caught somewhere between laughter and disbelief.

“because i’d never miss a chance to fuck with you,” you said, smiling.

“you’ve been fucking around a little too much lately, and i should say no,” she said, but her hand was already inching closer.

“but you won’t,” you said confidently.

“you’re lucky i love you too much,” minjeong murmured.

“and you love me enough to marry me, right?” you said, offering her the ring.

“unfortunately, i will marry you,” she sighed, holding out her hand.

“thank god!” you beamed, slipping the ring onto her finger before pulling her into a hug.

“i’m so getting you back for this,” she said against your chest.

“you can do whatever you want to me,” you whispered, grinning into her hair.

[pastel-peach-writes]

Best Friend!Zoey Headcanons | KPDH

╰┈➤ PLOT: Headcanons of having Zoey as a best friend!

╰┈➤ WARNINGS: Not Proofread, No Use of Y/n

A/N: okay... i caved. kpop demon hunters is good as hell and zoey is my bias 😔 i need her as a best friend so enjoy some headcanons while i try to get my muse back. (also i only watched the movie once so please bear w me).

⍣ ೋ Enjoy!⍣ ೋ

– If you didn't have a sister before, you do now! being Zoey's best friend is like having an energetic, foodie, too sweet for her own good sister who slays both on stage and off(demon hunting duhhh).

– No matter your age, Zoey will always baby you and treat you like her kin.

– She'll make sure you're properly fed, will send you care packages if you're sick while she's on tour (otherwise shes visiting you with a care package herself), will ALWAYS take you out if you been in the house for too long or deems she needs some outdoor time with her best friend.

– Being Zoey's best friend sometimes means random texts at three am about nothing, everything, and a whole lot of typos all at the same time.

– Exhibit A: "OMIGOSH DID YOU SEE THAT NEW VIDEO ABOUT THE PUPPIES BEING BEST FRIENDS WITH THAT PENGUIN?!?/9@ HOW CUTEEE" "i am so tired. did you knows thaght 10pm in this country is the buttcracjm of dawn in Korea? yeah... I DIDN'T." "HELPMEMIRAANDRUMIARETRYINGTOKEEPMEAWAKESOWECANFINISHSHOOTINGBUTALLIWANNADOISRESTTTTT SAVE MEEE"

– Oh yeah, Mira and Rumi know about you too.

– How couldn't they? Zoey never shuts up about you.

– "Oh, yeah! Me and my best friend tried this shop once. The drinks are sooo good but we got kicked out one time for laughing so hard that my coffee shot out my nose."

– Mira and Rumi aren't jealous of your relationship because tbh, why would they be? Yeah, they're bandmates and yeah, they're close enough to consider each other best friends too, but what you have with Zoey is special. Sometimes... maybe a little too special.

– When they first heard about you, the girls were convinced Zoey was dating someone because she only mentioned your name and not your relationship status when she was going out. It was always, "Bye! Gonna hang out with ___!" "Gonna get drinks with ___!" "Gonna go shopping with ___!"

– One time, they even sat Zoey down to talk about your relationship. Not because they're concerned... no. but because they're nosey and if there's an opportunity to tease their maknae, they're going to take up that chance.

– Zoey clears up your relationship ASAP. Stating you're only friends and have been for a while. You're more like siblings or cousins if anything.

– They still have some suspicious eyes(Mira) but they let her off the hook nonetheless

– Being Zoey's best friend obviously means you get backstage passes when you want to support her concerts.

– You're always in the wings, dancing alongside her group with Bobby, and taking backstage content if she isn't already for her group's Youtube channel.

– If you're okay with being posted on socials, and not minding having a few fans of your own, Huntr/x fans eat your interactions with Zoey UP.

– Anytime you're in her vlogs or seen in the background, they scream about ___ and Zoey crumbs in the comments or how they're being fed with this content or how they adore your friendship.

– They even follow your socials to support you. You have your own fanbase and it's cute since they keep it respectful and don't ask where Zoey is all the time when you post without her.

– If you don't want to be shown on social media, your face is blurred out in videos if you're in the background, only your hand or arm is shown in photos with Zoey, or you blatantly have an emoji on your face in photos.

– Some fans speculate who you are, friend or family to Zoey, or maybe even more.

– Just like how fans of the Saja Boys eat up the literal mystery behind Mystery, they eat yours up too. You're the "Mystery" of Huntr/x if you will.

– Zoey finds that thought a little disturbing since she's had a crush on Mystery and not you and oh, because he's a literal DEMON she had to slay but, y'know kpop stans and their theories.

– Also, if you thought you could be Zoey's best friend and avoid having a sleepover with her, you are sadly mistaken my guy.

– Zoey thrives off sleepovers. In fact, if she didn't have the spiritual ability to see demons and protect her country from them, she would say her superpower is having and hosting sleepovers because she's never had a bad one and they "fuel her energy".

– Whether the sleepover be at your place or hers, she always has the best snacks. Even if you're a foodie yourself, she always outdoes you with creative snacks and ideas.

– She once made chewy caramel and chocolate-covered mini pretzels with roasted marshmallows for a sleepover. Just to have "something to chew on" while you watched movies. Like popcorn isn't widely available for purchase.

– You guys talk about everything under the Honmoon when you have sleepovers. From work, to changes in your day-to-day life, to your past memories together, and even to romance if you're into stuff like that.

– If you have a crush, personal or celebrity, Zoey is always down to wingwoman you or to tease you about how much you "light up" when you talk about them. All so you can shove her and tell her to shut up because Zoey is Number One Ragebaiter™.

– When Zoey has a crush, either one on Mystery or some random person(or even Rumi or Mira or BOTH(yes im a ploytrix fan. im gay, what do you expect from me?)), you're ragebaiting her right back.

– You'll tease her worse than she's teased you. Making kissy faces, telling her "oh, totally don't think about them holding you all night long and kissing your cheek then" just to see her face grow ten shades of pink, and if it's the girls she has a crush on, you'll make googly eyes at her when they're around only for her to tackle you and playfully wrestle you until you apologize for messing with her.

– You never do. Even when the girls are looking weird in your direction and wondering why the heck Zoey just tackled you to the ground in the kitchen, you never back down.

– Okay, that's all I have for now! Let me know in the comments if you guys want more or want to see more headcanons with Zoey or the girls!

WC: 1,037

[relleytrots]

I had to think about this one. You see, obviously my Hecata family are a royal family from the Minor Arcana, but which one? Try as I might I couldn't quite twist and turn everyone into the same box (which I hope says good things about their complexities), so here's what I've got.

Luciana is the Queen of Pentacles. Practicality, stability, comfort, riches, all exemplified by a mother figure who's also incredibly selfish, controlling and poisoned by her jealousy and fear for her own position.

Santino is the Knight of Cups. A born follower, a romantic, and in his own doomed-by-the-narrative way, an idealist. He knows what he wants is impossible, but maybe if he suffers enough... and that's the problem, because he's perpetually disappointed and disgruntled by the failure of the world to accommodate his dreams.

Alistair is the King of Swords. Hand on heart, and head ruling over both. The truth, so precious it must be surrounded by a bodyguard of lies. Discipline of a kind that makes you untouchable, unimpeachable, unfuckable - no matter how manipulative, how cruel he has to be to hide the secret conviction that he's not good enough to keep this thing going.

Sorcha is the Page of Wands. Exploration, excitement, freedom, being both and neither, everything and nothing all at once. She has so much potential that she doesn't know where to start, and her directionless flailing results in pointless chaos and not really accomplishing anything half the time.

Riccardo, looming over all of them from the grave, was the Wheel of Fortune, or possibly the Hanged Man. His death, inevitable as it was abrupt, released all of them from their destinies and catalysed his childe-spouse, his grandchilder, and his last experiment into active playability.

What tarot card would your VTM OC or favorite canon character be?

What best represents them in their current stage of their journey?

[captonite]

Could you write one where the sister reader is captured by demons with Dean, and the reader is tortured in front of Dean? They tie the reader and Dean tightly. The reader is 15-16 years old and very scared. Please let Dean be the protective, angry older brother. After he escapes, she has nightmares, and Dean won't leave her alone.

Hiii mi bebe, thanks so much for this request! Hope it lives up to your dreams (or nightmares if that’s what you wanted) Here's your long, angsty, emotional fic where Chubs is captured and tortured in front of Dean — and where big brother rage, protectiveness, and comfort come in full force.

Take Me, Not Her

The warehouse was cold.

Concrete walls, rusted chains, the smell of blood and sulfur in the air — the same kind of hell Dean Winchester had seen too many times before. But nothing, nothing prepared him for the sight of his baby sister tied up next to him, shivering, bruised, and barely holding it together.

She was only sixteen.

“Dean…” Chubs whimpered, her voice shaking. “I’m scared.”

He looked over, wrists raw from the cuffs binding him to the metal chair. “I know, baby girl. I know. But I’m right here. You hear me?”

She gave a tiny nod, eyes glistening, cheeks streaked with tears. Her lip trembled, but she was trying to be brave. For him. Always for him.

And Dean hated himself for that.

The demons had jumped them during a supply run. Easy errand, or it should’ve been. One moment they were grabbing gas and snacks. The next, Dean woke up tied to a chair, and Chubs was thrown to the floor beside him like garbage.

They'd dragged her up hours ago — arms outstretched, hanging by her wrists like she was weightless, like she was nothing. And now? Now they were getting started.

One of the demons, a smug bastard with yellow eyes and a perpetual grin, leaned close to Chubs, dragging a knife down her cheek so slow Dean could feel it.

“Stop it,” Dean growled. “Touch her again and I swear—”

“Oh relax, Dean. Just teaching the baby some manners.”

“She's a kid,” Dean spat, struggling against his restraints, voice shaking with rage. “You wanna take someone?”

His voice dropped, low and guttural.

“You take me. Not her. YOU. TAKE. ME.”

Chubs flinched. Dean could see her lip quiver again, could see the way she was holding her breath, trying not to sob. His chest physically ached.

“You’re not worth half the fun,” the demon sneered, and then — a slash across Chubs’ shoulder. Blood poured.

She screamed.

Dean lost his mind.

“STOP! You sick son of a bitch—STOP!”

“Dean,” Chubs choked, body trembling. “Please. Please make it stop.”

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m here, baby, I’m here.”

And then the door banged open.

Shotgun blasts. A flash of light. Sam.

Holy water, Latin, screaming — everything happened in seconds. The demon fled, smoke billowing as it was exorcised into nothing. Dean fell to his knees as soon as the chains were gone, scrambling to Chubs.

She was a mess. Blood everywhere. Pale. Barely breathing.

Dean cupped her cheeks. “Baby? Baby girl, can you hear me?”

Her lashes fluttered, and she leaned into him like a little girl, her voice barely there: “You came…”

“Of course I came. Of course I did. I’m never letting anyone hurt you again. You hear me?”

She gave the faintest nod before her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in his arms.

---

Three Days Later – The Bunker

She wouldn’t sleep without him.

Every time Dean tried to step out of the room — even just to pee — she whimpered, cried, clung to his shirt like she was six years old again and monsters were real.

Because they were.

She'd wake up from nightmares, gasping, sobbing, scratching at her arms like she could still feel the rope burns. And Dean? He sat right there on the bed, pulling her into his arms every single time.

“You’re okay now, Bambi,” he’d whisper into her hair, voice thick with guilt and love. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

She sniffled, nuzzling into his chest. “You won’t leave me, right?”

“Never,” Dean said without hesitation. “You’re stuck with me, baby girl.”

Sam would peek in sometimes with soup or meds, heart breaking all over again at the sight of her curled into Dean like a lifeline.

They gave her everything she wanted — blankets, cartoons, her favorite mug. She didn’t leave her bed for a week. And they didn’t rush her.

Not once.

---

One Night

Dean thought she was asleep. Her breathing had slowed, and she’d finally relaxed against him, cheek on his chest, fingers tangled in his shirt.

But then she spoke, barely a whisper:

“Why’d you say it?”

Dean blinked. “Say what, baby?”

“…‘Take me. Not her.’ Why would you say that?”

Dean swallowed. “Because it should’ve been me. Because you're a kid, and I’m your big brother. Because no one — no one — gets to lay a hand on you and walk away.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then:

“I love you, Dean.”

He hugged her tighter, lips pressed to the top of her head. “I love you more, Bambi. I love you so much it hurts.”

---

The Next Morning

Dean was still on the bed when Sam walked in with breakfast.

“She sleep?” Sam whispered.

“Yeah,” Dean said, rubbing her back gently as she mumbled in her sleep. “Still clinging like a koala.”

Sam gave a soft smile. “You’re not leaving her side any time soon, huh?”

Dean glanced down at the mess of curls and freckles and puffy cheeks pressed to his chest.

“Nope. She’s my baby sister. And after what she’s been through?”

Dean’s jaw clenched.

“They’ll have to go through me next time.”

[calebslittlecrow]

Manifesting Physical Stuff Feels Easy, Shifting Feels Hard

Yeah, I admit I kinda vanished on y’all for 2 weeks. My bad. Life decided to kick me into a new job and I’m trying to survive on monster energy drinks and vibes. And I kinda fell into the rabbithole that is XLOV and just had to create a DR script (no template in sight, so if ya need one, hit me up. I’m actually quite generous when I’m sleep deprived).

Anyway, you’re not here for a life update from poor little Mochi. I had another one of those 4am epiphany about why it feels super easy for me to manifest stupid material crap, but shifting feels like sprinting through a locked door head first.  I tend to use manifestation for weird crap no one else would waste that many braincells on. Like gacha pulls, or money for in-game cosmetics. Why do I use manifestation for stuff like that? Because it works. And why does it work? Because I know it will work, no matter what. That’s it. That’s my secret.

There’s always a fallback, a system, something like a breadcrumb trail. Like, if I pull on a banner in Genshin long enough, the game is legally required to cough up a 5 star character I want. If I don’t get it early, I still know I will get it down the line. This knowledge makes it super easy to just tell the universe to hurry it up a bit and move on.

Stupid example: I lost my yearly 50/50 to Keqing. Again (C1 now, totally didn’t need that. Thanks RNG). But I actually wanted Shenhe for my Freminet Shatter team. And there is no way I am grinding for another 90 pulls from nowhere, I already did my time with Wriothesley - C6R1 gang, we suffer loud and proud.

So I sat down and told myself: “I get Shenhe in 25 pulls max”. And boom, got her at 24. Boom, look at that, done. I didn’t sit there, doubting and biting my nails and making sure I wouldn’t think “When I get her…”, “If I get her…” in case that would screw me up. Nah, I just knew I would get her, no matter what. And that knowing was what carried everything.

Same energy for my Dehya pulls. I heard she might actually be decent for my Lyney team, so I told myself I would get her next. Standard banner odds be damned. Got her promptly at 11. Again without hoping and begging and affirming. Just with knowing “this will happen” and going with the flow.

Even aside from gacha: I wanted the Rize skin for Kaneki in Dead by Daylight, I knew I had some fun money coming my way at the beginning of the month. But I wanted the skin now, because I am an impatient little fuck. So I sat down, knowing I would get money for the skin one way or another, and had the extra money a few hours later. Bought the skin, boom, done. Next problem please. Why does shifting don’t feel that easy for a lot of people? Simply said: no pity system. You don’t have a progress bar. No “five more tries and you’re there!”, no blinking red banner telling you your next attempt is guaranteed to work. And this absence of structure or guarantee is brutal for people like me, people who cling to their routines and need reassurance. What happens? We start doubting, maybe even spiral a bit. Wonder if we are actually manifesting or if we are just going crazy and hoping for the impossible. We can say “I’ll shift, I already have shifted” a thousand times, but if our subconscious doesn’t believe it, we get a good old 404 error. That’s where building your own pity system comes into play. It can help if you build a framework your brain can lean on if doubt sets in or you feel down from not shifting yet. Write a progress log, even if nothing is happening. Keep track of stuff you do around shifting. “Tried method X, gave me xy symptoms, visualized DR breakfast and smelled toast, vibed aggressively with my DR self in mind and felt connected and happy, wrote affirmations with fingers covered in spicy chips dust”. Treat it as your pull history, like signs you are on the way to soft pity. It doesn’t really matter what you do, what stupid little ritual you come up with, what matters is that your brain thinks “oh, this means we are shifting again, this is safe, this is working”. (because YOU decided it will work, not because someone else told you it will work. Your reality, not theirs. Your LoA, not theirs). The more you can convince yourself that there is a clear path to your goal, the easier it is to walk that path. TL;DR: Manifesting dumb little stuff (like gacha pulls or cosmetic skins) is easy because there is structure and you know it’ll work eventually. You have pity, progress, fallbacks. That kind of certainty soothes your brain and lets things happen without self sabotaging. Shifting doesn’t have that built in structure, no pull history, no “5 more tries until DR”. For some people that leads to the stupid little doubt spiral at 5am. So what do we do? Create our own little fake pity system. Make rituals, logs, track symptoms, no matter how small and stupid they look. Give your mind a clear path to walk so it can shut up about doubt. You don’t need proof, you need something your subconscious believes in and our brains love structures. Go figure. Reality bends to your primary thought system. (If you were here before I spotted all the spelling errors, you didn't saw them, k? T-T)