#theme: the freshmen

[jeremiahthefroge]

I got through highschool without ever learning how highschool football worked and then got into college and was hit with nerdy prudes must die, which takes place in a highschool with football, and now I have to google a bunch of shit to be able to write a max jagerman-centric fanfiction in which tom houston is still the shop class teacher at Hatchetfield High, and he starts to guide Max to a better lifestyle. Authorship is hell

[andreil-fic-stash]

The Kings' Gemstone by brainrottingdirt

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 10,193

Time Period: Post-TKM

POV: Robin Cross

Summary:

Robin had not had a conversation with Andrew about anything. Not about why he had picked her, not about how she could improve her skills, not about exy, not about anything at all. They had not said a word to each other for three weeks. She was comfortable with silence, and he seemed to be as well. An exploration of Robin’s freshman year, the cousins’ last year, and Neil’s senior year.

[salem-s]

01 ─ PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS suggestive themes, nudity, swearing, graphic imagery. ── WORD COUNT 5.9k. Yikes. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER forget it by blood orange

“I’m gonna hop in the shower, so here.” 

You gather each item of clothing he sporadically scattered across the room earlier, bunching it in your arms and hissing as his belt loop harshly knocks against your elbow. You plop the pile on his belly as Rafe lounges lazily, one arm resting under his head and the other skimming over his bare torso.

The act neglects to faze him as he simply watches you, the thin grey sheets bunch up dangerously low around his hips as the clothes sit – with no intention of going back on his body anytime soon – idly in his lap. 

If anything, his eyes do all the talking: come back to bed. Now.

Pushing the wordless message to the back of your mind, you notice that he makes no effort to move, instead his eyes scanning up and down your nude body. 

You scoff at his sloth. “No, by all means, take your time.”

He hums teasingly at the attempt to act tough. “You don’t want me to join you, baby?”

Rafe’s nimble fingers reach out to grab you by the waist, his sweet talk stirring something scandalous in your tummy. But you swerve his touch, knowing you'll undoubtedly give in if he gets his hands on you, and you have too much to do today to even contemplate going back to bed with him right now. 

“Nuh-uh, Cameron,” you warn seriously, waving a finger at him, trying not to grin at his ridiculous pout. He looks too comfortable on your bed, like he was made to lay there. “I need to have an everything shower.”

“And I should care because..?”

You roll your eyes, as if it’s obvious. “My everything shower time is me time. It’s forty five minutes of work. I’m sweating. I’m cleaning. I’m shaving. You don’t need to see all of that. I don’t want you to see all of that,” you say sternly.

Instead of seceding, Rafe scoffs in utter disbelief. It’s almost mean.

He sits up in bed, clothes bunching on his lap.

“So, let me get this straight. You’ll let me see your gaping asshole, but you won’t let me see you shave?”

You and Rafe have this mutual agreement where you sleep together when it’s convenient, or when someone’s bored, or after a night of drinking and smoking and one wants to lay around and have a little fun. It’s simple, no strings attached or added complications, because neither you nor Rafe have the emotional or physical capacities to even consider being in a romantic relationship in this day and age.

At least that’s what you repeat in your head over and over again, reiterating the mantra more than you do your own class notes.

But that's besides the point. 

Towards the end of freshmen year, your separate friend groups collided after a risky run in with campus police. The experience undoubtedly brought you all closer to the point where, by the end of the year, everyone was already planning shenanigans to get up to at the start of sophomore year, and it just snowballed from there. 

Your friendship with Rafe, however, started rocky. The two of you liked to quip and jab at each other – often at the expense of the other. It was more teasing on Rafe’s side and defense on yours, because a favorite past time of yours is putting cocky men in their place when they try to act up around you. And if Rafe is good at one thing, it’s being overly confident in every situation he manages to squeeze himself into. 

Months of tennis-match-bickering back and forth led to one night where Rafe accidentally found you walking back to your dorm in a state of hysteria after you got love-bombed by your three-peat situationship – a nice boy named Jeremy who simply wanted to take the next step – muttering to yourself incredulously. After making sure you literally weren't in a state of psychosis, Rafe had shrugged off his jean jacket (which wasn't very warm) to give to you and walked with you.

You had lamented on why people couldn’t just take casual sex literally, how it’s impossible to find someone who understands the meaning of casual. In his oh-so-well-mannered nature, Rafe was eager to agree on this case and point, how relationships never work in college anyway, that it’s impossible to have fun these days without the other person ruining it by expecting more.

One thing led to another and you both created the agreement: casual sex. Friends who constantly bicker who also happen to have sex. Two people who hook up when it’s convenient with no emotional repercussions whatsoever. The idea seemed much easier since you and him are neighbors in the dorm, his room being ten feet to the right where you share a concrete wall. 

While it solves the walk of shame problem, it augments the issue of when Rafe brings other partners over and the noise gets a little extreme. You often wonder if he can hear whenever you bring someone else, and a small part of you hopes so, because the girls he brings home are genuinely so fucking annoying. 

(Because it doesn’t really help when Rafe’s the best lay of your sexual career. Not that you'll ever have the gall to admit that to him.)

You bark out an unattractive laugh at his crudeness, and ignore the flip of your heartbeat when Rafe grins cockily at the noise. Taking a towel out from the drawer, you wrap it around your body and spin around to face him, still unmoving with no sense of urgency or implication that he’s leaving anytime soon. 

“You’re loitering. Go back to your room.”

Rafe tilts his head to the side, almost inviting the confrontation. “You know I can eventually fuck a yes out of you, right?”

Duh, you think. You're well aware of the effect his body has on yours even if your mind keeps telling you no, it’s nothing more than sex and it never will be.

However, he takes your silence as contemplation, a lazy smirk etching his lips.

“Sweet girl,” Rafe drones out, his saccharine tone taking a slight warning as if to say make up your mind. 

But no, you're not falling for that stupidly endearing pet name that regretfully makes your mind turn to mush. “Nice try. Get dressed.”

“Can you help me? I forgot how.”

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to respond but three harsh knocks at the door interrupt your thoughts. And thank god, because you aren't sure how to respond to his incessant flirting without eventually giving in, since his relentless attempts at a round two, three, four are usually successful.

Despite the interruption, you stand confused, eyes darting to the mini clock on the nightstand showing the time.

“Fuck’s sake. Maggie’s early, we aren’t supposed to leave until ten.” You dart your gaze from the time to the man in bed, watching you with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Jesus. Will you get dressed?” 

Rafe doesn’t move, instead he stretches his arms up and you have to tear your gaze away. “Will you tell Mags to give us, uhhh, like, ten minutes?”

“You’re insufferable,” you huff, clutching the towel tighter as you move towards the door to look in the peephole. “I’ll have you know that I–”

You freeze when you look in the peephole, hand hovering over the doorknob. Heart dropping to your feet, you suck in a harsh breath as if the wind is knocked out of your chest, already feeling its beat thumping against your rib cage a mile a minute. 

It’s not Maggie behind the door. 

It’s your mother. 

Your mother who you've been ghosting for the past month. 

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. 

“Know what, baby?” Rafe eggs on lazily, unbeknownst to the shit show that just began. 

His voice thrusts you back to reality, stumbling back a few steps as you suck in another harsh breath, mind racing at the premature anxiety induced encounter that’s about to happen.

Your mind reels: your overly pretentious and spectacle-driven mother is behind that piece of wood. Rafe is still naked on the bed. Your mother’s been hounding you about several issues for weeks now that you've pushed to the back of your to-do list. You doesn’t have any clothes on and–

Oh, god, neither does Rafe.

You spin around as three more knocks make you jump out of your skin, locking eyes with him as you gesture to his clothes urgently. 

“You need to leave.”

The complete 180 in behavior makes Rafe furrow his brows. “Wh–?”

You run over to him, grabbing his shirt and forcefully shoving it over his head and messing up his already tousled hair. “I’m not fucking around. Get dressed. Now,” you hiss stern-fully, ignoring his confused gaze because it just increasingly pisses you off more. 

“Maggie will live if she sees a sliver of skin,” he begins to defend, grabbing at your waist like a toddler and frowning when you swat him off. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not Maggie at the door, it’s my fucking mom. So. Get. Dressed. Now.” 

Rafe has the audacity to laugh in your face. 

It only makes your stomach bubble in anxiety as you huff and throw the sheet off of his legs, messily pushing his legs through the holes of his boxers and jeans to urgently usher him to do what you're asking of him. Again, he makes absolutely no effort to move, instead watching you with an amused look.

“Why are you panicking?” he asks nonchalantly as if the whole situation isn’t an anxiety attack waiting to happen. “I’m great with parents.”

“No,” you immediately warn. 

“I’m, like, the parent-whisperer.”

You continue to try (and fail) at dressing him. “Not while you’re my fuck buddy. She cannot know about this.” Your head whips back and forth between the door and the boy lazily lounging, chest heaving.

It’s infuriating how relaxed he is. Rafe reaches up and pushes some hair out of your face as three more knocks break the sound barrier. “Well, baby, I’m already here.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, pressing the heels of your palm to your forehead. “Fuck. I’m not screwing around, Rafe. Get dressed.” Then, pathetically, you add, “Please.”

Three more knocks, more like pounds, snap you out of your millisecond pity party. Stepping away from Rafe, you exhale shakily and push back the same strand of hair he attempted to brush away. Your brows furrow in thought, eyes trained on the ground as you calculate your plan of attack as a silence falls between you both.

Rafe manages to stand, pulling his jeans up the rest of the way and buckling his belt. The whole time he’s obeying your command he’s frowning, unable to discern if he’s frowning at the fact that you're so worked up over a parent (or how you used his real name) or how he’s actually listening to you.

“Okay,” you say sternly after a moment, mind made up as you slowly walk towards the door with your eyes trained on him. “You’re gay.”

“What?”

“It’s the only explanation that won’t get me viscerally berated. That, or you pretend to be my boyfriend.”

“You’d rather me be gay than be your boyfriend?”

You laugh humorlessly and it makes him frown deeper. The way you don't elaborate – nor stop laughing – makes his irritation bubble out of thin air, hands clenching at his fists at the fact that you think it’s so funny for the latter to be true, as if he could never provide that for you, as if the concept is a fantasy. 

But the laugh dissipates as quickly as it came, your hand ghosting over the doorknob as you point to him with a shaky finger. “Don’t play.”

Then, you open the door a crack to reveal your mother. 

Paulette is the living, breathing epitome of a trophy-wife-turned-emotionless-mother. Whatever concept a PTO mom has, it’s Paulette in a nutshell.

She drips heavily in subtle designer that, undoubtedly, looks flawless and effortless, but unfathomably performative as it simply flashes people on how much money she likes to flaunt. She donates to various charities but not without announcing the act with the specific amount coat-tailed to the sob story. She likes to doll you up into her perfect mold model child, while viscerally berating you behind the curtain and nitpicking all of the things you do wrong. She likes to make fun of your style and independence and blame it on the lack of male attention in your life.

Long story short? The two of you don’t get along. 

Paulette curtly says your name in greeting and it’s hardly friendly. “I��ve been standing here for ages.”

You put your body in the small crack of the door frame, doing your best to shield your mother from seeing Rafe.

“Hi. This couldn’t have been a phone call?” you ask hurriedly, sheepishly, cheeks already flaming at the periculousness of the situation.

Paulette narrows her gaze like a hawk. “Apparently not. You haven’t answered a single one of my calls.” Then, she sighs as if being here is an inconvenience. “I’m done standing here, angel. It reeks of skunk. Let me in. We need to talk.”

“But–”

“Enough,” she snaps, not giving you the chance to think before she puts a perfectly manicured hand on the door, pushing it open with such force that it causes you to stumble. “I do everything for you and you can’t even–”

Paulette pauses when she steps into the dorm room, taking in the sight of Rafe, who stands tall and lean at the edge of the bed, thankfully fully dressed. 

The silence engulfs the room as the door clicks shut, you clutch your towel with a pained expression etched on your face at the scandalous scene unfolding. Paulette’s stern gaze shifts from Rafe, to the unmade bed, to your basically naked body, and back to Rafe. 

You shift uncomfortably after a beat. “Uh, mom, this is–”

“Rafe,” he suddenly introduces himself, flashing Paulette a charming smile that has you frowning in confusion. Since when does he have that kind of smile on the back burner? You nearly roll your eyes when he takes a step forward, politely offering Paulette his hand to shake. “Rafe Cameron.”

“Rafe,” Paulette repeats slowly, as if phonetically sounding it out, "Cameron."

You cough awkwardly at his outstretched hand. “He’s my f–”

“I’m her boyfriend.”

Your blood runs cold as you whip your head around to stare at him. The audacity of him–

But Paulette takes his hand and shakes it firmly, making a small hum of contemplation that has you holding your breath in anticipation, in anxiety. Silence engulfs them once more. 

Retracting her polished hand, Paulette studies Rafe with a curious look.

“Boyfriend?” she hums cautiously. You nearly puke. Rafe nods. Your mother says your name again accusatorially. “You didn’t tell me about this.”

Rafe doesn’t falter. Instead, he beams and dials the charm to an eleven. “I asked her a few weeks ago, so it’s pretty new. And private. We haven’t even told some of our friends yet.”

You reel. How is he this calm? How is he making this up on the spot as if it’s been rehearsed? Why does he look so damn happy? Why is your heart in your throat? Can he stop smiling like that? Because it’s making you think that he–

“Weeks?” Paulette shoots you a look. “Is that so?”

You shrink under your mother’s gaze, not trusting words so you simply nod instead.

Paulette huffs at the response, putting her hands on her hips as she glares at you with an incredulous look. “You could’ve saved me the time and patience, if you just told me.” Paulette rubs out a growing migraine. 

Your irritation suddenly spikes. The condescending tone in your mother’s voice, the way Rafe’s fake smile slowly starts to fade as he further discovers the dynamic between mother and daughter, the way you're is still standing in your too-short towel– it’s all too much. 

“Okay, as much as I love the reunion, what exactly are you doing here?”

Paulette looks at you as if you have two heads. Exasperated, she throws her hands up in a really? gesture, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world for you to be able to read your mother’s mind. You reciprocate the motion sarcastically.

“The wedding?”

You furrow your brows. “Wh– Jessa’s? What about it?”

Paulette then proceeds to ignore you, turning her full attention to Rafe, who’s been watching the entire conversation like a tennis match. “Has she told you about the wedding?”

Rafe’s gaze darts to you, cautiously shaking his head at your widening eyes. “Uh, no.”

You know where this is going, and panic surges to your throat. 

You quickly jump to step in between your mother and Rafe. 

“He’s not coming!” 

The panicked tone startles all three of you, as you blink a few times and then clear your throat. You take a step back to gather yourself at the sudden outburst, but nearly jump as you bump against Rafe’s chest. There’s no escape with him right behind you and your mother right in front of you. 

You've never felt more trapped. And underdressed.

Paulette raises her brow in offense at the tone of voice, at her daughter’s manic behavior, almost egging you on to continue embarrassing yourself. 

Although you take a deep breath and remember the situation, finding your cool and taking a long, deep breath. That cool almost goes out the window when Rafe takes a particularly deep breath that makes his chest gently graze your back.

“Uh, well, we haven’t talked about it yet," you defend shakily, the tone so unlike your normal demeanor. "But it’s over Thanksgiving, I assume he has plans with his family.”

Then Rafe does the one thing you don't want him to do. 

He fucking shrugs and opens his mouth. “I don’t have plans.”

(Actually, he does. But those plans entail trekking the long drive home, enduring a week of arguing with his dad and step-mom about ridiculous shit, drinking with his home-town friends, and spending Thanksgiving with his family where they all either pretend to like each other for one night or fight so violently that the kitchen is covered in thrown food. It’s a plan he’s been dreading, honestly.)

Paulette huffs as you feverishly blink, thinking of all the ways you can kill Rafe before you let this whole ordeal happen. Strangulation, maybe.

Your mother hums your name. “See? This all could’ve been avoided if you asked him and answered the phone.”

“Mom,” you say without thinking, voice threatening to shake with anger, “did you really come all this way to interrogate me about a date?”

Poison could be easiest, you think. It is a woman’s weapon, after all. No one would suspect if he all of a sudden had food poisoning, maybe from the dining hall or from all the food service he greedily orders. Remember when Arya–

“Interrogate is a strong word, angel,” Paulette pffts, almost mockingly. “You were the only one at Mariano’s wedding last summer without a date. Do you know how many excuses I had to make for you?”

You can’t help but scoff. Needle between the toes. “I doubt people really cared about the nuances of my love life.”

A slight ping of pain pokes your heart, knowing deep down that your mother has to hand out excuses for your lack of respect for tradition, never having a good enough suitor to bring home to the family and kickstart a life with, which is an aspect of the women’s lives that seem to matter most to these people. 

It makes you want to puke. 

“But now I do,” her mother retorts, gesturing to Rafe. “This time, it’ll be far less embarrassing for us.”

Stab wounds. A hundred of them. 

All you can do is sigh. 

Pushing him off a cliff. Cutting his dick off and leaving him to bleed out in this room. Strapping him to the roof of a car and driving it off a mountain. 

As you daydream, Paulette sighs in content and claps her hands. “That settles that. Now, angel, I booked a reservation at the Hilton before Ronaldo drives me back. We need to go over your dress fitting alterations before I go since you’ve neglected to tell me your measurements. They have a good vinaigrette dressing we should try.”

“Sounds delicious,” you deadpan, but her mother either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or flat out ignores it. The thought of sitting alone at lunch with your mother settles a kettlebell in your gut. “Let me get dressed quick.”

“Oh, angel. You’re doing your hair and makeup too, right?” Paulette asks, the thought of you walking out in a nice outfit without doing anything to fix up your appearance being downright appalling. 

You reel, this type of behavior being nothing new. Instead of snapping, you simply nod and bite her tongue. Silence is better than whatever fight a backhanded comment will cause.

Paulette exhales in relief. “I’ll wait in the car for you, it’s the Mercedes out front.” She turns towards the door then stops, offering Rafe a curt nod. “It’s nice to meet you, Rafe. I’ll see you in Italy.” Then she remembers something. “I hope you have a passport.”

Then with that, she’s out the door, leaving you and Rafe to stand in silence. 

Beat. 

You feel him behind you, inches away. You don't even know if you can turn around and look at him without grabbing the nearest sharpest object and shoving it in his throat or twisting and pulling his balls off like an apple off a tree.

There’s a reason you told him to avoid the whole boyfriend alias, and this being the reason. 

You mother has always been keen on appearances, embracing the rather traditional gender roles in society. The women in your family thrive on the concept of a strong man to provide for his partner, for his family, and you have yet to express favor of that drastically sexist and outdated notion. The thought of pursuing a career, a life outside of relationships, is seen as selfish. 

To bring someone home to meet the family means being someone who is sought after, yearned for, loved. It’s an embarrassment to be older than twenty and not introduce a partner, for whatever stupid reason, because most of the women in your family marry young, having taken advantage of their youth and sinking their talons into men who either inherit generational wealth or did the bulk of the schooling to be in the well-off positions they’re in today. Last summer, you showed up to a wedding dateless, and – according to your mother – there’s never been a more embarrassing feat for the familial image. 

Once in high school, Paulette paid off a boy in your grade to go out with you for a few months so you'd have a date to her upcoming charity gala. It was your first ever boyfriend, if you can even call him that, so safe to say you have a hard time trusting people – specifically men – when it comes to dating. 

Real dating.

Which is something you know Rafe cannot provide. 

It doesn’t help that Rafe is a conventionally attractive man – who you have repeatedly pushed down your feelings for – who realistically is a perfect candidate in Paulette’s eyes. He’ll only fuel your mother’s instinct to flaunt her daughter’s ability to reign in someone like him: charming, rich, handsome. 

Boy, Paulette will have a field day introducing someone like him to the rest of the family. It makes you want to kill him with a gun. 

Breaking you from her violent thoughts, Rafe chuckles nervously behind you. “I feel like you’re mad.”

Understatement of the century there.

You scoff. “Mad? You think I’m mad?”

“Well, yeah–”

You spin around, facing him with a twitch in your eye and a quivering lip. “I’m not mad, Rafe. I’m fucking furious. I’m seconds away from throttling you right now.”

“Whoa,” he says in surprise, throwing his hands up in surrender with wide eyes, “I just did you a favor. I got her off your back.”

Rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, you can’t help but laugh darkly.

“Off my back,” you scoff in disbelief. Then you shake your head and walk over to the dresser, shimmying out of the towel and slipping on underwear. “Off my– You opened the biggest, grossest, evilest can of worms you could even imagine.” You clip on a bra and move towards throwing on a casual dress. 

All Rafe can do is watch and attempt to defend himself, teetering between irritation and wanting to joke about the whole ordeal. “Okay, well, you didn’t really give me much of a script to go along with.”

You shimmy on the dress, looking at him incredulously. “Yes, I did!”

“I wasn’t about to play gay!”

You throw your head back, groaning. Slipping on a pair of heels he’s never seen before, your face burns incredibly hot, and it feels like your skin is on fire as his eyes don’t leave your figure.

“You had one job, Cameron. One!”

“No, it’s not–” Rafe huffs in exasperation, throwing his head back in frustration as well. The words don’t seem to come for a moment, but then he looks back at you, softer, more hesitant. “You don’t…You don’t think I can do it?”

“Do…what?”

“Be one? A boyfriend?”

Oh, the laugh you let out is audacious, as if the entire concept is the biggest comedic joke on planet earth. Apparently, the thought of it is hysterical because it makes you double over, damn near clutching your pearls as you howl. 

The sound pisses him off, and he can’t help but scoff at the utter display of mockery. “What the fuck is so funny?”

Is he kidding?

“Rafe,” you spat incrediously as you come down from your laughter, “zoom out for a second. There’s no way you’re going to convince anybody, and it’s not like I’m gonna be any better.”

There’s a pause between the two of you, and you can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he clenches his jaw, looking at you as if you've just offended his entire bloodline. No matter how hard he pouts or if he really snaps his jaw, he has to know that’s the gospel truth, otherwise he’d be an idiot.

Although the sight makes you confused, but you blame your sudden dizziness on the previous interaction with your mother because there’s no way he’s getting upset about this right now. He has to know this is hilarious, right?

It’s only the truth: Rafe Cameron has repeatedly told you that he doesn’t do relationships, only holding short-term girlfriends back home when it was all the rage, that he can’t picture himself being tied to one girl forever. The thought was completely unheard of for him. 

Maybe after college, is what he told you one day as you both lounged lazily, I’ll really start thinking about it. He had said that right before kissing you. 

Rafe unclenches his jaw and narrows his gaze at you in calculation, either soaking in your words or coming up with his next rebuttal. Whatever it is, he thinks about it very carefully so that it leaves you waiting in anticipation. 

“I could convince people,” he says cautiously, more to himself. “Totally. I could.” Rafe unclenches his fists, then whispers, “You really think I’d be that bad at it?”

The slight hesitation in his voice halts your movements, and you put your hands on your hips. “Give me a break. That’s not what this is about.”

Rafe’s shoulders sag. “Then what?” The sudden disposition makes you want to scream.

Why does he care so much?

“You’re… You’re just not coming.”

“Wh–” Rafe starts, reeling in confusion. 

You shush him with a pointed finger. “No. You’re not. You’re gonna have the flu, or something. Maybe an incurable disease. I haven’t decided yet.” You sit down at your desk and hurriedly curl your eyelashes. “Whatever it is, it’ll be so badly…bad that you won’t be able to go, or even lift a finger.”

Rafe can’t help the twitch of his lip curling up into a smirk. “Is that a threat, baby?”

“Don’t baby me, right now. I’m not your baby.”

“Sorry, baby.”

“Seriously, Cameron. I’m about to twist and pull your balls off.”

Fully grinning, Rafe finds himself moving from his vantage point, sauntering over to the desk and resting his hands on your shoulders as he leans down close to her ear. You ignore the thump of your heartbeat, figuring it’s the aftermath of such an anxiety inducing conversation with its best kickstarter: your mother. 

“Like an apple,” you emphasize with a gesture of plucking an apple off a tree in an attempt to regulate your dizziness from his close proximity, “just twist and pull them right off.”

Rafe rubs gentle circles in your muscle tensions, clearly finding the whole thing amusing. Prick. “You done?”

The relaxed tone makes you roll your eyes. “On second thought? You’d probably be into that. Freak.”

“You know me so well, hm, baby?”

“Nice try.” The honey in his voice almost makes you falter. Almost. “You’re still not coming.”

His thumbs massage the knots as he shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno. It seems like it’ll be fun.”

You pause putting on mascara, looking at him through the mini mirror in disbelief. “Fun?” He shrugs again which makes you raise a brow. That's not the word you'd use, frankly. “You haven’t met my family.”

“I can totally woo them over. We already have so much chemistry.”

“The only time we’re not arguing is when we’re fucking.”

“I’ve never been to Italy,” he sighs dreamily, straying away from the point. “Been to Spain, Greece, France. But never Italy. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“No.”

“The food, the girls, the history.”

“No.”

“You’re really depriving me of my dream?”

“Yes,” you hiss, finishing your touches to your requested makeup. “Besides, I doubt you’ll be able to find a flight for next week.”

Rafe furrows his brows in confusion. “Jesus. The celebration’s a week long?”

You sigh irritatedly, moving to brush through your hair. He frowns at how aggressively you rip through the snarls. “No. The wedding’s two days after Thanksgiving.”

“Why are you going so early?”

A flicker of panic rises in your throat as you pause, moving to say something but stopping yourself. The last thing you want is Rafe Cameron weaseling himself into your life. It feels intrusive and oddly personal, and it suddenly dawns on you that you don't even know his middle name. Or if he even has one.

The thought of knowing more about him makes you nervous. But the thought of him knowing more about you makes your stomach churn queasily.

So you simply settle on a nonchalant shrug. “I just am.”

The tone makes him frown. “So, what? You’re just gonna dick around Italy for a week beforehand? Alone?”

“No.” You hate that he’s staring at you with those bright blue eyes, waiting for more, and you hate providing more. 

Rafe notices your apprehension, squeezing your shoulders. “Hey,” he says firmly, slightly irritated that he has to beg but refusing to say please. “Answer me.”

“You’re pushy when you don’t get what you want.”

“Sweet girl,” he warns, thumbs massaging circles.

You sigh, knowing he won’t let up until you give him what he wants. Fucking brat, you think. “I’m staying with my nonna,” you admit softly. “Well, she’s not technically my grandmother but she practically raised my dad, so, she basically acts like his mother. She lives in the countryside.”

Rafe pauses his movements, studying your face in the small mirror where you refuse to meet his eye, that one snippet of her personal life taking out a chunk of her dignity. Your gaze is hard, purposefully focused on doing your hair.

He finds himself frowning at the notion that you found it difficult to tell him such a simple thing. More often than not, wants to shake you like a tree to make the fruit fall, to make you tell him more snippets of your life, information he’s been yearning to know but too afraid to ask about. 

Well, for fucks sake, you've been sleeping together for three months. God forbid he wants to know a little about you. 

“That’s…nice,” he whispers cautiously. 

You notice his sullen expression in the mirror, finishing up your hair so you can spin around in the chair and face him. His hands go to rest on the top of the chair as his piercing blues meet your eyes. He looks so fucking pretty right now that you grip the chair to refrain from forgetting the past ten minutes and dragging him back in bed. 

Instead, you furrow your brows to try and mask you appreciation for his annoyingly pretty face, studying his expression, trying to look deeper in his eyes to search for anything other than honesty but coming up short. 

You both stare at each other for a few moments, trying to gauge the other before you tap out, blinking out of whatever daze you were trapped in.

“Why don’t you have any Thanksgiving plans?”

Rafe shrugs. “I do.”

“Then why–?” 

“If you had to choose between hanging out in Italy or having a week-long screaming match with your entire family, what’d you pick?”

That shuts you up. 

Fuck. You look up at him with determined curiosity, trying to read between the lines of if he’s doing all of this simply to escape the horrors of his own family, or if he feels compelled to because your mother was standing five feet in front of him, or if he truly loves getting off on torturing you. Whatever the real reasoning is, the anger slowly starts fizzling out of your fiery chest and instead is replaced with calculation. 

There is some potential for his presence. He could provide a shield for Paulette’s usual torture. Then, again, he could also fuel it.

“If I let you come,” you start slowly, which makes him stand straighter, “you’ll have to convince them and you need to behave. Especially in front of my nonna.”

Rafe nods, pathetically obedient. 

You raise a brow. “I mean it.” 

He manages a small smirk. “Did I mention I’m great with grandparents, too?”

You rolls your eyes so hard it hurts. You sit up straight and put a hand over his to make sure he understands what he’s getting himself into. “Excluding her, my family is fucking horrible, Cameron. Like, White Lotus pretentious. They’re rich and obnoxious, can’t mind their fucking business, painfully sexist, and can be everything under the sun that is synonymous to that. I need you to know what you’re getting yourself into. This isn’t a fucking playdate.” 

And I’m probably going to be miserable the whole time I’m with them, you want to add, but refrain. 

But Rafe only snorts at the irony. He’s been putting up with people like that his entire life.

“And my nonna is gonna put you to work,” you add with raised brows. “She’s going to make you carry shit around, tend to her garden, do a bunch of stuff to prove to her that you’re good for me. She doesn’t play around with me.”

“Baby,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “I’m about to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

You snort, turning back to the mirror to last minute check over your features, hoping the results will suffice your mother's high expectations. “Yeah, that’s not gonna be hard,” you mutter, not seeing the way he frowns. 

Standing, you smooth over your dress and grab your purse and jacket with a deep breath. Truly, you need to calm yourself down before you crashes out in front of him. 

You don't want to admit it, but having him parade around the wedding pretending to be your boyfriend will probably make your life a little easier.

It’ll most likely stop making you feel like a constant disappointment to your mother for a good week, probably the only week of your life where you'll feel an ounce of your mother’s approval. It’s pathetic, you already know, to seek out affection through a lie, and the thought of telling this reasoning to Rafe will not only embarrass you further, but will give him fuel to make fun of you.

It's despicable that you probably can't earn your mother’s love and respect on your own – without a man – but frankly you're sick and tired of feeling like a constant outcast. Perhaps this will finally get your mother to start being proud of your other feats now that the boyfriend question is out of the picture, like for starters, your academic career.

Whilst you wallow in your scheming pity party, Rafe follows you to the door like a puppy, a newfound sense of determination glossed over his features. 

“No, you just wait, sweet girl,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “I’m going to be the best fucking boyfriend anyone’s ever seen, show all those other assholes up. I’m gonna hold doors open for you and shit.”

(There’s a tiny part of him that, also, wants to make this experience for you as easy as it can be, because after seeing the tumultuous tension between you and your mother based off of one brief encounter, Rafe can already tell that you were originally going to have a hard time at the wedding all alone. If he can offer even an ounce of consolation or support for you, he’ll take it.) 

“Sure, Cameron. Now be a good boyfriend and walk me to the car.”

Rafe fights a smile, excited to start proving himself.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

note this is my first time ever posting on tumblr and i still don't really understand the site (i.e. requests and communities and things like that). hope you enjoyed!

[wonderxshows]

omg . . . homecomign week dressup days were posted

[hellfirenacht]

Candygram

Summary: It's Valentine's day and you shoot your shot with Eddie by sending him a Candygram.

Tags: Eddie Munson x Reader, fluff, sfw

4.8k Words Master List

“Just do it.”  Robin said, following your line of sight to the booth in the corner of the Hawkins cafeteria. It was a simple table with a red cloth thrown over it and a handmade banner that read ‘CANDYGRAMS $1’ and was decorated with tacky hearts. 

Every time you glanced over at the booth, your heart would start pounding and your stomach would twist in knots. You had never considered yourself to be shy before, when you first moved to Hawkins a few years ago, Robin had joked that you didn’t need a welcome wagon because you had thrown yourself into band and had introduced yourself to everyone with ease. 

You had masked your anxiety over being the new kid with an overinflated sense of confidence and it had worked out really well for you until you caught feelings for the freak who sat next to you in remedial science. 

“I think... I would rather chug formaldehyde.” you said slowly, staring so hard at the offensively pink and red booth that Robin was sure it was going to catch flames. 

“Either go up there and buy a candygram or I’m going to do it for you.” Robin said. “If I have to hear you waffle about this for one more day I’m gonna rip my hair out.” 

“But if I send him one, then he might actually acknowledge me and realize I might have something resembling a feeling for him, and that’s just not really cool, you know? Goes against my chill and mysterious personality.” you said, leaning back on your chair with a cocky grin. 

“Last night I saw you and Steve cry over Bambi.” Robin deadpans. 

“Okay, so we were drunk and also shut up.” you snorted, rubbing your face. 

“How are you going to know if there’s anything there if you don’t even take the chance?” Robin scolds. “Come one, I’ve seen the way you look at him. I’m surprised the whole school doesn’t know-”

“Again, cool and mysterious personality.” you tried again. 

“Plus I know he’s just as weird as you.” Robin continued, ignoring you. “I mean, last week I saw him get Jason Carver to back off one of the freshmen by pretending to exercise a demon out of him!”

You stared at Robin for a beat before thunking your head on the lunch table. “I’m going to marry him. Holy shit, he actually tried to expel the demon lurking in Carver?” You were laughing at the thought. 

During your first senior year and his second, Eddie Munson had caught your eye when you had the same lunch period. He was loud and energetic and so fucking weird you couldn’t help but to be drawn to him. Had your parents not forced you to stick with band, you would have considered joining Hellfire. Unfortunately even with this last go-round as a super senior, they still made you stick with it despite your senioritis reaching terminal levels.

You never had a good opportunity to talk to him, and the more time passed the harder it became to justify just randomly approaching him. This semester you finally had your opportunity when you’d been put in the same class and sitting next to each other no less. Still, the most you’d been able to say was “yeah, sure” when he’d asked you for a pencil once. 

Four weeks sitting next to Eddie, and you had barely spoken to him while noticing every little thing about him. He read a lot in class when he could get away with it, and doodled in his notebooks constantly, especially dice and dragons seemed to be the biggest theme. His school notebook wasn’t nearly as filled in as his Hellfire notebook, and he was always fidgeting in class. He also didn’t talk much, and at least once a week he’d end up falling asleep in class with his head in his hand. 

“There’s not gonna be a wedding if you can’t even talk to the guy.” Robin said. “He’s not even scary! Dustin comes in to talk to Steve all the time about Hellfire. He’s just a dork.”

“I know and that’s the problem.” your voice was a strangled laugh mixed with a groan. 

“You showed up the first day of band and introduced yourself to everyone, even if they weren’t in your section. What is the hold up with you talking to Eddie?” Robin pried. 

“Because back then, it didn’t matter.” You looked over at Robin, poking at your mystery meat. “When I first got here it didn’t matter if anyone liked me or not. I was only supposed to be in this school for a few months and then graduate. Then I didn’t. I could handle it if someone didn’t like me. None of you were really supposed to matter to me. No offense.”

Thankfully, Robin didn’t seem offended. “You were just making nice with the inmates until parole.” she joked and you nodded. 

“Yup, and then when I realized that I was going to have to actually have a full other year of school, that meant that I was going to have to care if I was ever gonna graduate.” You continued. “Luckily you saw through all my bullshit bravado and started dragging me to movie nights with you and Steve.” 

“Yeah yeah, we love friendship. So what does any of this have to do with Eddie?” Robin said, not needing you to explain the backstory that she had been present for. 

“It means that with Mr. Munson, I unfortunately, care so fucking much what he thinks of me.” you relented. “He’s the biggest freak in school, and the dorkiest loser, and if I try and talk to him and he’s not interested in talking back I won’t be able to take it. Robin, I will simply lay down and be dead for the rest of my life.”

“That’s not how that works, you can’t be dead for the rest of your life.” She shook her head, her brows furrowed. “Because if you’re dead then... you’re not alive”

“Schrodinger's corpse then. Alive and dead at the same time.” 

“Look, just send him the stupid candygram. The worst he can do is say no.” She stood up from the table and grabbed your hand. “Let’s go.”

And that’s how you ended up at the booth, jotting down Eddie’s name on a piece of paper and shoving a few quarters in the till with Robin looking smug. “I doubt he’s ever gotten one anyway, if anything he should be thrilled that someone wanted to send him one.”

“If this kills me, Steve’s in charge of the music at my funeral.” you sighed. 

---

Candygrams were being handed out and delivered through the week. You weren’t paying attention to what period they were supposed to be handed out, and so when two students in obnoxious heart shirts and fake wings burst into your science class with Eddie right next to you, you were about ready to throw yourself out a window. 

No one was surprised when Janet and Charlie were tossed a few candygrams, but everyone’s head whipped around when the red heart shaped lollipop and card was set on Eddie Munson’s desk. Eddie himself seemed more surprised than anyone. 

He had the lollipop in his mouth before he even opened the note attached and you were seconds away from bolting out the door. With any luck, maybe he didn’t know your name even after weeks of sitting next to each other. 

“Who’s it from, freak?” asked Patrick, the basketball jock who sat a few rows ahead. That earned a few snickers from the class. 

“It’s from your mom.” Eddie said without missing a beat and taking out the lollipop. “Tell her I say thanks.”

More laughter from the class as Patrick stood up as if ready to fight, but the teacher quickly told him to sit down. 

Shit, this wasn’t supposed to happen. You felt a bit guilty that your candygram had kicked up a fuss, but at least Eddie didn’t out you as the person who sent it to him. In fact he wasn’t looking over at you at all. 

You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he flipped the card around, as if looking for something. All that was written was his name and “YOU’RE SWEET!” written in cheesy font and his name scribbled in your handwriting. 

And nothing else. 

You didn’t know if you should laugh or cry at your stupidity. You’d been so jumbled and nervous that you’d forgotten to sign the damn thing. Robin was gonna have a field day with this one. 

Eddie kept fidgeting with the card through the rest of class, twisting it and bending it until it was as crumpled and torn as your heart felt. He shoved it in his pocket and didn’t even glance at you as the bell rang and he stood up and tossed the eaten lollipop stick in the trash. 

It’s not personal. You told yourself. He has no idea who sent it to him.

That’s when you had a horrible idea, so stupid it might actually work. 

---

“Explain how this is going to work again?” Robin asked. “You’re going to keep sending him lollipops this week until he notices you?” 

“Sort of.” you said, buying another candygram. “I’ll just send him a few joke ones as a feeler and if he responds positively I’ll come clean. If not, I keep my dignity. It’s a win-win.”

“Since when do you care about your dignity?” Robin sorted. 

“Since I caught feelings for the least dignified guy in school, I guess.” You knew it was stupid, you knew it was ridiculous, but you already messed up once so you might as well lean into it. You scribbled his name down, this time signing it with a satisfied giggle. “This is so dumb.”

Oh, but it was so worth it. You had bought it before school started, guaranteeing that it’d be delivered the same day, handing over a crisp dollar to Nancy Wheeler who had volunteered for the booth. If Eddie had been surprised the first time, he looked almost shocked now.

Eddie, sorry I forgot to sign the first one! This card said, once again not giving away any sign of who it was actually from. You saw his eye sparkle in amusement as he ate his lollipop, and this time the card was read over a few times before being carefully tucked into his dungeon master notebook. 

By the third day, the novelty of Eddie Munson getting candygrams had worn off with the rest of your class, but Eddie’s grin only grew wider each time. 

“Anything for me, Cupid?” Eddie asked as the student council members walked back in to hand out more lollipops. 

He whooped as another one was dropped on his desk and he snatched up the card quickly and you had to cover your face and bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling at his excitement. 

Eddie, sorry I’m so bad at remembering to sign these things! I just get way too excited about sending them out that I lose focus. So anyway this card is actually from-

You had carefully spaced out your writing on the small rectangle of paper so that it left absolutely no room for you to sign your name. Eddie looked downright giddy as he read the note over and over. Seeing him so happy made your stomach burst into butterflies and even if he decided after this he wasn’t interested, this was enough. Knowing that he was smiling because of you was enough. 

Someone said your name and you looked up, surprised to see one of the student council members standing next to you and handing you a candygram. Your eyebrows shot up as you took it with a thanks and opened up the card. 

Who had sent one to you? You’d been so wrapped up in your little scheme you didn’t even consider that someone would try and send you one either. 

A smile tugged at your lips as you saw your name and a small drawing of what looked like an egg in a nest as the sender. Robin, of course. Probably making fun of you for sending candygrams to Eddie without signing either. 

You tucked the candygram in your own notebook safely and dared a glance over at Eddie again. You hadn’t expected for him to be looking back at you, and your heart jumped in your chest. He unwrapped his lollipop and lifted it slightly as if he was trying to toast. You held yours up as well to him, an off sense of camaraderie between two people who had their day temporarily disturbed for commercialized love. 

Thursday came around, Valentine's day proper, but they’d be doing one last day of candygrams on Friday as well. This was a fundraiser after all, and capitalism trumps any semblance of real sincerity. Well, you said that but that wasn’t exactly going to stop you from continuing your little plan. 

Today was the day you were going to pull out the big guns. You handed over a full $5 to have a carnation sent to Eddie, as well as a return to sender card to Robin for being a good friend. 

“Shouldn’t he be the one sending you a flower?” Nancy asked, handing you the card to write on. You wondered how Nancy had time for all of the extracurricular activities she had going on, working with the student council and the school newspaper. 

You just shrugged at the question, not realizing how wide you were smiling or how obviously warm your cheeks were. To anyone with two eyes, you were glowing and to anyone with one eye, you were phosphorescent. 

The disinterest that your classmates had from the last two rounds perked back up with a flower was delivered to Eddie that afternoon. 

“For little old me?” Eddie said, batting his eyelashes at the delivery boy as he took the carnation. You giggled to yourself as he opened the card again. 

Man, I’m bad at this aren’t I? Don’t worry, this time I’m writing very small so I have room to sign this card. Seeing you light up when these get delivered has made my whole week, and totally worth it. Anyway this is from- 

To be fair, you had actually signed your name this time. However this time you had made an attempt to erase it with one of those erasers. The horrible stiff ones that only made big smudges and made the mistake worse and nearly tore through the paper. You had carefully looked at your smudged signature for a long time before deciding it was illegible enough to send. 

Eddie faked a swoon in his seat, nearly toppling over onto the floor. “Come on!” he laughed, pushing himself back upright, smiling with his whole face. He looked over the note again, something clicking in his brain and you quickly looked down at the book you were currently pretending to read. 

“It’s someone in here.” you heard him mutter to himself and your heart started pounding in your chest. You focused on your breathing to try and stop yourself from giggling and giving yourself away. 

“Stop sending yourself stuff, Munson. It’s pathetic.” Patrick called out. 

“If you wanted me to be your Valentine, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask nicely.” Eddie said, but he sounded distracted as his eyes scanned the room for any hint of who this mysterious person is. “And next time, I’m more than happy with just the lollipop, it’s saving me on smokes.”

You didn’t even notice the lollipop on your desk until class had started back up. Unfolding the card you smiled to yourself, seeing that it was from Robin again. This time the egg in the nest had a crack in it and seemed to be hatching. You’d ask her about it later. 

Nothing said during the rest of class even registered with you, every word was in one ear and out the other. This had been a fun week sending Eddie all the lollipops and flowers but tomorrow was the last day to have something sent to him. 

Were you going to sign your name? That’s the million dollar question. You had told Robin that you would if Eddie seemed interested, and he had made it clear he was enjoying the attention. 

But would he still enjoy the attention if he learned it was from you? You two weren’t exactly friends, but not complete strangers either. He didn’t seem to dislike you, after all he’d raised a toast with you with your lollipops the other day. 

Well, if you were gonna put yourself out there, you were gonna do it on your own terms.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Robin said that Friday morning as you dropped a handful of ones on the table for one last hurrah. 

“Nope, I’ve committed.” you said, taking the small stack of cards and getting to work. 

“I’m going to have you committed.” Robin shook her head. “I mean, this is actually insane, you know that right? There’s no reason to go through all this trouble, when you could just talk to him.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that, Buckley?” you asked, as you added one letter of your name to each of the cards. “Gotta make him work for it.”

“So you’re gonna give him a Valentine's themed word jumble as your big sign off?” 

“Yup.” you confirmed, adding his name to each of the cards. He’d get them all in one go and then it’s up to him to unscramble your name and figure it out. 

After that... well, the ball is in his court. 

Besides, if he liked the lollipops enough that he’d reach for one instead of a cigarette then that’s good enough. 

“You’re such a weirdo. You deserve each other.” Robin went on. “The Weirdo and the Freak. It’s like Beauty and the Beast except.. Not.”

“Robin, don’t you know three languages?” you snorted finishing up your stack and handing them over to be sent. “You are so much smarter than me, but this is where you lose words?”

“It’s Friday and I haven’t had coffee.” she pointed out. “Oh, thanks for sending me one by the way.”

“Yeah, of course. I mean you sent me one so I wasn’t gonna leave you hanging.” you nudged her playfully. 

“I didn’t send you one.” Robin looked at you, confused. 

“What?” You reached into your backpack and pulled out the notebook where you had placed the card and handed it to her. “But that’s a robin’s egg...?”

“It’s an egg, probably.” Robin agreed. “But I’m broke. I didn’t send any out.” 

You stared at the card with new eyes. If she didn’t send it, then who did?

---

“Holy shit.” Eddie muttered as a bag of lollipops was dumped on his desk with no rhyme or reason, earning a round of laughter and snickers from the class. The teacher had long since given up on trying to keep the class’s attention when the Cupid’s showed up. 

He sorted through the cards, a puzzled expression on his face as he looked at the different letters on the cards until he found one that had real words on it. 

Figure it out, Sucker <3 Eddie’s face was a wonderful mixture of amusement, bewilderment, and mild offense. 

One of the Cupid’s handed you another two lollipops as well. One was actually signed by one of your friends in band, and the other had another doodle of an egg. This time the egg was completely hatched and there was some sort of weird bird flying off. 

Not a robin. You decided, trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. 

You barely paid attention in class for the rest of the hour, your attention split between the three egg Valentines you received and the man next to you. Eddie had pulled out his Dungeon Master notebook to try and decode your message. You felt flattered that he was using his favored notebook to try and figure out your puzzle. 

Eddie was sucking on one of the lollipops diligently as he scribbled down random letters. Now that you thought about it, you’d never seen him look so studious in class before. You wondered if this is what he looked like when he was working on his campaigns and your brain decided to give you a treat of a daydream where the two of you were sitting around in your room while he explained his campaign and how he’d love to have someone like you join Hellfire-

It was three minutes before the bell, and that meant just a few minutes until your last period and the weekend. With Valentine’s day falling in the middle of the week, most of your friends were going to be off doing things with their partners. Maybe you, Robin, and Steve- no wait, Steve actually got dates. Robin worked on the weekend. 

Maybe Eddie- NOPE. Not going there, you were not about to get your hopes up for this. 

You glanced over at him again, looking at his notebook to see if he was anywhere close to decoding your name. Eddie had the worst handwriting you’d ever seen and so you would be surprised if he could even figure out his own notes. Between unjumbling your letters, he had started doodling in the margins. You assumed that they were D&D monsters from the look of it, since none of them looked like actual animals except for the bats in the corner. 

The only other thing you recognized was a dragon, drawn in a larger scale on the side of the page. It’s wings were expanded and it was flying off, and from this angle it looked like a weird...

It looked like some bird

Some sort of weird bird

Your head snapped back down to the card in front of you. This wasn’t a weird bird. It was a dragon. A dragon hatching from an egg. An egg that hatched a dragon. A dragon that was drawn with the same pose as the one in Eddie’s notebook. Eddie’s notebook had your dragon no wait, your card had his dragon-

Eddie Munson had sent you the cards. 

Eddie had-

“Oh.” You said out loud. You were nearly fighting back hysterical laughter at this, and you pressed your hands against your face, with your shoulder shaking with repressed laughter. 

Why the hell had Eddie sent you those cards? The two of you had barely spoken to each other!

 You did the same damn thing, dipshit. You reminded yourself. In fact you had gone way harder than he had. But what did this MEAN? 

The bell rang and everyone scrambled to get out of the classroom, and before you could say anything, Eddie was off and running out of the classroom at the speed of light. 

What was that about?

Robin was right. If you were ever going to have a chance with him, you were going to suck it up and talk to him, even if it meant possibly embarrassing yourself. Plus, finding out why he sent you three candygrams was currently trumping any fear of rejection. Curiosity killed the cat, but at least he died satisfied. You’re pretty sure how that saying went at least. 

You knew that Eddie had Hellfire today, it was Friday and he and all of his friends had been running around in their club shirts. With a deep breath you...realized you had no idea where the hell they actually met. 

This whole thing could have been planned better, actually. 

You started walking around the school blindly for any sign of the signature baseball tee that they all wore. If you found one of them, they were sure to lead you to Eddie. God, you felt like a stalker. 

There. Long dark curls against a stark white shirt with black sleeves. Your heart leapt in your chest, and you had to make the choice now. 

“E... Eddie! Wait up!” you called out, walking quickly towards him. 

When he turned around to look at you, you felt the air disappear from your lungs. How was it possible for him to be so beautiful and why the fuck did no one in this school seem to notice? 

Eddie pulled the lollipop he’d been sucking on out of his mouth, surprised to see you. 

“Hey.” he said. “Uh... you sit next to me in class.” 

He was either playing dumb, or you were about to make an ass of yourself. But, like Robin asked, since when do you care about dignity?

You reached into your bag and pulled out the candygrams that had been sent to you and holding them out. 

To your relief he gave you a bashful smile. “Guess you caught me, huh?” he asked. “You solved my Valentine’s puzzle.” 

“I have a pretty high intelligence when I apply myself.” you said, which only made him grin wide. “But I gotta say, Munson. I’m actually a little disappointed. I mean, sadistic and scary dungeon master of the Hellfire club, and this is the best puzzle you could come up with?”

He crossed his arms and took a step towards you. “Well, I don’t know you as well as I’d like.” he said, and your stomach erupted into butterflies. “Had to start somewhere.” 

“I guess I had to be sneaky and pay attention to you to figure it out. You’re hard not to notice, you know.” you admitted, crossing your arms as well to mimic him. 

“Being The Freak means I fail most stealth checks.” he shrugged. 

“High charisma though.” you threw out there, hoping that line would land and to your delight it did.

“It’s the Munson Magic. I come by it naturally.” Eddie’s smile was so wide it was cheesy but shit, it was working on you. 

“Not great intelligence though.” you smirked at him. 

“Oh? And how do you figure that?” He looked a little offended now, and you saw his shoulder stiffen as if he was waiting for this to suddenly go south. 

“Spell my name, Eddie.” 

You could see the lightbulb go off in his mind and his eyes widened. 

“You- wait, you were the one who kept sending me the cards?” Eddie looked nothing short of bewildered and ecstatic. You had a feeling that if things went well, you wouldn’t have to worry about ever knowing what he was thinking as he wore every emotion on his sleeve. 

“Surprise?” you asked, playing with the strap of your backpack. 

Eddie licked his lips, chasing the last of the flavor of the sucker he’d been eating. He looked at you, as if searching for something, and you cut in before he had the chance to find it. 

“Do you want to hang out sometime?” you asked, a little louder than you meant to. “Like, just us.”

“Do you think you can handle a date with The Freak?” Eddie asked, standing a little straighter. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, and I promise the worst of them are true.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Eddie, I’ve always wanted to join Hellfire.” you smirked. “I’m sure there are worse things for a first date than sacrificing someone to Satan, or summoning demons, or joining a cult.”

“I’m a gentleman, I would never ask a lady to summon demons on the first date. That’s at least a third date activity.” Eddie held his hand to his heart and raised a hand as if making an oath. 

Oh yeah, you were going to marry him. You were already picturing proposing to him and taking him away from this town. 

“Then how about dinner at Benny’s?” you suggested. “Burgers and shakes on me and you can tell me more about Hellfire and dragons and I can give you a spelling lesson.”

Eddie ran his ringed fingers through his hair and you giggled as the rings got snagged and he struggled to untangle them. 

“It’s.. a date then.” he said, but it came out as more of a question, as if he was asking if this was really happening. 

“A date.” You agreed, handing him your number, having come prepared. 

As you began to walk away, he called out after you. 

“Wait! You said you wanted to check out Hellfire, right?” Eddie said and you turned to look at him. “I’m... I’m actually running a one shot tonight. Kind of beginner friendly enough. I don’t often do this in the middle of the semester but one of our usuals dropped out because he had a date so... we have an open seat at the table. If you think you can handle it.”

Your smile widened as you walked over to him. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Eddie offered his arm to you, as if he were a gentleman which you took eagerly. 

“So... how do you actually spell your name?” 

---

Dear Reader, I hope you have the easiest name to spell because that would make this fic at least 3% funnier. Also, I'm proud I got this done before Valentine's day because I never even finished my Halloween or Christmas fic. Be proud of me.

Please reblog if you enjoyed it <3

Tag List: @gagasbee, @ihaventgotaclue-really @tastefullyferal @anonymouskiwi @hellfiredarling

[ellieputellas]

the bird | a.putellas x reader

You’re a model student at a religious boarding school, expected to uphold tradition, and never question the path laid out for you. But when Alexia Putellas moves to your boarding school for reasons unknown, you struggle to reconcile your religious devotion with the new, unfamiliar feelings you have for Alexia.

tags: troublestudent!Alexia, modelstudent!reader, angst, fluff, religious guilt, religious trauma, forbidden love, friends-to-lovers, slight slow burn, tension, school setting, eventual smut in preceding parts (will tag those parts) warnings / notes: will contain homophobic sentiments from other characters, religious themes that may be sensitive to some people (including questioning religious beliefs), alexia and reader are both around 19 years old

partially inspired by this request and also beyond salvage by @angelsforthenight (and my own religious experience lol)

‎ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤchapter one 🕊 other chapters

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPROLOGUE.  The Bird.

“We have high expectations of you,” Sister Superior Philomena said, her voice measured and steady as she adjusted her glasses. She looked up briefly from the papers she was meticulously arranging. “And time and time again, you have not only met but surpassed those expectations.”

“Yes, sister,” you replied softly, your tone respectful and subdued. The nun offered a small, approving smile before neatly assembling a set of documents. You stood attentively, your posture impeccable—back straight, shoulders poised with quiet confidence. 

Having been a student at Instituto Santa Eulalia Mártir since you were 8 years old, you had long since absorbed the institution's unspoken code of conduct. The perfect student carried themselves with pride but never arrogance. They spoke with clarity and conviction, yet knew the value of restraint. They displayed individuality and a strong sense of self but never had an overpowering, flamboyant personality. In just over a decade, you have become the embodiment of these ideals—a model student who was silent but not shy, strong but humble to a fault. You were practically a nun-in-the-making, as your peers have joked.

“These are the profiles of the new arrivals,” Sister Philomena said, sliding a slim file across the desk with deliberate care. “Five freshmen, a few sophomores, and one senior.”

You paused, eyebrows lifting slightly. “A senior?”

She inclined her head in confirmation. “Alexia Putellas Segura,” she said, tapping the topmost profile with her pen. “We rarely admit students at such a late stage, but this is an exception. She has transferred from one of our sister academies.”

Your gaze dropped to the profile. The photograph was of a brunette girl with striking features and soft hazel eyes, her expression neutral, almost guarded. As you scanned the page, nothing immediately stood out to you. “Sister, if I may ask—why has she transferred?”

Sister Philomena sighed, her hands folding neatly over the desk. “The reason, I’m afraid, is all too familiar. A troubled soul.” Her voice softened with a trace of pity. “As she is in your year, I have decided she will share a dormitory with you. I entrust you with the responsibility of guiding her, molding her into a student who reflects the values of this institution. Can I count on you for this?”

You nodded solemnly. “Yes, Sister.”

Your gaze returned to the photograph attached to the profile. You traced your fingers over the typed name – Alexia Putellas Segura.

You looked through her profile which had not much information about the girl aside from her age, address, and other basic data. Her grades seemed good and she seemed to be active in her extracurriculars. So, why is she here? What trouble did she get into?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤACT I. The Arrow.

Alexia Putellas was more beautiful and captivating than you expected.

She stood taller than most of your peers which was made more intimidating since it was paired with some kind of silent confidence – tall, composed, self-assured. She was quiet but not shy. There was nothing hesitant about her; she was reserved but not shy. Her eyes, sharp and attentive, seemed to notice everything.  And those eyes… you just could not get over how beautiful they were. A stunningly warm hazel with golden specks.

It would be an understatement to say that you were completely captivated by the sight of her.

“Okay, girls, let’s introduce ourselves by saying our names, nicknames, and favorite things to do in your free time.” The overenthusiastic novice Sister Catherine chirped in the new student orientation where you were present together with a couple of other seniors. “Let’s start with our current students!” Sister Catherine nodded at you. You smiled, trying to make eye contact with every new student but your eyes just kept drifting  back to Alexia whose gaze felt too intense for your liking. You kept your hands clasped behind your back. “Good afternoon, new students.” You said before introducing your name. “I’m a senior. I serve as praepostor of the Dorm de Santa Rosa on the first level of this building. In my free time, I enjoy reading the Bible, embroidery, and volunteering in the library.”

Your words were met with polite nods, but as your gaze briefly flicked to Alexia, you noticed a faint smile curve her lips before she glanced down at her shoes. There was an entertained look in her eyes. You bit your lip, feeling suddenly conscious which you never felt before. 

The introductions continued, but your attention was frustratingly divided. You could barely focus, your mind circling back to Alexia. The way she carried herself, the unreadable expressions on her face, even the firm, athletic build she possessed—it was all distracting in a way you didn’t know how to name.

When it was finally her turn, her voice was calm, low, and self-assured. “I’m Alexia Putellas. Senior,” she said, her gaze locking onto yours with unnerving directness. Something about the intensity of her eyes sent a shiver through you. “I, uh… like football.”

You nodded politely, managing a small smile. Football. That explained her build, her quiet confidence… the biceps that showed whenever she crossed her arms. But as your thoughts began to drift into admiration—or something more troubling—you caught yourself. I don’t think I should be looking at her like this. But… she’s just another girl. And I’m a girl too. Is it wrong to notice her this much?

Your internal scolding fizzled the moment she smiled at you again. It wasn’t much, just a fleeting expression, but it left you warm and inexplicably flustered. Whatever it was you were feeling, it unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

The other praepostors of the dorms had come to a unanimous decision: a pajama party would be the perfect way to introduce the new girls to life at Santa Eulalia. The event was meant to be lighthearted, a blend of camaraderie and tradition, designed to ease the newcomers into their new environment while showcasing the values of the institution.

You took the task of preparation seriously. Each welcome basket was carefully assembled with thought and precision, a reflection of the standards you upheld as a praepostor. Inside each basket, you included a neatly folded school shirt embroidered with the Instituto’s emblem, a new rosary with polished beads, a selection of prayer cards featuring saints and scripture verses, and a modest set of toiletries—simple but elegant. You even tied each basket with a satin ribbon in the school colors, a final touch of warmth and care.

The other dorm heads welcomed their respective new students, handing them their baskets and chatting enthusiastically. While you might have been the nun’s favorite student, you didn’t find it easy to relate and interact with fellow students. They all felt you were too cold, too uptight and rigid, even if you didn’t intend to. This just made it difficult for you to seem warm and open to the new student Alexia. 

Usually, you could draw energy from the excitement of a group of new students but now, it was just you and Alexia. And, Alexia was more quiet than you expected. It wasn’t exactly easy to bounce your energy off of someone as guarded and calculated as you were.

You led her to the farthest room at the end of the hallway, where the two of you would be sharing the space. The room was meant to house four students, but over the past year, many had transferred to more secular academies, leaving several beds vacant. Alexia set her bag down with a deliberate air, and you handed her the welcome basket, trying to gauge her reaction.

She sat on the edge of the bed and began sifting through the contents with slow, deliberate movements. Her expression was unreadable as she picked up the prayer cards, flipping through them one by one. You noticed the faintest curve of her lips as she did so—a smile, but one you couldn’t quite decipher. Was she genuinely touched by the gesture? Or was it amusement at the pious simplicity of it all?

“Thanks,” she said at last, her voice low and restrained, yet not unkind.

You nodded, hesitating for a moment before sitting on the edge of your pristinely made bed across from hers “You’re welcome, Alexia.” You replied, carefully. Then, after a brief pause, you ventured.  “So… you like football?”

She glanced up at you then, her hazel eyes momentarily meeting yours before she returned her attention to the basket. Something about the way she looked at you unsettled you, not in a bad way, but in a way that made you feel hyper aware of yourself. Alexia hummed. “Yeah, I do. I used to play as a midfielder in my old academy.”

You nodded, unsure of how to continue the conversation, knowing fully well it was off limits to ask “trouble students” why they ended up in the Institute. Alexia smiled, noticing your hesitation and. “And you? You like football?”

You nodded quickly. “If watching the girls play during sports week counts.”

She chuckled, a warm sound that made you relax slightly. “Of course, it counts.”

Silence followed, and you felt an awkward pressure to keep the conversation going. You’d already shared everything important on the walk to the dorm—school history, the names of the sisters she would encounter, and a rundown of the cafeteria food. What else was there to say? Ask her about her favorite Bible verse? That seemed…awkward.

“So, Alexia,” you said finally, grasping for a neutral topic, “do you like to read?”

 She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I do, but probably not the same things you read.” “How do you know what I read?” You immediately worried it sounded defensive, so you glanced down, hoping it didn’t come across as rude.

She smiled, noticing your reaction. “Hmm, you mentioned you liked reading the Bible just a while ago so I assumed you mostly read that.”

“Oh,” You said softly. “Yes, I do…of course.”

Alexia’s smile lingered, but her gaze grew a touch more curious. “Are you, like, the president of our year level?”

You shook your head, grateful for the change in topic. “Oh no, there aren’t any presidents here. Just dormheads like me. We take care of dorm activities and…” You hesitated. “Yeah.. mostly that.”

Her lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “And watch over troublemakers like me?”

You felt your cheeks warm. “Well, not exactly. We just remind everyone of the virtues we uphold in this academy.”

Her smile turned into a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry, monjita,” she said, her voice dropping into a playful tone as her lips curved into the faintest smirk. “I wouldn’t dare ruffle your feathers.” (trans. monjita – little nun)

You weren’t particularly close to other students. They always found you too uptight, too rigid, a perception that left you feeling isolated despite your good intentions. However, Ingrid was one of the few exceptions—a rare friend with whom you could talk easily. She was a year younger than you, yet she carried herself with a confidence and ease that often surpassed your own.

Having transferred from a sister school in Norway, Ingrid had quickly adapted to life at Santa Eulalia despite her initial struggles with Spanish and Catalan. Her cheerful demeanor and genuine kindness had endeared her to both students and staff, earning her the role of dorm head almost immediately after her arrival.

“Darling, have you tasted the cookies I baked with Maria?” Ingrid’s voice was as warm as the smile she wore, and she presented you with a basket of sugar cookies. “They’re actually decent, considering we had no idea what we were doing. Sister Cathy had to step in and save us.”

You winced slightly at the use of the nickname for the junior nun, knowing the more senior nuns would never approve of shortening their chosen names—it was far too casual for their liking. But you let it slide, worried that if you corrected her, you might come across as overly strict and risk alienating your one true friend.

“Ingrid, you should meet Alexia.” You said, stepping aside as you introduced the new student who was trailing behind you. Alexia politely smiled at the taller Norwegian, before offering her hand. 

Ingrid’s expression immediately brightened as she extended her hand. “Alexia! You must be the girl from our other sister school. I came from a sister school as well… but from Norway.” She beamed warmly. “You’re lucky to be sharing the same room as the best dorm head this school has to offer.”

Your cheeks warmed at Ingrid’s exaggerated praise, and you offered her a shy, almost embarrassed smile.

Alexia smiled at Ingrid before carefully looking at you. “Seems like it.”

Something about the way Alexia looked at you made you feel exposed, and you quickly tried to shake off the awkwardness her gaze stirred in you. “Uh, Ingrid,” you began, trying to redirect the conversation. “Alexia plays football, too.”

Ingrid’s eyes lit up. “Does she? That’s fantastic! What position?”

You stepped back slightly, letting the two of them ease into the conversation. Alexia answered Ingrid’s questions with quiet confidence, and though her initial replies were short, you could see her slowly starting to open up. As you observed, you began to notice nuances about Alexia that hadn’t been apparent before.

She wasn’t just reserved—she was thoughtful, deliberate in the way she spoke and carried herself. When Ingrid asked a question, Alexia listened intently before replying, her answers polite and measured. Despite her firm demeanor, there was a gentleness in the way she engaged with Ingrid, an unspoken respect that made the interaction feel natural and unforced.

Watching them talk, you realized that Alexia wasn’t difficult to connect with because she was closed off, but because she paid attention—careful, almost wary attention—to the people around her. You couldn’t help but wonder how you exactly felt about being subject to her perception. What does she think when she looks at me?

The pajama party started getting rowdy as the night passed and the nuns retired to their quarters

And by rowdy, that just meant as rowdy as a Catholic, all-girls school sleepover could be. That just meant a bunch of girls laughing, eating sweets, and giggling over magazines or board games. Somewhere amidst the muted chatter, Ingrid, Alexia and you were somehow roped into a circle with the new students.

You noticed that most of the old students sitting with you in a circle were also the ones who transferred due to being “trouble students.” You, on the other hand, were the complete opposite; you were always made to be the example for the troubled students. It made you feel out of place, unsure of what stories you could share that wouldn’t sound out of step.

Anna, a sophomore with braces and a nervous smile, shifted in her seat before speaking. “My mom was done with me after I got caught skipping class to hang out at the arcade. I just… I didn’t want to say no to my friend, you know? But I guess it didn’t matter because we’re not even friends anymore now that I’m here.” Her words slowed as she reached the end, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. But then she perked up slightly, like she was willing herself to be optimistic. “Still, I don’t mind too much. It’s kinda nice, being away and meeting new people.”

The group cooed and broke into a silent chorus of murmured affirmation. As the circle’s de facto senior—and someone the younger students clearly looked up to—you felt compelled to step in.

“Anna,” You chimed in respectfully, your tone firm yet kind.“Just remember that the people you surround yourself with can really shape who you are.” You paused to let the words settle. You weren’t the most social person but you did give good advice. “Just remember Proverbs 13:30 – ‘walk with the wise and become wise, for a companion of fools suffers harms.’”

The group collectively nodded. You continued. “The right friends will lift you up and the wrong ones will pull you down. I know it’s tough starting fresh, but you’re in the right place to find people who will bring out the best in you.” You smiled at Anna whose eyes had softened.

Anna’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the circle felt lighter. The tension had dissipated, and even Ingrid offered a small, approving smile. But as you glanced at Alexia, you caught something else entirely — a faint, knowing smirk.

It was the kind of look that made you second-guess yourself, that made your pulse quicken in a way you couldn’t quite explain. Was she amused? Impressed? Mocking you? Her expressions always left you grasping for answers, and the more you tried to ignore them, the harder it became.

Before you could unravel it, Anna turned to Alexia, her curiosity unguarded. “So, Alexia… why are you here?” The question hung in the air. Alexia’s smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of hesitation.

You jumped in before she could respond. “Anna,” you said, careful to keep your tone even, “the sisters discourage us from asking about someone’s past unless they choose to share it. Alexia’s reasons are her own.”

Anna blinked, realizing her mistake. “Oh… I’m sorry,” she murmured.

You nodded, offering her a reassuring smile. “What’s more important is how we grow and learn from the past, and not fixate on the mistakes themselves.”

The circle seemed to accept this, returning to their quiet hum of chatter. Yet, deep down, you felt a pang of regret. You wanted to know why Alexia was here, too. It was the right thing to do, you told yourself—the sisters had made that clear. Still, the question lingered in your mind, refusing to be silenced.

What had brought her here? And why did it feel like the answer mattered more to you than it should?

As the chatter and laughter continued in the background, you found yourself retreating to the corner of the common room, more concerned with tidying up the scattered plates and cups than joining the conversation. Besides, as soon as the chatter turned into crushes and past boyfriends, you knew your presence was neither wanted nor important to the group. Growing up in the institute, relationships were foreign to you, a concept you understood but never experienced. Even if you were around the age other people got boyfriends or even crushes, you never really had anything remotely close to a relationship. 

Even in the rare interactions with boys from the brother academy, no one had ever sparked that fluttering, heart-racing feeling you’d seen in movies or heard about in whispered gossip. It wasn’t for a lack of trying from the boys’ end. A lot of boys liked you; you’ve always caught the eyes of several peers from the brother academy. However, you were convinced that that was just because you were their mother’s dream daughter-in-law and they’ve hyped you up to their sons. Regardless of all the interest and attempts, no one piqued your interest. No one has even close to making you blush.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on the small of your back. The sensation sent a jolt through your body. “Not interested in girl talk, I see?”

The voice was low, smooth. You turned, and Alexia stood closer than expected. Her hazel eyes locked onto yours, her expression unreadable yet undeniably captivating. You froze for a moment, caught off guard by the nearness of her and the intensity of her gaze.

“Oh—Alexia,” you stammered, fumbling with a stack of plastic cups in your hands. “I didn’t see you there.”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “You were pretty focused. What are you up to?”

“Just cleaning up,” you replied quickly, avoiding her eyes. “I can’t stand a mess, and I know everyone will be too tired to deal with it later.”

Alexia hummed thoughtfully. “Mind if I help?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” You shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm under her steady gaze. “I’m sure the others would appreciate your company more. Talking about crushes has to be more interesting than… this.”

She chuckled softly, her voice like a low ripple of amusement. “Honestly, cleaning up sounds better than hearing another story about some guy from one of the brother schools. It’s all the same anyway.”

You smiled. “Well, we make sure to recycle here. Same rules in our room apply here, which I already told you about.” You nodded. “But if you need assistance, just let me know.”

“Responsible and hands-on,” Alexia observed, picking up a pile of paper plates. Her tone was casual, but her eyes lingered on you, as if she were studying you. “No lucky guy’s noticed that about you yet?”

You sighed. “I’m not interested in relationships.” Your voice was quieter than intended.

“Ah, I see.” Alexia’s smirk turned playful. “So, you’re planning to actually become a nun, Monjita?” She leaned closer, her teasing tone wrapping around the pet name. “I bet you’d look cute in those headscarves, robes, and cross necklaces.”

Suddenly, you were getting flustered, blushing, and out of words. You opened your mouth to correct her — that they were called habits, not headscarves — but nothing coherent came out. You were way too flustered. Alexia’s smirk widened, clearly pleased by your reaction. 

She chuckled. “So, you’ve really never had a crush?”

You paused then shook your head, barely meeting her eyes. “No, I don’t think so.” You peeked a look at the taller girl, seeing her put all the paper plates in the bin. “Probably wouldn’t like the feeling of having a crush, honestly.”

She arched an eyebrow, her gaze still fixed on you. “Interesting.” She continued stacking plates as if the conversation were the most natural thing in the world. “But if you’ve never had a crush, how would you even know what it feels like?”

The question lingered, heavier than you expected. You glanced at her, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t know, blushing and flustered whenever they look at you… intimidated and nervous around them? It just doesn’t seem appealing to me.” you admitted. “Maybe I just… haven’t met the right person.”

Alexia’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe,” she said simply. “Or maybe you’re just not looking.”

Her words settled in the air between you. You gazed again at Alexia whose expression was unreadable. Before you could muster a response, she reached for the cups in your hands, her fingers brushing yours briefly. 

“But enough about that,” she said lightly, breaking the tension. “I’m more interested in recycling than rehashing crushes.”

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and nodded. Together, the two of you worked in silence, the background noise fading as the common room gradually emptied.

When the last of the mess was cleared and the others had gone to bed, you found yourself sitting beside Alexia on the worn-out couch. The quiet felt comfortable, though charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

After a moment, Alexia turned her head to look at you. “So…” She began, her voice softer now. “You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

You frowned, trying to recall. “What question?”

Her smirk returned, subtle and teasing. “Do you want to be a nun?”

You paused, deep in contemplation. You looked around, checking if anyone was within earshot. You hummed. “I used to,” You paused, fiddling with your thumbs. “But now… I don’t know. I’ve always loved God. I love the Church. I have always devoted my life to it…”

Alexia leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. “But…” Alexia asked gently, her tone coaxing yet patient.

You didn’t know why you felt so comfortable with someone you just met but it all felt so natural with Alexia. You’ve always been so guarded with other people, especially when it comes to your faith. But something about her… you just felt at peace. You couldn’t help but open up.

“I feel like there’s something missing in my life.” You said under your breath. “I pray to God, ask Him to tell me what’s missing in my life or why I haven’t felt fulfilled despite devoting and pouring my all to the Church…” 

You trailed off, your voice faltering under the weight of your own vulnerability. When you dared to glance at her, you were met with a concerned expression that made your heart tighten.

“Alexia, I know it’s wrong to feel this way,” you said quickly as if trying to justify yourself. “I know I shouldn’t expect anything in return for my devotion, but sometimes — sometimes I just feel incomplete.”

The silence that followed was deafening, each second stretching longer than the last. You regretted speaking, regretted opening up. Maybe you had said too much. Maybe Alexia would think you were ungrateful, or worse, weak in your faith.

But then she spoke, her voice steady and kind. “Monjita,” she said softly, using the nickname again, but this time without the teasing edge. “You don’t have to defend yourself. I get it.”

Your eyes snapped to hers, and you were struck by the warmth in her gaze. In the dim light of the room, her hazel eyes seemed to glow, and the intensity of her soft expression sent a ripple of heat through you.

You bit your lip, trying to steady yourself. “You do?” you whispered, almost afraid to believe her.

She nodded, her lips curling into a faint, reassuring smile. “Sometimes… even when you give everything to something, it still doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. It just means you’re human.”

Her words settled over you like a blanket, comforting but unfamiliar. You weren’t used to being seen like this, to someone understanding parts of you you hadn’t fully understood yourself.

The way Alexia looked at you then — steady, unblinking, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the room — made your breath hitch. Her gaze was different now, more intense, and it sent a rush of warmth through your chest.

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up. You tore your eyes away, focusing on the floor to compose yourself, but when you glanced back at her, she was still watching you with that same expression… but somehow, more intense. You swore that, for a moment, her eyes fluttered to her lips.

Your heart raced, and suddenly, you felt flustered all over again, the warmth in her gaze threatening to undo you completely. Uh oh.

As the weeks passed, you and Alexia found yourselves spending more and more time together — breakfasts, walking to class, hanging out between lectures, and even doing homework side by side. Alexia had a habit of accompanying you to the chapel during your daily rosary. She never prayed aloud, but she’d sit quietly beside you, her presence steady and unwavering.

Even if you spent so much time together, you still felt uneasy around Alexia. It wasn’t discomfort with Alexia herself, but with how she made you feel. You didn’t know what to make with the intensity of her gaze or the way she smiled at you. Mostly, you didn’t know what to make of the way she made you feel – heart racing, palms clammy, feeling overwhelmed by her presence. 

You loved being around Alexia. She was kind and attentive in ways you’d never experienced before. She noticed the little things: how you tried to be modest with your breakfast portions and would slyly slide extra pancakes onto your plate when you finished. She’d reach for the high shelves in the library without you even asking, or patiently guide you through Spanish essays, her explanations both thorough and encouraging. You truly loved being with her.

But at the same time, you began to think that perhaps some distance would help. You needed clarity—time to pray, reflect, and ask God for guidance about the novel emotions that had taken root within you.

Luckily, Ingrid came in the clutch and invited Alexia to train with the school’s football team just to see how she would like it. Of course, Alexia agreed under the condition that you would watch her during her first time.

You acquiesced. This was supposed to be our time apart, you thought. But the idea of supporting Alexia made your resolve falter. After all, she had sat through countless rosary sessions just to be near you. Watching her play for a little while wouldn’t hurt, right? What could possibly go wrong?

But you were wrong.

Seeing Alexia on the field was something else entirely. The way she moved, so fluid and confident, was mesmerizing. The ball seemed like an extension of her, every pass, every run executed with effortless grace. Your cheeks warmed, even in the brisk wind, and your heart pounded despite sitting still on the cool grass. The feelings stirring within you didn’t just linger; they intensified.

Things got worse on your walk to the showers. Alexia was still radiating the heat of the match, her hair damp and her skin glowing from exertion. She walked close — too close — and the warmth of her presence made your head spin. You tried to create space, stepping slightly farther away, but Alexia noticed.

Alexia chuckled softly before linking her arms with yours, forcing you to be closer to her. “Why are you so far, monjita? Do I smell?” She teased.

No, you smell too good, actually…

“N-nothing,” You stumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

It was becoming apparent to Alexia just how flustered you got around her. She didn’t want to scare you off but she also found it so cute how you reacted and just how clueless you seemed to be about your own emotions.

It was just so endearing to her. She already thought you were beautiful from the moment she met you but it wasn’t just your appearance. It was your quiet kindness, your humility, and the way you so easily became flustered in her presence. It was utterly charming. And, to her surprise, she was beginning to develop a huge crush on you.

Of course, given the circumstances, she wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate those feelings. So, she figured the best approach was to tease you just enough to see if you’d slip up first. Which is why, as soon as the two of you entered the shower room, she decided to remove her shirt without a second thought.

Your eyes widened at the sight of your roommate’s uncovered torso. You quickly spun around, quietly gasping. Alexia smirked. “Alexia,” You croaked out, unable to keep the nervousness from your voice.

Alexia chuckled as she smirked. “What? You act like you’ve just seen a ghost…”

You stammered, your voice coming out in an embarrassed truth. “Uh, Alexia, you shouldn’t be removing your clothes in front of people like that.”

Alexia smiled, clearly enjoying the fact that you were flustered. “Monjita, I don’t see anything in the Bible that says anything bad about sports bras.” She teased with a light tone. “Though, didn’t Jesus say something about plucking out your eyes if you feel tempted?”

You drew in a shaky breath, desperately trying to compose yourself. “I… I just think it’s better if we keep a little more modesty,” you muttered, still not daring to turn around. You and Alexia often changed in your showers after bathing so this was the first time that you were seeing her so exposed.

Alexia took a step closer, and you could feel her presence behind you, the heat radiating from her still-warm skin. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, all you have to do is say so,” she said, her voice low and playful.

“It’s not that, I just—” you started but trailed off, heart hammering in your chest. Before you could finish, Alexia laughed softly and stepped into her shower stall, leaving you standing there, unsure whether you were relieved or even more nervous.

As the sound of water began to fill the room, she called out casually, “So… how’d I do out there? Be honest.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on her words rather than the strange, jittery feeling in your chest. “You did great,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat to sound less meek.  “You had such great control of the ball. I haven’t seen anyone play that good since Ingrid and Maria.”

She hummed, pleased with your response. “Gracias, monjita. That means a lot coming from you.” She said, her voice echoing.

Your light conversation soon fell silent as Alexia cleaned herself. You awkwardly lingered by the sinks, unable to get over the overwhelming awareness of her just a few feet away. Even if you two had showered at the same time, there were usually a bunch of other girls too. Now, it was silent – just you, Alexia, the sound of rippling water and the loudness of your thoughts. No chitter-chatter to distract you from the thought of Alexia…

You jumped as Alexia’s voice cut through the sound of water. “Uh..I forgot my towel outside,” she called out. “Mind handing it to me?”

You hesitated for a moment, silently willing your pulse to slow down. “Uh, sure,” you finally replied, moving to grab the towel.

When you turned to hand it to her, you kept your gaze averted. Her fingers brushed yours as she took the towel, and you swore your heart skipped a beat.

“Thank you,” Alexia said softly, her voice carrying an almost imperceptible edge of playfulness.

You nodded stiffly, retreating to your side of the room. Your mind was a blur of confusion, and for a brief moment, you thought about praying. But the truth was, you weren’t even sure what you were praying for anymore — clarity, calmness, or for these strange feelings to go away. One thing was certain, though: Alexia quickly became the center of your thoughts, no matter how hard you tried to focus elsewhere.

Even if Alexia loved your presence and loved your companionship, the experience at the boarding school was sometimes too much for her to handle. 

When she first moved in with her grandparents, she never anticipated that her stay would eventually lead to being sent to a boarding school after an unpleasant experience. The thought of living away from her friends, her home, and access to decent football training had been unbearable at first. But then, she met you—a sweet, devout girl whose head seemed so deeply buried in the Bible that you didn’t even realize you were still in the closet.

Despite loving your presence, Alexia still felt like the school could be too much at times – the lackluster football program, the seemingly endless Bible lessons, the preachy talks, the relentless schedule, and the constant pressure to be a proper Catholic girl all the time. It was a big shift from being in a more liberal school. 

In addition to all that, she just couldn’t reconcile the growing feelings she had for you with the way the nuns always seemed to lecture against those very feelings. It got too much.

So, when the weight of it all bore down on her, Alexia would sneak out in the dead of night while you were fast asleep. Wandering aimlessly around the campus grounds, she often ended up at the prayer garden nestled in the small forest near the school.

The quiet solace of the garden, with its canopy of stars and the hum of nature, offered her a much-needed escape from the pious expectations of her daily life. It was the one place where she could breathe without feeling judged, without having to be so guarded.

After a few successful midnight escapes, Alexia had grown more confident in her routine. Perhaps a little too confident. As she carefully climbed out of the window one night, the sound of her movements stirred you from your sleep.

“Alexia?” you murmured groggily, blinking at the shadowy figure moving by the window. You rubbed the sleepiness from your eyes as you saw your roommate with a cardigan thrown over her pajamas, practically half out of the window. “W-what are you doing?”

Alexia froze for a moment before turning to face you. “Monjita… hey,” she said softly, using the nickname that had inexplicably grown on you. “I was just going to the prayer garden…to destress.”

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, still half-asleep. “The nuns will catch you,” you muttered, voice laced with drowsy concern. A yawn escaped her mouth. “They might punish you if they catch you.”

Alexia hesitated for a moment before offering you a small smile. “Maybe,” she admitted, “but I’m going anyway. And… if you’re worried, you could come with me.”

You blinked at her in confusion. “What?”

“Come with me,” she said, her hazel eyes sparkling “You’re in better standing with the nuns. If we get caught, they’ll go easier on us if you’re there. Besides, I could use the company.”

You bit your lip, torn between your better judgment and the strange pull of Alexia’s request. Alexia hummed before proceeding to step both feet out of the window, baiting you. After a moment of internal debate, you sighed and climbed out of bed. “Fine. But we need to be back before anyone notices, okay?”

Alexia’s grin was radiant as she reached for your hand. “Of course, monjita.” she whispered. “Now, come on.”

Your heart was beating so fast as you slipped out the window and into the dark of the night. If anyone heard your heart now, they would have thought you were robbing a bank by the way it thumped and thrashed in your chest. On the other hand, Alexia moved with confidence and no worries.

“Alexia, aren’t you afraid of night creatures… owls… foxes?” You asked as you and the other girl weaved your way through trees to make it to the prayer garden.

Alexia, who was leading the way, turned her head and flashed you a smile. “All God’s creations, right?” She teased. “Don’t worry, we’re not too far away, angel.”

That was another nickname Alexia liked to call you, which always got you flustered as well. Even now that you were fearing for your safety, you still felt your cheeks warm.

It wasn’t long before you both found yourself in the prayer garden, seated on makeshift benches crafted from large slabs of rocks. You always loved the prayer garden but at night, it transformed into something almost magical. The stars scattered across the sky like shimmering jewels, and the moon bathed everything below in its soft, silver glow.

As you gazed at Alexia, you couldn’t help but feel a little breathless. Under the moonlight, she looked ethereal—her skin glowing like porcelain, her dark eyes shadowed yet undeniably captivating. You quickly turned your gaze upward, trying to ground yourself.

“I come here at night when I feel overwhelmed,” Alexia said, her voice breaking the stillness. Her tone was unusually soft, vulnerable. Despite knowing Alexia for a while, she rarely talked too much about her emotions. She was rarely so open like this, which just made this experience more special. 

“I just need to sit in silence,” she continued, her eyes fixed on the stars. “To look at the sky, the moon, hear the trees rustling. It’s… healing.”

You nodded silently, sensing there was more she wanted to say.

She sighed deeply, her words weighed down by emotion. “When I feel like the guilt is too much... like it’s drowning me, I come here. And for a moment, I can breathe again.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. You looked up at the sky, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. Normally, being so close to Alexia made you nervous, but tonight, in this shared stillness, you felt oddly at peace. The heart that was previously violently thrashing in your chest was now a consistent, steady beat.

After a moment of silence – just gazing at the stars and listening to the rustle of the trees, you broke the silence. “Can you believe our Creator? He made all of this — so vast, so beautiful. The stars, the trees, the world… it’s like proof of His greatness.” You gushed, feeling yourself grow appreciative of the world around you. You figured sneaking out was just a way for you to appreciate God’s creation in a different light.

Unbeknownst to you, Alexia wasn’t sharing the same train of thought. She sat quietly beside you, her gaze distant as she absorbed your words. After a moment, she spoke, her voice soft yet tinged with sadness. “Yes… but who created all the pain?”

Her question caught you off guard, and you turned to look at her, unsure how to respond. “What do you mean?”

Alexia met your gaze, her eyes glimmering with an unspoken ache. “If there’s a creator who made all this beauty, then who made all the suffering?”

The weight of her words settled heavily between you. You hesitated, your mind racing for an answer. “Maybe… maybe it’s not Him,” you said cautiously. “Maybe it’s humans, not him."

Alexia’s eyes didn’t leave yours, her expression unreadable. “Then why doesn’t he stop it?”

You faltered, unsure how to respond. You looked down, feeling the gravity of her question but unable to offer a clear answer. “Maybe… maybe it’s because we have free will. We have to face the consequences of what we do."

Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, the next words barely audible. “But… what if the way I was born is a sin? Does that mean I’m damned from the start?” she whispered. "What can I do then?"

Your heart stuttered, her words hitting you like a sudden blow. You didn’t fully understand what she meant, but you could feel the weight of her confession. It meant something to her — something big, something raw.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. What did she mean? You searched her expression for clarity, for reassurance, but found only a vulnerability that left you speechless.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. It wasn’t the first time that someone came to you with religious doubts and apprehensions. Typically, you handled it well but now, all you could do was keep your eyes glued on to Alexia’s hazel eyes. 

She smiled weakly, her eyes glazed a bit, before looking up again at the stars. You paused, taking her presence in before mimicking her and looking up at the stars again. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ACT II. First All at Once, Then All Together.

After that night with Alexia at the prayer garden, you’ve grown more and more comfortable with her, spending practically every single waking moment with the girl. You became even more inseparable.

Sneaking out at night became a ritual, talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes, you’d open up about your religious upbringing. Sometimes, Alexia would share about her life outside the boarding school – telling you about all the shenanigans she got into. Other times, Alexia would be telling you about football rules and gameplay. (She practically spent an entire night explaining to you what offside was and you still were confused, unable to visualize it even after she explained using rocks and twigs.) 

These days, you laughed a lot, more than you ever had in all your years combined inside the institute. It felt so freeing being with Alexia, opening up and just getting to laugh boisterously without being scolded. 

Alexia loved seeing this side of you, growing more and more comfortable with her. She loved making you laugh, loved the way you made her laugh. But it wasn’t just the lighthearted moments she treasured—it was the quiet, vulnerable ones, too. Sometimes, she wanted to tell you everything about how she ended up at the school, but she always hesitated. A part of her wasn’t ready, unsure of how you’d react.

The downside of spending so much time with Alexia was that you were starting to fall behind on your dorm head duties. You managed the basics—leading morning prayers, fairly assigning chores, and organizing Bible study sessions every couple of weeks—but some responsibilities slipped through the cracks.

It wasn’t a big deal until you forgot to monitor the weather, failing to inform the nuns of an incoming storm. So, when a storm hit and the dorm lost power, all the batteries in the lamps and the flashlights had corroded and you were all forced to use candles. 

Alexia, as always, was quick to help. She volunteered to search the storage closets for any working battery-powered lamps. While you rummaged under your bed for spare supplies, Alexia explored the rest of the room.

“Hmm…” Alexia hummed, cutting through the silence as you searched for the lights in your room which you were sure you stored under the bed. You turned around and could barely make out her figure in the dark. 

“What is it?” You asked, still rummaging through the box under your bed. 

“Jewelry and birds?” she said, her tone curious.

Confused, you turned to find Alexia sitting on the floor, flipping through your old sketchbook. Your eyes widened in horror. “Wait – Alexia!” You yelped.

Back when you were a freshman, an alumni visited the school to share her life as a jewelry designer. After which, for a year, you were convinced that jewelry designing was your passion, making several sketches of rings, necklaces, and other pieces. After filling an entire sketchbook of drawings, you figured that it was a ridiculous dream to have and quit your jewelry-making aspirations

The obsession with drawing birds… well, there wasn’t an explanation for that. You just liked birds somehow.

You tried to snatch the sketchbook from Alexia who held it away from you, a teasing grin on her face. “Relax, angel,” she said, thumbing through the pages. “You’re really talented. Did you design all these?”

You bit your lip, cheeks warming. “Well… yeah. But it’s not that creative. It’s just… birds and jewelry.”

Alexia frowned, shaking her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is amazing.” She stopped on a page depicting a necklace of a bird inside a cage. “This one especially. It’s beautiful.”

You tried to snatch the book again, but she pulled it away, her expression softening as she flipped through more pages. Her gaze lingered on darker drawings that littered the last few pages — birds with arrows through their hearts, birds lying lifeless, and cages that seemed impossibly small. 

She finally closed the sketchbook, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she reached out and wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her lap. You froze for a moment but eventually relaxed, adjusting yourself to sit more comfortably. Alexia held you like that, her warmth radiating through you. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as she spoke into your ear. “You don’t have to stay in the birdcage.”

You didn’t reply, but your arms tightened around her. Somehow, in that quiet moment, the message was clear. Yet, you said nothing.

After that night, Alexia had grown fond of hugging you. 

Well, not just hugging, but holding your hand and brushing your hair with her fingertips. You never talked about what she said even if you felt like you wanted to, but you just knew you had some sort of silent and deeper understanding of each other since then.

The lingering fluttered feeling remained with Alexia but it soon dissipated into comfort. You’d let her hold your hand under the table during lunch. You’d let her hug you from behind and rest her head on your shoulder when you washed the dishes. On your end, you just loved being close to her, often offering to brush her hair and sort it into braids or other silly hairstyles. 

The weather got colder and colder, making your nightly sneaking-out sessions impossible. Unfortunately, this meant that you were suddenly having a hard time sleeping. The walks and nights out talking provided you with a peace of mind that allowed you to sleep soundly after. Now, you felt like life was incomplete without it.

It was past midnight and you still couldn’t sleep, feeling anxious considering that you had to wake up earlier to prepare for First Friday mass. You already tried praying, counting sheep, and reciting Bible verses in your head but to no avail.

You sighed and turned again in your bed. The Catalan took notice of your restlessness and sat up slightly to glance over to your bed. The nightlight barely illuminated the room but it was obvious to her that you were still up.

“Angel,” she whispered, her voice soft but distinct in the quiet dormitory room. You turned around to see Alexia propping herself up in her bed. She smiled warmly at you. “Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head. “I’m having trouble,” you whispered back. “But, I’m sure I’ll drift off sooner or later.”

Alexia hummed and tilted her head thoughtfully, then lifted the edge of her blanket in a silent invitation. “You know,” she said lightly. “Sleeping next to someone is supposed to help. Something about oxytocin or whatever. It’s supposed to calm you down.”

You chuckled. “Suddenly, you’re a biologist?”

“Nah, just a cuddle scientist.” Alexia teased, her grin widening. “Come here. If it doesn’t work out, you can always just go back to your bed.”

You hesitated, your heart skipping for reasons you couldn’t quite place. The idea was harmless — just two friends sharing a bed — but something about the offer felt different, like stepping over an invisible line. Still, the way Alexia looked at you, patient and almost knowing, made it hard to say no.

Biting your lip, you slid out from under your covers. The cold floor sent a shiver up your feet as you tiptoed toward Alexia’s bed. She scooted back slightly to make room, her blanket still held open. You slid in carefully, the scent of her shampoo immediately enveloping you. The bed was as tiny as yours, forcing your bodies closer than you’d planned.

You laid stiffly, your back almost to the edge of the bed, careful not to be too close to her. You were too afraid that moving closer to her might just… be too intimate.  

Just as you started to relax, Alexia’s hand slid over — tentative but deliberate — resting lightly on your waist, before settling flatly on the small of your back.

You jumped slightly at the sensation, but she didn’t let go. Instead, her fingers curled gently, tugging you closer until your body was flush against hers. 

“You were about to fall off,” she murmured, her voice low but teasing. “Relax, Monjita. I won’t bite.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t find the words to protest. Alexia adjusted, slipping an arm under your neck and pulling you into her chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her steady heartbeat thrummed against your ear, and though it should’ve calmed you, it only made your own race faster.

Even if you and Alexia had become close, there was a newness, a different feeling to this interaction. It felt intimate and almost like crossing friendship boundaries. 

“You’re so stiff,” she said after a moment, her tone light but edged with amusement. “What’s the big deal? Haven’t you ever hugged a friend before?”

You swallowed. “Not like this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Alexia hummed softly in response, her breath warm against your hair. “Well,” she said, her voice dropping just slightly, “there’s a first time for everything.”

You paused, contemplating, before softly whispering again. “Alexia,” You started cautiously. “I never really had a best friend.”

She hummed, her free hand gently brushing through your hair in slow, comforting strokes. “Yeah?” she prompted, her tone curious but tender. “What about Ingrid?”

You shook your head. “I like Ingrid, but she’s not my best friend and I can’t completely open up to her,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever opened up to anyone. I’m always so scared… scared that they’ll hate me or judge me once they really know me. You're the only one I feel like I can open up to.”

Alexia scoffed softly, almost incredulously. “I don’t see how anyone could hate you, monjita,” she said, her voice laced with quiet affection.

You swallowed, your chest tightening. “I think some of them already do,” you murmured, the words tasting bitter as you let them out. 

“I’ve always been so devoted to the Church, and sometimes… I think they see me as too pious, too preachy. I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” you added quickly, almost defensively. “But it’s made me someone they can’t trust. Like I’m just an extension of the nuns — someone they’ll never see as a real friend.”

Alexia chuckled warmly. “An extension of the nuns?”

You nodded. “Even you call me monjita.”

Alexia shook her head. “Well, yes,” she explained. “But not because I see you as an extension of the nuns. I just think you’d look so cute and adorable in those gigantic nun costumes they wear, and well, you’re as nice as a nun.”

You chuckled a bit but shook your head. “Still, people don’t see me beyond being the good girl, the praepostor… the person the nuns send them to whenever they have doubts about their faith.” You whispered. “Sometimes, I even forget who I am beyond that. Sometimes, I just let myself be who they think I am.”

Alexia’s hand didn’t falter as she hummed thoughtfully, her touch steady and grounding. “You shouldn’t do that to yourself,” she said simply, but there was something fierce in her voice, a quiet insistence that you weren’t sure how to process. “They can perceive you and they can judge you from just that but you shouldn’t let their perception define you.”

You hummed in thought, as you rested your hand on her chest, feeling her steady heartbeat. “It’s not just that,” you continued, the words spilling out now as though Alexia’s warmth had unlocked something deep inside you. “Even if they could see past that, I don’t think they’d like me once they really knew me, once they knew who I am beyond being the praepostor or the nun’s favorite.”

Her hand paused briefly, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, more cautious. “What do you mean?”

You stared blankly at the wall, the weight of her question pressing on you. “I mean that I have my own doubts,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. “That I give advice, telling people to trust God and follow His word, that all your problems will wash away when you believe and pray but deep down, I… I’m not sure I believe it myself. Sometimes, I feel so trapped… like I’m living this life for everyone else, not for me.”

“Hmm?” Alexia said as if to signal for you to continue.

You bit your lip, hesitant to share your own feelings with Alexia. “I’ve lived my whole life here in the Institute. This is all I’ve known and I know a lot of the sisters went through the same thing and learned to love it…” You trailed off.

Alexia prodded. “But?”

You felt tears form in your eyes but you tried to stop yourself from letting yourself get even more emotional. “I want to see what life is like… beyond this.” You shared softly, almost too soft for anyone to hear. “Just see what I’m missing out on.”

You continued, “I want to laugh freely. I want to watch movies that just make me laugh or make me cry — movies not necessarily made to have a moral or a lesson or be about a biblical character. I want to eat junk food and indulge in sweets without feeling like I’ve turned into a massive glutton. I don’t want to feel guilty for wanting a third pancake.”

Alexia chuckled softly at that, her mind flashing back to mornings in the dining hall when she’d see you dutifully pick at bland green beans, leaving the pancakes untouched for the younger girls.

“I want to do things other normal people our age do,” You continued. “I want to go drink recreationally and dance with people I don’t know. I wanna know what I’d look like with lots of makeup and those big lashes. I want to swim in a tiny swimsuit, even if it feels weird riding up your—”

Alexia laughed out loud at that, the sound warm and unguarded, and you couldn’t help but smile. Her amusement encouraged you, made you feel safe enough to keep going.

Taking a deep breath, you continued, “I want to fall in love,” you said, the words trembling on your lips. “Really fall in love. I want to go on a date, get flowers, share drinks. I want to kiss someone… not a polite little peck on the cheek. I mean really kiss, feel something. I want to know what it’s like to be loved and love beyond… beyond religious devotion.”

Suddenly, you fell silent, gulping as you allowed yourself to calm down again. Alexia hummed lowly as she continued to brush your hair. You stayed silent, waiting for Alexia to speak but she didn't, simply continuing to brush the pads of her fingers against you.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but steady. “You must think I’m a hypocrite,” you said, preempting her, your voice brittle with doubt.

“No, no, of course not, cariño.” She said immediately with a tender but firm voice. “I think what you’re feeling is natural.”

Another pause. You nuzzled closer to her instinctively, seeking comfort in the steady warmth of her touch. Alexia sighed softly, her breath ruffling your hair. “Having doubts, wanting these things… it doesn’t make you bad,” she murmured. “It makes you human. We all want love. And that’s okay, monjita.”

Her words settled over you, comforting but unfamiliar, as though you weren’t sure you deserved to hear them. You turned your head slightly, meeting her gaze. There was no judgment in her beautiful, hazel eyes — just patience, warmth, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“But what if it’s more than just doubts?” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your fear. “What if… what if I can’t actually be what they expect me to be? What if I just break?”

Alexia’s free hand moved to your cheek, her thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Then maybe it’s time to stop living for their expectations,” she said, her voice firm yet impossibly gentle. “You don’t have to be what they want. You only have one life and you deserve to live for yourself, angel.”

Your eyes locked together and you started feeling the weight in your heart be replaced by something new. You felt the energy between you two shift into an unfamiliar feeling you couldn’t put a finger on. There was a warmth between you two — a growing comfort and familiarity — but there was also the feeling of something ominous unraveling. You couldn’t tell what it was; it was something you’ve never known before.

And as soon as you felt your eyes flicker to Alexia’s lips — pink and lush, parted slightly as she stuck her tongue out to wet them, how they were impossibly close — you knew.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ACT III. We Can’t Really Help Who We Are

After that night cuddling with Alexia, you lied and said you preferred sleeping in your own bed, even if truthfully you’ve never slept better than you had wrapped around in her arms.

You’ve also let her hands awkwardly hang between you, brushing against yours to signal for you to take them. Instead of locking hands like you usually did, you’d cross them across your chest and avert your gaze.

When she’d try to wrap you in a back hug from behind, you’d find some excuse to slip away. “I need to re-fold my clothes,” you’d mumble, or, “I should check with Sister Catherine about something in the dormitory,” leaving her standing there, arms left empty.

More recently, you’d taken to pretending to be asleep, tucked into bed as early as nine in the evening, just to avoid those late-night conversations with her — the ones where it felt like the world disappeared and it was just the two of you.

Ever since you realized that you might have a crush on Alexia, you have avoided spending alone time with her. You dodged all her physical affection and even moved seats in class, making an excuse that your eyesight has been faulty lately which made no sense because you simply moved horizontally as you two had already been sitting up front.

To anyone else, your sudden change in behavior would have been confusing, even hurtful. But Alexia wasn’t just anyone. She understood what you were going through, even if you hadn’t said a word. She saw through your avoidance, knew why you flinched away from her touch or made excuses to leave.

So she decided to give you space. She’d let you sort through your feelings, trusting that you’d come to terms with them when you were ready. There was no rush, no pressure — not from her. The least she could do was add to the pressure you were already feeling from everyone and yourself.

But to you, Alexia’s calm and unbothered demeanor meant something entirely different.

You convinced yourself that her behavior wasn’t born from understanding but indifference. You figured she hadn’t noticed your growing feelings at all, or worse, that she had — and didn’t feel the same.

Her casual way of brushing off your sudden distance only solidified the idea in your mind: Alexia only saw you as a friend.

Every hug, every handhold, every quiet moment together — it was nothing more than friendship to her. That realization made everything harder. It made every excuse you gave, every inch of space you put between you, feel more necessary.

Certainly, it wasn’t the truth but to you, it felt like it was and that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Every so often, some of the sisters that oversee dorm functions would gather everyone for some prayer activity, to exercise different manners of prayer. With the older sisters, they usually preferred teaching worship songs or learning prayers in different languages. The younger sisters were often more imaginative and fun. Sometimes, they’d make board games based on Biblical lessons or it would be a rosary-making session.

Today, Sister Catherine decided that a “Stretching with God” exercise would be fun. So, all the girls from your dorm building were gathered in your modest sweatpants and shirts as you attempted to follow Sister Catherine’s instructions. Some of the moves made sense like raising arms to reach towards the heavens or doing child’s pose to symbolize humility. But some of it… were questionable. 

She had everyone rolling their arms back to “emulate angel’s wings.” She had you lifting your legs back and forth in a swinging motion “to kick away all the evil that surrounds you.” After the “punching away demons” move, you looked around and noticed that everyone seemed to be enjoying it — some genuinely enjoying it and others just finding the silliness of it all amusing.

Though, you didn’t bother looking over to Alexia, who was standing beside you. You’ve been avoiding her gaze ever since she found it was so funny for her to lift her shirt up so slightly to wipe the imaginary beads of sweat from her forehead after every stretch.

To you, it seemed like an innocent gesture that your twisted brain was just corrupting but Alexia actually intended to do it ever since she’s caught you frequently glancing at her abdomen, especially after her football training.

“Okay, girls, to close off our Stretching With God session,” Sister Catherine instructed, a little bit winded from leading the session. “We’ll form a circle to have a small prayer.”

Sister Cathy turned off the radio that was playing instrumentals and soon, the dorm fell quiet except for the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional shuffle of feet as everyone gathered into a circle. 

You had carefully chosen your spot, slipping beside Ingrid and moving away from Alexia. It seemed like the safest option at the time — distant enough from Alexia to make avoiding her easier. But now, as you settled in, you realized the mistake.  

From where you stood, you had a clear line of sight to Alexia. You did move far away from her side but that landed you almost directly in front of her in the circle. You clenched your hands, trying to focus on the prayer circle instead of the way her hazel eyes lingered, even when they weren’t looking at you directly.  

The prayer exercise began. “Okay, girls, we’ll be doing the typical ACTS prayer structure.” Sister Catherine started. “Can anyone remind us of what the ACTS prayer is like?”

Instinctively, all eyes darted to you. You nodded and spoke up loud enough for everyone to hear. “A for Adoration — you give worship to God and adore him for who he is. Typically, you can say ‘Almighty God’ or just ‘God the Father’... or whatever you feel is fitting.”

“Next, C stands for asking for confession when you let God know of and apologize for all your sins and misgivings.” Suddenly, your eyes drifted to Alexia who had a small smile on her face. You stumbled with your words. “Uh, uhm…”

“Thanks,” Ingrid whispered surreptitiously to you, thinking you'd forgotten it. 

You nodded. “T for Thanksgiving wherein we thank Him for all He has done. Lastly, S for supplication.”

Sister Catherine nodded at you thankfully. “And supplication is just asking humbly for what you want,” She looked over to you again. “For what you desire in your heart.”

You nodded, trying to keep your eyes on the nun instead of letting it drift towards Alexia. Soon, the nun started instructing the group on the movements that accompanied each part of the prayer.

For the adoration part, you all raised your hands high, the weight of silence heavy as you thought of words to praise Him. "All-knowing and all-seeing God," you whispered suddenly. The phrase came unbidden. You bit your lip, feeling guilt rush over you suddenly as you reached your fingertips to the sky. 

When it was time to give thanks, everyone was instructed to place their right hand over their heart. You murmured a quiet prayer of gratitude, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. "Thank you for self-control," you said softly, though it felt like a lie. Every day you spent avoiding Alexia made you feel like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. 

Then came the moment for forgiveness. You were to put both hands over your heart now, one over the other as you closed your eyes and bowed your head to symbolize humility and regret for your actions. You could practically feel your heartbeat inside your hands as you struggled to even formulate a coherent thought.

You knew somehow that your feelings for Alexia were wrong but you couldn’t piece together a statement asking for forgiveness because you couldn’t reconcile with yourself what sin you committed exactly. You clutched your chest as you breathed heavily, settling with a different apology. “I’m sorry I cannot recognize my own sins.” You thought silently.

Finally, it was time to ask for your desires. 

“Everyone, keep your heads low. This is to show humility, that you are a mere human asking God for something. Not demanding or expecting already, but just asking kindly with all the humility in our heart.” The nun instructed as she lowered her own head. You followed suit.

“Next, hold your hands, let it serve as a reminder that you are not alone and that your peers have their own desires and aspirations. As we hold hands, this is our way of praying that they also attain all their aspirations.” You locked hands with Ingrid and Maria who were both beside you.

“Finally, tell God your desire.” Sister Catherine said. “You can whisper it, say it out, or keep it in your heart and heed for Him to hear.”

Heads bowed low, hands clasped tightly, the circle seemed to shrink in on itself as whispers of prayers filled the room. Girls murmured quietly, voices blending into a soft hum of hope and longing. You lowered your head like the rest, but your mind was blank.  

What did you desire most?  

Nothing came to mind at first, only the familiar wave of guilt and confusion. But then, as if pulled by a force you couldn’t resist, you lifted your head. And that’s when you saw her.  

Alexia was already staring at you. Her head was not lowered like everyone else, her hazel eyes locked on yours with an intensity that stole your breath. In the middle of all the whispered prayers, the bowed heads, and the holy reverence, it was just the two of you, caught in a moment that felt impossibly loud in its silence.  

You didn’t look away.  

And in her gaze, you saw it. 

The same thing that burned in your chest — the unspoken desire, the longing you’d tried to bury — reflected back at you. It was an understanding, a silent confession shared without words.  

Your breath hitched, and your hands trembled as you tried to remain composed. Around you, the prayer continued, a soft chorus of whispered hopes filling the air. But at that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the guilt, not the fear — just her.  

Alexia’s lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, her eyes softened, her expression shifting into something both tender and devastating.  

The prayer ended, the murmurs quieting as hands released and the circle broke apart. But you remained frozen, still locked in the echo of what had just passed between you.  

You hadn’t spoken a word, but somehow, you knew. You both desired the same thing.

You were violently shaken awake. You blinked your eyes open to see the familiar dark-haired Norwegian sitting on your bed, trying to get you to wake up. 

You blinked your eyes, drowsy and disoriented. Ingrid looked relieved to see you awake. She sighed. “Sister Superior is summoning you to her office. She says there’s a matter of your concern.” She said with a frantic but firm voice.

You sat up and instinctively looked over to Alexia’s bed which was empty. However, this time, it was undone and not fixed which was uncharacteristic of the Catalan who often did her bed as soon as she woke up.

Ingrid noticed. “Alexia’s there too.” She clarified. “You need to get dressed immediately. Sister superior does not seem happy.”

Suddenly, your heart pounded against your chest. No one in the school knows what you were feeling for Alexia and yet, that was the first thing that came into your mind. Could you have been figured out?

No, it couldn’t be. You thought. But… we have been affectionate a lot and have been holding hands prior. Could that be the reason? But girls here often hold hands.

Or… maybe it’s all those nights sneaking out? Were you caught? Did they hear you say all those things about your apprehensions and your conflicted feelings.

You gulped as your hands grew clammy. Ingrid sat back on the bed with you and clasped your hand in hers. “Hey, hey,” Her voice said in a comforting manner but there was a tone of doubt. “I’m sure it’s nothing. It might just be a dormitory concern.”

You nodded, doubting her words. “Yeah… maybe.” You whispered. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Ingrid shook her head. “No, but it seems… urgent.” She answered. “Just get dressed and I’ll take you there immediately to not anger the sister.”

You immediately threw on your clothes and joined Ingrid as you briskly walked to the office at the opposite building. You were both quiet at first, the tension heavy between the two of you until Ingrid spoke up.

“Do you have a clue what this meeting could be about?” She asked cautiously. “Did Alexia do something?”

You bit your lip and looked at your friend’s icy blue eyes, contemplating whether or not you wanted to even answer.  Ingrid lowered her voice to a whisper. “I promise to God I won’t tell if you know anything.”

You looked away briefly, assessing if anyone was within earshot. You linked arms with Ingrid to move closer to her as you walked. “I think… it might be because Alexia and I snuck out once or twice before.”

Ingrid’s eyes widened, shocked not by the act of sneaking out but that it was you who did it. She knew several girls who snuck out before but you were the last person she expected to do so. “W-what? To where? Were you the ones who took the bus?”

You blinked cluelessly. “Bus? No, no, we often went to the prayer garden at night.”

Ingrid let out a sigh of relief, realizing that you two had very different concepts of sneaking out. 

“I… I don’t think that’s a big deal honestly.” She cautiously said, not wanting you to find out some people were actually sneaking out. “I doubt the sisters would be that mad about that. Just say you two wanted to pray. They can’t get mad at that.”

You hesitated. You looked over to your friend who you’ve known all these years. There were times you’d chat about personal things, sad moments, and doubts but you never really discussed anything too personal. But Ingrid… she was the only other person here you could fully trust to open up to — well, aside from Alexia. 

“There’s something else.” You started.

“What is it?” Ingrid looked at you quizzically.

You hesitated. “I… I’m starting to get…” Your voice trailed off.

Ingrid squeezed your hand. “I won’t judge. I promise and I swear to God.”

You sighed deeply before whispering. “I think I have feeli—” 

“Ingrid! There you two are!” You both jumped at the sound of Sister Jude suddenly appearing from the end of the hallway. The plump sister waved her hands to summon you two. “Please make haste, we don’t have all day.” 

You looked at Ingrid who had a curious, wide-eye look on her face but you decided against continuing your statement. Instead, you just gently tugged at her to gesture for her to jog to the sister’s office.

Having not had enough exercise, you were a bit winded by the time you got to the office while Ingrid was breathing normally, the athlete that she was.

As soon as you opened the door, you were met by the sight of Alexia’s familiar back, turned and standing with her hands clasped behind her back to face the Sister Superior who was sitting behind her desk with a sour expression. 

When the heavy wooden door opened further, you saw an unfamiliar person.

A tall, dark-haired girl wearing a black shirt and pants was sitting on the side opposite Alexia. She turned around to look at you as you entered. She had a strained and frustrated expression but it was undeniable that she was pretty.

You looked behind to Ingrid who comfortably nodded at you, gesturing for you to go on as she waited outside the office.

As soon as the door shut behind you, the sister superior began talking again. You moved closer to stand by Alexia, who glanced up at you briefly before looking back down. You stood quietly, trying to figure out what was happening.

Alexia’s demeanor was noticeably different. The confidence and the aura that she typically exuded suddenly gone, replaced by a heavy energy. You turned your attention to the sister who seemed frustrated.

Sister Philomena’s voice broke the silence, her tone sharp. “Alexia was sent here to heal from her past and seek redemption,” she said, pointing a finger at the dark-haired girl. “You cannot just walk into our sacred institution and tempt her back into your sinful lifestyle.”

The unfamiliar girl rolled her eyes. “I don’t see the problem, sister.” She responded, voice dripping with animosity. “Is Alexia a prisoner? Hell, even prisoners have more rights. Why can’t her friends visit her?”

The nun slammed her hand flat on the table. “This is precisely the problem. You think Alexia is a prisoner when she is here to grow and learn.” Her voice rang through the office. “And you did not come here to visit her. You trespass into our premises, asking her to run away and leave. This is not a visitation.”

You flinched at the harshness of the nun’s words. Sister Philomena turned toward you. “Tell this girl how visitation works here, so she understands.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and repeated the rules as best as you could. “When friends or family want to visit, they fill out a visitation form—”

“Precisely,” Sister Philomena interrupted. “But you didn’t come here to visit. You came to seduce Alexia and drag her away from God.”

“Seduced?” you whispered, your mind reeling at the accusation. Alexia must have taken notice because she quickly shook her head. 

“I’m not some demonic temptress like you’re making me out to be,” The girl chided with a mocking laugh. “You are all acting like I’m some evil person for wanting to see Alexia after everyone took her away from me! God forbid I want to see my girlfriend after she’s disappeared for months.”

Your heart stopped beating. Girlfriend?

You glanced over at Alexia then to the girl. Even with the girl being sat down on the chair, you could tell she was perhaps as tall as Alexia. She exuded the same confident aura. Even if Alexia never opened up about crushes, you never would have thought she’d actually be in a relationship, which felt like betrayal. Why wouldn’t she tell me she had a girlfriend? And… why would she act like that with me if she had one?

Your train of thought was suddenly broken when the nun’s voice loudly echoed through the room. Sister Philomena’s voice grew louder, more forceful with every word. “Homosexuality is a sin, plain and simple,” she said, her eyes blazing with what she surely believed was righteous indignation. “It is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, a corruption of His holy design. And you, girl, are no better than the serpent in the garden, seeking to lead Alexia down a path of damnation.”

You clutched your heart subconsciously, feeling affected and shaken by her words. You could feel your hands quiver as the scene unfolded. Sister Philomena had always been intimidating but you’ve never seen her this frustrated and intense. It was frightening. Not to mention what she was saying was starting to get to you, digging into your own guilt.

The sister stood up from her chair, still standing quite tall despite her seniority. “Her grandparents sent her here, to this sacred institution, to be healed, to be purified. They entrusted us with their beloved granddaughter, hoping that we could erase the darkness that had consumed her heart. This place is meant to protect her from the evil influences of the world, to bring her back to the fold, back to the love and grace of the Lord.”

Suddenly, Sister Philomen’s eyes darted to you. “We surround her with kind people, righteous people like her.” She pointed at you. The dark-haired girl’s glare shifted to you, making you feel even more nervous. “She is the type of company Alexia needs to heal and to repent. Her friends and peers in this institute have been working tirelessly to guide Alexia to the righteous path.”

You looked down on your shoes, unsure of what to feel with the Sister’s words. This wasn’t the first time that you had to stand in a room with the nun and another student being admonished. You quickly learned your role in all of this — the ideal student to be made an example to the wrongdoer. After this session, you were expected to confide in the students, pray with them, and tell them more gently how they can improve.

It was never easy for you, having to assume that role. But now, it felt less like a challenge and more like a heavy cross to bear on your back.

Turning her attention back to the dark-haired girl, Sister Philomena’s expression hardened, her voice dripping with venom. “Your very presence here, your words, your actions, are a poison to her soul. You are the temptation, the forbidden fruit. You are what lures her into the darkness, and she has no hope of finding salvation with you by her side. What kind of life is it that you offer her? A life of sin, of shame, of eternal separation from God. That is the future you are promising her.”

The nun put a hand on her temples, starting to feel nauseous from the anger. The younger nuns in the room urged her to sit back down, patting her back to calm her down. She took a deep breath, looking at some of the documents scattered on her desk, mindlessly organizing them to calm herself down.

Her voice softened only slightly as she looked up again at the girl. “You are not a savior. You are a predator, preying on a fragile soul, and you will not be allowed to continue poisoning Alexia’s spirit. We will not allow it. She will live a better life without you. We will make sure of it.”

The dark-haired, tattooed girl let out a smug chuckle. “What kind of life is it where you’re called a sinner for being who you are?” she spat, her voice not loud but firm. “She’s not living here. She’s suffering here. Clearly.”

Sister Philomena shook her head. “Enough.” She ordered. “If you don’t want us to call the police for trespassing and damaging personal property, you need to leave. Now.”

The girl clenched her jaw before shaking her head. As a last resort, she turned to Alexia who was still unmoving, head held down. “Alexia, please. You don’t belong here. Come with me. We can leave this place together.” She turned to the sisters. “You’re old enough to just leave this place and live your truth. Come on, you can decide for yourself.” 

Alexia stood still, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn’t move, didn’t react. You watched in silent disbelief as the younger nuns approached the tall girl, putting hands on her shoulders. “Alexia, please.” She said as she tried to reach for Alexia’s hands. This time, the nuns firmly held her so that she couldn’t move towards Alexia. “Do you really want to stay here?”

Alexia stood, unmoving. The girl scoffed and shrugged the hands on her shoulders away. “I can go on my own.” She barked out. “Fine, if you wanna stay here and get converted into some bible thumper then live your life, Alexia.” 

She looked one last time at Alexia, then at you. “These people don’t actually love you, just remember that.”

It felt targeted somehow — the way she looked at you as she spat those words out. You knew she had no idea of what you meant to Alexia and what you felt for her but you still can’t help but feel it was a personal dig at you.

The door slammed behind the girl as she left, The weight of the revelation hit you like a ton of bricks, and you stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway. The silence hung for a moment before Sister Philomena cleared her throat. “Alexia,” She called out in a firm but not angry voice.

Finally, Alexia raised her head. That’s when you noticed that her face was tear-stained and her eyes bloodshot despite the firm, un-emoting look on her face. “Yes, sister?”

“Did you make any contact with Jennifer Hermoso prior to this?” She asked sternly.

“No, sister.” She responded firmly.

“Do you wish to continue your stay in this institute?” The sister asked quizzically. 

Alexia’s eyes flickered to you for a moment before quickly returning to the senior sister. “Y-yes, sister.”

The nun hummed, rubbing her temples. “And do you understand why you’re here? Why it is in your best interest to be her?” 

No hesitation came from Alexia. “Yes, sister.”

The nun seemed satisfied, nodding her head. “Okay, seeing this incident is not your fault,” She started. “Let it serve as a test of your faith and your strength. I will not admonish you but I will simply remind you to pray over your situation diligently.”

Alexia nodded. 

“I will have the junior sisters talk to you later but for now, you two return to your dorm room.” Sister Philomena ordered. She then pointed her pen at you. “I trust you two will have a fruitful conversation together as well. Hence, I’ll have you both excused for morning classes. Understood?”

You nodded at the nun, confirming with her that you got her silent instruction to do what you always did — force the troublemaker back into the rightful path. 

This time, though, you feel like you’ve also been led astray. Blind leading the blind.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ACT IV. Damned to the End From the Start

You and Alexia were joined by Ingrid as you made your way back to the dorm buildings. Ingrid kept glancing at you, her expression a mix of concern and silent questions, as if willing to speak up and explain what had happened. You raised a hand in a subtle gesture, signaling her to wait. The tension hung heavy between the three of you, amplified by Alexia’s silence. She walked alongside you, her arms folded, her gaze fixed ahead. Not once did she look at you or reach for your hand. The distance, both physical and emotional, was unsettling.

Once you got to your dorm, Alexia slipped inside without a word, leaving you in the hallway with Ingrid. Ingrid turned to you, her wide eyes filled with disbelief. “I can’t believe how harsh she was to Alexia,” she whispered, her voice tinged with anger and sadness.

You bit your lip, partially surprised by Ingrid’s sympathy. You had always assumed people defended the sisters’ stances without question — you certainly had in the past. But this time was different. This time, the weight of their words had hit too close to home, and Ingrid’s reaction was a small but meaningful relief.

Before you could think about your actions, you just pulled Ingrid into a hug, startling the taller girl. “Thank you for being with us, Ingrid.” You murmured, voice soft but sincere. “Really. Thank you.”

Ingrid blinked, clearly surprised by your affection. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, darling,” she said with a gentle laugh, her tone warm despite her confusion. “But I’m glad my presence meant something to you.”

When you pulled back, she rested her hands on your shoulders, her touch steady and reassuring. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

You sighed and nodded, thinking about whether or not you should open up to her at that moment. You still weren’t sure what to feel. For now, you just excused yourself. “Thank you,” you said again, offering her a small smile. “But I need to check on Alexia first. She needs me.”

Ingrid nodded, her expression understanding. “Of course,” she said, stepping back to give you space. “Take care of her. And yourself.”

With a final nod, you turned and entered your dorm room, closing the door softly behind you. You could immediately see Alexia curled up on her bed, facing the wall. The sight of an upset Alexia was something new. In the past months, you’ve seen all versions of Alexia – happy after you say something that made her laugh, sad over a movie, pissed off after a bad football training session, teasing almost all the time. But this devastated, silent Alexia… it was not a thing you’ve ever thought you’d encounter.

You stepped cautiously, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Alexia…” Your voice trailed off. “Look, what Sister said… I’m sure she… Well…” You kept losing confidence in what you were saying. Even you felt lost in the situation, deeply conflicted by the situation.

“Not in the mood for a sermon,” Alexia grunted out, burying her head in her pillow.

You felt a pang in your heart. “Alexia…” You started again cautiously. “I-I’m sorry that that happened. None of it was your fault. Sister Philomena just takes student safety seriously and y’know, a trespasser…”

“You know that’s not what I’m upset about,” Alexia interrupted, her voice sharper now, though it trembled with emotion.

You swallowed hard, nodding even though she couldn’t see you. “I know,” you admitted quietly, sighing as the words you wanted to say slipped further away. After a beat of silence, you asked gently, “Do you want to leave?”

At that, Alexia shifted slightly, her hand brushing against her cheek as she wiped her eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, fragile. “I don’t want to leave, monjita.” The words came out in a croak, and she sniffled as though holding back more tears.

Your hands itched to reach for her, to wipe away her tears and pull her into your arms. But something held you back — maybe fear of overstepping, maybe the invisible walls Alexia seemed to have built around herself at that moment. So you stayed where you were, your voice gentle as you replied, “I’m glad you’re staying. I… I like having you here, Alexia.”

A pause. “Even after you learned why I’m here?” 

“Yes, of course, Alexia.” You comforted her immediately. “Nothing changed for me. Your girlfriend… whatever happened between you two is in the past. It’s none of my business.”

“Ex,” She corrected. “Ex-girlfriend.”

You nodded, weirdly comforted by the way she corrected you. Silence befell the dorm room again, disturbed only by the sound of sniffling. You wanted to say so much but there was not a single coherent thought.

“Monjita,” Alexia whispered, her voice trembling and soft, breaking the heavy silence in the room. Your heart warmed at the use of her endearment with a gentle tone. She glanced at you carefully. “Do you think I’m… wrong for who I am? Do you hate me?”

Her words hit you like a blow to the chest. The mere thought that Alexia, who carried so much strength and warmth, could believe you might judge or reject her for something as intrinsic as her identity made your throat tighten. Your eyes began to sting, tears threatening to spill. Without a second thought, you leaned over to Alexia. You got a closer look of her reddened, tear-stained face. 

You used your hand to wipe her tears and the hair that stuck to her face. “Alexia, you’re not wrong for who you are.” You whispered. “And, I could never hate you.”

Her glassy eyes met yours, uncertainty flickering within them. “Yeah?” she asked hesitantly, as though daring to hope you truly meant it. Her hazel eyes flickered as tears threatened to spill again. “Then why haven’t you been talking to me?”

You gulped, looking away for a moment before looking back at her. “Alexia,” you started. “I promise you it was all on me. I was struggling with being close to someone. You know me… I haven’t had a best friend since I was a kid. It’s been hard for me to adjust… to being close to someone.” You paused, struggling to find the words.

Alexia lifted your head up by placing a hand on your chin. “Does it have to do with me being…” She trailed off.

“No, no,” You shook your head and gave her a small, reassuring smile. You hesitated for just a moment before leaning in, pressing a tender kiss to her moist cheek. “I promise, you haven’t done anything to drive me away.” You whispered, your voice filled with conviction.

Something in her expression softened, and then she shifted, turning fully to face you. Without warning, she sat up and pulled you into her arms, wrapping them tightly around you as though she was trying to hold herself together. You returned the hug, feeling the weight of her emotions as her face pressed into your shoulder. The world outside seemed to fade as the two of you sat there, wrapped in a moment that felt achingly fragile and impossibly intimate

When Alexia pulled back, her hands slid up to cradle your face. Her thumbs lightly brushed your cheeks, and you could feel the warmth of her palms against your skin. The intensity in her eyes made your breath hitch. Her gaze flickered between your own, and then down to your lips. She brushed over your cheek again with her thumb, gentle against your own skin. As Alexia moved closer, you felt your own eyes flutter nervously.

Just as Alexia was about to move closer, the door creaked open, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. Both of you jumped, your hearts racing as though you’d been caught doing something forbidden. 

Ingrid popped in, standing in the doorway, equally surprised to see you both wide-eyed and surprised. “Oh, sorry, was I…” She trailed off.  “Was I… interrupting something?”

You quickly shook your head, your face burning. “No, it’s fine,” you managed, your voice higher than usual.

Ingrid lingered awkwardly for a moment before clearing her throat. “Sister Catherine sent me to call Alexia over,” she said, her tone careful, as if trying not to pry.

Alexia straightened, wiping her face hurriedly with the sleeve of her sweater. “Oh… uh… of course,” she muttered, her voice still thick with emotion. She glanced back at you as she stepped toward the door, her eyes apologetic and heavy with unspoken words. 

As the door clicked shut, the silence filled the room and the only sound you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. You stared at the space Alexia had just vacated, your thoughts spinning.

Did we almost…

The guilt hit at the thought you were not even able to finish as the horrible feeling drowned you. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d done something wrong. You liked Alexia… you cared for her and not much changed for what you feel for her. But, the guilt you had already took root in your gut. It was something that you’ve lived with all your life. Even if you wanted to shake off the feeling, it felt incredibly difficult.

You laid on Alexia’s bed, staring at the ceiling as all the emotions filled you.

Alexia had to sit through multiple sessions with the sisters, which was tiring, to say the least. She hated being lectured by the older nuns the most; one can only listen to 'being gay is a sin' so many times. The more junior nuns were more tolerable but it still wasn’t any fun. They may not have condemned Alexia for being gay but they did say that she shouldn’t 'act on her homosexuality.'

It was just tiring and by the time they were done with Alexia, it was already dinner time.

She was too nervous to eat around the sisters so she hadn’t eaten all day, leaving her with a rumbling stomach. She trudged along to the cafeteria, heading to her usual table. However, this time, something seemed off.

Alexia set down her plate of potatoes and beef as she looked around. “Where’s monjita?” She asked, using your nickname which she used so often that others have already associated it with you.

“She said she wasn’t hungry,” Ingrid responded as she picked at her potatoes. “She’s skipping dinner.”

Maria chewed on her food, gesturing that she was about to say something. As soon as she swallowed her mouthful of undercooked potatoes, she added, “I think she might be praying though. She said something about it when I saw her in the hallway”

“Oh,” Alexia said before sitting down, wondering why you would skip dinner when you typically were not the type to miss meals. She absentmindedly ate her food, mind still fixated on her.

Ingrid must have noticed the vacant expression in the Catalan’s eyes. “You good?” She asked carefully.

Alexia shook out of her catatonic state. “Yeah, yeah, just tired.” She responded. “Uh… did she explain why she’s missing dinner?”

Ingrid exhaled. “No, but she kinda looked upset when I last saw her.” She said. “She didn’t even want to talk to me.”

Alexia hummed as she nodded in response. After taking a nibble out of her food, she decided that she couldn’t sit there without knowing what was going on with you. She took a big gulp of water before standing up from the table, food barely touched. “Uh, I gotta go.”

“Oh,” Her teammates looked at each other cautiously. Ingrid carefully asked, “Alexia, are you sure you’re okay?”

Alexia gave a tight-lipped smile before nodding. “Yeah, just… not hungry.”

Ingrid, who had heard Alexia’s stomach rumble a while ago, didn’t believe her one bit but figured it would be best for Alexia to go on and find you. “Oh okay,” She said. “If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

Alexia gave a thankful look before leaving the cafeteria. The hallways were quite empty save for a few students returning back to their dorms. Alexia figured the best place to find you was back in your dorm room but as soon as she opened the door to your room, it was dark and empty. 

She sighed, walking aimlessly through the dorm building and the common rooms. She grew even more weary once she got to the library and found no trace of you. 

Fuck, where could she even be?

She paused. Suddenly, a familiar freshman passed by. She knew the girl from all the times she’d knock on your dorm room, asking to talk to you for some spiritual guidance. Alexia briskly walked towards the girl. “Anna.” 

The freshman turned around. She seemed shocked. “Oh, Alexia.” She said. “You scared me.”

Alexia looked at her apologetically. Perhaps, it wasn’t such a good idea to startle the kid in the middle of a dark hallway but she needed to find you as soon as she could. “Uh, have you seen Y/N anywhere? She skipped dinner.”

Anna nodded. “I came over to your room to ask advice about something but she said she had to go pray. Maybe in the chapel?”

Alexia peered out the windows, seeing that it was raining outside. “The chapel? Across the field?” She asked as if there was any other chapel. 

The freshman nodded. “Yeah… or the prayer room?” 

Alexia shook her head. “I was just there and she’s not there.” She bit her lip. “Okay, thank you, Anna.”

Alexia grew increasingly worried as she heard the thunderstorm worsen outside the dorm windows. Her heart started beating harder against her chest when she reached your shared room to find you’ve left behind your umbrella. Oh no, she must be stranded there.

Alexia didn’t hesitate to rush to you, growing increasingly worried about your wellbeing.

Little did she know, Anna’s hunch was right and you were praying at the chapel. However, you weren’t there because you were stranded. You’ve been staying there for hours, trying to avoid everyone and trying to seek for answers.

Answers for what? You didn’t even know. You just knew you were lost and that you needed guidance.

The dim flicker of candles cast long shadows across the chapel walls as you exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, your hands clasped tightly in prayer, your head bowed low. You had been kneeling for so long that your legs had gone numb.

“God…” You prayed out, losing track of things you’ve already prayed for previously. Your voice was soft but it felt amplified by the heavy silence in the dark and empty chapel. “I need you to send me a sign. Anything. I just need you to tell me you don’t hate me for who I am.”

Then, as if on cue, a deafening crack of lightning split the air outside, shaking the stained glass windows. You flinched, your heart racing as you lifted your tear-streaked face to glance toward the altar.

You sighed. “Is that the sign?” The words slipped out, dripping with doubt and hesitation. You felt ridiculous asking for clarification for a sign that might have seemed like an obvious disapproval. 

A lot of the sisters have told you that when you pray enough, God speaks to you with clarity, and at times, it did feel that way. But now, he just seemed… so far away and so silent.

Another thunderous clap echoed through the night, louder this time, shaking you to your core.

“If that is really your sign…” Your voice trailed off, trembling. “Then cleanse all the sin away. Cleanse all wrongful desires and replace it with something more pure.”

You paused as you felt the lump in your throat return for the nth time that night and felt your vision become blurry. “I-if you think what I feel for her is a sin… if I’m beyond saving…” You whispered before wiping your tears away, and speaking more firmly. “Then… the least you can do is take it all away. Wipe her from my mind. Take all of it — every memory, every feeling.”

As you said it, you could feel your heart break at the thought of forgetting Alexia. You could feel the sob you’ve been suppressing bubble up to the surface as you fall to pieces. Your body crumpled, collapsing from a kneeling position to sitting back on your legs. You buried your face in your hands, sobbing quietly, your cries muffled by the storm outside.

You couldn’t speak up anymore, feeling like each thunderclap was God’s way of admonishing you. The still statues of the saints seemed to tower over your crumpled posture, signifying just how low you’ve fallen.

“Please, God,” You cried out one last time. “Just… be here.”

At the moment, you felt so empty and alone in the chapel. However, unbeknownst to you, you haven’t been alone in the past few minutes. You’ve grown consumed by your sobs and your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed that Alexia had been lurking at the back of the chapel, carefully walking towards you.

She hadn’t heard much but she heard enough to conclude that you were here because of her. 

She stepped closer to you, her closed umbrella dripping on to the cold marble. The wind continued to rattle the stained glass windows, making the atmosphere feel even more tense. 

As you let out another sob, Alexia finally spoke up. “Are you praying that God will heal me?” Her voice cracked as she said it.

You nearly jumped at the voice cutting through the silence of the chapel. As you turned, your eyes locked with Alexia, standing a few pews back. It was dim — her face illuminated by the faint light of the lamps and candles — but her expression was clearly pained. Her hazel eyes glistened with unshed tears, her lips parted and quivering as if wanting to stay something but unable to. 

“D-do you think I’m a sin for liking women too?” she asked, her voice faltering. She was trying to sound firm and composed, but the cracks in her tone betrayed her.

You stood up from your kneeling position, walking towards the taller girl. “Alexia,” you said. “No, no — I wasn’t…”

“I thought you—” Alexia’s voice cracked. She looked down, shaking her head, before looking back up at you. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

“Alexia, please.” You reached for her hands, clasping them tightly in your own. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t praying for that.” Your words tumbled out in a rush, defensive and desperate, as though you could will her to understand.

Alexia took her hand away from you. “Then what was all of that ‘erase all memory of her’ I was hearing?” Her voice quivered, blinking rapidly as a few drops of tears trailed down her face. “I thought… I thought you liked me.”

You reached over to her again, trying to touch her face but she backed away. You bit your lip, pained by the sight of her. She looked hurt. “Alexia, you’re misunderstanding…”

“How else can I interpret that?” Her voice was suddenly sharp, tinged with anger and pain. “What else could you mean? How am I supposed to feel when you’re in here begging God to erase me from your life?”

The emotions that bubbled inside of you made it harder for you to formulate a coherent sentence to explain to her just what you were praying about. “Alexia, I really…” You paused. “I was just asking Him for a sign.”

Alexia released a dry, hollow chuckle, obviously pained. “A sign that what? You should distance yourself from me? Because I’m some filthy homosexual dragging you to hell, isn’t that right?” You winced at Alexia’s tone as it cracked through the heavy air. 

“Alexia, stop—please!”

“No, you stop!” she snapped, her voice shaking with anger and grief. “You’re praying to forget me so you can go back to being perfect little monjita, right? So you can live your pure, saintly life without people like me ruining it?” Her lips curled in a bitter smile, her eyes glassy. “Because your god says I’m disgusting, doesn’t he? That people like me don’t deserve to exist?”

“Go ahead, fuck it,” She cursed, not letting you interject with her voice sharp and pointed. “I’ll stay away from you. I won’t bother you anymore just so you can be the perfect angel everyone thought you were again. I’ll stay away so your life can finally be cleansed from—”

Without even thinking twice, you stepped forward and wrapped both arms around Alexia’s waist, burying your head in her chest as you felt the sobs bubble up again. You clutched her tightly as your body shook. 

Startled, Alexia lost her train of thought and kept her hands to her sides, unmoving. When you looked up, she locked eyes with you and saw so much pain in your face. The tears continued to rush down your face with no sign of stopping. Your eyes were filled with a devastating expression that made her heart pang. 

“Alexia, I’m praying because…” Your voice cracked as you struggled to speak through the tears. “I think I like you… and that terrifies me.”

Alexia’s breath hitched, and her arms moved almost involuntarily, wrapping around you in a hesitant but protective embrace. She held you close, her mind racing as conflicting emotions surged through her. She felt confused as to how to feel because here you were, confessing your feelings just after she heard you pray that you forget about her.

Her hazel eyes searched yours as she pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on your shoulders. You could see the confusion and pain warring within her. “You were asking him to help you forget me,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “How am I supposed to believe you now?”

You stepped back, your hands trembling as you wiped at your tear-stained face. “Alexia, I…” You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “I was saying things out of fear — out of confusion. This… this is all I’ve ever known,” you began, your voice cracking. “The church, my faith, my beliefs… they were my whole world.”

“And it was fine.” You said before looking up to Alexia, meeting her hazel eyes once again. “Until you came along.”

Alexia looked away from the eye contact, feeling it was too much for her to handle with the fear of dissolving into tears. You bit your lip and continued. “Then now, when I look back, everything that was… it felt wrong.” 

“You… you showed me,” You said, stepping again towards Alexia to touch her hand. “You showed me that I could be happy. Truly happy. Not just because I was told to be happy or because I felt like I had to be.”

Alexia looked up to you again, locking eyes with you again. But, this time, all the frustration was replaced with something else — her eyes misty and her expression soft. “Then why are you here?” She asked. “Why do you want to get rid of what we have… if I make you happy?”

You looked down, carefully holding on to Alexia’s hesitant fingertips. “I’m still afraid… what if…” You tried to choose your words carefully. “What if my feelings for you are wrong? What if we make that mistake and… we suffer…”

You couldn’t say it more tactfully or more carefully but Alexia could finally understand your internal conflict better. She puts a careful hand under your chin, lifting your head up to look up at her as she moved closer to you.

“Why would this be wrong?” she asked, her voice low but steady, her eyes burning with emotion. “Why would loving you — purely, wholly, completely — be a sin?”

You looked up at Alexia, feeling your breath hitch. Your eyes flickered from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes.

God, you said silently in your head. If this is a sin, strike me with lightning now.

The air between you and the Catalan grew heavier as you both breathed. The silence filled the air with only the sound of the wind howling and the rain pouring on the roof.

You took a deep breath, eyes finding their way back to Alexia’s parted and anticipating lips. 

A pause. A breath held.

Then, suddenly, you were kissing her. Your lips crashed into hers with a fervor that felt almost primal, a hunger that had been building for far too long. Your arms wrapped around her tightly, as though letting go would send her slipping through your fingers, like sand in an hourglass.

Hwr hands found their way around your waist, pulling you closer as she deepened the kiss. Her lips pressed against yours, soft and sweet, yet insistent. She parted your lips slightly, her tongue teasing yours with a delicious mix of restraint and desire. The way your body molded against hers left her yearning for more, craving every piece of you. 

She’s kissed other girls before but nothing quite like this. Sure, it had the same passion and intensity. But kissing you went beyond passion. It was transcendence. 

Kissing you felt like kissing heaven.

You shared the same unspoken sentiment but to you, Alexia tasted like freedom. Her lips against yours just managed to melt away all your worries, all your doubts. With every careful yet firm touch on your waist and hips, it felt like your chains were being detached link-by-link and you were finally able to move unconstrained. 

Suddenly, you felt free.

As you became breathless, you pulled away from the taller girl, trying to catch your breath. You looked up at her, searching her own eyes for a response.

Alexia just smiled at you, letting you catch your breath, before taking your face again — her hands gentle but insistent. She leaned in and captured your lips with hers, kissing you in a way that left your face warm and your mind hazy.

It felt right: kissing her, holding her, being hers. Even for a stolen moment. 

There were still a lot of things for you two to worry about. For one, you still resided within the confines of this institution that would condemn you. But you couldn’t think of that at the moment. All you knew was you were kissing Alexia… and that was all that mattered now.

Inside that cold, unyielding chapel, kissing Alexia felt like soaring towards the sun — a forbidden warmth that melted away all the frigid pain inside you. It was a kind of warmth you’ve never felt in your life. It was the kind of warmth you’ve always craved to feel, without even knowing it.

But even Icarus — who sought to feel that same sensation of the satisfying heat — was undone when he flew too close to the sun. Before he could even realize it, his wax had melted and his wings had unraveled.

And came his devastating descent. 

chapter 2 🕊

a/n: let me know your thoughts. comments motivate me a lot <3

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Rhythm of Us | psh 🔞

pairing: dance club president!sunghoon x plump!reader

wc: 8.8k

warning: smut!/unprotected sex/ body insecurity themes/public sex/light power imbalance/ sexual photography (consensual)/mild angst/ fluff ofcourse!

Orientation day wasn’t something Y/N had been looking forward to. New faces, crowded spaces, the weight of first impressions—it all felt overwhelming, especially when you didn’t quite feel like you fit in. Her clothes felt tight in all the wrong places, and even though she knew she looked okay, her mind kept whispering otherwise. Still, with Sunoo and Jungwon on either side of her, dragging her toward the campus auditorium, it was hard to say no.

The room was packed with freshmen, all buzzing with nervous energy. She tried to shrink into her seat, already exhausted from pretending to be unfazed. Then the lights dimmed.

Music started. The cheers around her rose.

And then he walked onto the stage.

Park Sunghoon. Second year. Dance club president. The name didn’t mean anything to her yet—but the moment he started to move, it was burned into her.

He was smooth. Fluid. Sharp. Controlled. The way his body followed every beat made it hard to look away. He danced like he knew what it did to people. His confidence wasn’t loud—it was in the way he took up space, the way his eyes scanned the crowd without needing to land on anyone to command attention.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t even sure if she was clapping when it ended—her heart was too loud in her ears.

She didn’t tell anyone. Not even Sunoo, who she told everything. She just held it quietly, tucked it somewhere between admiration and fascination. She watched from afar when they passed him in the quad. She caught glimpses during campus events, when he was leading workshops or walking with his club members, exuding that quiet charisma that made heads turn. Especially hers.

Weeks passed. Her crush didn’t fade, it deepened. But she never expected to actually cross paths with him.

Not until the school festival.

Their department was in chaos. The interdepartmental dance competition was coming up, and they were short on performers. Sunoo and Jungwon had already agreed to join, and the moment Y/N mentioned offhandedly that she used to dance in high school, they latched onto her like hawks.

“No way you’re keeping that from us!” Sunoo gasped dramatically.

“I’m not—seriously, I’m rusty. And—” she looked down at herself—“this isn’t exactly a dancer’s body anymore.”

Jungwon frowned. “Screw that. You know what looks good on stage? Confidence. Energy. Passion. Not pants size.”

She hesitated, but eventually gave in. It was just an audition. No one important would be watching anyway.

Or so she thought.

She stood at the edge of the practice room, shifting nervously as the music cued. For the first few beats, she was stiff. Conscious of the way her shirt rose every time her arms did. But then… she found the rhythm.

The switch flipped.

She moved. Boldly. Powerfully. Her body remembered what it felt like to lose herself in a song. Her insecurities melted with every step. Her hips swayed, her arms cut through the air, her footwork crisp and commanding.

She didn’t see the door crack open.

Didn’t see Sunghoon lean against the frame, arms crossed, brows slightly raised as he watched her dance like no one was watching.

His head tilted. A slow smile curled on his lips. Interesting.

When the music ended, she was breathless. Flushed. She grabbed her towel and bent over to catch her breath.

A voice came from behind her.

“I didn’t expect that from you.”

She froze. Slowly turned.

Sunghoon stood there, smirking. His black tee clung to his chest, and his hair was damp with

sweat like he’d just come from practice himself.

“You just made half the dance team look like backup dancers,” he said, stepping a little closer.

Y/N couldn’t form words. Her mouth opened slightly, but her brain refused to cooperate.

Sunoo grinned behind her. “Told you she’s a hidden weapon.”

Sunghoon’s gaze didn’t waver. “I like hidden weapons.”

She didn’t remember the rest of the conversation. All she remembered was his voice, the heat that climbed up her neck, and the way his eyes lingered just a bit too long.

After their department won the competition—largely thanks to her—Sunghoon approached her again. Alone this time.

“You’ve got something special,” he said, fingers tapping rhythmically against his thigh. “You should join the dance club.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said, that damn smile back again. “I want to see more of you.”

The double meaning was not lost on her.

Practice after that became… something else.

He wasn’t subtle. Every time they were paired together, he pushed limits. His hand always rested a little too long on her waist. He stood close—too close—when they moved through routines, voice low as he murmured corrections in her ear, his breath grazing her neck.

“You’re stiff,” he said one evening, pressing a hand against the small of her back. “Relax. Trust your body. It knows what it’s doing.”

Her breath hitched. “Easy for you to say.”

He leaned closer. “You make it very hard to stay easy.”

She nearly choked.

After a while, she gave in to the flirtation. Gave into the way her body reacted when he touched her. The way he looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in the room.

Then came the post-performance party.

She’d worn a fitted dress that hugged her hips, lips tinted in a shade darker than usual. She’d danced. Laughed. Let go.

And someone noticed.

An upperclassman approached her, complimented her moves, told her her curves made her stand out on stage. He was charming. Harmless.

But someone else was watching.

Sunghoon stayed back, drink in hand, eyes locked on her. Jaw tight. When the guy’s hand touched her arm, Sunghoon moved.

He cornered her near the hallway minutes later, his voice quieter than usual, more serious.

“Didn’t know you liked guys like that.”

She raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Touchy. Forward.”

Her heart jumped. “What’s it to you?”

He stepped closer, enough that she had to tilt her head to look at him.

“It’s everything to me right now.”

The tension was thick. His eyes dropped to her lips. Her back hit the wall. She swore he was about to kiss her.

But Sunoo called her name from down the hall, and just like that, the moment passed.

It wasn’t until a week later—after another high-energy performance, where the two of them danced like their bodies were on fire—that it happened.

Backstage. Dim lighting. Music still thumping from the main floor.

Y/N laughed, flushed and panting, high off the adrenaline. She turned to face him, breathless.

He reached for her hand, spun her around.

“You keep dancing like that,” he murmured, pulling her close, “I might fall harder than I planned.”

And then he kissed her.

It was messy. Hungry. His hand on her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw, the other on her waist pulling her close, her hands gripping his shoulders like she’d fall without him. Their lips moved like they were still dancing, synced and seamless, stealing breath and giving it right back.

When they finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers.

“Damn,” he whispered, grinning. “You’re full of surprises.”

She smiled, dizzy. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

And she meant it.

Because the dance had only just begun.

—

The studio had emptied out hours ago. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low golden hue, casting long shadows across the floor as the playlist played softly in the background on a loop. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, trying to stretch out her sore calves. Her body was damp with sweat, her tank clinging to her skin, and her chest rising with shallow breaths after their nonstop practice.

It was supposed to be just another after-hours session—polish the final duet choreography for the dance showcase. Sunghoon was always strict about lines and connection, always chasing perfection on stage. But tonight had been different.

Too many moments where his hand lingered just a second too long. Too many hushed praises said in a low, teasing voice right by her ear. Too many times her body responded before her brain could catch up.

“Still standing?” Sunghoon’s voice came from behind her, low and rich. His reflection joined hers in the mirror, and she immediately tensed.

“Barely,” she tried to joke, avoiding his gaze. “I think I pulled something.”

He stepped closer, towel slung around his neck, black shirt clinging to his torso. His chest rose and fell with a practiced ease, but his eyes were anything but calm as they scanned over her in the mirror.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Where it hurts.”

“I was joking,” she murmured, her voice suddenly small. His presence always did that—made her feel things she didn’t know how to name.

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, his hand reached out, gently grazing her lower back. She flinched, and he paused.

“Relax,” he said, even softer now. “Let me take care of you.”

Y/N stared at their reflection, unsure. Her instinct was to hide. To turn her body away from his eyes. Even after weeks of flirting, of tension, of touches that lingered, there was still that small voice in the back of her head that whispered he’s out of your league. That he looked the way he did—and she looked the way she did.

But then he stepped closer, chest against her back, and slipped his hand up her arm in a gentle, grounding motion. His other hand touched her waist, his fingers tracing slow, featherlight patterns over the soft curve there.

“You’re holding back again,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Why do you keep doing that?”

She bit her lip. “Because I don’t… I don’t look like the girls you usually dance with.”

His head dropped to her shoulder, lips brushing her neck. “Don’t do that.”

Her breath hitched.

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else. Not when I can’t stop thinking about the way you move.”

He turned her around gently, hands firm on her hips. She tried to step back, to hide, but he followed, eyes locked on hers.

“Y/N,” he said, like a vow. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She was quiet. Vulnerable. Her hands clenched at her sides.

Then he leaned in and kissed her—softly at first. Like he was asking. When she didn’t pull away, he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up her sides like he needed to touch every part of her. His tongue slid past her lips, coaxing hers into a slow rhythm that left her dizzy.

When they pulled apart, he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Let me see you,” he murmured.

“I don’t—” she started, already shaking her head.

“Shh.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Let me worship you.”

His fingers slipped under the hem of her tank top, and she stiffened again. But his eyes held no judgment. Only heat. Admiration. Hunger wrapped in reverence.

He peeled the fabric up, slow, giving her every chance to stop him. She didn’t.

When her top came off, he sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes drank her in—soft stomach, full chest, flushed cheeks.

“God,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You’re perfect.”

She laughed nervously. “You don’t have to say that—”

He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. Her shoulder. “I’m not saying it to be nice. I’m saying it because I’m obsessed.”

His hands traced the soft curve of her waist like it was his favorite line in a song. He dropped to his knees in front of her without a word, pressing kisses over the stretch of her belly, murmuring, “Beautiful… gorgeous… fuck, I love this.”

Her hands flew to cover herself, but he gently tugged them away.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.”

She let her fingers tangle in his hair, breath catching as his lips explored her skin like it was something precious. He rose slowly, trailing kisses up her body, until he stood again, cupping her cheek.

“Look,” he said softly.

He turned her toward the mirror again, standing behind her. Her reflection trembled, but his hands anchored her—one on her stomach, the other caressing her arm.

“You see this?” he asked, his voice like gravel. “This body dances like fire. Drives me insane. The way your hips move, the way you own the stage… You don’t get to call that anything but sexy.”

His lips grazed her ear. “Let me show you how much I mean that.”

And when his hands slid lower, and his lips found hers again—deeper, hungrier—she let him. She let go of everything. Of fear. Of shame.

Because in his touch, in the way he moaned against her skin, in the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—

She finally believed it.

She was desired.

And when he laid her down on the studio mats, kissed every inch of her with aching reverence, whispered how much he wanted her between every breathless touch—

She finally felt worshiped.

Her back met the cool mats beneath them, the contrast to the heat building in her body making her shiver. Sunghoon hovered over her, his knees on either side of her hips, his hands braced beside her head. The look in his eyes wasn’t just lust—it was reverence. Like he couldn’t believe she was really there, beneath him, letting him see her like this. Letting him have her.

“You sure?” he asked quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek, grounding her even as the fire between them burned hotter.

Y/N nodded, biting her lip, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

His lips were on her again, but this time they moved lower, worshipping every inch as they traveled down her body. He kissed over her collarbones, nipped at the swell of her chest, his hands sliding under to unclasp her bra slowly—so slowly that her hips lifted involuntarily beneath him.

The fabric slipped away, and Sunghoon pulled back just enough to take in the sight of her bare chest. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck…” he breathed, tracing the underside of one breast with the backs of his fingers. “You’re unreal.”

She turned her face to the side in embarrassment, but he didn’t let her hide. He dipped down, kissing the curve of one breast, then the other, then wrapping his lips around her nipple, sucking gently until she gasped.

Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging without meaning to, and he groaned against her.

“You like that?” he asked, tongue flicking playfully.

“Yes—God, yes,” she breathed, legs shifting restlessly beneath him.

He chuckled, cocky but adoring, clearly enjoying every second of her unraveling.

“Say it again,” he said, trailing kisses down her stomach. “Say you want me.”

“I—I want you, Sunghoon,” she whimpered. “Please…”

His hands slipped beneath the waistband of her leggings, slowly peeling them down, inch by inch, like she was something to be unwrapped—not just desired, but savored. And when he finally got her bare, fully bare, he sat back on his heels and stared at her like she was art.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he muttered, palming himself through his sweats, breath heavy. “You don’t even know how sexy you are like this. Spread out for me. Trusting me.”

Her body trembled, both from nerves and anticipation, but her eyes met his—and she saw it there. The worship. The hunger. The want. Not for a version of her, not in spite of anything, but because she was her.

“Touch me,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Please…”

He obeyed instantly.

One hand slid between her thighs, parting them gently as his fingers dipped through her folds, testing how wet she was—and when he felt it, he swore low under his breath.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “All this for me?”

She moaned in answer, arching into his touch. His mouth returned to her chest, his fingers finding a slow, delicious rhythm between her legs that had her panting, clinging to him, grinding up for more. He watched her fall apart, fascinated—her flushed face, parted lips, whimpers tumbling out with every brush of his fingers.

And when her thighs began to tremble, her walls fluttering around him, he leaned in close, lips against her ear.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered, voice like silk. “I want to feel how pretty you fall apart.”

She cried out as it hit her—pleasure blooming white-hot in her gut, her body shuddering beneath him. Sunghoon didn’t stop, easing her through it, kissing every inch he could reach, whispering praises and filthy promises all at once.

As she came down, chest rising and falling rapidly, he kissed her again—slower now. Deeper. A kiss that promised more. A kiss that said this isn’t just about tonight.

“Can I…?” he murmured against her lips, hips grinding against her core.

She nodded, no hesitation this time. “Yes. I need you.”

Clothes were shed in record time, and when he finally pushed into her, both of them gasped like they’d been holding their breath since the moment they met. He filled her completely, their bodies molding together like two halves of the same song.

He held her close, one hand under her back, the other cradling her face as he began to move—slow and deep, deliberate.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned. “You feel so good, baby.”

Her nails scraped down his back, her legs wrapped around his waist, her moans rising with each thrust. The studio echoed with the sounds of skin on skin, breathless gasps, soft curses and moaned names. His name. Over and over.

“Sunghoon—please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he panted, kissing her fiercely. “This is just the beginning.”

And when they both came undone again, tangled in each other under the soft glow of the mirrors, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It didn’t feel like a fling.

It felt like everything was finally in sync.

Just like their dance.

Her chest was still heaving, her skin flushed and slick with sweat as Sunghoon pressed her deeper into the mat, his body nestled perfectly against hers. One of his arms cradled beneath her neck, the other splayed across her stomach, anchoring her to him as if afraid she’d vanish the second he let go. Their legs tangled, her thighs still trembling from the aftershocks, his cock buried deep and still twitching inside her.

She felt dazed—ruined, really. Breathless and boneless, her cheek pressed to his chest, right above where his heart was still beating erratically.

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the mirror in front of them. The way their bodies looked—her full curves beneath him, the way her chest rose with every shaky breath, how she was holding him like she never wanted him to move—he looked absolutely possessive. And proud.

“Fuck…” he murmured against her temple, lips ghosting her damp skin. “Look at us.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and when she caught sight of their reflection, she stiffened slightly, still not used to seeing herself like this. Bare. Exposed. Tangled up with someone as effortlessly gorgeous as him.

Sunghoon caught the shift immediately.

“Hey,” he murmured, tightening his arm around her waist, pulling her back into the warmth of his body. His voice was honey-sweet and cocky all at once. “Why do you look like you’re about to disappear on me, huh?”

“I’m just not used to… seeing myself like this,” she whispered.

He grinned, slow and sinful, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “You better get used to it.”

Then he leaned to the side, reaching blindly for his phone resting on the edge of the mat. Y/N’s brows furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

His voice dropped, raspy and full of heat. “Can I snap a pic, baby?”

Her eyes widened. “What? Sunghoon—”

He held the phone up, smirking as he tilted it slightly to angle the lens. The camera showed them just like they were in the mirror: her plush, flushed body beneath him, legs still wrapped around his hips, his arms caging her close, sweat-slicked skin glowing under the studio’s warm lights.

“You look so fucking good right now,” he groaned, biting his lip as his fingers ghosted down her side again. “All wrecked. Mine.”

“Sunghoon—”

“I won’t show anyone. Not a soul,” he promised, and though his tone was cocky, his eyes flicked back to hers with a quiet softness underneath. “Just for me. Just to remember the first time I got to ruin you like this.”

She swallowed hard. The idea was bold. So unlike her.

But the way he looked at her—like she was art. A masterpiece he had the privilege of touching. Worshiping. Keeping.

Her lip caught between her teeth as she hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “Just don’t get my face.”

His eyes lit up. “Fuck yes. Come here—arch your back for me, baby. Let me show you just how sexy you look from this angle.”

And before she could fully process how she’d gotten from silently admiring him across a crowded auditorium to letting him take a photo of her post-orgasm with his cock still inside her, he snapped the picture.

He grinned down at the image, then showed it to her, letting her see how soft and pretty her curves looked beneath him—how wild his own expression was, how possessive his grip on her waist was.

“Gonna be thinking about this all week,” he whispered, setting the phone aside. “No one’s ever made me feel like this before.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Deeper. Then rolled his hips forward once more, just enough to make her moan and dig her nails into his shoulders.

“Round two?” he whispered against her lips, voice dripping with mischief. “Or do you wanna see what else we can get on camera, baby?”

—

Sunghoon didn’t wait for her to answer—because the way she clenched around him, the way her nails dug into his arms and her body arched up toward him? That was all the answer he needed.

“Yeah?” he breathed, already pulling back just enough to hear the wet drag of his cock sliding from her heat. “You want more, don’t you?”

Y/N swallowed, her cheeks flushed, lips parted in the prettiest daze. But this time… she didn’t shy away. Her eyes held his, heavy-lidded and bold, her fingers trailing down his chest to his abs, then back up to his shoulders.

“I can take it,” she whispered.

Sunghoon’s breath hitched.

Something primal flickered in his gaze—like the switch had flipped, and that teasing cocky energy turned darker, hungrier.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, voice rough as gravel. “You have no idea what you just unlocked.”

He sat back on his heels again, his hands sliding under her thighs and pulling her down the mat until her hips were perched right on his lap. Still inside her, still thick and hard and stretching her open. Her breath caught as he adjusted the angle—and then he grinned.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered, almost to himself, watching the mess between her thighs with open awe. “So fucking messy and so ready for more.”

He braced one hand under her knee, pushing her leg up to her chest, opening her wide. His other hand gripped her hip tightly.

“Hold on.”

The first thrust punched the air from her lungs.

Not slow. Not gentle. He slammed into her like he couldn’t get close enough, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the empty studio like a filthy metronome. Her moan came out choked, a raw sound that made his head fall back, jaw clenched.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted. “Take it. Take all of it.”

She did. She took everything—every rough thrust, every breathless curse, every desperate kiss he dropped on her lips, her neck, her shoulder. Her body moved with him now, hips rising to meet his, moans rising uninhibited as he drove deeper, harder.

She wasn’t shy anymore. Not here. Not with him.

Her hand slipped up his back, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair as she arched under him. “More,” she gasped. “Faster—Sunghoon, please—”

“Fuck—like that?” He growled the words, picking up his pace until it was nothing short of relentless, his abs tightening, veins in his forearms prominent as he gripped her harder.

Y/N’s back lifted off the mat as she cried out, thighs trembling again, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his body and the way he looked at her while fucking her like she was the only thing in the world that ever mattered.

“So goddamn perfect,” he groaned. “Taking my cock like you were made for it—fuck, baby, you were, weren’t you?”

She could barely speak, only moan, her brain foggy from the pleasure snapping through her with every thrust. But she managed a breathless, “Yes—yours—Sunghoon, I’m—!”

“Cum again,” he demanded, thumb flicking quick over her clit. “Let me feel it. I wanna feel you squeeze me like you did before—fuck, baby, do it. Come on.”

It only took seconds. Her body locked beneath him, her walls clamping down so hard he nearly lost it then and there. Her moans dissolved into sobbed whimpers, her hands scrambling to hold onto him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

And maybe he was.

Sunghoon let out a strangled curse, hips stuttering, and then he was right behind her—spilling inside with a low, guttural groan as he pressed as deep as he could go, grinding through every last pulse of her orgasm until he collapsed forward, chest to hers, both of them panting and shaking.

They lay like that for a while, tangled, sweaty, and so close it hurt. His cock still nestled inside her, his hand stroking lazy patterns up and down her thigh while her heartbeat gradually slowed.

When he finally lifted his head, hair messy and lips swollen from kissing her breathless, he gave her the filthiest grin.

“You,” he said, brushing a thumb across her cheek, “are going to kill me.”

She laughed softly, dazed and happy, still catching her breath.

He kissed her. Slow this time. Sweet.

Then, his voice dropped again, low and playful.

“Think the mirrors caught that round too?”

—

Sunghoon was still hovering above her, sweat-slick and flushed, his hands stroking lazy up and down her sides as her breathing began to even out beneath him. But Y/N’s heart was still racing—this time, not from his thrusts, but from something bolder building up in her chest.

That same boldness he’d coaxed out of her piece by piece tonight.

He watched her with those hooded, post-orgasm eyes, that smirk softening into something fond as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You okay?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Still with me?”

She nodded slowly, biting her lip. Then, after a pause… she spoke. Quietly, but clear enough.

“Can I ride you?”

His body tensed above her. A beat passed. Then his jaw slackened, and his eyes blew wide with surprise—and heat.

“What?” he breathed, like she’d just flipped his entire world upside down.

“I want to,” she whispered, braver now, her fingers curling against his chest. “I wanna try… like that. On top.”

Sunghoon let out a strangled groan, his head dropping against her shoulder for a second like he physically needed to collect himself.

“Fuck, baby… you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He leaned up, eyes burning into hers, cupping her face with both hands.

“You can do whatever you want to me. Anything,” he said with a low, reverent kind of intensity. “You wanna ride me? I’ll lay back and worship you while you take what’s yours.”

That sent a hot thrill through her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be wanted like this before—seen like this. Not just allowed to take control, but invited to. Encouraged to.

Sunghoon slid off her carefully, groaning as he slipped out of her, only to lay flat on his back on the mat, his arms stretched behind his head, completely unguarded.

He looked up at her with nothing but awe. “Climb on, gorgeous.”

Her cheeks burned as she rose to straddle him, thighs still shaky, but this time it wasn’t nerves—it was anticipation. She hovered above him, eyes flicking down to where he lay thick and hard again against his stomach.

“C’mere,” he coaxed, hands gripping her waist and guiding her forward. “Nice and slow.”

She reached between them and lined him up, exhaling shakily as she sank down.

Sunghoon groaned. One hand flew to her hip, the other pressing flat against his own chest like he needed to ground himself.

“Holy fuck, baby…” he hissed. “You feel so good like this—so fucking good riding me.”

She whimpered as she sank lower, the stretch deliciously slow and intense. Once he was fully inside her again, seated deep, she stilled for a moment, catching her breath.

He was right—she felt powerful.

Sunghoon looked up at her like she was a dream. “Look at you,” he whispered. “You’re fucking stunning like this.”

She began to move. Tentative at first—rolling her hips, adjusting to the angle. But the way he responded, the deep growls from his throat, the way his fingers dug into her plush thighs like he couldn’t get enough—it fueled her.

Confidence bloomed.

She leaned back slightly, grinding down on him as her hands braced on his abs, her movements smoother, more deliberate.

“Oh my god,” Sunghoon choked, his head falling back as he bit his lip. “You’re gonna make me cum just from watching you—fuck, ride me just like that, baby. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

Her moans picked up, riding the rhythm of his words. Every time she brought herself down on him, he met her halfway, matching her with a deep thrust that had them both unraveling.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Please, harder—”

He sat up in a flash, chest to hers, mouth crashing into hers as he took her hips in both hands and began guiding her even faster.

Her forehead dropped to his shoulder as she rode him harder, faster, her moans turning breathless and high-pitched.

“You’re so fucking sexy like this,” he groaned into her ear. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding all this from me.”

She was close—so close. He could feel it in the way she clenched, in the way her nails scraped down his back.

“Cum for me,” he growled. “Right here, on top of me, just like this. Want you to fall apart while you’re owning me.”

And she did—shaking and gasping his name, her body jerking as the orgasm crashed through her again, harder this time.

Sunghoon followed with a curse, holding her down as he spilled inside her, hips twitching helplessly beneath her as he rode it out.

When they finally slumped down onto each other again, breathless and ruined, his hand cradled the back of her head, his mouth brushing soft kisses over her temple.

“You,” he whispered, lips against her skin, “are never gonna walk into practice again without me thinking about this moment.”

—

They hadn’t moved much—just enough for their breathing to settle, his arms still wrapped around her waist while she stayed straddled over him, warm and messy, their bodies still joined. The low lighting in the studio gave everything a soft glow, casting reflections in the mirrored wall across from them.

Sunghoon leaned back against the wall now, legs stretched out, her body still in his lap. One hand rested lazily at her lower back, the other reached off to the side again—fingers brushing along the mat until they closed around his phone.

Y/N felt him shift slightly, lifting the phone with a telltale little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not—” she began, a little breathless, cheeks still warm from everything that just happened.

He tilted the phone casually, angling it toward the mirror in front of them. The screen lit up.

There they were. Her on top of him, hair wild, neck marked from his kisses, her curves cradled perfectly against his body like she was made to be there. His head leaned back against the wall, sweat-slicked and flushed, that post-orgasm look on his face—utterly wrecked and proud of it.

“You like taking pics, huh~” she teased, narrowing her eyes at him with a coy smile as she traced a finger down his chest. Her voice was breathy but playful, the soft lilt of it stirring something in him all over again.

His grin widened, slow and wicked.

“Only when I look like this,” he murmured, thumbing the screen but not pressing the shutter yet. “And only when you look like this.”

Her hand rested over his on the phone. “And what do I look like?” she asked, though her tone was already smug, body still glistening from their high, her confidence just barely teasing through.

“Mine,” he said without missing a beat. “Fucking gorgeous. And fucked-out. And glowing. And riding me like you finally know you own me.”

The air between them thickened again.

She raised an eyebrow. “So that’s why you wanna save it? A little souvenir for your spank bank?”

He chuckled, deep and low, squeezing her hip possessively. “Please. Like I need a photo when I’m gonna be dreaming about this for the next ten years.”

Then, softer, his voice dropped.

“But if you’ll let me take one again…” He brushed his lips against her jaw. “Just for me. Just to remember how perfect you look like this. No one else’ll ever see it. Cross my fucking heart.”

She looked at the screen again—at their reflection. At how good they looked together, how raw and messy and real she looked with him. And she didn’t hate it. Not even a little.

“…Just one, last one,” she murmured.

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled as he clicked the shutter.

“And maybe one more,” she added, biting her lip as she shifted in his lap teasingly, making him hiss. “This time with you moaning my name.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And maybe she would be.

Their bodies had finally stilled, breaths returning to something human, even if Sunghoon still had his arms locked tight around her waist like he wasn’t ready to let her go. Y/N stayed curled into him, bare chest pressed to his, head tucked into the crook of his neck while the studio lights hummed softly overhead. Everything was warm. Sticky. Quiet in the most intimate way.

“You okay?” he asked again, voice low and stupidly fond.

“Mmhm,” she murmured, lips brushing against the sheen of sweat at his neck. “Better than okay.”

He smiled at that, smoothing a hand up and down her spine, fingers pausing at the curve of her lower back to trace light circles.

“You were incredible,” he said softly. “Like, actually insane. You know that, right?”

She scoffed into his neck. “You mean for someone who’s never done that on a studio floor before?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “No—I mean for anyone. You think I’m ever gonna be normal after this? I’ll be standing here leading choreo next week and all I’m gonna see is you bouncing on top of me like you own the place.”

She swatted his chest, giggling despite herself, her face heating all over again. He kissed her temple in return, lazy and warm, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He shifted underneath her, and though her body protested at first—sore in the very best way—he moved slowly, carefully, helping her up without ever letting go fully. Somewhere in the pile of their clothes and chaos, he found his oversized black hoodie and slipped it over her head before she could even reach for her own top.

She blinked up at him as it swallowed her completely, hanging down to her thighs, soft and warm and smelling like him.

“You always this possessive with your dance recruits?” she teased, voice still raspy.

He smirked, leaning down to peck her lips.

“Only the ones that fuck me dumb and then look this cute in my clothes.”

And when her knees gave a little wobble as she reached for her leggings, Sunghoon clicked his tongue and scooped her right up, bridal-style, without hesitation.

“Sunghoon—!”

“Uh-uh,” he said, arms secure under her legs and back as he walked toward the door. “Don’t even try to walk right now. You were a menace ten minutes ago, but now you’re all soft and wobbly and mine.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “People might still be around, you know.”

“And what? I’ll tell them you passed out from nailing the choreography too hard.” He winked. “Wouldn’t even be a lie.”

He carried her all the way to the parking lot, hoodie swallowing her frame as the night air hit, cool and crisp against their flushed skin. He set her down just long enough to open the passenger door, buckling her in like she might float away if he didn’t handle her with care.

Once in the car, she peeked over at him as he turned the keys in the ignition.

“…You hungry?” he asked, glancing at her with that post-sex softness still in his eyes.

“I mean… kinda starving.”

“Same,” he said, reaching over to squeeze her thigh, the touch grounding. “Let’s get you something good. My girl deserves a feast.”

She blinked, heart flipping. “Your girl?”

His lips curled. “Unless you’re planning to ride someone else next week?”

She rolled her eyes, but the grin was already tugging at her mouth. “Tteokbokki,” she said after a pause. “With cheese. And maybe ice cream after.”

Sunghoon grinned, shifting the car into gear. “You’ve got expensive taste. Guess I’m lucky you like me.”

And just like that, he drove off with her curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked under her, cheeks glowing from the night. Like she hadn’t just ruined him in the middle of a dance studio. Like they weren’t about to do it all over again the second she finished her last bite.

The city lights blurred past the windows, golden and slow, bathing the car in a calm kind of glow that matched the quiet between them. The kind of quiet that felt full rather than empty—like everything had already been said with mouths and hands back in that studio. Now all that was left was softness, the steady hum of the engine, and the warm scent of Sunghoon’s hoodie wrapped around her like a blanket.

He reached over occasionally just to hold her hand. Thumb brushing back and forth over her knuckles like he couldn’t help it. She didn’t say anything. Just squeezed back, leaning her head against the window as the car rumbled gently under them.

They ended up at a tiny tteokbokki place tucked into a sleepy street, still open past midnight. One of those little hidden spots that smelled like chili oil and home. Sunghoon ordered way too much—spicy rice cakes, mandu, fish cake soup, cheesy corn, and soda—and he carried the tray like it was sacred, guiding her to a small table by the window where the neon glowed pink across his jawline.

They ate slowly, laughter spilling between bites. Her hoodie sleeves kept falling over her hands every time she reached for something, and he kept tugging them back playfully, like he liked seeing her swallowed up in his clothes.

She fed him a rice cake with chopsticks, nearly dropped it in his lap, and nearly fell out of her chair laughing when he caught it with his mouth and smirked like a show-off.

“Such a menace,” she said, eyes warm.

“You like it,” he replied, mouth full.

“Unfortunately,” she muttered, cheeks tinting again as she sipped her soda.

He watched her for a second, then tilted his head.

“What’s that face?” he asked. “You’re thinking about something.”

She paused, noodle halfway to her mouth.

“Was not.”

“Liar.”

She glanced out the window, heart thudding. The neon made her reflection glow. She looked back at him.

“…I liked you since orientation,” she said suddenly, so quiet it barely made it past the bubble of the room.

He blinked.

She toyed with the straw between her fingers, not meeting his eyes. “You were performing at the welcome event. Dance team number. I was sitting way in the back, and you were just—so confident. All sharp moves and cocky smiles. And then when you bowed and laughed with your team, like you didn’t even know how magnetic you looked…”

She exhaled, still not looking at him. “I knew I was doomed.”

A long silence stretched between them.

And then she felt his hand gently reach across the table. His fingers brushed under her chin, lifting it just enough that her eyes met his.

Sunghoon’s gaze was soft but serious, like she’d said something sacred.

“You’ve been crushing on me since then?” he murmured.

She nodded once, suddenly shy again.

“Baby,” he breathed, thumb stroking her cheek. “If I’d known, I would’ve ruined you way sooner.”

She laughed, half-flustered, half-melting. “That’s not the point—”

“No, no, it is,” he said, standing and coming around to her side of the table. “Because now I get to do this properly.”

He leaned down, kissed her right in that little neon-lit diner, tasting sweet and spicy and warm. She tilted up to meet him, lips parting easily, soft and slow but filled with all the want they’d built from the moment she first watched him dance.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath warm.

“So… official first date?” he asked, voice husky and hopeful.

She nodded, grinning. “Only if you let me pick the music in your car.”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re going to torture me with ballads, aren’t you?”

“I already tortured you in the studio,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his again. “What’s a little IU on the drive home?”

He laughed against her mouth.

“Fine. But next time you’re riding me to my playlist.”

She flushed bright red.

And somehow, despite all the chaos, it already felt like the start of something perfect.

—

A few days passed, and with them, an electric kind of anticipation. The kind where you can’t stop thinking about someone, where every conversation feels charged with a promise of something more, where every glance exchanged holds the weight of unspoken confessions.

Y/N couldn’t help it. She replayed their night together over and over in her head—the way he’d kissed her softly, but with a hunger she hadn’t expected, the way his touch had been both gentle and possessive at the same time. The way he made her feel—seen, not just for her talent, but for who she was underneath all the layers.

And now, here she was, standing in front of her mirror, deciding what to wear for their first real date. It wasn’t just a late-night snack run anymore, no. Sunghoon had texted her earlier in the day, suggesting something a little more official. He’d promised her something nice—no rush, no hurry, just the two of them. And when she agreed, her heart had skipped a beat. She’d only been hoping for something simple, but he was going to make it memorable.

Y/N settled on a flowy white dress, soft and delicate, a perfect balance of sweet and a little bit daring. The dress was a subtle nod to the way she felt—open, vulnerable, but daring enough to finally take the leap. She paired it with simple sandals and curled her hair just a little, adding a light layer of makeup. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t just see her reflection. She saw someone who could hold her own. Someone worthy of the kind of love Sunghoon could give.

When she walked outside, he was already waiting by his car. The moonlight was high, and the soft hum of traffic in the distance didn’t seem to matter when he looked at her like that. The way his eyes lit up when they landed on her—there was nothing else in the world except that moment.

“You’re stunning,” Sunghoon said, voice low, soft with awe.

She blushed, trying to fight the smile creeping up her face, but she didn’t fight it for long. “Thanks,” she said, nervously adjusting her dress. “I was hoping this wasn’t too much?”

He stepped forward, hand brushing against her waist as he leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek, just barely. “Trust me, nothing about you is ‘too much.’” His voice was playful, but it held something deeper now, something far more tender. “You’re perfect.”

Y/N let out a breath, trying to hide how flustered he made her, but it was hard when he was this close, and his smile made everything else feel so… right.

“Ready to go?” he asked, sliding open the passenger door for her.

She nodded, a little out of breath, and climbed into his car. He closed the door gently and slid into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a soft hum. The car pulled away from her apartment, and she couldn’t help but stare at the way the streetlights caught on the edge of his jaw, casting shadows that only made him look more impossibly handsome.

As they drove, the mood felt so natural, comfortable. They didn’t need to talk the entire time. The silence was warm, like a promise of something more to come. He’d told her he’d pick the place, and when they arrived, she understood why

They pulled up to a hidden rooftop bar with strings of fairy lights hanging low above their heads, and soft music playing in the background. There was a cozy outdoor seating area, with high tables and low couches around fire pits. The city’s skyline stretched out before them, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt still.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Y/N said, stepping out of the car, the cool breeze swirling around her as she took in the view.

Sunghoon followed her, walking close enough that their shoulders brushed, sending an electricity through her that she couldn’t ignore. “Only the best for you,” he said, his voice low again, full of meaning.

They settled into a small, private corner, nestled close to the fire pit. He’d ordered wine and appetizers already, and as she sipped her drink, she caught herself looking at him more than she probably should’ve. She could tell he was trying to be nonchalant about it, but his eyes didn’t miss a thing. He noticed her stealing glances, and the way his lips quirked up into a soft, knowing smile made her stomach flutter.

“Tell me something about you,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence between them. “Something I don’t know.”

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You want me to spill all my secrets, huh?”

His smile turned teasing. “Not all. Just one.”

Y/N thought for a moment, leaning back in her chair. She picked up her glass and swirled it, watching the light catch on the edges. She didn’t want to keep playing the game of avoiding him. She’d been doing that for far too long. It was time to be honest.

“I guess…” she began, voice a little quieter now, “I used to think people like you wouldn’t notice people like me.”

His gaze softened, just slightly, before he leaned forward. “What do you mean by ‘people like you’?”

She swallowed, the truth tasting both terrifying and freeing. “You know… I’m not… perfect. I don’t have that ‘cool’ vibe, or the body type people expect to get attention. I used to think I was just invisible to guys like you.”

Sunghoon didn’t react the way she expected. He didn’t get defensive or brush her off. Instead, he just leaned in even closer, his gaze unwavering.

“I think you’re more than perfect. You don’t need to look like everyone else to be the center of attention. You’ve always been noticed by me.”

The words were simple, but they hit her in a way she didn’t expect. The sincerity in his voice made her heart beat just a little faster.

“You don’t need to hide anything,” he continued softly, brushing his thumb against the back of her hand. “Not from me.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her chest, and she found herself smiling, genuinely, for the first time in a while. “You’re impossible,” she said, teasing him just a little.

“No, I’m just someone who’s crazy about you.”

That was the moment. The one that made everything feel real. She leaned in, softly brushing her lips against his once more. It was sweet, slow, the promise of what was to come hanging between them. And when they pulled away, she couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“Okay, I guess I’m crazy about you, too.”

Sunghoon grinned, leaning back in his seat and stretching out, looking pleased with himself.

“Good,” he said, before reaching across the table to take her hand. “Then let’s make this a night to remember.”

And with that, the night stretched out before them, full of stolen kisses, soft laughter, and the undeniable feeling that this was just the beginning.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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a/n: ovulating so hard thats why enjoy!

[miraclewoozi]

DO YOU DREAM OF ME? - c.hs

the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome.  or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it. 

pairing ; vernon x gn!reader.  content ; all the tropes. 5 times fic. soulmate au. slight college au if you squint. f2l. fluff, some angst. pining. one (1) hint of suggestiveness if u squint. MINORS STILL DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT.  content notes ; mentions of reader having a(n unnamed) partner & thereafter, going through a breakup due to said partner cheating. reader is maybe implied to be shorter than him but hopefully not too obviously or frequently. alcohol is mentioned & is a key theme in scene #3. pov switch for the final part (necessary for logistical reasons.) PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything. w/c ; 9.6k note ; welcome to thee most self indulgent fic ever lmao. i hope u enjoy this slight break away from what i usually post here (as if my entire brand isn’t writing losers in love. ANYWAY) -- this was very fun and a little bit special for me! <3

“What was your first kiss like?”

Initially, Vernon swears he just didn’t hear you right. It’s dark up here, where you’re hiding away from a party on the roof of his university accommodation and he’s starting to get tired. There’s some sort of siren wailing away in the distance to his left, and on the street below, a gaggle of freshmen are cackling as they walk past the building. His ear closest to you is currently listening to your favourite song. 

All the signs suggest that he simply got it wrong. 

But he doesn’t know if he believes those signs, especially not seeing as when he looks over at you, you’re staring pointedly up at the stars overhead. He doesn’t doubt that you’re giving yourself an ache in your neck in the process, too.

“Hmm?” He asks, taking out the earphone that connects him to you. The other one is still nestled away in your ear and he reaches to gently pull it away. “What was that?”

You still don’t look at him, but you do repeat yourself. Quietly. “What… was your first kiss like?”

“Oh.” 

He was right. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you hurry to say, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself to block out the cold air that blows across the rooftop. He shrugged it off and told you to take it the very moment your teeth started chattering — almost an hour ago now. His arms are bare, shoulders and biceps only covered by a t-shirt so thin it’s practically sheer, but he isn’t cold. He’s always run hotter than most. “Sorry.”

He nudges you with his knee, silently telling you that you don’t need to apologise. He doesn’t mind — you just caught him off guard; Vernon hasn’t given this any thought in a long time, and he has to really put his mind to coming up with an answer. It was forever ago — when he was eleven or twelve, maybe, with his first ever girlfriend. They dated for a whole two and a half weeks. He doesn’t know if it really counts: the kiss was a dare, after all. 

“Kinda…” He starts, trying to follow the line of your sight, wondering if he can find the exact stars you’re looking at. “She’d just put this weird lipgloss on. It was real tingly. And like, neither of us knew what we were doing? So it… got everywhere. I think I ended up swallowing some, I don’t know. My mouth felt weird after. Thought I was having an allergic reaction.”

You laugh softly at him. “I think that would put me off for the rest of my life,” you say. 

“It almost did,” he chuckles. You hum at him and lean back on your elbows, leaving Vernon more than a little bit confused. He readjusts his hold on his knees, bringing them closer to his chest as he tilts his head down at you in your new position. 

“…why?” He asks, just as you close your eyes and take a deep inhale of the cool air. 

You just shrug. “I guess I just… wondered.”

He nods, and it’s his turn to fall short of a response, but that’s okay. You’ve known each other for too long for these silences to feel uncomfortable. He grew up with you. In fact, he’s reasonably sure he’s told you this story before. He must have done. 

Then he realises, maybe he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the story behind yours, and maybe that’s just a line the two of you never came to crossing. He knows he told his other friends, back then, because he was the last one in his circle to have a first kiss and he felt like it made him more grown-up, or something. Naturally, he left out the more embarrassing details. But maybe you just told your other friends who weren’t him, and went on with your life. Maybe yours was just… normal. 

Either way, he’s interested now. And there’s no time to ask like the present. 

“What was yours like?” He asks, fiddling with the strap on his wristwatch. You don’t answer straight away; he doesn’t think anything of it, because neither did he, but when he’s still waiting for you to speak a small eternity later, he prompts you again. “Hey, it can't have been worse than mine.”

You snort. 

“You’ll laugh at me,” you say, shaking your head. Vernon furrows his brows and drops his legs flat, twisting to one side to look at you. 

He doesn’t know where you’d get that idea from, but he’s… almost a bit offended by it?

“No I won’t,” he tells you softly. Maybe at first, he might’ve laughed with you, if your story happened to be as dumb as his own. But not at you. Never at. Not when he’s been the butt of the joke in too many friendship circles, for about as long as he can remember. 

You take a shallow breath, pursing your lips. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not…” you start to say, before you clear your throat and try again, this time heading in a different direction. “I don’t know. It’s dumb, I guess.”

“Don’t make me come down there,” Vernon threatens playfully, poking you in your side. You squirm, giggling despite yourself, despite the serenity of the sanctuary you two have found, despite the fact that you, too, were on the edge of falling asleep before your question came out of nowhere.  

He pokes you again, and again, and then starts to tickle your ribs instead. You squeal, swatting his hands away to no avail and you move to sit up, grabbing him by the forearms to physically make him stop. The grin on Vernon’s face is wide and heart-shaped. A warm feeling spreads through him: it has everything to do with the sweet sounds of your slowly dissolving laughter. 

You sit cross-legged across from each other like this for a moment or two. Your knees are touching. Your hands move down his arms until you’re holding him firmly by the wrists. Your eyes lock together: his crease with the sheer force of his boyish smile, while yours are narrowed, daring him to try and wiggle free and attack you again. 

He doesn’t, but for the first time ever, he’s struck with the urge to do something maybe more scary. 

The urge to just… lean in to you. 

It makes his heart do a backflip, in a way that it hasn’t done since he had his last crush. His head goes empty, and he forgets what he was even asking you before: the only thoughts he can muster are ones regarding what your lips taste like, whether they’re half as soft as they look, if you’d lightly touch his shoulder or his arm or his chest or his cheek—

Do you smile when you kiss?, he wonders. Do you sigh? Do you—

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you answer, looking away now and letting go of him. He’s gone so loose in the moments since you grabbed hold of him that when you’re not supporting their weight, his arms fall like two cinder blocks onto his knees. 

True to his word, he doesn’t laugh. He’s surprised by your revelation, sure, but in no way humoured; actually, he feels a little saddened by it, for a reason he can’t put his finger to. He ends up not saying anything, just biting the inside of his cheek; he wants to ask why, but knows maybe that’s a bit of a dick move, and if it’s something you’re sensitive about he doesn’t want to risk hurting you.

But he’s watched people fawn over you for years, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever been short of attention from those who have thought you were attractive. So it can’t be that you’ve been lacking in chances? Surely?

“I thought… maybe I should save it,” you go on to explain. Your hands keep busy by playing with a thread at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, wrapping it around one finger until the skin beneath it pinches before you unravel it again. 

“Save it?” He asks. You nod your head.

“For when I thought I’d found them.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Like I said, it’s s—.”

“No it’s not,” Vernon says abruptly, shaking his head. He holds onto you now, one hand slipping around your back until it rests on the shoulder furthest away from him. You scoff. He squeezes you into his side. “Hey. It’s not stupid.”

He doesn’t like how this admission has, somehow, made his desire to kiss you stronger. He hates that he feels even more drawn to you, a magnet finally finding its opposing pole. It freaks him out a little. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone this badly. 

Red button theory, he tells himself to try and get back on the straight and narrow. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would be happening.

“It’s romantic,” he says finally, swiping his thumb in small motions over the top of your shoulder. You nod, mumbling a ‘thank you’ (for what, he isn’t sure), and shiver. Vernon doesn’t know if that’s because of his proximity to you or because you’re finally starting to feel the cold. Either way, he takes the initiative to stand up and holds a hand out for you to take so he can tug you to your feet too. You get up with a little hop. 

It’s… devastatingly cute.

“Where are we going?” You ask, brushing off your jeans before shoving your hands into the jacket’s pockets. He’s already on the retreat, walking backwards towards the door that took you up here.

“To get food,” he tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That party was dead, anyway.”

It doesn’t cross his mind again until your twenty-first birthday. 

He’s not your soulmate. He couldn’t be. The thought he had on the roof that autumnal night was little more than a passing fantasy; besides, he doesn’t have a thing for you. He doesn’t want to kiss you, or date you, or have you be his soulmate. The reason you work so well together is because you’re just friends; he thinks you’d drive each other crazy if things ever went romantic between you. You bicker with him for sport. He drowns away hours at a time with his headphones clamped over his ears and forgets to answer your texts. It would be a nightmare. 

Not that he’s ever thought about all that. Not actively, or even passively. Not when he should be listening to college lectures instead, for example. Not awake, nor in his dreams. He hasn’t. Not once. 

He swears. 

“You can save it ‘til tomorrow, if you want.”

Vernon bounces his leg nervously, fidgeting with the edge of your comforter as you sit on the floor in front of him, styling your hair for your party. He arrived half an hour ago while you were still waltzing around in your bathrobe, holding a small, neatly wrapped box in both of his hands. It’s several degrees too warm in your bedroom. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as you grumble what seems to be a threat at a strand that won’t cooperate. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. (If you do, he’s grateful that you don’t say anything.)

“But it’s my birthday today,” you pouted, taking the box from him. “Let me finish getting ready, then I’ll open it. Come on.”

His wrist still aches with the pressure you held onto him with as you dragged him up the stairs. Your parents are away for the weekend and the house is all yours, so there’s a speaker blasting your favourite playlist full volume on your nightstand and there’s nobody to tell you to turn it down. He flits his attention between his phone and watching you, but he can’t fully concentrate on either; he’s too nervous that maybe you won’t like his gift, and he’s never been the type to splash out on birthday presents before but this… well, it burned a hole in his wallet, that’s for sure. 

“Okay. Wait here,” you tell him as you push up off the floor, limping on the leg that had started to fall asleep thanks to the way you were sitting. 

“All right,” he says back. As if he’d go anywhere, anyway. 

You grab a hanger from inside your closet and scurry off down the hall to the bathroom. For the first time, Vernon feels like he can actually breathe. He drops his phone onto the comforter between his crossed legs and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself that he needs to get it together. You’ve never not liked anything he’s given you, and you’ve known him now for more birthdays than you haven’t. 

Your friends said you’d love it. So did your mother, with a sparkle in her eye as she held it delicately in her fingers. He has nothing to worry about. It’s only you.

And yet—

“You’ll be honest if it looks bad?” You call from the other side of the door, interrupting how his lips move wordlessly in an endless mantra of self-reassurances. 

Vernon snaps his head up and he clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Aren’t I always?” He answers.

You click your tongue, evidently disagreeing, but you pull the handle and take a step into the room anyway. When you see him, he looks exactly as he did when you left, no trace of his anxieties anywhere to be seen on his face or otherwise. 

When he sees you, he feels like the world could end any moment and he’d be okay with that. 

His mouth runs dry and his eyes seem to be stuck open, unblinking, fixated on you in your all black outfit as you stand still as a statue with your hands behind your back. You cough quietly, waiting for some kind of a response other than a dumb stare, but it doesn’t come. 

Eight seconds later… still nothing. 

“Do you hate it?” you fret, because Vernon is a very good hype-man and you’ve never known him struggle to find something positive to say. “All right, uh— okay—”

“No!” He rushes, almost shouting in his urgency to assure you that that’s not the case at all. He scrambles up to his feet, taking a breath, and pushes a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, and he kind of hates how his fingers catch on a tangle even though he brushed it meticulously before he left his apartment. You keep telling him it looks good, though, so he hasn’t been to get it cut. “God, no. I’m sorry. You look amazing.”

It doesn’t sound like much to the untrained ear, but the warmth of his compliments comes less in the words he says and more in the sincerity he says them with. Your face softens, and Vernon can see the way the thoughts of changing into something else fizzle out behind your eyes. He takes a backwards step to try and tempt you further into your own bedroom, and you move in tandem with him, closing that space and coming better into the light. 

“Wow,” he says, swallowing hard and looking you up and down. “I-… wow.”

It’s your turn to clam up, now. You look down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with your toes. “Shut up,” you say. “I’m not...”

“Yes, you are,” he protests, leaving no room for argument as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress but… yeah, it’s gonna work.”

You walk past him with a scoff, barging against his shoulder on your way; he dramatically staggers to the side, rubbing at the impact site, laughing. When he faces you again, you’ve picked the gift up from the end of your bed and are moving to sit on the mattress yourself. Your eyes flicker between Vernon and the empty space in front of you. He takes the hint, settling back down with one foot tucked beneath him, the other still planted on your rug. 

His heart shoots back up into his throat and he stares down at the box, licking over his lips and frowning at how dry they feel. He glances away, lifting a hand to his mouth, running his fingertips over his lips. What would they feel like pressed against yours? He thinks, and then he cringes again. 

You misread his reaction and hesitate with your finger pressed underneath a strip of tape, tilting your head at him. “What’s going to jump out at me when I open this?” 

“Nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. “What do you take me for?”

“The kind of guy who puts glitter in birthday cards because he thinks it’s funny,” you retort, earning a click of his tongue. 

“That was one time!”

“One time too many.”

“I swear,” he laughs, tight shoulders easing, both hands falling to his lap. “No sparkles, no loud noises, nothing jumpy. Cross my heart.“

You eye him a little suspiciously but eventually tug your finger beneath the wrapping and make the first rip in the paper, allowing you to tear into the gift after keeping Vernon on edge for almost an hour and a half. You peel it away and it falls to the bedsheets, in your hands now a small, square box not too dissimilar a shade to your comforter. You look from it, to him, and he thinks you notice how his cheeks are a little darker than they were before. 

He nods at you once and you slowly pull it open. On a plush, velvety bedding sits an elegant, dainty bracelet. A small gemstone is set in the metal of the bar in the middle of the chain. You skim a thumb over it, your breath held.

“Vernon,” you murmur, tearing your eyes away from the bracelet to look at him. Now, even the tips of his ears have grown flushed, but you’re kind enough not to comment on it to avoid spoiling the moment you’re in. “This is…”

“The lady in the store said it was your birthstone,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “I mean… I’m really just taking her word for it, ‘cause they all look the same to me, but—”

He’s interrupted as all of your weight topples against him, arms thrown around his neck in a hug. He hesitates a moment before he wraps his own around your waist, drops his head to your shoulder and he smiles wider than he thinks he ever has. “Happy Birthday,” he says, dragging his thumb up and down over your hip. 

“Silly,” you scold him playfully, still pressing wholly against him and showing no signs of moving. Your voice sounds thick, a little like you’re tearing up, so Vernon squeezes you tighter. 

“I know you are,” he chuckles. “But what am I?”

You swallow hard, finally now pulling away from the hug but sitting entirely too close for comfort, one knee pressing into the outside of his thigh. 

Your surprise attack has left him dishevelled. With a quiet apology, your fingers innocently try to smooth everything back into place, but Vernon doesn’t hear you say you’re sorry. His pulse, thundering in his ears, drowns it out while also skipping a beat with each little touch. You’re not looking into his eyes as you shyly put him back to rights, too busy working to tame his — at the best of times — unruly hair. 

He’s looking into yours though, and he can’t stop. 

Your eyes, which dart all over to find strands out of place, so your hands can move them to where they ought to sit and lay them down flat. Your eyes, that drop down the length of his throat as you realign the neck of his t-shirt over his broad shoulders. 

Your eyes: the ones crinkled at the corners as you pick the bracelet back up from your bed and admire it under your bedroom light. Your eyes, landing on his, finally, in a silent plea for help. 

“The best?” you answer, now, extending your wrist to ask him to put it on you. He takes the chain from your fingers and unclasps it, slipping it beneath your hand and holding it in place. 

“I know you are,” he says again, but it’s quieter now as he concentrates on trying to reconnect the two pieces. “But what am I?”

When he successfully fastens your gift onto your arm, he looks up to see your watery eyes still staring down at it. He decides this is the time to reveal part two of the surprise. Pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he reveals his own wrist to you, and you now see there’s a matching chain hanging off it. A little stone set in the metal. His stone, presumably. You choke out a laugh around your tears, shaking your head. 

“You got us friendship bracelets,” you giggle, holding your hand next to his and admiring them together. Your skin touches and he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt around you since…

He nods, breathing a chuckle too. “Yeah,” he says. His heart is pounding. “I guess I did. Is… that okay?”

“I love them,” you insist, leaning forward to affectionately press your lips to his cheek. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Your doorbell sounds downstairs and Vernon’s words die in his throat. Maybe that’s for the best, though; he’s got so much nervous energy rising up inside him and he’s scared it might accidentally force up something he’ll regret saying. You spring off the bed again, fussing in the mirror, and he watches you rush out the bedroom warbling about how you’re not ready for anyone to be here yet. It’s too early. What’s going on? Who is it?

He shifts his legs so both his feet are planted on the floor, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in. 

I love them. Thank you, you said. 

It’s perfect. 

He groans when he stands up, too, tugging his sleeve back down as he starts to follow after you.

“I know you are,” he mumbles under his breath, hearing your relieved laughter at it just being the FedEx man on your doorstep. It makes him feel warm. Everywhere. “But what am I?”

Five hours later, Vernon is seeing double. 

He has Seungkwan’s hands massaging the tops of his shoulders and there are two Juns sitting across from him at your dining table. He remembers feeling fine around 9pm, distinctly: like nothing he drank was having any kind of effect on him. Like he could walk home on his hands — like he was invincible. Now, after spending exactly five minutes out in the fresh air, he’s blinking four times for every breath he takes and his friends’ voices keep phasing in and out of focus.

“But what if they’re not?” Vernon stresses for the eighth time, fingers clumsily peeling at the label on his bottle.

“And what if they are?” Jun tries. Again. Also, for the eighth time, because apparently when Vernon gets tipsy, his skull gets really really thick and nothing in the world can penetrate it. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Vernon shakes his head, sitting back so heavily that his chair tips and he sends Seungkwan stumbling into the wall behind them. His friend gives up trying to rub the stupid out of him and settles into the chair at Vernon’s side instead. 

“I don’t know-…”

“If you’re about to say you don’t know what you’ll do if it isn’t them, I’m putting you in an Uber and sending you home.” Seungkwan claps his hand down onto Vernon’s knee for good measure. “It’s not even been a day.”

Vernon groans, threading his fingers into his hair and tipping his head back. “It hasn’t, though,” he whines. “What if it’s been like this since… and I just kept ignoring…”

Jun and Seungkwan exchange a look. An exhausted one. They both know Vernon turns into a complete baby when he’s had a drink and can just about manage a trip to the bathroom without somebody holding his hand, but neither of them have seen him like this before. Neither of them want to see him like this ever again.

Hell, neither of them want to be dealing with him like this right now.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Jun’s (remarkably) calm voice repeats as he pushes up from his seat and glances towards the doorway. His ears lock onto a voice just beyond it, and in an instant, the older man recognises his chance at an exit. He casts an apologetic glance at Seungkwan, who has resorted to rubbing Vernon’s earlobes to try and get him to stop stressing, and he dips out before either of them can argue. 

On his way, though, he throws in a sly little remark. One that raises Vernon’s– and Seungkwan’s– blood pressure to a level that would get them prescribed a week of strict bed rest.

“Besides – everyone can see the two of you were practically made for each other.”

Vernon whips around to face Seungkwan with shock written into every line of his face. It paints perfect full-signal WiFi creases on his forehead; it makes his jaw hang loose. 

“I– what?” Vernon splutters, shooting a hand to the back of his head. Seungkwan hasn’t taken his eyes off the doorway since Jun slipped through it. Vernon doesn’t notice the fact that his older friend’s full genetic line is currently being cursed out. “What does he mean?”

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Seungkwan tries, now acutely aware of the fact that Jun has just given Vernon a nudge he should never have. There’s a fine line between bolstering a friend and straight-up causing chaos. This could get messy. Seungkwan doesn’t like messy.

But… It's too late. 

Before Seungkwan can wrangle him back into his seat, Vernon has broken away from the table and is on the hunt for you. Seungkwan follows behind, doing his best to summon Vernon back, but he can’t. He’s on a mission now. And maybe that mission involves giving in to the thing that eats away at his brain when he should be waist-deep in music theory assignments. Maybe that mission is to finally, after two years, know what it feels like to kiss you. He’s going to find you, so help him God. He has to. 

And yes. He does. He finds you, eventually. As soon as he reaches the top of the staircase, there you are. 

Being pressed into the wood of your bedroom door, wrapped up in the arms of some pretentious looking art student in an oversized button-down and baggy, ripped jeans. Your mouth is covered by theirs, your fingers are threaded through those glossy fucking locks, both of you are laughing breathlessly as you drop one hand and it fumbles blindly to reach for the doorknob. 

Vernon spins away, turning his back as he hears the door click. At this exact moment, Seungkwan comes stumbling up the stairs too and plants his forehead into Vernon’s sternum. 

But his good friend’s skull is not the only thing Vernon is struck with, not the only thing knocking the wind out of him. 

Simultaneously, he’s swept up with the sobering realisations that either this guy is your soulmate, or you’re not the same person you were when you were nineteen. 

It’s eleven o’clock and two years later when he hears your secret knock on his apartment door. 

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s fate. He only took his noise cancelling headphones off a few minutes ago before he washed up and settled into bed; his head has hardly even had time to make a dent in the pillows. But whichever force is at play, the thing that matters is that he hears you and he knows it’s you, straight away. He doesn’t remember how it started, exactly. He thinks it might have been while he was in his exam-season hermit stage in his first year of university and refused to come to the door unless it was something important. 

You’ve been knocking the same way for years now though, and he slides out of bed with creased brows at how desperate your fist sounds as it pounds against the wood. He pulls on an old t-shirt and perhaps the loosest fitting pair of shorts anyone’s ever owned, at least making himself decent before he answers. He’s still tying the drawstring when he gets to the door.

When he looks through the peep-hole to make sure he’s right, you’re drying your eyes on the back of your sweatshirt sleeve. You’re shivering quite violently, and you’ve got a bag on your shoulder that’s weighing you down on one side. Vernon’s heart sinks. He unbolts the door, pulling it open just as you lift your hand to knock again; your knuckles punch the air between you as your eyes land on him, and your bottom lip wobbles in despair. 

You fall into his chest with a sob. Tears start to soak their way through his shirt until it clings to the skin underneath. 

“Hey,” he soothes you, locking his arms so tight around you that there’s a strong chance they’re the only thing holding you upright. 

“I didn’t— know where else to go—” you choke out, your arm trapped between your chest and his as he rests his head on top of yours and pats your back softly. “I’m s-”

“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, tilting his chin down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can always come to me.”

He holds you until your shakes start to subside, trying to talk you through whatever this is with soft reassurances and gentle shushing sounds. When you pull back from him, Vernon guides you into his apartment, flicking on the lamp in his living room so he can see to settle you down on his couch. He throws a blanket over your legs before he sits down himself, pulling your hand into his lap and holding it between both of his own, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles. You’re still crying, but when you shuffle against the seat to be a little more comfortable and finally turn to face him, he finds his voice long enough to ask you what happened. 

“He kissed— kissed someone else,” you tell him, sniffling and shaking your head. 

His blood reaches boiling point in what must be record time and he knows he accidentally starts to grip your hand tighter, but he can’t stop. 

“He what?”

Vernon knows this guy wasn’t your soulmate. You told him, a few days after your birthday. You said everything was still black and white when you pulled back from the first of — what you spared no detail in explaining was — many, many, many kisses with him that evening. But you didn’t care. Not then, and not for the whole time you’ve been together. 

He asked you about it once. About four months in (when he figured things were starting to get serious), late at night, if it bothered you. Whether you were going to keep seeing him. If you still thought about finding your soulmate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what your replying message said. 

I mean, sure, I’m curious. But maybe I don’t need to see in colour. I think being in love is enough :)

So… you were in love. 

With someone who wasn’t him. 

He didn’t speak to anyone — not even you — for two whole days after that. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a peak-form George Foreman. He felt like he’d never be able to get rid of the pit that had developed in the depths of his gut. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, he couldn’t focus: it was the worst he’d ever felt.  And, well… Vernon knew it was immature. He knew he was acting like a child. If he could’ve shaken it off, the way he’s always done with so many of the things in his life that have bothered him, he’d have loved to. But he couldn’t.

Besides. Only about four people noticed his silence, anyway. You weren’t one of them; your boyfriend was keeping you plenty busy.

“He went to a club and got completely wasted and he— he—” you say, squeezing his hand even tighter than he’s holding yours. “But-… he says he-…” Hiccup. “Everything. Straight away — his…”

You don’t need to say it out loud; if anything, he’s a little disgusted with himself that he didn’t figure this out sooner. “His soulmate,” Vernon ruefully finishes for you. He groans the words out, feeling rotten to his core. “I’m so sorry…”

Your shoulders start to shake and he wastes no time in pulling you sideways against him, both his arms locked around you again, just like before. 

“It’s so stupid,” you cry, laughing emptily. His stomach turns; he hates this. Your anguish is an assault on his eardrums, especially when he’s got you so close, but he tries so hard not to flinch, not to move away. You need him, no matter how agonised it makes him feel. “I knew he wasn’t mine, but I thought-…”

Your voice fades away to nothing. You shake your head.

“You thought he was happy the same way you were,” he finishes again. You just nod, sobbing harder. “That's not—… stop saying the way you feel is stupid.”

Vernon doesn’t understand how that loser could ever not have been happy with you. How could he dream about going out in search of something more? Hell, Vernon doesn’t think there’s a soul alive better than you — how could anyone stand to just throw you away?

He wonders briefly if you can hear his heartbeat, thundering in his chest with the rage he feels all the way into his bones. You’ve always told him that you admire how chilled out, how collected he is, but Vernon has never felt less calm in his entire life. It’s only as he acknowledges that he has no right to feel like this, that he takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to bring his fever down. You mimic him, trying to do the same, and by the time his pulse starts to settle, you’re back to just sniffling against his shoulder. 

“Stay the night here,” he tells you. It isn’t a suggestion, or really even a request. It’s an order. There’s no room for negotiation. “We’ll go get your things in the morning. I’ll be right there with you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Vernon gets there before you do. Before you can protest the offers he’s made. Before you can ask him if he’s sure. He knows you, a little too well: he knows these are the words that are going to come out of your mouth next. “I’m with you, okay? Always.”

You sit back from him with a quiet chuckle, wiping your eyes again on your damp sleeve. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” you murmur. “You’re the best— the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He just rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head, standing up from the couch. (I know you are, he thinks. This isn’t the time for jokes, though.) He wishes you knew what you mean to him; how, in his eyes, you deserve the world, presented to you on a shining silver platter. Wishes you knew that he’d give it to you if thought he could carry it. 

“Go wash up,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest at the way your watery lashes flutter when you look up at him. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

He locates a spare toothbrush from a travelling kit he’s never used and sets a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the heated towel rail, leaving you alone in the bathroom to go about your business. You emerge some fifteen minutes later to find Vernon perched on the edge of his bed, scrolling through an app on his phone. He can’t help but swallow at the way his clothes fit you. How the steam from your shower clings to your skin, casts a heavenly haze around you. He hopes it isn’t obvious. This is about more than his dumb little crush. 

“Were you asleep?” You ask him, nodding towards his comforter, still pushed back on one side. He turns to glance over his shoulder, following the line of your sight, before he looks back at you and shakes his head. 

“Not even close,” he says. “I’d just got into bed when you got here.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. Vernon doesn't think you look totally convinced, but he can’t force you to believe him, even if it is the truth. 

It’s unspoken but accepted that you'll sleep in the bed with him; he’s never let you stay on his couch when you spend the night, and you never agree to displacing him even though he always tries to insist he doesn’t mind. You’ve been friends for enough time now that it’ll never be weird to crawl beneath the sheets with him, anyway. At first, he didn’t really like sharing (he’s a bit… particular with how he sleeps, after all), but he got used to your weight on the mattress beside him quite quickly and makes a point to say he always sleeps better with you. 

He hasn’t curled up next to you for the night in over two years. It’s awful, that that’s what he thinks about now as he turns off the lights and you settle down, shuffling under the comforter until he slides in next to you in the dark and you can lay your head on his chest. He knows it’s selfish. He thinks it probably makes him a bad person, too. 

“Do you think—” you start to say, cut off by a long, vocal yawn. Your breath feels so warm through his t-shirt. “If you fall out of love with them… do the colours go away?”

With his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling he can’t even see, Vernon feels his heart shatter beneath the soft cushion of your cheek. He’s suddenly grateful he’s still fully clothed, as if the cotton barrier is the only thing stopping you from getting scratched by the splinters beneath his skin. He wonders if you hear it. It would be an easier explanation for why he doesn’t say anything than whatever his mouth could come up with, that’s for sure. 

“I don’t know,” he says after a few seconds too long. The arm wrapped around your shoulders slips down to your waist and he squeezes you. Briefly, he wonders if it can force your broken pieces back together. 

Vernon knows he would never do this to you. He’d never hurt you this way. Out of everyone he’s ever met, he thinks you’re the sweetest, the kindest, the most thoughtful of them all. The last person he’d ever wish a heartbreak upon. He even used to joke that he’d go to war with anyone who dared to try. 

But now he’s seeing it happen? He feels as if he really could. 

“I just hope you never have to find out,” he follows up, blinking back the thoughts that start to bubble away as your breaths slow down. 

He wrapped a band-aid around your finger when you got a papercut once and you asked him, then, if he would kiss it better. 

When you bumped your head in the playground, the same. 

He’d kiss it all better now too, if he could. He’d show you how you deserve to be loved. 

And he doesn’t just think it, anymore; Vernon knows that this makes him a terrible person. 

“I hope you don’t, either,” you mumble back. “... and I hope we find them soon.”

He’s so proud of you.

Okay, it never took much. He’s been proud of you for every good grade you’ve ever achieved, every doctor's appointment you booked for yourself, every trip to the dentist you stressed over. He’s been proud of you for finishing projects you were struggling with. Proud of you for learning new recipes. For every milestone, personal or professional, it’s the first thing he makes sure to say. 

[ hey, look at u go!!! proud of u :) ]

Now? He’s seen you crawl from rock bottom to the top of the world. It hasn’t been easy. There have been hurdles and barriers and sometimes, sixty foot high walls you’ve had to climb up and over, but you’ve done it. You’re thriving. Every time he looks at you, these days, if you’re not wearing a smile there are at least traces of one in your eyes, on your face, in your voice. Happiness suits you, and he’s so, so proud of you for getting here. 

He knows you’re doing better, because between Christmas and New Year, you asked him if he wanted to come to a party with you. At first, he wasn’t sure; the holidays left his wallet feeling a little light and he’s been on a really good streak of not drinking anything lately, but when you promised that you’d stay sober too, he kind of couldn’t say no. 

[ i just wanna see in the new year with my favourite person ever <3 ]

[ ha. flattery will get u everywhere ]

So here he finds himself, out in the backyard of somebody he’s never met, a can of Coke in one hand and your gloved fingers holding tightly onto the other. You dragged him outside at five minutes to midnight and — though he doesn’t know why — you decided you didn’t want to let go. Vernon certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make you. Your warmth down his left side is settling the slight unease he’s felt all evening while also making him feel tipsier than he’s ever been under the influence of any amount of soju; he thinks maybe this should scare him, but he’s just… so glad he came.

With sixty seconds until the clock strikes twelve, somebody stands up on top of the picnic table in the yard and starts to try and coordinate a countdown. With forty-five, Vernon squeezes your hand, butterflies where his stomach ought to be. With thirty, he takes a long drain of his drink, finishing it as if it’ll give him some courage, maybe, or… he doesn’t know. Zero sugar, zero caffeine — there’s no logic behind his process, just a lot of bubbles and artificially sweetened syrup. All the same, he crushes the can against his thigh and slips it into his pocket to throw away later. That alone relieves a bit of his adrenaline. 

Not enough, but some. 

With ten seconds remaining, the first shout drowns out the white noise in his ears, the chaos of his thoughts. 10. He joins them. So do you. 9. 8. Your voice is the loudest, the most excited sounding. You want this year to be over. You want the rest of your life to begin. 

7. 6. 5.

The crackers are set. Flames dance at the end of the garden on fire lighters, ready to send rockets shooting into the sky. 

Some people here are going to see them as they truly are. Brilliant and vibrant and colourful against the black canvas of the midnight sky. Vernon won’t. Neither will you. But what was it you said to him once?

4. 3.

Maybe I don’t need to see in colour. 

2.

For the first time, he thinks he agrees. The feeling of loving you, even if he never knows green from red, blue from orange? He doesn’t care. He has you. He loves you. That’s enough. 

1.

Happy New Year. 

As if dawn has broken early, the world becomes impossibly bright, pyrotechnics bursting not only over your own heads but everywhere, as far as his eyes can see. After the first few, he permits himself a glance over at your face: there are tears running down it, and his heart stutters, but then he hears you laugh. Brightly, wetly, more resonant than any of the booms and crackles and cheers he can feel all the way down to his toes. 

For whatever reason, Vernon starts laughing with you. 

You pull him closer into a bone-crushing hug and blink your damp lashes against the side of his neck. “Thank you for being here with me,” you say to him, practically shouting to be heard. “I love you so much.”

“I’m always gonna be with you,” he says as you pull back a little. Your arms are still around him. The chain of the bracelet he bought you all those years ago is bitterly cold against the back of his neck. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, all he knows is that they’re resting on the curve of your spine. He thinks he can see something in the way you look at him, so softly and tenderly and yet, in the twitch of your brow… 

Like you’re searching for something that might not be there. 

He knows his gaze moves in a perfect triangle — from your left eye, to your slightly parted, wind-chapped lips, to your right. He knows he stops breathing. He swears you do, too. Something builds — a spark catches, an energy festers, egged on by the curious murmurs of the people around you. 

You could do it, his brain tells him. 

So what if he’s a few minutes late for it to be traditional? Does it really matter? 

But he’s reminded, again, this time with a whizz and a boom and a crackle, that you aren’t his to have this way. His storybook moment fizzles out, the final firework bursting into sparkles overhead. He sees every one of your perfect features brighten in wonder as you tilt your head back to look up at it. Sees it beautifully reflected in your glassy eyes. He has about enough time to commit the image to memory before you clear your throat and finally step away from him, losing all touch for the first time since you came outside. 

One of your friends comes and pulls you into an embrace, before passing you along to someone else, and then someone else again. He loses you in the crowd that rushes to get back in the warm, but he makes no effort to move with them. He just stays out in the dark for a while with his own thoughts for company, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He’s happy, though. It’s like you said. 

Being in love is enough.

“There’s just one more thing,” you say as the waitress returns with your bank card and a receipt. Vernon slides you a look as he stands, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair he’s been sitting in. 

He shakes his head at you. “Whatever it is, it better not be edible,” he laughs. “I think this is the most full I’ve ever been.”

In other words, you’ve done enough already. Stop spending money on me. Please. Thankfully, your final surprise is in-keeping with his unspoken rule. 

His birthday rolled around way too quickly. The start of the year has been so chaotically busy; you swear, you’ve hardly seen him since he dropped you off home after the party. You moved out of your parents’ house for the second time a few weeks ago and settling in, unpacking boxes, sorting through clothes and belongings and trinkets has taken you much longer than you care to admit. You’ve been busy at work, too. So has he. Your social calendars have barely lined up at all. 

But you were determined to make plenty of time for him on his birthday. 

To Vernon, this has always just been another day. He’s never cared too much about big celebrations: as long as he can spend some time with people he cares about, he’s happy, and this year he’s managed exactly that. He saw his family this morning, had some friends drop by his apartment later in the day, and now, he’s with you. 

You’ve never been great at the laid-back approach, though. Not with him. How could you be, when he does so much for you, always without even batting an eye? When he deserves to be doted on, and adored, and thoroughly spoiled? It’s the same every year. You make a fuss, he playfully scolds you for it; you and he are creatures of habit. It’ll probably never change. 

This year, you invited him to your new place to open the gifts you’d bought him: the new speaker he kept saying he couldn’t justify buying, a record he looked at in the store a few months ago but never bought, a sweatshirt to replace the one you stole off him on New Years Eve. Some candies he likes. Then, after he finally stopped pouting and sighing that you really didn’t need to go to all this effort, you took him out for dinner, making a reservation for two at his favourite restaurant. 

The pouting continued. 

Only up until your appetisers came out, though. The moment your food was placed down in front of you, his eyes doubled in size and his lips became a little too busy to stay pursed. Your own dinner almost went cold with how fondly you sat and watched him. This year, you even spared Vernon the embarrassment of having the restaurant staff sing at the side of your table. 

All right, you have an ulterior motive, but… it’s the thought that counts, right? 

He holds the door open for you now as you thank the waitress who served you one last time and without him lowering his arm, you step into place beneath it. Tucked up into Vernon’s side, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been. Nervous, too, but… you have a good feeling. 

“Where to?” He asks as you fall into step together. 

“This way.”

You emerge from the shelter of the canopy outside the restaurant’s front door and immediately feel the cool tickle of a snowflake landing on your cheek. They started to fall while you were eating and Vernon couldn’t stop watching through the window, small specks that grew over the hour into big clumps that tumbled towards the ground. He’s always loved the snow, and there’s no real destination for this gift, anyway. You guide him to the left and watch as peace takes its rightful home on his beautiful features. 

“We’ve walked in a perfect square three times now,” Vernon says after a little while of meandering about in the dark, making comfortable small talk and laughing as the champagne bubbles in your stomachs continue to fizz away. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

You wondered how long it was going to take him to notice, or even if he was going to realise at all. Looking up and down the street you’re on, you stop in your tracks, standing beneath the same flickering street lamp that you’ve passed twice already. Your footprints trail both behind and in front of you, neither quite covered yet by the snowfall. You break into a laugh when you notice that the convenience store on your left has closed since the last time you came down this road. 

“I can get a map open, if…” Vernon starts, reaching into his pocket. You stop him, stepping out from under his arm and wrapping your hand around his wrist instead.

“I might’ve told a little white lie,” you confess, 

He halts with his phone only half pulled out, pushing it into his hip for fear of it falling if either of you let go. “What do you mean?” He asks. 

You know he’s probably thinking back to your earlier conversations, trying to figure out which part exactly is the mistruth you’re now admitting to. But whether he gets there on his own or not, he waits for you to answer. 

“I had it with me this whole time,” you explain, readjusting your hold on his covered forearm. His eyes dart downwards, looking at the site of contact, but he quickly lifts them back up to your face. “I was just… waiting for… ”

“What are you talking about?” Vernon asks. 

“Close your eyes.”

You know.

Unfortunately for your best friend, as hush-hush as he’s managed to be all this time, the same can’t be said for the other person he entrusts all his secrets to. A few weeks ago, when you’d called Seungkwan to coordinate timings for Vernon’s birthday plans, he’d accidentally let something slip. It was your suggestion of taking Vernon to dinner that did the trick. 

“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Seungkwan had gushed. You could hear the breadth of his smile down the phone and felt yourself growing hot at the compliment.

“You really think so?”

“Pfft. You could take him to the Eiffel Tower or to a drive-through KFC, and he’d still have hearts in his eyes – because it’s you.”

Of course, he attempted to do some damage control immediately after. Make out that he meant it in strictly platonic terms. But once the idea planted itself in your head, it sort of… made sense. You mulled it over for a couple of days but when you finally asked Seungkwan, deathly serious, if he really thought you stood a chance with Vernon?

He practically screamed ‘yes’ down the phone. 

“The last time you asked me to do this, you killed me at laser-tag,” Vernon says, narrowing his eyes. He surely doesn’t think you’re hiding a plastic gun underneath the coat he literally just watched you don, but he doesn’t do as you ask and you suck your front teeth at him.

“Luckily for you, I left all my weapons at home,” you counter. “Come on, please. Just… trust me.”

“Said that last time, too,” he snickers. But, to his merit, he finally does it. He takes in a breath and follows your instruction. “I swear to God…”

Selfishly, you take a moment to bask in how handsome he really is. His eyes twitch underneath his lids and snowflakes cling to his lashes, moving with them. It’s in his hair, too. On his shoulders. Melting on his cheeks, leaving small wet spots on his face. One lands perfectly on the tip of his nose. You would immortalise this moment, if you could.

It made sense, when you found out, because thinking back? Nobody has ever loved you how Vernon does. He shows it in so many ways – he sends you the songs that he hears and thinks you’ll like, the pretty photographs that he takes when he’s away for work, some variant of a ‘good morning’ text, almost every day. He massages your shoulders, lets you fall asleep on his lap, follows you around like an obedient puppy when you have errands to run just so you don’t have to do them on your own. 

He tries, and often fails, to cook you breakfast when you stay over. He brings you coffees, or lunch. He looks at you like you’re the moon and the stars. People have teased for years that you could be psychically connected. That you were cosmically united. That it was fate for Vernon to move into the house down the street from you when you were nine. To be the only other child your age on the block. 

Two people, perfect for one another, lives intertwined eternally by fate. Or, in other words…

“Are you…?” He asks, breaking the quiet that has only been filled with your cloud-forming breaths. 

“Give me a second,” you breathe. There’s no doubt in your mind.

You lean forward to kiss him softly, free hand settling against the side of his neck. In the February chill, Vernon freezes, no part of his body reacting to you except for his lips. Though they twitch in a gasp, they press back against yours as if he isn’t even thinking about doing it. As if it’s instinctual. As if he was always supposed to kiss you – as if he’s your…

There it all is, when you finally pull away.

Brown eyes, framed by fluttering lashes that untangle from one another to finally see you, too. Brown, you know, because when you asked your mother to tell you about Vernon’s colours when you were younger, that was the only one she told you, saying everything else might change when he got older. Warm, brown eyes. Glistening with every blink, blink, blink of the bulb above you. Pupils slowly dilating, drowning the colours out of view. You see his lids shoot wide as he realises, as he glances left and right, as he takes this new world in for the first time, too. 

“I knew it,” you say on a stuttered breath, so overwhelmed you could cry. “My soulmate.”

A brilliant smile threatens to split Vernon’s features in two as he cups your cheeks and pulls you back to him, kissing you again, and again, and again. 

“I know you are,” he says against your lips, his bare thumbs pink and cold as they press into your skin. And, before you can kiss him quiet – “but what ‘m I?”

thank u so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3

[goldfades]

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ juju watkins ¹² (part 2/3)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST | PART ONE

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | she was born to be great—legacy inked in her blood, she was a taurasi. committing to usc was supposed to be her moment, her name, her story. but this is juju watkins' court. and kingdoms don’t like to be threatened.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | unedited, lots of word vomit, SLOOOOW burn, sapphic yearning, enemies to lovers themes, juju being obsessed w reader and implications of mommy issues.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | part two!! yaya!! i actually love this series sm. also would u guys fw a paige/uconn spin off of this? lmk!

The gym clears out slower than usual.

No one’s rushing to the locker room today. Not after what they just witnessed. Some of the freshmen linger by the Gatorade cooler, whispering to each other. A few upperclassmen give you and Juju side-eyes as they gather their bags, as if trying to process what just happened.

You’re not sure what just happened either. All you know is your chest is still heaving and your limbs are electric, like your blood’s been rewired.

And Juju… Juju didn’t look at you once after that final whistle. Not when Coach gave her praise, not even when you brushed past her on the way to the tunnel.

She’s avoiding it. You can feel it.

You’re not sure whether that pisses you off or makes you want to chase her down and force her to talk about it.

Instead, you do what you always do after an intense practice. You head straight to the training room. Your muscles are screaming, sweat still dripping down your back as you strip your hoodie and toss it in the bin.

The tub’s already half full when you get there — the water cloudy with ice, cold fog rolling over the edge like mist.

You grab a towel to wrap around your sports bra, slide off your shorts, and sink into the water with a hiss.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, legs disappearing into the freezing depths. Your jaw clenches on instinct.

The cold doesn’t scare you. You grew up in the Midwest. You’ve played through worse.

But still — the first few seconds are like needles.

You’re halfway through mentally counting down from ninety when the door creaks open.

You glance up.

And of course.

It’s her.

Juju Watkins. In a fitted black sports bra, her high ponytail loosened and clinging to her neck from sweat. She’s holding a water bottle, chewing on the edge of the cap like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

You do.

You wish you didn’t — but suddenly, you really, really do.

She pauses in the doorway when she sees you. Her eyebrows lift slightly. Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, but something like recognition.

You look away, dunking your shoulders a little deeper into the tub, letting the ice bite your collarbones.

“I didn’t know someone already claimed the tub,” Juju says, voice neutral, but her eyes stay locked on you.

“You can share,” you say flatly, not looking at her. “Unless you’re scared.”

That gets her. You hear the small scoff under her breath.

Juju tosses her water bottle on the bench and steps out of her slides. “Scared of you?”

You don’t respond. You keep your eyes straight ahead as she strips off her compression shorts, revealing strong, sculpted legs and black spandex underneath. She's tall, toned, and still somehow graceful even as she lowers herself into the tub beside you.

The water shifts violently. Ice sloshes against your thighs.

“Damn,” she mutters, teeth gritting. “Every time I forget how cold it is.”

You glance sideways. Just for a second.

Her legs are fully submerged, knees bumping yours under the water. You shift slightly, but there’s nowhere to go. The tub’s only meant for one.

Your shoulders brush.

Neither of you speak.

You stare ahead, trying to focus on your breathing.

But the tension — that buzzing, electric thread between you — is back, thick enough to taste.

Juju lets out a slow breath. “Practice was different today.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A pause.

You study her face. There’s a quietness there, something you haven’t seen before. Less pride, more calculation. Like she’s trying to make sense of you — this new version of you who knows exactly where she’s going to be on the court, who doesn’t flinch when she barks a command mid-possession.

“You always this intense?” she asks suddenly, her eyes scanning your profile.

You raise a brow. “Look who’s talking.”

“No, I mean…” She hesitates, biting her bottom lip for a second. “You play like it’s personal.”

You meet her gaze. “It is personal.”

That hangs in the air for a moment too long.

You watch her blink. Her expression shifts, softens, just barely.

“I used to hate that,” she admits, voice quiet. “When people brought emotion into the game. I thought it made them sloppy.”

“And now?”

Juju looks at you. Really looks.

And something passes between you — a current too sharp to ignore. Her mouth parts slightly, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick comeback.

The air between you turns thick. Hot, despite the freezing water. You can feel the heat radiating off her skin where your arms are brushing, a line of contact that neither of you dares to break.

You glance down for a second — a mistake.

Her thighs under the water, muscles flexed from tension. The way her stomach rises and falls, breath controlled but shallow. The way a single drop of water clings to the curve of her jaw before trailing down her neck.

You look away fast, heart hammering.

But she saw it. You know she did.

And for the first time, you feel the shift in her — in her posture, her energy. The smallest ripple of awareness.

You don’t have to say anything. Juju leans back against the tub wall, her shoulders tensing.

And then she mutters, low and almost annoyed, “This is stupid.”

You frown. “What is?”

“This,” she says, gesturing between you without meeting your eyes. “You. Me. Whatever this is.”

You laugh under your breath. “Then get out.”

She doesn’t move.

Instead, Juju’s jaw ticks. “It’s just… you’re annoying as hell, and arrogant, and you talk too much.”

You tilt your head. “But?”

“But you make me better,” she snaps. “And I don’t know how to deal with that.”

It’s the closest thing to a confession you’ve ever heard from her.

Your mouth curls at the corner. “You’re welcome.”

Her eyes narrow — but there's no venom behind it.

Just frustration. And something else.

She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s seeing you clearly for the first time. And maybe she is. Maybe the adrenaline from practice hasn’t worn off. Maybe it’s the shared silence, the vulnerability of cold water and aching muscles and the way your knees are still touching under the surface.

But Juju Watkins is looking at you like you’re dangerous.

Not because of your game.

But because you’re starting to feel good.

Comfortable. Familiar.

Like something she could get used to.

And that, more than anything, terrifies her.

She leans back again, closing her eyes, trying to will the feeling away.

But it’s already there.

Planted. Blooming. Buried under frustration and rivalry and pride, but unmistakably real.

Juju Watkins doesn’t like you. Not really.

But she’s attracted to you.

And now that she’s seen it — seen the sweat on your skin, the heat in your eyes, the control in your voice when you told her it is personal — she knows she’s not going to be able to unsee it.

Not now.

Not ever.

--

After that, everything became different. At least, in Juju's head.

You're on the sideline, sweat still clinging to your skin, jersey riding up on your waist as you strip off your shooting shirt and tug your hair down from its braids. You're still catching your breath, chest heaving slightly, neck glistening in the early morning light filtering through the windows. You know how you look—have to know. Custom socks rolled to just the right length, diamond-studded studs peeking through your second holes, lashes curled, nails short but perfect.

You weren’t trying to serve. You just… exist like this.

Across the gym, Juju notices. She’s mid-laugh with one of the guards, towel slung over her shoulders, and you swear—swear—her eyes catch on your bare stomach for a half-second longer than necessary. Her laughter falters, just slightly. You pretend not to notice.

She looks away fast, muttering something under her breath and tossing her towel in the bin. But her jaw’s tight. Like she's annoyed at something.

Like she's annoyed at you.

“You good?” Kiki asks, eyebrow raised as she follows Juju toward the locker room.

Juju shrugs, but there’s a strange stiffness to her. Her usual loose, relaxed walk has a little more tension today. And even though her face is neutral, Kiki doesn't let it go.

“I saw the way you were lookin’.”

Juju stops mid-step. “Huh?”

“You stared, girl. Hard.”

Juju scoffs. “Please.”

“Please what? She’s literally fine as hell and you know it.”

Kiki’s teasing, but it hits a little too close to home. Juju spins around like she’s trying to shake something off, like just saying it out loud is enough to ruin her day.

“She’s too polished,” Juju says quickly, like that explains it. “Too clean. Probably dated half the damn football team before she got here.”

Kiki laughs. “You jealous?”

Juju’s head snaps toward her. “Hell no.”

You don’t hear this, of course. You're still on the court, talking to one of the assistant coaches about film study, sipping your water, stretching your hamstring. But you feel something shift.

Because that whole practice? Juju hadn’t been barking at you like usual. Hadn’t shoved you with quite as much bite. She’d still been Juju—hard screens, tight defense, trash talk under her breath—but it was different. Focused. Calculated. Like she was studying you, not just guarding you.

Like she was curious.

And for the first time, her mouth ran quieter than her eyes.

Because there was heat in her stare. You caught it during the second scrimmage, right after you hit a step-back three over the zone. You saw her watching you jog back, chewing the inside of her cheek, like she hated that she respected it. Like she didn’t know where the line was between irritation and something else.

And you?

You knew.

You’d been around enough to recognize when admiration turned sour in someone’s throat. You could feel her sizing you up—your game, your presence, your effect. You weren’t cocky about it, but you didn’t shrink either.

You weren’t gonna play down the boys who’d tried to claim you, or the cameras that followed your high school career, or the fact that you came to USC with a personal trainer and a highlight reel longer than the team’s media day video.

You weren’t gonna get smaller just to make someone else comfortable. Not even her.

So when you walk into the locker room ten minutes later, shoulders squared, skin still flushed from the workout, you know something's shifted. The team is already half-dressed, music playing low through someone’s speaker, but Juju doesn’t look up when you pass her locker.

That’s how you really know.

Because Juju always had something to say. A glare. A grunt. A rolled-eye comment under her breath. But now, she’s completely still—laces undone, head down, pretending to focus on her socks like they’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And you feel it.

You feel the burn of her eyes when you sit down across from her. Feel the tension zip across the room when your knees almost brush. You can practically hear her trying not to look.

Kiki raises her brows from the side, clocking all of it, lips curling like she’s just waiting for this to explode.

“You good?” you ask her casually, twisting open your protein drink. Not to be petty—just to say it. Just to remind her she doesn’t intimidate you.

Juju finally glances up, her expression blank.

“Peachy,” she says.

But her ears are red.

You smirk, turning away.

She hates it.

Hates that she looked. Hates that she liked what she saw.

Hates that the idea of you—so perfectly curated, so crisp and camera-ready—makes her jaw clench and her thoughts stutter. That there’s something in you that reminds her of everything she’s tried to push away: attention, spotlight, control.

And still, she can’t help but wonder what your lip gloss tastes like.

But she swallows it down, lets it simmer into something else—annoyance, distance, denial.

She goes back to hating you before her next thought can form.

Because if she doesn't, if she lets it sit too long in her chest, she might admit the truth to herself.

That you're fire. Blinding. Sharp. And she's already a little burned.

It starts later that afternoon.

Not with another game. Not in a moment of glory, when the adrenaline’s pumping and your instincts have the wheel. No—it hits Juju when she’s already stripped of the day. No hoodie, no lashes, no performance. Just her. Just her aching body, a protein bar in hand, dragging herself toward the locker room ice baths like it’s the gates of hell.

She’s sore in a good way. The kind of sore that means something got unlocked. The kind of sore you only get when you really go there. And she did today—because of you.

You. God, you.

The way you moved beside her today like it was nothing. The way you didn’t flinch when she pushed the tempo, when she cut hard, when she barked a command under her breath—you just followed. Or led. Or matched, somehow.

It was addicting.

But that’s not what’s really pissing her off.

It’s not the way you played. It’s what came after.

That smirk.

That effortless, smug little curve of your lips when she drained that last jumper off your no-look dime.

Like you knew. Like you always know.

And maybe you do. Maybe you see things before they happen. Maybe that’s why Coach won’t shut up about you, why the team is slowly starting to look at you the way they used to look at her.

Or maybe it's just that you’re hot.

She thinks that thought quickly, disgustedly, like it’s a roach she just crushed with her shoe. She tells herself it doesn’t count if it’s involuntary. If it bubbles up from somewhere dark and inconvenient. If she swats it down fast enough.

She steps into the locker room and peels off her shirt with a wince. Her body’s worked to the limit, muscles tight, breath a little uneven. She tosses the shirt into her locker and sighs. It's quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights and the thrum in her chest she’s trying not to name.

The ice bath sits there like a challenge.

She mutters under her breath and steps into the cold, hissing as it eats up her calves, thighs, hips. Her abs seize at the shock, but she exhales, settling.

And then the door opens.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows it’s you.

The footsteps are cocky. Not loud. But present. Like you’re announcing yourself without saying a word.

You walk in like it’s your locker room and everyone else is lucky to be renting space.

You have a towel slung over your shoulder, sports bra on, little black spandex shorts hugging you like they were tailored. You're not doing anything special—just existing—and Juju wants to punch a wall.

Because now she gets it.

Why people flock to you. Why the freshmen whisper when you walk past. Why Coach watches you with the kind of expression she used to reserve for her.

It's not just the game. It’s the way you carry yourself.

Like the world is already yours, and you’re just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

You say nothing as you grab the other tub. You don’t even look at her. Just strip your hoodie, kick off your slides, and sink into the ice like it’s a pool at the Ritz.

Juju hates the way her stomach flips when your abs contract. When your hair drip into the water. When you lean back, resting your arms on the edge, eyes closed, jaw flexing as the cold settles in.

You're annoying. You’re arrogant. You’ve been a thorn in her side since the second you walked into training camp and refused to shrink in her shadow.

And now Juju can’t stop looking at your mouth.

She bites the inside of her cheek, turning her gaze away, but not fast enough. You catch her.

Of course you do.

Your eyes flick open and you glance over, and for a second—a dangerous second—your gaze drops to her shoulders, then back to her face. Your mouth twitches.

Juju rolls her eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“Stare harder,” you murmur, voice lazy and low. “Might see something you like.”

She scoffs, heat flashing in her chest. “Please.”

You close your eyes again. “Didn’t say it was me looking.”

And that—that—makes her want to scream.

Because she was staring. Because you know it. Because you're not even smug about it, not really—you're just calm. Settled in your skin in a way she used to be.

Now you’re the one who walks around like you’ve got nothing to prove.

And it pisses her off because you’re right. You’re good. You’re better than she expected. You make her play harder. Think faster. Reach deeper.

You make her feel—

Nope.

No.

Absolutely not.

She closes her eyes, leans her head back, and tells herself it’s just hormones. Or proximity. Or the adrenaline from practice that hasn’t worn off yet.

It’s not you. It can’t be you.

You're too much. Too loud, too smooth, too sexy in that careless way that people like Juju have to work twice as hard to fake.

You don’t fake anything.

You just are.

And worst of all—you made her enjoy today. Made her want to pass the ball, to share the spotlight, to laugh internally when you bumped shoulders on a fast break and didn’t even apologize, just grinned like you knew she wouldn’t mind.

She shouldn’t be thinking about that moment. The shoulder graze. The split-second warmth. The way you felt solid. Like someone who could take a hit. Like someone who could give it back.

She breathes in deep through her nose and exhales, hoping the cold will kill whatever this is growing in her.

It doesn’t.

It lingers. Quietly. In the silence between the two of you. In the way her body buzzes even in the ice. In the fact that you haven’t spoken again, haven’t pushed, haven’t smirked—because you don’t have to.

And that’s the real problem.

Because Juju doesn’t know how to play this game.

The one where wanting someone makes you worse. Or better. Or both.

The one where she has to be near you every day, and pretend like her pulse isn’t skipping when you tie your shorts tighter. When you towel off sweat with a twist of your torso. When you bite the straw of your protein shake and say something filthy without trying.

She hates you.

She hates you.

But now it's not because you're annoying.

Now it's because she understands the pull—and she resents the hell out of it.

She opens her eyes again. You're still reclined, a single drop of water trailing down your collarbone.

Juju looks away immediately, muscles locking, lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

And she tells herself this is just a phase.

Just tension.

Just adrenaline.

Not desire.

Definitely not that.

Because if it is, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s going to do about it.

And that’s the scariest part of all.

--

You felt it the second you stepped out of the tunnel.

The buzz. The flash of cameras. The sold-out crowd packed into the Galen Center like it was March already—like this wasn’t just a preseason game, but the championship itself. Phones up, kids in replica jerseys with your name and Juju’s scribbled in Sharpie across the backs, media crammed into the corners trying to get the best shot of the warmups.

You hadn’t even touched the ball yet and it already felt like a legacy night.

“Jesus,” Kiki muttered beside you, craning her neck to take in the stands. “It’s not even conference season.”

And it wasn’t. It was Stanford—ranked first, favored by every analyst, projected to steamroll every Pac-12 team on their way to the Final Four. But this wasn’t about rankings anymore. This was about you. You and Juju.

The monsters Coach had built.

Your name alone sold tickets. But together? You were mythology in the making.

The noise was deafening, even during layup lines. Your stomach flipped as you stepped onto the court, a little more aware of every movement, every camera flash that followed your stepback into a midrange pull-up.

You caught sight of Stanford on the other side—stoic, composed, polished like always. But there was a flicker in their eyes. Not nerves exactly. Uncertainty. Like they weren’t sure what to expect. Like they’d seen the clips, read the headlines, felt the weight of the whispers.

That USC had the two most dangerous players in the country.

And no one knew what would happen when they finally shared a real court.

The week leading up to the game had been hell, in the best way.

Coach had doubled practice time—film in the mornings, drills until sunset. Sprints. Trap reads. Zone breaks. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think about how this was your first college game. Your legs were heavy, muscles burning, but you felt sharper than ever. More dialed in. Like every rep was feeding something ancient in you. Something you hadn’t accessed since high school playoffs.

Juju hadn’t been any easier.

She was locked in. Mouth quieter, eyes meaner. If she wasn’t shooting, she was watching film. If she wasn’t lifting, she was in the gym, perfecting footwork until her socks tore. She didn’t talk to you much—barely acknowledged you except when you passed each other on the court—but when she did?

It was all heat.

Not rage anymore. Not hatred. Just friction. Electric. Wordless.

One afternoon, she hip-checked you going for a loose ball during a scrimmage, and you shoved her right back, both of you grinning before you realized it.

No one else could match you. No one else made you feel like that.

And maybe you hated that you loved it.

Game day came fast.

You were up early. Too early.

Hair was fresh—tight and clean, the way you liked it when it was a big night. Lashes curled, lips glossed, Jordan warmups on. Everything intentional. Everything curated for the cameras you knew would be watching. But underneath it all, your heart was beating fast. That old familiar rhythm of prove it, prove it, prove it.

You didn’t eat much at breakfast. Couldn’t.

Juju sat a few chairs down at the team meal, headphones in, hoodie up, stirring her oatmeal like she was somewhere else entirely. But you could tell she wasn’t.

She was right here with you. Vibing on the same adrenaline.

By the time you got to the gym, the team bus couldn’t even pull in the normal way. Fans were already crowding the back lot. Students. Kids. Parents. News crews. Signs waving, camera flashes going off, chants echoing before you even stepped out the door.

“What the fuck,” Avery whispered from the back of the bus.

You felt your pulse spike again.

They weren’t here for just any game. They were here for you and Juju.

Coach wasn’t even surprised.

She smiled the way a lion does before it eats.

“I told you,” she said, arms crossed as she stood by the locker room door. “You wanted smoke, we gave it to you.”

She waited until everyone was seated before she spoke again.

Her voice was low. Calm.

“You two.” She looked at you. Then Juju. “You’re the show. They came to see monsters. Give them hell.”

Warmups felt like a movie.

The DJ was blasting Rihanna, the student section was unhinged, and you couldn’t even pretend not to feel the energy vibrating through your sneakers. Every stretch, every form shot, every pass to Juju felt like choreography.

You didn’t speak to her. Not really.

But your eyes met more than once.

A nod. A look. An understanding.

We go. We take them apart. Together.

Coach called final huddle fifteen minutes before tip.

The whole team was sweating already, breathing hard, amped beyond belief. Some of the girls had never played in front of a crowd this big. Not even in high school state finals. It felt like a championship atmosphere—but Coach reminded you, steady as ever, that it was just the start.

“Don’t get caught up in the lights,” she warned, pacing slowly, voice even. “We’ve got a season to win. Not a moment. So stay sharp, stay fast, and for the love of God—pass the ball.”

That last part was directed at you and Juju.

Kiki snorted.

Coach rolled her eyes. “You two play nice or I’ll sit you both.”

You and Juju shared a glance. Just the ghost of a smirk.

You weren’t gonna play nice. You were gonna play lethal.

And tonight?

The world was gonna watch.

--

You could tell they were playing scared. Stanford wasn’t folding—not yet.

But they were rattled.

You saw it in the way their passes started to hesitate, in the way their eyes kept tracking Juju like she was a lit match and they were soaked in gasoline. You saw it in the way their star guard flinched every time you drove, like she didn’t want to get dunked on in a highlight that would run on Sportscenter before breakfast.

They hadn’t expected this. They thought you’d be green. Untested. All hype, no chemistry. They didn’t think you and Juju would actually work.

But you did. God, you did.

You didn’t even talk. You didn’t need to. The first half, it was all muscle memory and instinct, the invisible thread between you two pulling tighter and tighter until you moved like limbs on the same beast. One minute, she was taking the double team and dishing to you on the wing—the next, you were threading the bounce pass between two defenders like you knew exactly where she’d be cutting.

She finished it with a reverse lay-up that had the crowd losing its damn mind.

And still—still—it wasn’t enough.

Your team was flat. You and Juju were carrying. Carrying so hard your legs felt like bricks, chest already burning, jersey sticking to your back. And it was preseason. The first half wasn’t even over. They were all winded. Unsure. Eyes bouncing between you two like they didn’t know whether to follow or stay back.

You hit a buzzer-beating three to give USC the lead by three going into halftime, and when you jogged off the court, the crowd was standing.

You should’ve felt electric. But all you felt was pissed off.

The locker room was way too quiet. Coach was talking—whiteboard in hand, breaking down zone defense and rotations and shot selection—but you weren’t listening. You were pacing, chewing at the inside of your cheek, sweat dripping down your temple, jersey already tugged out of your shorts. You kept looking around, waiting for someone to be as fired up as you were.

Juju was slouched against the wall, sipping Gatorade, breathing hard but calm, her long legs stretched out in front of her. When your eyes met, she gave you the tiniest headshake.

Don’t lose it, it said.

You broke anyway.

“Okay, nah,” you snapped, stepping into the middle of the circle. “We’re not doing this.”

Some girls looked up. Coach raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop you. You didn’t care.

“This is our house,” you said, voice shaking but loud. “And we’re playing like we don’t belong here.”

No one said anything. You kept going.

“I don’t care if it’s preseason. I don’t care that it’s Stanford. I didn’t come here to almost win games. I came here to dominate.”

The silence stretched. Your hands were clenched.

“And if you don’t think we can do that, if you don’t think we can finish this game the way we started it, then sit the hell down and let the rest of us cook.”

Juju barked out a laugh. A real one. Low and surprised. You turned your head—and she was already nodding, eyes locked on yours.

“Say it louder,” she said, voice hoarse.

“This is our house,” you repeated, jaw tight. “And we don’t lose our first game on our own court.”

The second half?

Was legendary.

You opened with a steal and fast break, euro-stepping past their center for a clean finish off the glass. The crowd went feral. And from there, it was chaos. Electric, perfect chaos.

Juju caught fire—hit three straight jumpers from the top of the key like she was possessed. Every time you passed her the ball, she made it count. Her handles were disgusting, footwork elite, and the two of you ran that court like you’d been teammates since birth.

She’d look at you, and without saying a word, you knew what she wanted. Screen left. Backdoor cut. High-low action. It didn’t matter.

You gave it to her. And she gave it right back.

You fed off each other. Rebounded for each other. Trusted each other.

And somewhere around the 4th quarter, when you stripped the ball at half court and flung it ahead without even looking—Juju was already there. Caught it mid-air. Laid it in with a clean finger roll.

And the entire stadium exploded. Cameras were shaking. The student section was roaring. And the Stanford coach? She was pacing like she didn’t know what universe she’d landed in.

Because her girls were trying. And they were still down.

The final buzzer sounded. And for a second, you just stood there. Hands on your knees, chest heaving, jersey soaked, throat raw from calling switches. Your legs were jelly. Your arms heavy.

But you’d done it. You’d won. First game. Against Stanford. By six.

A narrow win on paper. But it meant everything.

You looked up through the chaos—confetti flying, fans jumping over rails, your teammates screaming and hugging and whooping—and caught sight of Juju across the court.

She was already looking at you. Just a nod. Just a smirk.

Like, we did that shit.

And for once—you didn’t hate her. You felt like you were staring at the other half of something unstoppable.

--

You were still trying to catch your breath when the door to the tunnel cracked open.

Your shoes squeaked as you slowed, wiping at your face with the hem of your jersey, skin flushed, hairline damp. The noise from the arena was still pulsing, echoing through the walls like a heartbeat—fans yelling, music thumping, lights strobing. You thought you’d imagined it at first. The creak. The shuffle.

Then you heard the voice.

“Well,” Penny said, her smile bright as ever. “That was one hell of a debut.”

You stopped short. Blinked. Swore your heart dropped into your shoes.

Standing just outside the tunnel, framed in the dim light like they’d stepped out of some fever dream, were Diana Taurasi and Penny Taylor—your moms. Not just legends, not just former pros, not just the ghosts of greatness past. But your ghosts. Your family.

And they were here.

You froze. “Wait—what—what the hell are you doing here?”

Penny beamed and stepped forward first, arms already outstretched. “You think we were gonna miss your first game? Please.”

You let her wrap you up, even though you were sticky and exhausted and probably smelled like a gym sock. You buried your face into her shoulder for just a second, trying not to crumple.

Because you hadn’t expected them. You’d told them not to come. Said it was just preseason, no big deal, you didn’t want the pressure, you didn’t want the noise. Diana had grunted something noncommittal on the phone earlier that week, and Penny had sounded like she was holding back tears.

You figured they were respecting your space.

You should’ve known better.

When Penny pulled back, she smoothed your jersey like she used to when you were twelve and playing AAU ball in oversized shorts. “You looked amazing, sweetheart. I mean it.”

Diana, of course, didn’t move. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, one brow cocked. Classic.

“Don’t get a big head,” she said. “Stanford played like crap.”

You scoffed. “Nice to see you too.”

She gave a slow shrug. “You had, what—twenty points?”

“Twenty-three,” you corrected.

“And how many turnovers?”

You opened your mouth and shut it again.

Penny gave Diana a light slap to the arm. “Di.”

“What? You want me to lie? She wants to play at this level, she better be ready for the feedback.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your chest wasn’t anger. It was something messier. Softer. The kind of love that sounded like criticism and felt like pride when you learned how to read between the lines.

Diana pushed off the wall and finally walked over, stopping just in front of you. She was quiet for a moment. Really looked at you. Like she was trying to decide what to say.

Then: “You ran that floor like you were born on it.”

Your throat went tight.

“…Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just reached up, smacked the back of your head lightly, and muttered, “Don’t let it go to your head, superstar.”

Then Penny leaned in, grinning like she couldn’t help it. “And that chemistry with Juju? Chef’s kiss.”

You groaned immediately, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh my god. Don’t start.”

Diana’s smirk was practically evil. “No, no, I want to hear about this. Because last week, you were crying on the phone about how that girl hated you.”

“She did hate me!”

“Did she?” Penny teased. “Because it didn’t look that way tonight. Looked more like mind reading. Or something intimate.”

“Gross,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

Diana made a fake gagging sound. “God, you’re soft.”

Penny bumped her gently. “Let her be soft. It’s a big night.”

You tried not to smile, but your face was betraying you. Your chest was still heaving. Your legs still ached. But they were here. Your moms were here. And no matter how many points you scored or games you won, that? That was the part you’d remember.

Even if they wouldn’t let you hear the end of it.

Diana slung an arm over your shoulder, guiding you toward the locker room.

“You did good, kid,” she said quietly. “Real good.”

Penny followed behind, practically glowing.

“And Juju’s cute, by the way.”

You groaned again.

--

Juju couldn’t sleep that night.

It wasn’t the win. It wasn’t the noise. It wasn’t even the ESPN alerts lighting up her phone like a Christmas tree, headlines calling them the “duo to watch.”

It was you.

And the way you moved with her—like it was natural. Like it wasn’t supposed to work and yet it did, over and over again. She could still see the exact way your fingers flicked the ball ahead of you, the blind pass that somehow landed perfectly in her path. She could still feel the phantom echo of your palm slapping hers in celebration, still hear your voice cutting through the huddle like a blade.

You were the one who lit the match. She just followed the smoke.

And now?

Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

God, no. No no no. She rolled onto her stomach, muffled a groan into her pillow.

She hated this. Hated that she noticed your mouth when you talked, hated that she was aware of how your jersey clung to you when you were drenched in sweat, hated that she’d laughed in the locker room when you went off like that—because she liked it.

She liked your fire. Your chaos. Your shameless hunger to win.

She liked you, and that was a problem.

Because Juju Watkins didn’t like people like you. She didn’t trust them. You were everything she usually steered clear of—loud, confident, annoyingly talented, pretty in a way that made people go stupid. The kind of person people watched when they walked in a room.

She’d spent the last month trying to pin it on ego. Told herself she hated your vibe, your attitude, the way you always had something to say. That you were too much, too fast, too everything.

But now?

Now she got it. She understood why people liked you so much. You were magnetic.

Juju clenched her jaw, turned over again, and pulled her hoodie over her head like it could suffocate the thought away.

She didn’t want to want you. She wanted to outplay you. Wanted to win despite you. Wanted to keep pretending that you were an obstacle, not an obsession in the making.

But you kept making it harder. You kept showing up, matching her step for step. Glaring at her in practice, not flinching when she got in your face, feeding her passes so clean they made her jaw go slack.

You weren’t her enemy anymore. And maybe that was worse.

Because now she wasn’t mad because you were annoying. She was mad because she didn’t know what to do with this. With you. With the way you made her feel like maybe—just maybe—you were the one person who could match her.

Or worse… undo her.

And that? That scared the hell out of her.

--

You’ve always moved like that with her, ever since the moment you stepped on the same court as her.

It wasn’t something you talked about or even really noticed at first—not until people started bringing it up. But even in preseason, even in the mess of two-a-days and team meetings and learning a whole new system, you and Juju were in step.

You’d drift left on the break, and she’d already be launching the outlet pass. She’d cut hard baseline, and you’d know to hit the pocket before she even turned her head. You weren’t trying to prove anything to her then. It wasn’t about chemistry or connection. It was just instinct. Ease. Like your games knew each other before either of you had the chance to catch up.

But it didn’t look like much at the time—not to anyone outside those closed practices. Reporters wrote about you like a time bomb. “Two alphas, one ball.” “Fire meets fire.” “Can the Trojans survive the clash?”

You heard it all. Sometimes laughed about it under your breath in the locker room. Sometimes let it get under your skin. Not because they doubted you—but because they didn’t see it. What was already there. What had always been there.

But you didn’t care enough to make them see it. Not until Stanford.

That game changed everything.

Suddenly, the spacing was perfect. The tempo? Yours. Every screen she set gave you daylight. Every double team they threw at her, you punished. The two of you ran transition like a dance. You hit her in stride off a spin—no-look, no hesitation. She tossed you a half-court bounce pass with two defenders chasing her blindside, and it landed in your hands like magic.

The ESPN clip went viral within hours. Someone edited it to Beyoncé. “These two aren’t teammates, they’re telepathic,” the caption read.

And maybe they were right. Because from that night on, things were different.

The country stopped seeing you as separate.

You were a unit now.

They gave you names—The Ice Twins, Fire and Ice, The Coldest Backcourt. SportsCenter ran daily highlight reels with just you two. Not even the whole team—just you two. Breaking press, trapping defenders, throwing no-looks, clapping back on defense with chase-down blocks and swipes so clean they slowed the footage down just to catch it.

And the thing was… you liked it.

Not the spotlight, exactly—but what it meant.

It meant people were starting to understand what you’d already known. That it wasn’t just about talent or athleticism or who scored more. It was the way you played. How everything felt cleaner when she was on the floor with you. How your instincts sharpened. How your patience deepened. How you never had to wonder where she’d be.

By mid-November, you were undefeated.

And not just winning—dominating. Games were decided by halftime. Opposing coaches started building entire scouting reports around how to stop you and Juju. “Double the point.” “Force her left.” “Switch every screen.”

It didn’t matter.

You two adjusted mid-game like it was nothing. You’d fake the flare just to pull defenders away from her cut. She’d slip the screen early if you hesitated on your drive.

Even Coach started building the lineup around you. Centered sets on your spacing. Let you and Juju freelance out of horns. There were new drills in practice just for the two of you—two-man game, downhill reads, ghost screens. You ran them without thinking. By December, you were calling plays without needing hand signals. Just eye contact. Just feel.

It stopped being something you worked on. It just was.

And weirdly… that was the most intimate part of it all.

Because you didn’t talk about it. Not really. You didn’t sit down and say, hey, this feels good, doesn’t it? You just showed up to the gym every day, knowing she’d be there too. You let her throw you reps at 6am, rebounded for her until your arms were sore. You started noticing the way she paced during timeouts, how she clenched her jaw when she was annoyed. You started talking more, then less. Your communication narrowed into something sharper than words.

You never labeled it. The media tried. “Do you guys hang out off the court?” “What’s the secret to your connection?” “Have you ever fought over who gets the last shot?”

You’d both shrug. Maybe smile.

But the truth was, it did feel weird to play without her. Like missing a limb. If she sat for too long, you got restless. If you got in foul trouble, she tightened up. There was a kind of silence when only one of you was on the floor. Like holding your breath. Like waiting for the beat to drop.

You were both great on your own. That much had always been true.

But together? Together, you were terrifying.

Not just because of the stats or the highlight reels or the growing pile of wins—but because of how effortless it was. How second nature. Like the game made more sense when it filtered through both of you. Like you were born to balance each other.

You were calm where she were fire. You were still sharp where she was steady. But instead of canceling each other out, you just… amplified. Completed. Created something between you that couldn’t be touched.

And you knew, deep down, if you kept showing up. Kept pushing. Kept trusting—there wouldn’t be a defense in the country that could stop you.

And no one really noticed when it turned into something more than just teammates with insane chemistry. First came the little things.

Like when Coach started randomly switching up the rooming assignments during road games and you and Juju stopped complaining about getting paired together. The silence that used to feel sharp and cold turned soft. Sometimes you both just laid in your hotel beds in total quiet, headphones in, legs aching from practice, phones forgotten on the nightstand. Not talking, not fighting.

Just breathing in the same space.

Eventually, someone on the team caught you two eating lunch alone at the athlete dining hall—headphones still in, still not talking, but choosing to sit across from each other anyway. That’s when the jokes started.

“You guys married now or what?” someone teased.

Juju rolled her eyes and muttered something rude, and you laughed, cheeks warm.

But you didn’t move.

It was the late-night rides home after away games that did it.

Those long, sleepy drives back to campus with your teammates passed out across bus seats, wrapped in sweatshirts and oversized headphones. That’s when Juju would slide into the seat across from you, sometimes even next to you if the front rows were empty. She’d stretch her legs out, lean her head back, and stare out the window. Never said much.

But it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

It felt like a rhythm.

You started swapping snacks halfway through one of those rides. You handed her a pack of Sour Patch Kids without asking if she wanted some. She looked at you like you’d just handed her your entire bank account, but she took one. Just one. You didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to.

Another time, you passed her your charger when her phone was at 3%. She mumbled something that might’ve been “thanks.” You just nodded.

Sometimes, you caught her watching you. Not in a creepy way. Just... observing. Like she was trying to understand you. Like she was surprised you weren’t as soft as she’d assumed.

Because you weren’t. Not really.

Juju started noticing it before you did—the you let people push you around.

Not your teammates. Not Coach. But on the court? You’d get shoved, elbowed, yanked off screens, and you wouldn’t say a word. You’d take it, tighten your jaw, shake it off. You played clean, precise, and relentless, but you didn’t bark back.

And that did something to Juju.

She hated it.

One game, in Arizona, you took a hard shoulder to the chest that had you stumbling back. It was borderline dirty. You didn’t even complain. Just caught your breath, flexed your hands, and went to inbound the ball like nothing happened.

The next play, Juju didn’t even try to hide her retaliation.

She boxed the girl out so hard she hit the floor, and Juju stood over her just long enough to get a warning from the ref. When you gave her a look, she shrugged like, What?

After that, it became a pattern.

Every time someone got too rough with you, Juju inserted herself. Not with words—but with presence. Her body. Her physicality. Like she was drawing a line no one else could cross.

“She got a guard dog now?” you heard someone mutter from the opposing bench once.

You didn’t correct them. You kind of liked it.

And like any athlete, media days were where things changed for you.

Because while Juju became your defender on the court, you became hers off it.

It was subtle at first. A question from some outlet with too many consonants in its name about Juju’s “attitude.” You could see it in her jaw—how she tensed. Bit the inside of her cheek. How the smile slipped.

You leaned forward before she could even answer.

“Or maybe,” you said, voice even but firm, “you’re just not used to confident women who aren’t here to coddle you.”

The room went still.

Juju blinked. And then—slowly—smirked.

You weren’t the same person in those interviews anymore. You dropped the polished, picture-perfect responses and started speaking with edge. Especially when it came to her. You called out the microaggressions. Shut down the loaded questions. You didn’t let them frame her as the villain just because she didn’t smile on cue.

“She’s not rude,” you said once. “She’s focused. You should try it sometime.”

It caught on fast. Twitter clips. TikToks. Headlines that read like:

“Y/N and Juju: USC’s Unlikely Dynamic Duo” “Y/N Taurasi Defends Teammate in Viral Interview—‘Try Respecting Black Women’” “USC’s Power Pair: The Fire and Ice of College Basketball”

And every time one of those interviews dropped, Juju didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to.

You’d catch the way she looked at you.

Not surprised anymore. Just... seeing you.

You didn’t know when “teammates” stopped being the right word.

It wasn’t one moment. It was a million small ones stitched together across bus rides, hotel rooms, and sideline glances. It was the way she always stood behind you in warmups, like a silent shield. The way her elbow brushed yours during timeouts and lingered. The way she passed you the ball like she was daring you to score, because she knew you would.

It was the way she didn’t like anyone else talking to you too long after games.

The way you caught yourself watching her mouth when she was chewing gum.

The way you said “we” when you talked about plays now, without even thinking.

It was slow, and steady, and impossible to ignore. You didn’t talk about it.

--

The gym smells like lemon cleaner and something deeper—old sweat sealed into the wood grain, worn-down sneakers that still left their ghosts behind. It's late. Later than it should be. The kind of hour where nothing feels real and everything feels possible.

You’re barely a month into the season. November has blurred into December, the first wave of jitters and expectations settling into something steadier, something lived-in. You’ve found your rhythm—kind of. Enough to stop overthinking your minutes, enough to know when to push and when to float. You’ve made peace with the way the locker room works, with the inside jokes you weren’t around for and the ones you’re slowly being let in on. Enough to not flinch when Coach starts yelling, and enough to know Juju Watkins won’t ever stop pretending she doesn’t care.

Which brings you here. After practice, after film, after everyone else has gone home to ice baths and late-night DoorDash orders. The gym empty but not quiet, the hum of the lights and your shared breath filling the space. You’re both stretched out across the court, practicing... something. It started with a “hey, let’s run through that action from the second half again,” and now it’s evolved—or maybe devolved—into made-up tricks and weird passes, just to see if they land.

It's not structured. It's not even smart. But it’s chemistry.

Juju’s dribbling in slow motion, clearly mocking you, her tongue peeking out in concentration like she’s trying to master some impossible move. You’re sprawled on the three-point line watching her, arms crossed, smirking like you’ve got the cheat code to her whole existence. You don’t—but it’s fun to pretend.

“Real smooth,” you say as she fumbles the ball off her foot and blames the floor. “You trying out for the Harlem Globetrotters or what?”

“Nah,” she shrugs, “I already got a team.”

“Barely,” you say, walking toward her and kicking the ball back her way. “You be acting like a teammate and a tourist at the same time.”

That gets a reaction. Not much of one, but enough. She scrunches her nose like she’s offended and amused in equal measure.

“You talk too much,” she says.

“And you don’t talk enough,” you fire back. “Maybe we balance each other out.”

She looks at you, really looks at you, for a second too long. You know that look. She’s trying to decide if she can trust you, or maybe just trying to figure out what you want. You don’t make it easy.

“Or maybe you just like hearing yourself,” she mutters.

“You’d be surprised how many people like hearing me,” you grin, toeing the ball toward her again. “It’s kind of a gift.”

Juju catches it this time, spinning it lazily on her finger like she’s not impressed.

“I’m not one of them.”

“No,” you say. “You’re the one who texts me at eleven asking to ‘run sets.’”

She rolls her eyes and turns away, heading toward the baseline again. You follow, obviously. You always do.

“You didn’t have to show up,” she says over her shoulder.

“You knew I would.”

She shrugs, but her pace slows. She’s waiting for you to catch up.

It’s not the first time you’ve stayed late. It’s not even the first time it’s been just the two of you. But this feels different somehow. Not heavier—just more alive. There’s no clipboard, no assistant coach counting reps, no music blaring from the speakers. Just you and her and the soft thud of the ball when it hits the hardwood.

She stops near the free throw line and pivots to face you, nodding like she’s got an idea. “Alright,” she says, “you set the screen, I’ll curl around, no dribbles, just a catch-and-shoot. You ready?”

You blink. “You trust me to set the screen?”

“Moment of weakness.”

You snort, but you do it. She fakes one way, cuts the other, curls tight around you like muscle memory, and you flip the ball to her—clean, just where she wants it. She nails the shot.

It’s quiet after the swish. That kind of perfect sound that only happens when the ball kisses the net just right.

You clap, mock-serious. “Wow. A shooter. Who knew.”

“Don’t gas me now,” she says, smirking.

“Too late,” you grin, backing up to the wing. “I’m your biggest fan.”

She arches a brow, amusement flickering across her face like light through stained glass. “You a fan of everybody or just me?”

“Oh,” you say, pretending to consider it. “Just you. Everybody else is kind of mid.”

Juju laughs—actual, real laughter that she tries to swallow down too quickly, like it slipped out by accident. You don’t say anything, but you store it away, the way her laugh sounds at midnight in an empty gym, echoing just enough to feel important.

You run the play again. And again. It keeps getting smoother. Tighter. There’s a moment where she catches the ball and passes it back before even looking, already knowing you’re there.

That’s what this was about, right? Chemistry.

But it’s not just that. Not really. You both know it. It's about trust. About rhythm. About building something you can’t fake or force or script.

You grab a water bottle from the edge of the court and toss her one without looking. She catches it midair and gives you a nod like that means something now.

You flop down onto the court, sprawled out like your bones are too tired to keep pretending this is just about hoops. Juju hesitates, then sits down next to you—knees bent, arms draped across them.

There’s a beat of silence. Comfortable, not weird.

“You ever stop playing?” she asks, glancing sideways at you.

“Not unless I’m sleeping,” you say. “Even then I dream in crossovers.”

She laughs again. Softer this time.

You turn your head toward her. “Why’d you really ask me to come out here?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just rolls her water bottle between her palms and shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

“You move different,” she finally says, like that explains everything. “Thought I should figure out how to keep up.”

You smile, more to yourself than anything. She’ll never say it plain. That’s not her style. But this? This is her version of reaching out.

And you’ll take it. Every time.

The drills slow down. The passes get looser. Your fingers are starting to sting, your calves burn every time you reset your feet, and your shoulders ache from overuse. You know the signs—your body’s quitting, even if your mind’s still wired.

You wipe sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand and glance at Juju, who’s pacing toward the far sideline like she’s done too but won’t admit it first. You’d almost respect her more if she called it. But you know her by now.

“I swear, if we run that same play one more time—” you start, flopping backward onto the floor dramatically.

She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re the one who said you wanted to get our reads tighter.”

“That was before I realized you play like you’re trying to beat me at a one-on-one I didn’t agree to.”

“That’s crazy,” Juju says, grabbing the basketball and sitting beside you. “Because I am.”

You breathe out a laugh, arms spread wide across the hardwood like a crime scene. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

There’s a beat of silence. The good kind again. Your chest rises and falls slowly, sweat drying cold against your skin. You stare up at the rafters, letting the weight of the day press down, just enough to keep you grounded.

“Hey,” Juju says eventually, voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

You don’t look at her. Just blink at the ceiling and nod.

“What’s it like… being Taurasi’s kid?”

You blink again. This time slower.

You’ve been asked that before. Plenty of times. By reporters, by teammates, by random fans with camera phones and too much time on their hands. It’s usually an icebreaker, a compliment, a setup for someone else’s expectations. You’ve got the answers rehearsed in your bones.

“It’s great,” you say automatically. “She’s my biggest role model. Taught me everything I know.”

Juju doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t even pretend to.

“Nah,” she says. “I mean really.”

You finally turn your head to look at her. She’s watching you—one knee up, arm looped around it, sweat-damp curls escaping from her bun. Calm. Still. But curious in that way she gets when she wants the truth.

You exhale slowly, jaw clenched just enough to keep the words in.

“I said what I said,” you mumble.

“And I said,” Juju echoes, “nah.”

It’s quiet again, but heavier now. Not awkward. Just… held.

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, arms draped loosely over them. You stare down at the floor for a long second, then glance sideways at her.

“You really wanna know?”

She nods.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then shake your head like you’re already regretting opening your mouth.

“It’s… complicated,” you start. “She’s not just my mom. She’s Diana Taurasi. Like capital letters. GOAT. One-name recognition. And I know what that means. I’ve known since I was old enough to dribble. People don’t just look at me and see a player. They see her shadow.”

Juju stays quiet. Just listens.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you say, voice a little tighter now, “she loves me. I know she does. But love and pressure aren’t the same thing. She didn’t raise me to be soft. She raised me to win. Every game. Every drill. Every damn rep. Crying wasn’t really a thing in our house. Excuses weren’t either. You either got better, or you didn’t get on the court.”

You’re talking faster now, like the truth is trying to outrun the guardrails you built around it.

“She’d have me up before school to shoot. Had me watching film with her before I even knew what the plays meant. We didn’t have bedtime stories. We had game tape. She’d pause the screen and ask me, ‘what’d she do wrong here?’ and if I didn’t know, she’d rewind it again and again until I did.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“She told me once, ‘being great isn’t a job, it’s an identity.’ And I think—” you pause, voice catching a little, “I think she wants a legacy more than a daughter sometimes.”

Juju shifts beside you. Not closer, not farther. Just… present.

“And I love her for it,” you continue, softer now. “I do. Because I know it came from a real place. She wanted me to be unstoppable. And I learned how to be. But… sometimes I wonder what it would’ve felt like to just be a kid. To mess up and not feel like I was disappointing the whole dynasty. To lose and not feel like it was her loss.”

You finally look at Juju again, and something in her gaze softens.

“People see the name on my jersey and think I’ve got it made,” you whisper. “But sometimes it feels like the weight of it’s the one thing keeping me from breathing.”

The silence between you now is fragile. Bare. Like if either of you moved too fast, it might crack.

And then Juju—who has made a career out of being unreadable—says quietly, “That’s real.”

You blink at her, surprised by the simplicity of it.

She shrugs, eyes on the floor. “I get it. Different version. But I get it.”

You don’t press. She doesn’t offer more. But something shifts in the air between you—like a drawbridge quietly lowering in the middle of the night.

She leans back on her palms, exhales like she’s been holding her own breath this whole time.

“You know,” she says after a while, “I think people forget you’re a person. Like, a real one.”

You snort softly. “Tell that to the twenty dudes in my DMs who keep calling me ‘Baby White Mamba.’”

“Please delete your Instagram,” Juju deadpans. “Immediately.”

You laugh for real this time, wiping your face with the edge of your shirt. “You started this. Asking all deep questions like we’re on some HBO docuseries.”

“I’m curious,” she says with a shrug. “You’re kind of an enigma.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your way of saying you like me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard you almost hear it. “Don’t make me regret this moment.”

But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth says she doesn’t.

You both sit in the quiet again, this time a little closer. A little more understood.

And maybe it doesn’t fix everything—not the pressure, not the legacy, not the million expectations—but for tonight, it feels a little lighter.

For tonight, someone sees you. Not the name. Not the future GOAT. Just you.

And that’s enough.

Later that night, the gym echoes in your head long after you've left it.

Your legs are sore. Your voice is hoarse from calling out switches and cuts. You and Juju had gone until the lights dimmed, until the janitor peeked in and gave you that “wrap it up” stare that said he was too polite to kick you out but too tired to wait much longer.

You showered. Changed. Ate something half-decent out of a vending machine because the dining hall was already closed. And now, you’re curled up in your dorm bed, legs tucked under the blanket, phone pressed to your ear.

It’s not your mom on the other end of the line tonight. It’s Penny.

You love Penny. She’s the softness that balances the fire in your household. But even Penny has her scripts sometimes. You know the rhythm by heart.

“How’s the knee holding up?” “Coach say anything about your minutes?” “You stretching before bed?” “How’s chemistry with Juju?”

You answer everything like a seasoned pro—tight, even, unfazed. You’ve been media trained since you were twelve. You know how to sound fine, even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.

But Penny’s not just anyone. She knows the quiet tells.

“You sound off, kid,” she says gently.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Just tired.”

She hums. Doesn’t press. Just lingers in that way she does when she knows you’re lying but doesn’t want to force it out of you.

You talk a little longer—light stuff. Someone on campus brought a dog to the quad. One of the assistant coaches tripped on a loose ball during practice and tried to play it off like he meant to fall. Juju made fun of his landing form for a full ten minutes.

Penny laughs at that. “She’s got a good sense of humor. Good for you.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. She’s… surprising.”

When you hang up, the room feels colder.

You toss your phone on the nightstand and sink deeper under the covers, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll offer answers it’s never had before.

And then, like a film reel slipping out of its case, the memory unspools—one you’ve tried to keep boxed up for years. One you almost forgot was still breathing inside you.

Nike Nationals. July of your sophomore year.

The gym in Chicago was packed—loud, hot, buzzing with cameras and scouts. Your AAU team had clawed its way through the bracket all weekend. Double-OT in the quarters. A last-second block in the semis. You were running on adrenaline and gummy bears, legs stiff from barely sleeping in hotel beds that smelled like bleach and bad decisions.

You were there. The final. The last two teams standing.

And you were good. So good. You’d dropped 20 in the first half alone—spin moves, step-backs, dimes off the pick-and-roll. Your mom had been in the stands, arms crossed, sunglasses on even indoors, watching you with that look.

The look that meant she was proud. But not satisfied.

That look that made you want to be better. Perfect.

The game went down to the wire. Tied at 58 with eleven seconds left. Your coach called a play for you—clear out, iso, drive the lane. And you got fouled on the take. Two shots. Win-the-game free throws.

You remember the silence. How everything else faded—the crowd, the cameras, the pulse in your ears. Just the ball, the line, your breath.

You missed the first.

Back rim, long bounce.

You knew before it hit.

The second rattled out, too.

They got the rebound. Called time. Hit a buzzer-beater three.

You lost.

You don’t remember the locker room. Just the bathroom stall you locked yourself in. The sharp, tight sobs that ripped out of you. The sound of your jersey hitting the floor when you yanked it off. The way your hands shook so badly you couldn’t even retie your sneakers.

You didn’t talk to anyone on the ride back to the hotel.

And Diana didn’t either.

She was waiting in the lobby when you walked in, arms crossed again, that same unreadable stare locked on you like a laser sight. You were hoping—maybe—she’d pull you in, tell you it was okay, that she was proud anyway, that everyone has moments like that.

She didn’t.

She didn’t say anything until the next morning. Woke you up at six sharp. Said, “Let’s go.”

You thought she meant breakfast.

She meant film.

You’re sixteen. Still emotionally raw. Sitting at the edge of a stiff hotel bed in your hoodie and compression shorts, and your mom has her laptop open, already queuing the footage from the game. Her voice is flat, clinical.

“You had her beat on that first cross. Should’ve gone left.”

Pause. Rewind.

“Your arc’s too flat. That’s why the free throws didn’t drop.”

Pause. Rewind.

“You pulled up early on this drive. You could’ve drawn contact and one’d it.”

Pause. Rewind.

It goes on like that. An hour. Then two. She doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. But it almost feels worse. Because she’s treating it like surgery—cutting into you with precision, peeling back every failure and dissecting it in silence.

You nod through it all. Quiet. Barely blinking.

When she finishes, she shuts the laptop and says, “We work now, or we work later. Your call.”

You don’t answer. You just stare down at your feet.

All you can think about is how close you were. How small the margin. How those free throws will haunt you for the rest of your life.

That was the first time you ever wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Because that’s not who you’re allowed to be.

Back in your dorm room now, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t help. The chill is inside.

You close your eyes and picture that moment again. The line. The ball. Your mom’s face afterward.

Sometimes you wonder if she remembers it like you do. If it meant as much to her as it did to you.

You’re not mad at her. Not exactly. You know she did what she thought was right. That’s how she was raised, too. The same fire. The same unforgiving standard.

But you were sixteen.

And all you wanted in that moment wasn’t a lecture, or a film session, or a fix.

You just wanted your mom.

You wanted her to sit beside you on that hotel bed, and wrap an arm around your shoulder, and say, “You’re allowed to miss.”

“You’re still mine.”

You roll onto your side, burying your face into the pillow.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

But the ache is old and familiar.

And it doesn’t fade.

Not really.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[aftgficrec]

Hi, can you recommend fics with Andreil being discovered by the new foxes?

Here you go! -A

also see:

freshmen react to andreil 1 here, 2 here

freshmen react/pov outsider here

latest foxes react to andreil here

‘Me and You’ series here

‘midnight love,’ ‘flashes of intimacy ch 14 “devotion,”’ ‘Forever Is A Big Word,’ and ‘Master post for Fluent Freshman AU’ here

‘Allison asks how andreil got together’ here

‘AFTG/TFC minifics…Ch 21’ here

‘Teaching a caged bird to fly’ series here (particularly part 4)

you may also like:

Jack & Sheena being assholes here

Neil fights with Jack here

fics featuring the freshmen here

they match by Ani_Rygaard [Rated G, 2869 Words, Complete, 2021]

Baby Fox finding out about Andrew and Neil cause Neil called Andrew babe.

tw: alcohol, tw: homophobia

Never Have I Ever by hismiley16 [Rated T, 4332 Words, Complete, 2023]

The foxes induct the freshman with a post-preseason drinking game. Things get out of hand and Andrew shuts everybody up.

tw: alcohol, tw: homophobia

The Palmetto State Foxes Rules by Overherenow [Not Rated, 1536 Words, Complete, 2018]

A summary of rules for all freshmen for the Palmetto State foxes Exy team. And some upperclassmen who might forget.

The most beautiful thing ever by poly_pr1nce [Rated T, 1055 Words, Complete, 2018, Locked]

Kevin gets sent a clip from the last winter banquet, and when Allison sees it she agrees all the Foxes need to see it, especially the Freshmen/Cubs so they know what to expect when they piss Neil off or say stuff about Andrew

there's no way JOSTEN has a girlfriend by itadoriminyard [Rated G, 3246 Words, Complete, 2021]

“But it has to be her! Neil literally doesn’t spend time with anyone outside of this team. Like at all. Who could he possibly be dating? Someone on the team?” She asked sarcastically. She was met with silence. “Wait… are y’all serious?” Nicky was positively ecstatic at this turn of events. -- [The freshmen are determined to find Neil's secret girlfriend. Neil and Andrew are unwilling to aid their quest.]

The 5 times Neil wore Andrew's jersey and the 1 time Andrew wore Neil's by Hand_of_the_Alex [Rated T, 2489 Words, Complete, 2016]

Neil hadn’t meant to do it the first time, he just saw orange and white and slipped it on for his late night exy practices with Kevin. Kevin didn’t give any reaction further than an eye roll and a scoff before getting back to exy, so Neil finished the practise wearing Andrew’s jersey.

tw: homophobia, tw: nightmares 

five times christmas meant something by nomadicdeer (someonestolemycoffee) [Rated G, 2359 Words, Complete, 2017]

Neil Josten asks Andrew if they can celebrate Christmas. He decided he likes Christmas quite a bit.

[smokesandsonatas]

Broke mc and the rich night raven college bois! Would they spoil the mc or would they let mc struggle, delighted in doing so 👀

+++ After a long time, I'm finally starting to answer requests. I tend to combine similar asks, I hope people don't mind.

OnlyCams (Twst version of OnlyFans) Reader x All NRC students and Rollo. Reader is implied to be female. Mentions of cleavage, lingerie, and implied sugar daddy stuff. Slightly NSFW. +++

Update: Part II

Your current financial situation, compounded by the need to eat proper meals, pushed you to find a side job. Crowley had cut your budget by more than half, citing Grim's damages—an accusation your companion vehemently denies—as the reason you're struggling to eat properly. It has reached the point where you only eat once a day to quickly pay off Grim's fees to the school. Your pride is too great to ask for help, and besides, you don’t consider them ‘close friends’—acquaintances from another world might be a more accurate term. You’re not particularly close to any of the boys, or rather, your schoolmates. They are just that: schoolmates.

You tried applying at Mostro Lounge but left quickly after your gut told you to. In a foreign world where monsters, beasts, mermen, and magic are the norm, your instincts are your only trusted guide.

The rules of this world shouldn’t and wouldn’t apply to you the same way, right? Whatever society imposes on them is not applicable to you. In your world, this type of job is common, though frowned upon, but it pays well.

You refuse to eat cobwebs from the dusty ceiling of the ramshackle dorm.

In your mind, you plead for privacy as you smile at the ghosts, asking them not to bother you while you rest—just as Grim has been doing for the past two hours. Fortunately, the ghosts heed your request.

You let out a soft hum as you change into a flimsy outfit: a cute two-piece lingerie with bows in the middle, and bat earrings from one of your highest-tier subscribers. While you only show skin rather than specific body parts, your effort in producing high-quality content led to you being featured as one of the emerging models more than two weeks ago. Now, you are close to paying off Grim's full debt, and you have saved enough to afford full meals twice a day with snacks in between. As a result, Grim is much more obedient, promising to be careful as long as you continue to feed him, of course.

You have a keen eye for beauty, after all.

You count silently as you pose for the camera—an alluring sight, sensual in your pose, a work of art in every sense.

3...2...1

Snap!

+++++

He first heard the rumors from the members of the Heartslabyul dorm. As the dorm leader, Riddle is keen to know what currently preoccupies the thoughts of his card soldiers. That’s how Riddle found you—by threatening to cut off the head of one of the freshmen, who nearly pissed himself as Riddle stood seething. That incident occurred a week ago. Riddle is never one to indulge in such perverse photos, despite what his highest-tier subscription might suggest. No, he is a gentleman after all. His favorite photo is the one where you’re wearing a red silk robe that clings to your figure, with a book pressed between your two mounds. He may or may not have specifically requested that photo, and he paid you generously for your work.

Of course, he knows you have one! Cater is the self-proclaimed king of Magicam and social media, after all. The OnlyCams platform is an emerging phenomenon that has taken Magicam by storm. You just happened to get on it at the right time, and Cater couldn’t help but respect the hustle. You’re now an emerging content creator, and his favorite photos of you are saved on his phone—essentially everything. Oh, what’s that? He can’t do it because it’s prohibited? Of course, Cater can! He has been your faithful subscriber from day one.

Oh sevens, when Trey saw your sweet bakery-themed photos he will not deny that he relieved himself more than once. You keep on releasing new mouth-salivating content every other day but that still stands as his favourite. He especially loved the one where you put whipped cream to cover your nipples. What? Trey is a man and therefore susceptible to temptation.

He will never tell you that he knows, but he has been there since your first post. Ace had been a loyal supporter even from the start, he even took it upon himself to try a few gigs to support you, you know? That's what friends do right? Just don't blame Ace when he uses your pictures to masturbate as he takes his baths.

Deuce cannot believe it, but he cannot take his eyes off it either. Deuce also knows but respects you enough to not bring it up. Why didn't you told him you have perfect thighs? He is pouty but as he works his hands below his pants he cannot help but bite his lower lip. This is the third time he masturbated on your picture. His favorite? A picture of you laying down as you wink cheekily in a 'Japanese' uniform, the short skirt hiked over your thighs. The caption says it reminds you of your place back home, Deuce briefly wonders if you would let him visit to see that uniform personally on you.

....

Leona doesn't give a fuck, his thick cock out as he works his hands up and down his shaft lazily in his bedroom. You've been a very cheeky herbivore. Ha! Leona didn't realize how much of an ass beastman he is not until he raised an eyebrow as he smirked when he realized all his favorites are the ones where it focuses on your ass. He likes it when you squeeze them. Leona wonders if he should send you a message for a special offer, the price won't matter to him. What? Breeding season will come soon for the beastman, he will have no other partner than you.

He admires your skills to hustle, Ruggie could not help but sneakily have his account opened through Leona's bank, it's not like the rich prince will notice it billing him anyway. Once he opens your highest-tier content, Ruggie now understands why. You're a complete pro at this! He is not sure if this is your previous job in your world or if this is your first time doing it at all, but those thoughts have escaped him when he fucks himself into his hand in the picture of you spreading your ass cheeks.

Jack had heard about the site from the other track team members, out of curiosity, he opened an account and was surprised when he got your account in his recommendation. He will support you of course! That's what friends do! He will try to contain himself when he unlocks your content of you wearing skimpy track shorts but it's impossible as he felt himself tightening through his pajamas.

...

Azul had never heard of this website before, but dear sevens! The possibilities are endless. Pleasure work is not unheard of in the Coral Sea, but he now knows they do it differently on land. It's called porn, as far as he remembers when he picked up the word from one of the guidebooks in the Sage Island. When he realizes at first glance that you will be one of its top creators—the money will come pouring right in! Azul chuckles to himself, restraining his excitement as he bites his lower lip while staring at your latest update. The thought of being your manager crosses his mind as he gazes at your picture of spreading your legs open, the flimsy thong left so little to the imagination. Will you let him manage you? Will you allow him to experience what he sees? Perhaps you’ll seek out a partner for a collaboration, and Azul will be eager to present himself. Of course, he will refrain from showing his face—he still has a reputation to uphold—but he cannot deny that you are his guilty pleasure in this realm.

Floyd is addicted to your content! How dare Shrimpy make him so excited every day? For almost two weeks now, Floyd has been happily completing tasks assigned to him at the Mostro Lounge. Sure, he pockets some tips for himself, but fear not! Floyd thinks he deserves it. Besides, they ought to reward him for his extra hard work. Floyd giggles when he sees a notification that you've posted a new update. One of these days, he will come to see you personally—only if Jade isn’t holding him back. After all, if left unchecked, Floyd just might take you deep into the coral sea.

Jade, on the other hand, is constantly watching you—or so you thought. At lunch, in the hallway, even in the library when you’re trying to study with Grim. You can feel his eyes piercing through your soul, but for some reason, you can never quite meet his gaze. Or maybe, you’re trying to catch him staring at you just to justify your suspicions, but when you look, he’s not. Unbeknownst to you, Jade is just as giddy as his twin brother. Don’t blame him! He adores the picture where you’re actually wearing the seashell necklace he sent through your fanmail. Oh, but wait—one moment it dawns on him that others, who pay to see your pictures, will also see that picture. Hmm… that doesn’t sit right with the eel. Jade wonders if he can offer you something more. Of course, he can! The only problem is... will you accept Jade Leech's offer? Hmm…

...

Jamil heard from Kalim that you have a business they need to support, Jamil didn't even complain when all Kalim sent was a link. He was hooked since then. He is a silent supporter but will be one of the first to view and like your posts. You wore red lingerie once, and Jamil can't even stop himself from coming from that. A good stress reliever after a tiring day's work. The veins in his hands practically popping, as he grip his cock, imagining you in front of him instead.

Kalim will support you of course! Although he is quite confused why you won't accept the money he's sending you. It's just a half a million madol. It's not a dowry!... At least not close to the actual amount he will give you anyway. He will support you! He even told Jamil about you! Doesn't he get jealous? A little.. but the feeling of an overwhelming bragging right that other people thirst over you makes Kalim so proud. He chose a good future wife after all!

...

To Vil, your content is vile... but undeniably a work of art. Hmph, no wonder you're one of its top creators. You don't merely post for lust; you post for aesthetics as well. You have a keen eye for taking good photos, that much he will admit. His subscription to you he considers a form of appreciation for beauty. He notes the way you do your makeup, the arch of your back, the way your lipstick complements your complexion... Fine, Vil will hate to admit it, but your content is something he looks forward to seeing as he relaxes after a hectic day—just him alone in a fancy room with a spa-like scent filling the air. Hmmm, he wonders if he should invite you someday to a hotel soirée with him. Vil appreciates the attention to detail in your work, and he finds himself compelled to support you further. Occasionally, he sends additional tips usually a thousand madol—small tokens of his admiration for your craftsmanship. He justifies it as an investment in art, a reward for the way you meticulously craft each image and video. After all, beauty like yours deserves to be recognized, encouraged even.

He will always blush when he's near you! Epel can't help it. He may or may not have teenage fantasies about you with him carrying you bridal style as his muscles bulge from his shirt. Although Epel came from a... Traditional family perse, he does appreciate how... sexy you look! His favorite is when you're wearing silk nightwear that delves low on your cleavage.

Ah, Rook. Forever the hunter of beauty. When he heard of your content, he immediately subscribed to the highest tier! He is now only waiting for you to accept personal requests because Rook definitely has a lot of ideas in his mind. It involves you and him, in a forest, being one with yourselves and with nature! Oui! He chuckles as he palms his crotch through his pants. Rook knows that you will post something new in a few minutes, and he is right! Oh, mi amor, Rook swooned as he saw your bat earrings from the new update and the matching pink bows lingerie. The lingerie he ordered is yet to be sent to you! But they're on their way. Will you be mad at Rook if he sends an arrow with a declaration of admiration through your window right after he pleasures himself? Rook hopes you will know how much the hunter loves and appreciates your beauty!

....

Idia may or may not be one of the software developers behind OnlyCams. He was absolutely stunned when he saw that you joined the site! His hair burned a hot red with pink tips as he scrolled through your draft photos. It gives him a twisted sense of satisfaction to know about posts that others haven’t seen yet. Is it illegal to pry... or, erm, stalk the OnlyCams models? Of course, he knows that. But Idia has convinced himself that he should act as your moderator anyway—even without you knowing. Unfortunately, there are a lot of comments and private messages that are downright disgusting to read, so Idia takes it upon himself to remove them for you! The maid outfit and cat ears he sent through your fanmail should arrive in just a few days. Idia can’t wait to see you in them! He imagines how perfect you’ll look, and his mind races with ideas for what else he could send your way. Maybe a little something extra, just to make sure you know how much he’s been thinking about you.

...

At first, Malleus does not know what to feel. Initially, there is confusion—are you whoring yourself out? But Lilia explains that people can only look at you, not physically touch you. However, when it dawns on Malleus that others can see your intimate, seductive photos, flames flicker along his fangs. He carries the pride of a king, and it does not sit well with him that others can see what he considers his. Still, Malleus can't help but growl. Your pictures should have been for his eyes only. He frowns, deciding that even Lilia should not see them. You don’t know this, but you’re already his. In his mind, you belong to him. Annoyance courses through his veins—this is the second time he’s broken a phone today. As night falls, Malleus finds himself brooding in the solitude of his tower. The thought of you, your image laid bare for others, festers in his mind. He clenches his fist, struggling with a mix of possessiveness and anger. Lilia suggested he could unsubscribe from you, but Malleus ignores him. Instead, he contemplates offering you wealth and power—if you choose to be by his side, of course. As if you have a choice anyway.

Sebek is embarrassed, yet hypocritical, as he can't help but masturbate to your seductive content. Part of him hates it, but the other part loves it. How dare you, human! He huffs as he angrily shuts off his phone, only to turn it back on moments later, unable to resist the allure of your pictures. On one hand, he feels disgusted with himself for succumbing to such base desires—he is a proud servant of Malleus, and he should not be indulging in such... human weakness. It's an insult to his Fae heritage! But on the other hand, he is irresistibly drawn to you, his body betraying his thoughts every time he sees your updates. The internal battle rages on, but he knows deep down that he’s hooked.

Lilia hums to himself, elated as he chuckles upon seeing your new update. Lilia has had his fair share of intimacy throughout the hundreds of years he's been alive. The concept of seduction as a barter is nothing new to him. But! Lilia can’t help but admire the way the new generation goes about it nowadays! Back in his time, Lilia had to travel to a brothel for such experiences. Now, he can just use his phone from anywhere. Yet, a small part of him is disappointed that you’re not physically present. He grins, his fangs poking out as he sees you wearing the bat earrings he sent you. Ah, they suit you so well!

Silver is ever the gentleman, probably the only one in Diasomnia—the whole NRC, who can separate the ordinary You and the OnlyCam's You. You never told him but you appreciate his approach a lot. He is subscribed to your highest tier and he always gives you tips that he got from his allowance and payment as Malleus' guard. Silver’s support goes beyond mere admiration. He views your content with a sense of quiet respect, understanding that there’s more to it than just the seduction part you're selling. For him, it's about the effort, the confidence, and the creativity you put into your work. Despite the nature of your content, Silver’s feelings remain pure. He never asks for anything in return for his support, never expects special treatment. When he leaves a tip, it’s with the hope that it might make your day a little brighter, that it might help you feel appreciated in a world you're alienated to. He is a knight, well suited to protect you should you ask him to.

....

Rollo feels as though he's sinning every time he opens your OnlyCams account—blasphemous content! His heart pounds with guilt and shame as he scrolls through your seductive photos, each one a temptation pulling him deeper into the abyss. He knows this is wrong—so wrong—yet he cannot tear himself away. The purity and righteousness he prides himself on crumble under the weight of his desire for you. He mentally recites prayers, trying to cleanse himself of the impure thoughts that flood his mind, but it’s futile. The more he resists, the stronger the urge becomes. Despite the shame that burns his conscience, Rollo keeps coming back for more, drawn to the very thing he despises. Trapped in a cycle of sin and repentance, he battles with his inner demons, torn between his devotion to his beliefs and his growing obsession with you.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

srry if this is vague, but do u perhaps have any headcanons about the TWST worlsbuilding? like city capitals, gender norms, internet memes, etc.

DhsnwbkFaiqn The Twst world is so big that I don’t think I could feasibly compile all my personal headcanons about the various countries and cities in a single post. I’ll share some that I feel very strongly on, just keep in mind that this is by no means an exhaustive list ^^;;

It is said that a golden dragon (well, long) presides over marriage in the Land of Crimson Long. It’s not a “real” person, more like a spirit newly wed couples pray to for happiness in their married life.

It’s okay for merpeople to consume non-sentient sea creatures, but it’s considered immoral to consume one’s members of one’s own species, even if that species itself is cannibalistic. (For example, Azul eating octopus or the twins eating moray eels.) This is because merpeople have human sentience which induces disgust in eating their own kind.

Merpeople communities get “worse”/less safe the further down you go in the ocean.

The major cities in Pyroxene/the Shaftlands attract those annoying internet clout chasers and influencers. They’re kind of seen as a general nuisance by the locals, who turn their noses up at them.

There may have been a social divide or discrimination between more animalistic merpeople (Octavinelle) and more human merpeople (Atlantica Museum Guards) in the past. Modern day relations are better, but there’s still some areas in need of improvement and that’s an effort the current royal family are working on.

Environmental conservation efforts are taken very seriously, considering that many races (fae, merpeople) or countries (Sunset Savanna, Briar Valley, Scalding Sands) depend on and/or revere nature. It’s an important part of maintaining peace between the nations.

There is DEFINITELY cursed fanfiction out there. More specifically, the “my mom sold me to One Direction” kind, except replace One Direction with Vil Schoenheit or Neige Leblanche.

There’s also got to be fanfiction of the Great Seven and tons of other modern media inspired by their accomplishments (TV shows, documentaries, musicals, etc.); we already know that films inspired by them exist so why not go the full mile??

There are items in nature inspired by those depicted in Disney films. For example, a kind of flower called the Sundrop, or a gem called the Moonstone Opal (both from Tangled).

More products and brands inspired by Disney films!! Maybe a candy themed racing game like Sugar Rush, hair styling gel and lipstick that comes out of seashells like what Ursula uses, etc.

There are co-ed and all-girls magic schools.

Heartslabyul’s interiors have a mind of their own and sometimes shift for fun. Confuses the freshmen when they experience it for the first time, but they get used to navigating it over time.

Some animal languages require that you use body language and hand movements to supplement tone and word choice. For example, you’d have to curl your hands into paws when speaking Cat.

The pose one’s body assumes can alter spellcasting. For example, if your stance is stiff, it is harder to control the flow of magic and you lose precision.

Magical medicine isn’t a cure-all; I think of it as a field that specializes in treating magic-induced ailments (like blessings/curses) and/or they are trained to use magic for tests (like scans) and precise procedures (such as surgery). (Potions in Twst are already shown to be imperfect; you still need to rest after taking them and the potions still target specific symptoms rather than fix everything.)

Savanaclaw hazes new students by tossing them into the water pool in the lounge. Leona could stop it, but he lets it happen because he thinks it helps “toughen up the fresh meat.”

Post book 6, Ortho arranges gaming tournaments and anime screenings to encourage the Ignihyde students to socialize more. They weren’t that popular in the beginning, but now they attract a decent group.

NRC has several more clubs than the ones the NRC cast are involved in; this includes a Newspaper Club that reports on local news and on-campus activities. (Miss Raven is a contributor!)

[chelseeebe]

(i only have) eyes for you

18+. mdni. smut. violence! horror themes throughout!! ghostface!eddie

day seven of spooky week and happy halloween freaks!!! i can’t believe i did it… seven days of consistent posting has taken genuine years off of my life lol. pls pretend they’re in college for this, i wrote it entirely that way and then decided they were going to be in steve’s house.. who knows

a/n: i listened to this song a lot while writing this because it is so creepy but so perfect for this fic! this was sorta kinda rushed but i’ve been working this entire week so finding the time to really delve into it the way i wanted to :,(

⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

tap tap tap

the sound of something, or really someone rattles against your window, the faint sounds of someone whistling follow shortly after.

despite being wise to eddie’s tricks, the ominous tune makes your skin prickle, too spooked by the news of some masked murderer to think straight.

your window cracks open, the wooden frame scraping upwards loudly, a prolonged creak that signals that whatever it was, was now inside.

his cologne gives him away first, and then the lingering smell of weed that catches up to your nose soon after.

it was eddie, basking in the moonlight, just waiting for you to turn and see him.

“oh my fucking god,” you hiss, “you scared the shit out of me!” scowling as he pulls his limbs through the window. 

he wastes no time in kicking off his shoes and practically diving across the room to land atop of you. his heaving chest pressed against yours, finding your frowning lips for a gentle kiss. 

“‘m sorry sweetheart,” pouting his lips in an attempt to mock your worried tone, eddie found it endearing really, that you cared about him so.

“there’s a murderer out there, you know?” you scold.

“mhm, is there?” 

“yes,” dropping the stern expression the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, delving underneath to grasp your waist, “and i’d really appreciate if you didn’t die.” 

“i’m not gonna die,” he says entirely too confidently, “and neither are you.” 

“what were you doing out there?” 

“i had to.. do some business,” hoping you’d get the hint. 

your upper lip snarls, having never liked the fact he dealt on the side. it was mostly a bit of weed to freshmen but the weekends were always busier. “oh,” you huff, running your hands along his sore shoulders. 

“you asked,” eddie states plainly. it wasn’t as if he was entirely lying, because he had dropped off a gram for some useless kid. 

he had just neglected to tell you what he and steve had done to the kid afterwards. 

your eyes roll back, running your fingers up his neck and into his mane of hair, “i wish i hadn’t,” though judging by the fact that you hadn’t kicked him out, you can’t be too mad. 

eddie hums, desperately trying to change the subject by trailing his hand further upwards, palming your boob with a soft groan. 

“and what if i told you that i was the scary killer?” his knee shifts slightly, moving on top of yours to keep it pressed to the mattress. he’s got you trapped beneath his body, his large hands enveloping both of your wrists. 

if you didn’t know eddie so well, you probably would’ve been much more afraid than you were. but you do know him, this had to be some stupid prank, something he’d thought up while high. so you do what he wants you to do and play into it. if he wants to pretend that he’s a weirdo then fine, you can play that game too. 

“oh yeah?” you smirk, a feeble attempt to wriggle out of his grasp, “what’re you gonna do to me, mr ghostface?” rutting your hips up to meet his, sighing softly when you feel his hardened cock. 

the fact that you’re even into this is simply abhorrent but you can already feel the wet patch growing in your panties, needly bucking your hips desperate for any friction to satiate the growing ache between your thighs. 

he chuckles lowly, readjusting his grip on your wrists, leaving one hand pinning them both above your head, “well first..” his breath hot on your cheeks, “i’m going to fuck the shit out of you.” his pupils grow larger, darker somehow, “and then..” prodding his forefinger to your chest, slowly tracing down the length of your torso, “i might just gut you,” his eyes follow his finger all the way down. 

you quiver under his touch, breathless. holy fuck. it’s disgusting. it is. but you can’t help yourself, practically panting with animalistic need. it’s not like he was actually going to kill you see, eddie was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a murderer. 

“please,” you beg, squirming as his hand slips into the waistband of your jeans. he’s so cold, fingers like blocks of ice that make your skin prickle. 

“you want that? hmm?”

you’re gasping at this point, pleading with him to just touch you. he had gotten what he’d wanted from this game so why couldn’t he hurry up? you’re literally jelly beneath him, malleable and just so eager to touch. 

“gotta use your words baby.. i wanna hear you,” pausing his descent into your underwear, much to your dismay. legs springing apart as a sort of encouragement to get him to continue. 

“yes.. yes i want that,” desperately panting underneath his sly smirk, he’s enjoying this far too much and you can’t help but to just give it to him. so desperate to please, even if it was borderline psychotic. 

“good,” he breathes, curling his fingers around the waistband of your sodden underwear. his teeth emerging to graze upon your neck, making sure to leave splotches of violet and deep maroon so that everybody knew whose you really were. 

your hips cant upward the second eddie’s fingers tease your hole, crying out for him to cut the shit and just touch you properly. he was a cruel man, unable to satisfy himself with any normal level of foreplay, no. for eddie, he needed to keep this charade up for as long as possible. 

“you been thinkin’ ‘bout me?” using his other hand to control your chin, keeping your flickering gaze somewhat on his face, “waiting f’me all night.. i can feel it,” plunging his fingers into your sopping cunt, drawing a sharp hiss from your lips. 

“think about you all the time,” you nod, whimpering against his mouth, keeping a strong grip on his neck. 

eddie grins, the twinkle returning to his dark eye, letting the charade slip only slightly, “i know you do, and i know it because you never.. ever leave my mind,” his thumb beginning to swirl around your clit, letting go of your jaw to wrap his hands loosely around your neck instead. 

“fuckk,” you shudder, canting your hips in response to his fingers gliding in and out of your hole, thumb performing laps around your clit and sensitive folds. 

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he utters, dotting hungry kisses to your wetted lips, punctuating his longing words. “i just wanna keep you like this forever,” the hunger returning to his blown out pupils, fingers squeezing your throat. 

he wouldn’t hurt you, not on purpose. but his grip was getting mighty tight, restricting your breath as your leg slides up between his. the twisting in your abdomen only worsens, dizzying as the pleasure intensifies. 

squeezing out a garbled, “eds,” that makes him loosen his grip, flashing back to reality as you squeeze around his fingers, thrashing around underneath his body as your orgasm rocks your bones, the sweetest sounds fill the room. 

“that’s it sweetheart,” eddie coos, sliding his hand from your shorts to grasp your hip, kissing over his previously made markings. 

“i love you,” muttering breathlessly as you regain control of your limbs. 

he breathes heavily into your neck, cocking his head up to meet your gaze, “i love you too,” beaming at your lovesick gaze, praying to god that you’d never find out about the horrific things he was truly doing tonight. 

-

eddie’s idea of date night usually entails him being able to whisk you off somewhere dark and alone at some point during the night. so when you’d suggested a drive-in movie, he’d been positively over the moon. 

he’d thought seeing a nightmare on elm street was a little on the nose considering the shit he’d been up to recently but you couldn’t know and besides, it meant you’d be curled into his shoulder for the majority of the movie anyway. 

you sit now, with your face buried into his shoulder, both arms clinging tight to his. 

not because of the movie though. no, this was because his right hand had crept underneath your skirt, pumping his fingers in and out of your soaked hole. 

it wasn’t as if every other couple weren’t doing the exact same thing, it was an unspoken custom of the drive-in experience. 

“wait,” you pant, “let me-,” letting go to reach down, pushing your seat further back. your fingers curl around something plastic, reemerging with the damning mask he’d shoved beneath the seat. “what the fuck is this?” you shriek, sitting straight up. 

eddie’s blood runs cold, frozen as you flap the plastic mask in his face. it wasn’t even supposed to be in here, let alone for you to find so easily. 

“oh my god,” he sighs, thinking on his toes, “it was for a prank,” grabbing the rubber from your fingers, “me and steve were gonna scare argyle and jonathan… it’s not what you think babe,” hoping that measly excuse would be enough to get you off of his back. 

“a prank?” you hiss, “is that funny to you? pretending to be some psycho murderer?” funnily enough, he didn’t really have to pretend. 

“no!” he frowns, pettily grabbing at the mask though you keep it out of reach, “that’s why we didn’t do it,” sounding completely desperate as he’s lying through his teeth, “sweetheart, i know what it looks like but i promise it’s not like that,” the guilt ripples through his chest, he didn’t want to lie to you but what choice did he have? 

you frown, gripping the cracked plastic as if it could tell you the answer itself, “that’s not funny eddie,” lowering your clenched fist at last, “what if someone had seen you? what if someone else found this?” 

you’re angry, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. pupils dilated and your jaw clenched, he couldn’t bare to ever see you like this. god only knows how you’d react if you ever found out he was truly responsible for these killings. 

“i’m sorry,” utterly exasperated, you couldn’t find out, not now, not ever. “i wasn’t thinking.. i’ve just been-,” his nostrils flare, hoping you could forget about this and quickly, “thinking about everyone dying, you know? i’m scared,” grabbing your hands to really accentuate his point. 

“we’re all scared, eds,” his nickname allowing him to breathe at last, you’d never use eds when you were mad, never. “that doesn’t mean you should start pretending to kill people too, you’re so.. stupid,” said endearingly, far calmer than you were five minutes ago. 

“i know.. i’m sorry baby,” squeezing your fingers together, “i love you, okay?”

your pout could solve wars, an immediate punch to his gut that had him instantly crawling on his knees for forgiveness. it’s no different now, jutting your bottom lip out with a slight quiver, vowing him to never make such a stupid mistake again. 

-

eddie drives this time, rushing back from the large house they’d been at. he doesn’t even know the kids name, he just knows his spleen no longer resided within his gut. 

this one was his idea, some kid that’d stiffed him for a couple grams a few months ago. stupid stuff really, but they’d needed to throw the cops off the scent. 

“so,” steve begins, pulling eddie from his head, “you still wanna do this?” 

he didn’t, not really. not while you were there. 

“i don’t see any other way we can end this,” he sighs, turning onto the darkened street, “it has to end,” you were getting too wise, thumbing at the scratch marks on his arm or questioning why he was always out so late recently. 

nothing would ever be worth losing you. not in a million years. 

“alright,” steve pouts, enjoying this far more than he first let on, “what’re you gonna do about that sweet girlfriend of yours? i think we should spook her first, really up the stakes,” bouncing around the cab of the van. 

“absolutely not, don’t even think about getting her involved with this shit,” baring his teeth, appalled that steve would ever even suggest something like that. you were all wide spoke about, filling up his thoughts even as he was driving a knife into the back of jason carver. 

“whaat? you don’t even wanna scare her a little? make her squirm,” his smirk evident in his tone. 

“i mean it steve,” eddie warns, flashing the boy a harsh glare, “if you touch her, i’ll kill you.” 

the car goes silent for a moment until steve cackles, his grin shining through, “not if i kill you first.” 

eddie’s blood runs cold, they could end this entire thing right now if that was what he wanted. his knuckles glow white, gripping the steering wheel as opposed to wrapping his hands around steve’s neck, “are you fucking serious?” spitting his words out, “because i’ll do it steve, i won’t fucking hesitate.”

steve pauses, trying to control his heaving breaths, “calm down loverboy, i’m not gonna hurt her,” sucking his teeth as if eddie were the crazed one here, like he hadn’t just been speaking complete sense. 

“don’t even joke about that shit,” slapping his hand against the leather steering wheel, “fucking dumbass, i can’t believe you,” looking to steve with utter disbelief in his eye. 

“chill out man,” steve calms, relaxing into the seat, “i’m not gonna do anything, wouldn’t wanna piss you off now, would i?” 

-

eddie had thought the entire night through, every second meticulously planned so that you’d never end up in the crossfire. he just needed your willing cooperation and reassurance that his partner in crime wouldn’t lose his mind. 

the last, he can’t promise. 

steve had been more erratic than ever, obvious that letting go of this power wasn’t anything he wanted. eddie doesn’t know how he can live with the guilt, but then, steve didn’t look into your bright eyes each night and feel that same stab of betrayal he did. 

he takes your hand now, leading you up the steep staircase and into the bathroom, under the guise of getting away from the noise, locking the door behind him as you stand at the sink, only slightly concerned. 

“what’s this for?” dipping your chin when his hands meet your waist, pressing your back against the cold porcelain. 

“i just wanted to.. get away,” eddie remarks, knowing that any minute now, all hell would break loose downstairs and he’d have to stab the shit out of people he called his friend. 

“oh yeah? that’s all you wanted me in here for?” walking your fingers up his chest, settling on his shoulder. 

“well,” letting his grin cock to the side, “what do you suggest we do in here?” 

you hum, a sweet sound that makes his heart race, “i think we could start with a bit of kissing and then.. see where it goes,” weaving your fingers into his hair, bringing his face closer. 

“i like the sound of that,” he coos, but the guilt is unimaginable, your oblivious smile soon to be wiped off your face and it’ll be all his fault. 

your lips connect in a harmonious symphony, he can feel your smile radiating against his skin, your fingertips tracing light lines on his scalp, a motion that would usually soothe him has him anxious instead. 

he so terribly wants to stay here for the duration of the night, or at least until steve had pushed his luck too far and ended up dead. 

but that can’t happen, without eddie, this wouldn’t end. 

you shift closer, pressing your body to his with a hum, hoping to turn this into something more that he just can’t give right now. 

as if by magic, there’s a loud thud from downstairs, a blood curdling scream that echoes through the walls follows behind. your eyes full of pure dread meet his when you spring apart. 

“what the fuck was that?” tightening your grip on the back of his neck. 

“i.. don’t know,” a barefaced lie, “i’m gonna go and check it out, alright?” coming eye-to-eye with you, a plea of the highest order. 

“what? are you fucking crazy?” 

“stay here,” he orders, kindly slipping your bra strap back onto your shoulder, “lock the door after me and don’t come out.”

“no! don’t leave me in here,” true terror ringing through your words. he wishes he could tell you that you truly have nothing to worry about. not like the rest of them.

“you’ll be okay,” eddie soothes, grabbing your hand, “i promise,” his thumb tracing patterns onto your wrist. 

“please come back quickly,” pleading with him not to go, your fingers shaking as they grasp his arm. 

“i will,” pressing his forehead to yours, giving one last squeeze before he breaks apart, “promise,” slipping out of the door, only waiting to hear the quiet click of the lock before scuffling along to steve’s room. 

his outfit had been stored in steve’s closet, the dark robe and rubbery mask that had now become dark and cracked. something about the fabric cascading over his skin had him more confident than anything, forgetting all about who was killing, unfazed by their distant screams. 

he tiptoes down the stairs, careful not to bump into any stragglers, the knife poised in his hand when he hits the kitchen, fingers twitching around the handle ready to slash whoever came out first. 

something squeals from behind the door, giving away their location immediately, some girl steve had tried to fuck, an obvious victim, someone quick and easy, someone you wouldn’t care about too much. 

the knife plunges into her side, the dark red liquid spurting out and all over the linoleum floor, he’s sure steve’s dad wouldn’t care too much. 

steve stomps through the kitchen, eyeing the scene before nodding to eddie, gesturing he follow him into the living room. it’s a silent affair, they could never know who was listening. 

but eddie does as he’s told, walking in to find a barely-breathing tommy hagan, his hand reaching out pathetically as his eyelids flutter and his lungs fill with blood. eddie’s never liked him, he certainly wouldn’t be sad to see him go. 

after the house is emptied, steve was to dress tommy in his robe and mask, plant the knife in his fist and call the police. they’d rehearsed it a thousand times, how steve would slash himself with his knife and eddie would scurry back up to the bathroom with you, waiting until the cops came to get you. 

steve’s laugh echoes through the quiet house, maniacal as he drives his blade into tommy’s gut, his last attempts at protesting come out as squeaks before the couch turns a deep red and the sputtering comes to a sudden stop. 

but eddie doesn’t want to play that game. 

steve was too sporadic, untrustworthy and downright stupid, if he were to be honest. who’s to say he’d never turn on eddie? kill him or worse, you? eddie couldn’t trust him, the boy was out of it, drunk on the power it gave him. 

so instead of doing anything they’d rehearsed, eddie forces the knife into steve’s chest, quickly taking it out to drive another jab into his throat, deafening his screams. steve’s eyes full of confusion, a lingering look of betrayal that makes his chest sting, if only for a second. 

his body thuds as it hits the floor, a garbled sound full of air escape his throat, an anguished cry that vaguely resembles eddie. 

he stares down at his accomplices twitching body, a sadness twinging his heart. steve would undoubtedly still be alive if he hadn’t been stupid enough to start joking about hurting you, all he’d had to do was keep his mouth shut and let the night play out. 

but he hadn’t. desperate to make some edgy joke that now lead to him bleeding out on his living room floor. 

eddie clears his throat, unwilling to dwell on his emotions for too long. he had to dress tommy and find the phone. there was too much at stake now to let steve ruin this from beyond the grave. 

out of the corner of his eye he spots that same glittering top that he’d left locked in the bathroom. he can’t believe you’d been stupid enough to come out of there. why you couldn’t just listen to him for once was completely beyond him.

he bounds along behind you, esnuring that absolutely nobody was skulking around the grand house before clamping one hand over your mouth, the other snaking around your hip to bring you to the cold, wooden floor. 

you scream against his palm, vibrating the skin with your pleas for help. eyes wide and watering as they meet the mask, he’s not surprised, for all you know, the knife in his hand was going straight into your side next. 

he straddles your waist, keeping your pressed into the floor and not a problem for him, “shh.. sh-shut up,” he hushes, ensuring that the hall really was empty before he revealed his identity. 

the thrashing stops, stilling as the cogs slowly turn and his voice becomes familiar, a blood-chilling flash of hurt overtakes your fearful eyes instead. 

bile rises in his throat, sick to his stomach with the fact that he could do this to you, make you so scared of him. 

“it’s me, it’s me sweetheart,” frantically trying to get you to calm down, to maybe not be so angry at him when this was all over. “promise not to scream and i’ll let go,” itching to take his gloved hand from your mouth, to prove his love. 

you nod hopelessly, flashing him an expression that he really can’t place, somewhere between terror, disgust and relief. 

he does as he promised, removing his hand from your mouth to slide the mask up, hoping that maybe seeing his face would help, would make you not hate him. 

“baby.. it’s not- i can explain everything to you, i just need..” panting his words, scrambling for some kind of excuse to get you back to safety, “you have to listen to me, okay? you trust me, don’t you?”

your face says anything but, watching your bottom lip tremble makes him fume, so incredibly pissed off that he was capable of this. 

“please,” eddie begs, pleads even, “i’d never.. ever hurt you, you know that, right?”

“i.. i trust you,” the words squeaked rather than spoken, accompanied by salty streams falling down your cheeks. 

he nods, daring to lift his mask. maybe eye contact would make you comfortable, “i’m gonna take you back to the bathroom.. okay? wait for me.. i’ll be five minutes, yeah?” running his knuckles over your mascara stained cheek, “and then i’ll tell you everything,” his tone reeking of desperation. 

much to his surprise, and utter delight, you lean into his hand, nodding with your pitiful trembling lip, “okay.. okay,” so innocent, totally unassuming about what he was going to admit to. 

eddie clambers off of your body, offering his hand out and praying to whichever god would listen to make sure you wouldn’t run. 

you don’t, of course you don’t. taking his hand as you climb up off of the floor, shoulders slumped over as you allow him to move you down the hallway, a gentle hand resting on your waist as you go. 

“five minutes baby.. i’ll be back,” he reassures for the hundredth time, “promise me you’ll stay here this time?” 

you nod, grabbing his hand just to feel his skin on yours, “i love you,” so sickly sweet he almost forgets what he had to do. but he had to do this for you, or he’d never hear that again. 

“i love you too,” with full sincerity, letting the door shut between you as he continues his mission, sprinting back to the living room to get tommy in his clothes and shake any hints of evidence off of himself. 

tommy’s heavier than he once anticipated, his lifeless body proving hard to contort into different clothes. 

but he does it, dropping the knife on the couch next to his body, giving steve one last sympathetic glance before barrelling down the hallway to the bathroom, pummelling his fist against the door. 

he hopes you’ll understand, you had to. everything he did, he did it with you in mind. 

his fist pummels against the wood, relief washing over his body when he hears the tiny click that lets him inside and confirms that you didn’t hate him. you trusted him, completely, just as he thought. 

eddie’s quick to lock it again, even while knowing the killer was inside of the room with you, the other strewn dead across the floor in a pool of his own blood. 

before he can even breath long enough to curate his explanation, the echoing sound of shouting and footsteps fill the house, the cops forcing their way inside and discovering the scene. 

the bathroom door splinters, eddie’s arms shielding you from the crossfire of wood. it’s the police, flashlights pointing right at your horrified faces, sharing concerned glances between one another. 

“we’ve got two confirmed alive,” one of them squawks into his radio, a fuzzy crackle coming back.  

“eddie? eddie munson? we’d like to speak to you about your friend, steve harrington.”

[whirlybirbs]

sometimes when i’m feeling really low about myself i remember the time i was stuffed into a condom themed superhero outfit and did a sex education bit for the entire incoming class of freshmen at my college. i survived that. and if i can also survive being excitedly screamed at on mass ave during rush hour for everyone to hear? “oh my god it’s captain condom oh my god”? i can survive anything.

[hukelughes]

can we pls have some umich frat boy vibes luke pls anything

DRUNK IN LOVE! — LUKE HUGHES

SUMMARY: In which frat!Luke Hughes and his girlfriend play a constant game of cat and mouse at his parties.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, 18+ only, underage drinking (implied), suggestive themes, jealousy, established relationship.

WORD COUNT: 0.5k words (short, i know).

AUTHORS NOTE: my first piece of writing is officially posted! thank you for requesting nonnie <3 i know its short but i hope i fulfilled ur request!!

You dance around to the beat of a song you can’t quite remember, the warm fuzzy feeling in your mind caused by the alcohol you consumed preventing you from thinking straight.

Your white faux leather skirt is riding up your thighs, no doubt flashing your white lace thong to anyone who’s looking. Normally, you would’ve immediately pulled it back down, but you wanted his attention.

You feel a pair of hands grabbing your waist, his hot breath hitting your ear. You know exactly who it is by the smell of his cologne, which is why you aren’t brushing him off.

“Princess,” he whispers teasingly, “I thought I told you not to wear this tonight.”

You scoff, throwing your head back onto Luke’s shoulder while tilting your head in his direction. “When have I ever listened to you?”

Luke just chuckles, pulling your skirt down for you. “I wish you did, but I know you like being a brat. Everyone’s looking at you, you know? What if they saw what you wore for me?”

You hazily look around to see if his words are true, and you can faintly see that people, mostly men, are looking right in your direction. Frowning, you turn around in Luke’s arms, wanting to show them that you aren’t even going to entertain the idea of going home with them.

While you enjoyed the feeling of people looking at you, it never quite beat the feeling of Luke looking at you. The game the two of you played at his frat parties to see which one of you would inevitably get jealous normally only lasted about two hours before Luke came over and called a truce.

You’ve been dating ever since you both arrived at the University of Michigan, immediately connecting with each other. All of your freshmen classes were the same, which ultimately led to him coming up to you and introducing himself. You were cautious at first, he looked like the typical frat boy. Athletic, cocky, and he most likely had a bunch of other girls waiting to pounce on him if they ever got the chance. He didn’t let your guarded demeanor sway him, and soon enough you found yourself wanting to be around him all the time. It was hard for him to stay away from you, and he slowly started to insert himself into your life.

You didn’t mind though, because you felt the exact same way.

“It’s only for you, you know that.” You mutter, while looking up at him with glossy eyes. He looks right back at you with an eyebrow raised, silently saying “really?”.

To prove your point, you put both of your hands on each side of his face, bringing him down for a kiss. It’s definitely not family friendly, as you guys chase each other’s lips even though they’re already touching. The guys that were looking at you before definitely aren’t now.

You break apart from each other, reluctantly, but you both need to breathe. “That good enough?” You ask, moving your hands to grab onto his waist, clutching onto the tight black shirt he’s wearing.

“More than enough,” Luke immediately replies, pressing his forehead to yours, never quite getting enough of you. “Wanna go to my room?”

“Yeah,” you quickly answer, already grabbing his hand and turning around to leave.

This was just your kind of love, making each other wild and crazy for each other.

[azzifuddslover]

༯ OFF THE COURT — CHAPTER TWO 𝜗𝜚

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

themes: angst, jealousy

tw: swearing (i think that’s all?)

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i had fun with this chapter! excited to continue writing 😋 i had to ofc add the lil dijonai & lyss foul haha. also if u have any one shot suggestions please please lemme know! enjoy

“oh my goodness, hi!” nika pulled each one of the freshmen into a warm embrace. “we’re so excited to have you guys here!”

we? paige thought to herself, that she didn’t dare speak out loud.

“we’re excited to be here!” caroline smiled at the three older girls, as aubrey and azzi hugged.

paige purposefully put distant between herself and the curly headed brunette, not wanting to start arguments her first day.

“so, where do you guys wanna see next?” aubrey questioned, while paige remained silent, keeping to herself.

“you tell us,” ashlynn said, excitedly.

“alright,” nika slung her arm around paige’s shoulder, “let’s go show you the dorms then.”

as the seven girls made their way to the dorm rooms, azzi walked behind aubrey who led the way, while nika and paige placed themselves in the back.

“you good, p?” nika whispered, “it’s unlike you to be this quiet.”

paige plastered a smile on her face, “all good, nik.”

“no, seriously, what’s up?”

“i’m fine, really. just tired,” she reassured her close friend, gently squeezing her shoulder.

minutes later the girls arrived at the dorms when nika spoke up.

“i think it’s best to divide into groups so we can still get lunch. aubrey, show caroline and yanna your room, paige show azzi yours and i’ll show ash mine.”

of course nika would place azzi with paige. alone.

“um, i’ll take ashlynn,” paige suggested, but it was too late. ashlynn was already off with nika, aubrey was leading carol and yanna to her dorm.

azzi stood awkwardly in the hallway, eyes focused on the floor, as paige glanced once at her before taking off to her room.

“cmon,” she muttered, passing azzi.

azzi was hesitant to follow, but she did regardless, keeping her head low while nerves twisted in her stomach. azzi couldn’t remember the last time she was alone with paige, if ever. the pair have clearly never gotten along, so she was nervous to see where this would go.

paige opened the door to her dorm, that she shared with another teammate, dorka, who happened to be laying in her bed.

“hey dorka,” paige said, announcing her presence along with azzi’s.

“hey p,” dorka looked at her, then at the freshmen, “who’s this?”

“one of the new freshmen, azzi.”

dorka smiled at azzi in a reassuring manner, then pulled her in for a quick hug. “welcome to uconn, azzi!”

azzi gently hugged the older girl back, feeling less nervous with dorka being there. “happy to be here.”

“you’re going to love it. i’m a transfer, and its absolutely amazing. the girls are all so great, geno can be a bit tough, but he means well,” dorka explained.

azzi was genuinely excited for her start at university of connecticut. she’s always kept uconn as an option for her future school, and finally was able to commit just a few weeks ago. she figured it’d be the best fit for her, despite paige being here.

“well, i told lou i’d meet her in the dining hall, so i’ll catch y’all later,” dorka said, grabbing her bag and phone before quickly leaving.

the silent in the small dorm was haunting. paige’s eyes were focused on her phone, while azzi motionlessly stood against the wall, waiting for any sort of conversation.

“so, do you like it here so far?” paige asked, finally breaking the silence.

azzi looked over at paige, “it’s nice, yeah. the girls seem nice.”

“that’s good,” paige replied.

“are you excited to meet-“

“you don’t have to make small talk, paige. we both know you aren’t happy with me committing here,” azzi bite out.

paige scolded her eyes, “you’re right. i’m not happy with you being here. but i can’t change it, can i?”

“nope, you can’t. let’s just ignore each other like we’ve always have.”

secretly, paige didn’t want to ignore azzi. she couldn’t. but she pretended to did it anyway.

“fine by me,” paige shouted, walking towards the door.

“where are you going? this is literally your room!”

“anywhere else but here, with you. go catch up with nika or something,” paige muttered as she left, leaving azzi staring at the door.

it was the first day of practice with the new additions to the uconn team, and paige successfully avoided azzi at all costs. whenever the team got together, they’d always converse with other players, never daring to look each other’s way.

paige brought the basketball up the court during a 5v5 match. she directed the players on her team to her liking, then passed it to lou who made the open 3 shot. aubrey secured the rebound, threw it off to azzi, who began to bring it to the opposing net. paige, of course, was right on her heels, defending her. azzi noticed the blonde from the corner of her eye, looking unbothered as ever.

reaching the 3 point line with paige right there, azzi considers all the potential lanes to the basket. when nika, part of the opposing team, goes to defend aubrey, azzi sprints through an open lane, going for the layup.

paige was quick to notice her plan, though. she blocked the ball from entering the basket, hitting azzi in the process. it was an obvious foul.

“hey, that’s a foul!” azzi shouted.

paige, who’s grinning to herself, adverted her eyes to the brunette. “no it wasn’t, it was clean.”

“bullshit!”

“you’re just mad you can’t make a shot on me,” paige replied.

“please. like i haven’t done it before!” azzi exclaimed loud enough for heads to turn.

“ladies!” coach auriemma interrupted their argument, “make sure to stay after practice.”

for goodness sake, paige thought to herself.

“this is all your fault,” paige whispered, loud enough for only azzi could hear.

azzi simply rolled her eyes at paige’s remark. she wasn’t going to let the older girl distract her further; she’s already done it enough.

practice quickly came to a close; azzi managed to put distance between herself and paige, not wanting to cause any more trouble than she already had.

each one of the basketball players made their way out of the gym, while azzi and paige anxiously remained, waiting for coach.

his office door opened, “come on in.”

paige took the left chair as azzi took the right, both not saying a word. coach auriemma looked pissed.

“your behaviors is unacceptable. if you both want to help this team succeed, we’ll all need to get along, including you two. especially you guys. you both are two of the best players we have, and i’m going to need y’all to quit it with the bickering and focus on the game. am i clear?”

“yes, coach,” paige and azzi say in unison.

“alright then. with that being said, go out to eat with one another. get to know each other. i don’t know what caused your disliking of each other, but it’s got to change immediately,” geno auriemma instructed the girls.

paige’s eyes widen as azzi shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearly not pleased with his suggestion. but azzi was new, and she only wanted to please her coach.

“that sounds fine by me,” azzi said, despite her brain saying she’d rather do anything else.

paige stole a glance at the younger girl, before also agreeing.

“good. when tomorrow comes around, i better not hear any arguments. and if i do, the pair of you will face further consequences. am i understood?”

paige nodded her head rapidly, “yes coach.”

“so, where do you wanna go?” azzi questioned the blonde after exiting coach auriemma’s office.

paige rolled her eyes, “we aren’t actually going anywhere together. if you thought that, you’re crazy.”

azzi couldn’t help but be slightly shocked that paige would lie to their coach. “paige, i’m not getting into more trouble just because of you. look, i don’t want to go anywhere with you either, but we have no choice. let’s just get it over with.”

paige absorbed azzi’s words, carefully considering them. “alright, fine,” she sighed, “where too?”

“do you like chick fa la?”

“uh, yeah. who doesn’t? that’s like asking if i breath air.”

after a silent car ride with paige driving and azzi being the passenger princess, the two ordered their meals and sat in an open booth, facing one another.

paige continued not to look azzi in the eye. azzi, however, was harshly glaring at the older girl. “are you going to ignore me forever or actually acknowledge we’re teammates?”

paige finally locked gazes with azzi, “i was planning to ignore you forever.”

azzi couldn’t help but softly chuckle, “of course you were.”

paige lips rose at the sight of azzi’s breathtaking smile, “you make it impossible, though.”

“oh, really? it seems you’ve been doing it pretty damn well for as long as i’ve known you.”

paige didn’t dare to tell her that ignoring azzi is the hardest thing someone could do. it wasn’t just her skills on the court, that could make anyone, including paige, second-guess their game. it was the way azzi carried herself, making everything she did seem effortless, even when it wasn’t. her silent confidence and her ability to make everyone feel included even in a busy crowd. paige hated how much she admired the young girl from afar; how looking at azzi made her forget about everything and everyone around her. it was impossible to ignore a girl like azzi.

instead, paige settled on, “you’re just a pretty good player. i always notice good players.”

after swallowing a bite of a chicken nugget, azzi leaned her elbows on the table, a small smirk lingering on her face. “so now you admit to me being good?”

paige couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her comment regarding USA basketball days. “whatever, whatever.”

azzi laughed to herself, and continued to enjoy her meal, while paige also focused on eating rather than the conversation.

azzi and paige eventually relaxed to each other’s presence, feeling more comfortable than before. they discussed the challenging classes they were taking and geno’s firm coaching methods; the girls began to somewhat enjoy each others company, when a boy around their age walked up to their table.

paige and azzi both looked up at the man, who was directly eyeing the brunette. azzi’s cheeks reddened at the sudden attention.

“can we help you?” paige asked, making the man turn to look at her.

“yeah, uh, i was wondering if i could get your number? you’re, like, really pretty,” the man said to azzi.

her cheeks were basically inflamed at this point, “uh,” she tried to think of the words, “sure, i guess?”

paige scoffed at azzi’s interaction with this random guy. they were finally talking and she had to ruin it. paige clenched her fists and suddenly rose from the table, causing the man and azzi to look at her.

“i’m going to the car,” paige announced, taking off before azzi could get another word out.

after paige’s exit, the boy looked helplessly at azzi, beaming regardless of paige’s reaction. he was pretty cute, but azzi didn’t have the time to focus on anything but basketball and her classes.

“i’m kameron, by the way,” he said.

“i’m azzi, but i gotta go, sorry,” azzi replied, trying to hurry out of there as soon as possible.

“wait, your number—“ but azzi was already out the door.

azzi climbed into the passenger seat, immediately aware that this ride will be even more awkward than the one they previously had.

paige’s grip on the steering wheel caused her knuckles to turn white. when azzi noticed, she softly asked, “are you okay?”

“are you kidding me, azzi? we were finally getting along and you had to ruin it by giving some dude attention. what the actual fuck?”

“it wasn’t my fault he came up to me!” azzi shouted at paige.

“you could’ve said no! but instead you agreed right in front of me!”

azzi gaped at paige, “why do you care who asks me for my number?”

“i don’t!” paige answered defensively, although it was a complete lie.

“what are you, jealous?”

paige’s cheeks tinted at her comment, “don’t be silly, azzi.” she turned on the car and began driving down the road.

arriving back on campus, paige instantly took off without as much as a glance at azzi. after their short argument in the car, paige blasted music to avoid further comments from azzi.

azzi scrolled into her dorm that she shared with caroline, letting out an aggravated sigh.

“you good, girl?” carol asked azzi, with her eyebrows drawn together.

“yeah. coach auriemma made me and paige go out to eat, trying to make us get to know one another. complete bullshit, if you ask me.”

“why don’t y’all like each other, anyway?” carol questioned her friend.

“i don’t know! i have no idea what i did to her. she’s hated me ever since USA basketball,” azzi complained.

caroline looked around in confusion. “wait, so what went down when you guys were out?”

“we were actually talking, without arguing, and a guy came up, asking for my number. paige just got up and left. then in the car, she got all pissing and screamed how i said yes ‘right in front of her,’” azzi made quotations with her fingers.

caroline laughed at azzi’s explanation. “what?” azzi smiled.

“she was jealous!”

although azzi accused paige of being jealous earlier, she didn’t exactly believe it to be true. how could paige be jealous of someone hitting on azzi? she hated her.

“no, trust me, she wasn’t. she was just upset for some reason.”

“oh my god, she’s totally in love with you or something,” carol suggested as azzi turned pink.

“caroline, she’s not. she’s constantly avoiding me and is always mean. does that really should like her liking me?”

carol held out her hands like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “um, yes!”

azzi couldn’t comprehend how caroline got the impression that paige was in love with her. that was beyond crazy. paige’s hatred for azzi has been going strong ever since USA basketball tryouts. there was just no way.

practice the next day was going smoothly; paige and azzi didn’t interact much, like the usual, which didn’t cause geno to enable further consequences for the young girls. azzi was showing off her 3 point shooting skills, while paige continued to be an assist machine.

it was time for another 5v5, and of course paige and azzi were on opposing teams. azzi drained 3 after 3, getting impressive looks from her teammates as well as the two coaches.

a long rebound ended up near the 3 point line, to which azzi managed to secure it. however, she didn’t see the older blonde who was also going for the rebound right behind her. paige crashed into azzi, knocking her to the floor face first. paige maintained her standing position, with each one of her legs around azzi’s torso.

without thinking, paige reached down to place both hands on azzi’s hips, gently pulling her up. azzi’s ass was flush against paige’s front, sending unwelcome feelings throughout the blonde’s body.

there’s a brief moment of awkward silence, azzi still slightly disoriented from the fall. paige’s hands lingered on azzi’s hips a second too long, not that azzi made any hint to move them. she can feel the older girls hands on her body, steady and warm, making her heart skip a beat in her chest.

“you good?” paige whispered, practically in the curly brunette’s ear, given the distance between the girls.

“yeah, thanks,” azzi replied breathlessly, trying desperately to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

after noticing her lingering hands on the hips of azzi, paige removes them acting as calm as possible. paige notices a shift in tone and smirks, teasing the younger girl, “didn’t think i hit you that hard.”

azzi responds with a snark of her own, “i’m not fragile, you know,” attempting to look tougher than she truly is.

paige’s smirk widens as she allows her eyes to take in the sight of azzi. messy bun, leg sleeve, practice jersey slightly ruffled. she looked good.

“like what you see?” azzi commented on paige’s wandering eyes.

embarrassed, paige looks away, “you wish.”

azzi softly chuckles as the freshmen makes her way over to caroline and yanna, ready to continue the 5v5.

in a dais, paige stands motionless in the spot of her and azzi’s interaction, silently wishing she could have one more excuse to talk to her.

but the older girl didn’t, so she walked back into position, ready for the next play to come.