#this shit was beautiful you have to read it

[bucketbueckers]

COME AROUND

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader content: language, kinda angsty (but with a happy ending because above all else, i am my own target audience), friends to lovers to exes to lovers, too many gatsby references, teenage awkardness, hopkins!p, sexuality, generational fumble from paige, mental health, slight injury, painfully long

wc: 27.0k synopsis: You were always a little tender-hearted. That’s why your friends told you to stay far, far away from Paige Bueckers. You tried, you honestly did – but Paige was magnetic, and she loved you, and you were just a little too weak to say no. Eventually, you’d have to come to terms with the realization that the both of you were growing up far too fast and that there were many lessons still left to be learned, although you never thought that moment of reckoning would come in the fashion that it did. Despite losing your way over the years, the beautiful thing about life is that you always find your way back home. notes: kinda funny that i thought this was gonna be like 5-6k words long...lol sike 😍 last night's game actually killed me but what do i actually know about basketball. i just work here. this fic came to me in a fever dream and was not planned out at all, is poorly proof-read, and at the end of the day i dont actually know if its good or not cause im sick of reading it. also. please let me know how we feel about the sexuality/process of coming out. i tried to make it as authentic as possible (i did NOT feel like writing homophobia, paige and reader got enough shit going on in this one shot) but lowkey...idk how it works. crazy lore drop but when i realized i liked girls i said "ok" and went on with my day and then eventually got outed to my family so like..oh well. i think that's it though but as always let me know what y'all think and pls pls enjoy 🫶

tags: @unadulteratedcyclepaper @avvwritesstufff @surferandskater5

You were always a little tender hearted — or so you’ve been told. Your heart lives perpetually on your sleeve, bared, bleeding, beating persistently regardless of the way it breaks under the slightest pressure. You’re a patchwork of criss-crossing bandages, an amalgamation of stitches and sutures; nevertheless, you still find the bravery to love and open up your heart in spite of it all. You wouldn’t say that you let people walk all over you. You’re outspoken and proud of it, opinionated and driven. In the same breath, you’re sensitive and trusting – perhaps to a fault, but that’s just who you are.

You don’t think this is a character flaw. Yes, you get hurt, but that’s inevitable. You like to think that if people like you stopped putting love and compassion into the world, then it would all go to shit eventually. You like to think that there is someone out there who will see your effort for what it is and care enough to protect your heart as if it were their own. Platonically, romantically, you didn’t particularly mind – you wanted to forge genuine connections with people. You wanted to love in whatever form that came to be. So, yes. You get hurt. Yes, it would be easier for you to not care so much at all, but if people gave up so quickly, then how would we grow? How can we expect to glean something from the world if it was a depleted resource?

Hopkins, Minnesota, was a quaint little city, but it was where you grew up. Elementary and middle school was… well, elementary and middle school. You learned a lot about yourself, about others, and made a few close friends that have stuck by you for years. Then high school came around and things shifted. Your classmates were confusing mixtures of self-absorbed and altruistic, trying too hard to be one thing or the other, and it was this strange imbalance between finding who you’re supposed to be versus staying true to what you’ve known. It’s that weird thing called growing up, and sure, everyone does it – in a literal sense as they grow older physically, but also as they change their minds and learn new things about the world and themselves, although growing up in high school is just so daunting. It’s like you’re supposed to have all of the right answers, right now, which is scary because you don’t even have the right answers for algebra yet you’re supposed to make life-altering decisions about the person you are?

You digress, though. Freshman year is decent. You get into a steady rhythm, join a couple of clubs that will look good on college applications, and you make a few new friends, ones that feel a little more like you despite the ones you’ve been holding onto since kindergarten. Sophomore year is full of changes, yet again.

But junior year? They weren’t lying when they said it would be the hardest year of high school. You were taking a few AP classes and a dual enrollment class or two to round it out, but despite that, junior year comes with a lot more internal realizations. You weren’t a sports person by any means, but Paige Bueckers soon became a name you were intimately familiar with. She’d led her team pretty far into the playoffs during sophomore year although they ultimately fell short. There was something about her that was magnetic and you wanted to know more, see more. She was a freshman phenom, a generational player.

And when you mention this to your friends, trying to screw up the courage to attend one of the Hopkins girls’ games, you’re adamant that this new shift has nothing to do with the six foot, blonde guard with whom you share a fourth period AP Lit class with. Sure, Paige is ridiculously pretty (even though you’re 100% straight), charming, and she has a way of drawing everyone in. You’d just like to be her friend and that’s all there is to it. You don’t stare at her as your literature teacher rambles on about whatever classic book you’re reading – you don’t remember if it’s To Kill a Mockingbird or The Great Gatsby, but as long as Paige is sitting one row in front and two chairs to the right of you, there probably isn’t a chance that you’ll find it in you to care.

Then, around late October, it’s time for group projects and you’re just hoping you’re not paired with someone who doesn’t want to do the work. When your teacher rattles off your name, pausing once to glance at the rest of the roster, and calling out Paige as your partner, you aren’t entirely sure if this is something you want to celebrate or dread. You look up from your open book, The Great Gatsby, although you’ve read this dozens of times already, and you find that Paige is already turning back to look at you. Her face is a mix of easygoing confidence and gentle kindness all wrapped up in a radiant smile that makes your heart drop out of your ass.

Your classmates shuffle around and she slides into the desk seat next to yours, her knees bumping awkwardly on the sides, but she hardly pays it any mind as she introduces herself to you, as if she isn’t the most famous seventeen-year-old you’ve ever sat next to. You figure that her introduction is more out of humility than anything else. It’s probably daunting to be her, intimidating to bear the weight of countless expectations on shoulders that are barely broad enough to fill out her jersey. You give her your name and she repeats it back to you slowly, testing the pronunciation on her tongue, and grinning when you nod, ignoring the blush that creeps up on your neck.

“A’ight,” Paige says, rubbing her hands together in a way that looks corny as hell, but you can’t help but be amused by it, “What do you think?”

The prompt on the board is simple – by AP Lit standards, at least. Explain the symbolism of the green light. Common interpretations think of the light as a representation of Gatsby’s love for Daisy, the American Dream, or money. Do you believe any of these interpretations (or an interpretation of your own) reflect the themes of the story and Gatsby, or do you believe the narrator, Nick Carraway, has unreliably pushed his own thoughts and interpretations onto Gatsby? How does the green light tie into the broader themes of Gatsby and Daisy’s relationship? Your project must be in the form of a PowerPoint presentation…

You stop reading as the rest of the prompt goes into the rubric. “You first,” you tell Paige, smiling when she huffs dramatically.

“I think it’s supposed to represent Gatsby’s feelings for Daisy,” Paige states. “I mean, it’s constant, like Gatsby’s been in love with Daisy for years. Even before he went off to war. And he’s always starin’ at it at night. I do think Nick is putting his own thoughts into it. Like, by sayin’ Gatsby believes in the ‘orgastic future that year by year recedes before us.’ I’on even know what that means.” You can’t help but laugh at this, drawing a grin from Paige. “But you know what I mean, right? He fell in love with this girl before he went off to war, years pass and he’s alive but she’s married to another dude and he’s rich and lonely and I guess he’s close to her, but they ain’t really that close – I feel like that light just, you know, reminds him that she’s there.” Paige’s voice gets quieter the more she rambles, and when she catches the soft attentiveness in your features, she scratches the back of her neck, shy.

You smile at her. “You know, I wouldn’t have expected that kind of analysis from you,” you admit.

“Bro, what?” she exclaims, choking on a laugh as you dissolve into giggles. “I see how it is. It’s ‘cause I’m supposed to be a dumb jock, right?”

You roll your eyes, your cheeks hurting from the strength of your smile. “No. I mean, like what you said about the light reminding him that she’s there. I always thought I was the only one who interpreted it that way, too.” Paige’s gaze softens as she takes in your explanation. “I feel like Gatsby is trapped in two different times – the past, where he loved her, and the present, where he still loves her but can’t have her. The light simultaneously reminds him of what he’s lost but also what he could have, you know?” Paige nods, encouraging you to go on. “There’s a distance between them, literally, but I think Gatsby feels like Daisy is still within reach. That his dreams are still within reach. I don’t think he realizes he’s chasing a dream from five years ago, or that Daisy eventually moves on as Nick watches Daisy fall in and out of love with Gatsby.”

“That is…really depressing,” Paige says, which makes you laugh again, but the way she’s gazing at you makes you feel as though she’s seeing you in a different light.

You shrug a shoulder, trying to not think too hard about the way her blue eyes sparkle. “I cried over this book a couple of times. I’m kind of a professional now.”

“Now that’s somethin’ I’d expect from you,” Paige teases.

“Okay, jerk!” you gasp indignantly. “You don’t even know me. What makes you so sure of that?”

Paige hums, pretending to think about something, but her expression is undeniably smug. “Call it intuition. How about you let me get to know you and I’ll let you know if it’s true?”

Oh. You were definitely not expecting that one. Your heart thrums a little at the implication, but it softens ever so slightly because you can clearly make out the earnestness reflected in her eyes, the realization that despite the grandeur and the fame and the talent beyond her years, Paige is still human.

“Well,” you say in a manner that you hope is supposed to be coy, “we’re stuck together now for this project. Getting to know me is a little inevitable.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” Paige asks, her lips tugging into a teasing smirk, one that makes you feel exasperated – in a good way. “And what happens after the project? You still gonna let me hang around and annoy you?”

You can’t help but laugh a little, hating the way your pulse races, although you ignore it. “We’ll see if I still like you by then,” you say, which makes her smirk turn into a smile that’s a little more tender, less cocky.

“I can work with that,” she promises. And with that, the both of you start outlining your project. Paige throws in a comment here and there that makes you laugh, keeping the mood light as you work. At the end of the period, you punch your number into her phone, dutifully ignoring the grin on her face and the blush on yours. She texts you immediately after just to be sure, but she texts you during your next class to complain about how boring her history teacher is, too. Conversation comes easy with Paige. It’s like she just knows – knows you – and you’re not sure if that should scare you or excite you. Despite not knowing why your budding friendship with Paige feels so different, you just know that it feels right, and that was good enough for you.

Your last class of the day is a study hall and you’re sitting at a table in the back with two of your friends, Mack and Serena. You can all but feel the mood shift when you recount your day. The mere mention of Paige is enough for your friends to jump on the defensive.

“You need to stay away from her,” Mack says, her tone serious. You frown, glancing at Serena for some help, but she only shifts uncomfortably, finding her online work a lot more appealing than this conversation. “Paige is someone who’s gonna break your heart, okay?”

“It’s not even like that–”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Mack states firmly. “It wasn’t like that when Izy left, was it?”

Despite yourself, your expression sours, and Mack reclines as though she’s made her point. You suppose she has. Izy was your best friend. The two of you were attached at the hip since kindergarten, but in freshman year, she found a new group of friends. She had a lot more in common with them than she did with you – or so it seemed – and she didn’t necessarily cut you off, but it probably would have been easier if she did. The two of you talked sparingly, plans always seemed to fall through, and the loss of that friendship hurt just as much as a break up would.

“Or ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named,’” Serena adds unhelpfully, because all it does is twist your heart again. He who shall not be named, or more colloquially known as Logan, was your first boyfriend. Granted, you only dated him for about three months in the eighth grade, but the break up turned your world upside down. He was your first something. That wasn’t anything to scoff at and he wasn’t kind in the aftermath, so it’s not really your fault for feeling impossibly upset about it. Maybe there was just something about you that made it difficult for people to want to stick around, but maybe there was something about you that managed to pick wrong every time.

“Those are different,” you argue. You can’t help the way your voice wavers, and you feel angry at yourself all over again for getting upset about this. “I was friends with Izy for ten years and Logan was my first boyfriend. They meant something to me.”

“Sure,” Mack concedes. “But you felt a lot for them. Watching you work through that heartbreak…” She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been hurt by a lot of ignorant people, and, yeah, you always get back up at the end of the day, but I know it weighs on you.” Mack pauses, finding her thoughts as you stare imploringly at her. “People talk, you know. Paige talks to a lot of people. She’s not the type of person to stay in one place. You know as soon as she gets an offer, she’s leaving Minnesota and she’s not gonna look back. She’s destined for something a little greater than Hopkins.”

You swallow thickly, Mack’s words hitting you harder than she probably intended. Part of you knows that she’s right. Paige is only a junior but she’s a top prospect coming out of high school. She’s going to go to a great college for basketball. UConn, South Carolina, Notre Dame – one of the dynasties. You’re sure she’d get an offer to stay home and attend the University of Minnesota, but you also know that she’s worth a lot more than Minnesota. The other part of you, the part more connected to that bleeding heart of yours, doesn’t want to listen to Mack. It holds out hope that you wouldn’t be just another part of Paige’s past – maybe you could be part of her future.

Mack glances up at you again, studying your expression, and she softens. “Hey,” she says, gathering your attention. “I’m not gonna make a choice for you. If you wanna be her friend…go for it. I just want you to be careful who you show your heart to. Some people take it for granted.”

You nod carefully, appreciative of the way she looks out for you, and the two of you return to your work. Only moments later, your phone buzzes on the table. A notification from Paige lights up on your screen, then two, and you smile despite yourself and open your messages. You text her back, already pushing your conversation with Mack and Serena to the back of your mind, and you hardly notice their concerned glances as you respond.

Your project isn’t due until mid-December, the Friday before winter break, but you and Paige spend nearly every other day together when she doesn’t have practice. It’s a steady rhythm for the two of you: sitting through your literature class together, exchanging teasing glances and text messages when your teacher isn’t looking, complaining about the other classes you don’t share with each other, and finding yourselves at one or the other’s house to work on your project or simply enjoy each other’s company. You’ll admit that the two of you don’t get much work done most days, instead filling the time with pointless conversations about nothing but mean everything. Hours with Paige feels like mere minutes and you don’t part until a parent texts about dinner and you have to go your separate ways.

She invites you out to one of her games. It’s on a Friday night, and at first, you want to decline, hearing Mack’s words swirl through your brain once more. People talk, you know. Paige talks to a lot of people. She’s not the type of person to stay in one place. You don’t want to have to share Paige’s attention, which is a realization that shocks you to your core. It’s dangerously possessive and honestly, it flusters you a little. You’d never been so territorial over a friend’s time like you have been with Paige. Perhaps territorial isn’t even the right word. You have no claim over Paige, nor does she have any claim over you. You don’t like girls and you don’t like her in that way, even if that disjointed flutter in your chest makes you wonder otherwise. You don’t.

Paige seems to read your expression perfectly. That’s a new thing, too. You have been friends for less than a month, although it feels like you’ve known her forever. You know her favorite color, the women she grew up idolizing, the larger-than-life dreams that you know she’s going to make come true because Paige is nothing if not a girl who works hard and believes in herself. You know the messier parts of Paige, her parent’s divorce, her unyielding faith, and the uncharacteristically insecure “I like girls. Does that change anything with us?” that she’d whispered over the phone one night (your heart had raced and you felt warmth creep up your cheeks; you didn’t know what that meant, but you wholeheartedly meant it when you promised her that it wouldn’t change anything).

“You won’t even know I’m there,” you say to Paige, referring back to the game, and her brows furrow in a stupefied confusion. “Are you, like, aware of how many people go to your games?”

Paige rolls her eyes, but the action lacks any real heat as a smile spreads across her face, slow and insufferable in that way only Paige is capable of. “If you’re in the stands, I’m not gonna care about anyone else,” she promises, which makes your heart skip a beat. “I want you there.”

You didn’t really need much convincing after that, so on Friday night, you find yourself in the student section. You’re not even sure who the Royals are playing – probably a district rival – but the one thing you’re sure of is that Paige oozes with confidence, an easy grin on her face as she warms up on the court. She’s chatting with one of her teammates, although her eyes scan the gym imperceptibly. Then, her eyes are sliding across your figure, taking in your – her – Hopkins basketball hoodie that she forced you to wear, showcasing her last name and her number on the back of it, and her grin softens as she waves at you.

That night, Paige plays like she has a point to prove. She’s unguardable from the three-point line, demanding in the paint like she’s prime Lebron James, and she slices through the other teams defense seamlessly as she makes near impossible passes to her wide open teammates. Paige is full of energy, a searing combination of adrenaline and pure love for the game, but the trait that truly captures your attention is the unfiltered cockiness. Off the court, Paige is humble, although you’re still trying to figure out if that’s truly who she is or if it’s her protecting herself from all of the eyes that are on her constantly. But on the court? Paige plays like she’s the best player in the state (which she is) and she plays like she knows she’s the best player in the state (she knows she is). The only word that comes to mind is menace. Paige isn’t a dick, but when she sinks a three, she throws up three fingers as she back pedals for defense. When she landed an impossible buzzer beater to send off the first half, she’d glanced down at her arm, tapping on her wrist as if she were wearing a watch. Then, late in the third quarter, when she stole the ball from an opposing player and took it across the court for the easiest layup of her life and stole the ball again when the other team was trying to inbound it (she scored on that one, too), her celebration was directed at you. She pointed at you in the crowd, a grin on her face and pride in her eyes, and you couldn’t help but laugh at her, shaking your head as the warmth spread through your body.

Seeing Paige play in person is like seeing her in a different light, and honestly, you feel like you know her a little better now. You feel more drawn to her. She offers to walk you home after the game. At first, you want to decline. She just played out of her mind and lead her team to a blowout win against whoever the fuck and your mom is just a call away. Paige insists, reminding you that your houses really aren’t that far apart, and you suppose you can’t really argue against that one.

She keeps you entertained the entire walk back, cracking jokes and recounting some of her favorite plays from the game, and when her knuckles brush against yours as she rambles, you find that you really don’t mind that spark of electricity that runs up your spine at the contact. She tests the waters, pressing closer and closer until finally, she links her pinky with yours under the streetlight; you smile at her, something that’s simultaneously soft and welcoming and laced with the sudden realization about yourself that you’d been putting off the entire time you’d known Paige. You liked her. She glances over at you, mid sentence with a content smile on her face. When she registers the fact that you’ve been staring at her, she stutters, fumbling over her words, and you can’t help your laughter as she blushes bright pink.

It should probably scare you a lot more than it does. Liking a girl is scary and daunting but liking Paige, your best friend, feels like something new entirely. You remember Mack’s words again. People talk, you know. Paige talks to a lot of people. She’s not the type of person to stay in one place. As quickly as they’d popped into your brain, you push them to the back of your mind. Mack doesn’t know Paige like you. That much you’re sure of. And if you get hurt in the process of trying to live and experience things for the first time and giving your heart out to someone, then so be it; you were used to it by now, but the gentleness of Paige’s gaze under the moonlight feels like she’s promising that she wouldn’t hurt you.

The two of you pause at your doorstep. You can hear the gentle thrum of crickets, the drag of the wind across grass and leaves. Paige stands tall over you, her expression soft as she gazes down at you with what seems like a flicker of hope – for what, you’re not sure. The air between you feels charged, electric, like you’re opposite ends of a magnet and it’s only a matter of time before you fall into each other entirely.

“So,” she murmurs, cocking a wry smile at you. The usual sharp edges of her confidence has rounded out, enveloping you both in a sort of tenderness that makes your heart ache in the most confusing and best way possible.

“So,” you agree, drawing a quiet huff of laughter from Paige, who runs the flat of her palm across her jaw, contemplative. You give her the space to find her words – she’s done the same for you many times; she was usually the talker between the two of you, but you’ve come to find that she’s an amazing listener, too. A beat passes and she doesn’t say anything, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, and that’s when you decide to step in. “You played great tonight,” you admit.

Paige blinks, as if she’d forgotten all about the basketball game she spent your entire walk home rambling about. Her brows relax, her smile turning bashful, and you can clearly see the humble pride in her eyes, illuminated by porchlight. “You were there,” she says. “Had to show out.” You roll your eyes fondly, your heart thundering in your chest. “Does this mean you’ll come to more of my games?”

You pause, pretending to think about it, but you’re sure the smile on your face gives you away as you respond, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.” Paige sighs, playfully exasperated, and you give in easily. “I’ll be there. I had to make sure you were actually good at this basketball thing.”

“My biggest cheerleader,” she mumbles dryly. The sheer excitement and relief on her face betrays her words and her tone and you can’t help but laugh.

“Thanks for walking me home,” you say. Your voice is hardly a whisper, but it seems to echo in this little bubble of space that the two of you have created.

“I – yeah, I mean, of course,” Paige stammers. She clears her throat, exhaling a long, deep breath, and you’re certain the fondness shows on your face as you stare at her. Paige quirks a smile, slightly embarrassed. “Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m not!” you exclaim, laughing for real now, which just makes Paige dissolve into laughter of her own. Soon enough, your giggles die down, and you’re both staring at each other with soft, captured smiles. The awkwardness of the moment melts away into something lighter; briefly, you wonder if she’d been standing this close the entire time – you can feel the warmth of her body as she stands mere inches away from you. “Goodnight, Paige.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move, and neither do you. You don’t shy away when her fingers tentatively brush across your waist, her body eclipsing yours, and the both of you are slowly inching towards each other, breaths mingling when your front door bursts open and your little brother pops his head out with a shout of your name. You and Paige scramble away from each other, feeling like you’ve been caught red-handed.

“Get inside!” you hiss at your little brother, not awaiting his response as you push him back inside, closing the door and leaning against it. Part of you feels like crawling into a hole and never coming out of it. Your gaze returns to Paige, who’s staring at you with a mix of amusement, embarrassment, and a whole lot of affection. You sigh, feeling both resigned and like you’d been cheated out of something, and you press your forehead into the door to curb the awkwardness. “Sorry,” you say, knowing full well why you’re apologizing but also understanding that acknowledging the need to apologize is the same as acknowledging the fact that you and Paige were about to do something that would drastically change the course of your friendship.

“S’okay,” Paige says earnestly. You lift your head to meet her gaze, hoping that she’s not just saying it to make you feel better about yourself, but you find nothing but honesty in her features. Her hand brushes against yours once more, a gentle smile on her face. “I’ll text you when I’m home, yeah?”

You nod, exhaling again, mustering up a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes due to the overwhelming embarrassment. “Yeah. Night, Paige.”

“Goodnight,” she says again, her expression soft, and this time, she does leave, her hands buried in her pockets. You swear she glances back at you but it’s too dark to tell for sure. Tentatively, you make your way inside, unwilling to meet your brother’s eyes. It’s not until you’re getting changed for bed that you realize you’re still wearing the hoodie she’d given to you.

You pull it off slowly, carefully, like it’s a prized possession. To you, it may as well be. After what transpired on your front porch only moments ago – or what almost transpired on your front porch, the fact that you’re in possession of her hoodie feels strangely intimate to you. It feels right, too, which is probably more concerning, but you don’t have time to dwell on it as your phone lights up with a message from Paige, then another one. Both texts are simple with the first one reading “Home” and the second one bidding you one last goodnight with a heart emoji. You respond in kind, and when your eyes find her hoodie again, you can’t help the fond, lingering smile that spreads across your face.

You and Paige don’t talk about the almost-kiss on your front porch the morning after. You don’t talk about it the day after that, or on Monday morning when she meets you in the parking lot at school. In fact, the both of you pretend like it didn’t happen at all. It doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. You start to wonder if it even happened at all – if it wasn’t for your brain conjuring images of Paige so close to you, her hand splayed on your waist, you would be sure that you had imagined it.

So, while the two of you don’t talk about it, you do a lot of thinking about it, probably enough for the both of you. You have a lot of new things to consider, such as the fact you almost kissed your best friend (and the fact that you wanted to kiss your best friend), the fact that you have feelings for your best friend, and the fact that you have feelings for your best friend who is a girl. There’s nothing wrong with girls liking girls. That wasn’t your concern. The situation as a whole is just new and unexpected and you don’t have a lot of the answers you’ve been searching for – like do you even like like girls or do you just like like Paige? Do you only like girls or do you like boys, too? You and Logan were thirteen. You’re not much older now, but at that age, it’s difficult to determine if you actually liked anyone in a sense that wasn’t completely platonic or if you were just trying to pretend that you did so you could fit in with everyone else.

You’re fine with the sexuality crisis – for now. You have bigger things to worry about, like being attracted to your best friend. You were no expert by any means, but you were smart enough to know that having feelings for your best friend was generally a pretty terrible idea. For starters, you’re not even sure if Paige likes you back. You’re sure that she’d be cool enough to remain your friend after rejecting you, but you’re not sure if you’d be able to handle the embarrassment of going from friends to extremely awkward friends. On the other hand, there is a chance she wouldn’t want to associate with you, either. The one thing you’re certain of is that you could not handle losing Paige – as a friend or otherwise. In essence, you’re stuck in between a rock and a hard place.

The more that you think about your predicament, the more you realize. A week later, you’re overthinking yours and Paige’s most recent hangout. You’d gone over to her house to “work on the project,” but that had actually turned into Paige flopping onto her bed dramatically and complaining about being sore from practice. Somehow, that meant she wouldn’t be able to contribute, and somehow, that meant the two of you would just have to binge the entire High School Musical series. You spent hours curled into Paige’s side on her bed, her hand tracing patterns onto your shoulder as the movie played on, but you didn’t really pay any mind to Travis or Danielle or whoever the main characters were. Paige was intoxicating, casual in the way she held you, and you sat through the entire movie keenly aware of the way her body pressed into yours and the scent of her cologne on her neck – but you’re getting off track. A new fear about your situation has manifested and despite Paige being the one initially worried that her liking girls would make things uncomfortable for the two of you, you’re now the one wondering if your sexuality is a reason for discomfort.

You worry that you’re the one taking advantage of your friendship. Are you overstepping friendship boundaries just because you’re incredibly close with Paige, or is there a subconscious belief that just because Paige likes girls, too, that means you can invade her personal space like they don’t matter? You worry that you’re making her uncomfortable and she’s just too polite to say anything about it. However, you also understand the fact that just because Paige likes girls doesn’t mean she likes you. That’s simultaneously a source of relief and dread. Relief because honestly, nothing has to change between the two of you. Dread because as time goes on, your feelings for Paige only get stronger, and you’d really like it if she liked you, too.

You decide to put your impending mental breakdown on the back burner. You have actual problems to worry about now, such as the due date of your project that’s quickly closing in. Your literature teacher was usually pretty lenient, but the project was still worth a huge chunk of your grade and you’re sure Paige would kill you herself if receiving a bad score on the project meant she wouldn’t be academically eligible to play basketball. The two of you make a conscious effort to lock in during the last week of the project, a little crunched for time as you’d spent so much of your “project time” talking for hours and watching movies. Granted, Paige ends up shouldering a lot more of the work as time passes on although you do your best to help out in between daydreams about her hand on your waist again.

On Thursday, the night before the project is due and two days before winter break, things seem to reach their tipping point.

You and Paige are basically finished with the project – you were proofreading and scanning your PowerPoint for academic content and ensuring your sentences made any bit of sense. Paige was pressed into your side, “quality checking the designs” as she’d said, but you just thought she was full of shit. She’s unnaturally quiet as the two of you work, until she shifts, her legs stretching out next to yours. “Think the only thing this project’s taught me is that this book is depressing as shit,” she says to you once you click over to the slide titled Gatsby and Daisy: Doomed by Time.

You hum, glancing over at her. She’s swamped in an oversized hoodie but looks impossibly comfortable as she reclines on your bed. “Alright,” you say, “I’ll bite. Why?”

She flips onto her side, explaining, “Literally everything was working against them. Time, society, people. Gatsby and Daisy were the epitome of right person, wrong time and there was nothin’ they could do to, like, get around that, you know? He went off to war, she got married, and he missed his shot ‘cause time keeps movin’. Daisy chose stability over love – Tom’s rich and can provide for her. But Gatsby was rich too. I’on get it.”

“Well,” you murmur, “wealth is not usually a good replacement for actual love.”

“You don’t think Gatsby loved Daisy?”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t love her. I’m saying he doesn’t love the version of Daisy that actually exists,” you explain. Paige gazes at you, a furrow in her brow like she’s realizing something new — about you, about herself, you can’t be sure. “He’s so obsessed with this idealized version of her from way back when and he just doesn’t understand that’s not really who she is anymore. I feel like that’s kinda the point of the green light, too.” As you think about your next words, your voice drops to a near whisper, your throat tightening with a sudden, unrestrained emotion that you can’t quite keep at bay. You meet her eyes, your stare unwavering, hoping that she can read between the lines. “Physically, the light is far away, right? It’s out of reach. But also – it’s a light. It’s impossible to hold. It’s a lesson about the impossibility of desire, that some dreams cost too much.”

Paige is quiet for a few beats, her eyes searching yours. You have always been intentional with your words. That was one of the things she knew to be true about you. Now, she seems to fully recognize your words for what they are — a confession for what you’re otherwise too afraid to say out loud. You’ve given her an out. She could sit here and wax poetic about the same topics and themes you’ve been debating over the last two months, about whether or not Gatsby truly loved Daisy, if the feelings Daisy had for Gatsby were worth giving up her life of comfort and peace, if Gatsby were worth it. Her hand brushes your waist again, her fingertips light against the skin of your navel where your sweatshirt has ridden up, and the jolt of electricity that courses through your veins reminds you of just how risky this whole thing was. You’ve all but given Paige your heart on a silver platter, perhaps too foolish or naive in the way you always search for more, more, more. Maybe you’re asking her for too much. You know she’s leaving Hopkins the first chance she gets. All of that is pushed to the back of your mind when her gaze traces your figure. 

Finally, she speaks. “I don’t think it’s too far away,” she says, understanding exactly what you were trying to say. “Not for you.” Her words ease the tension in your shoulders, her thumb brushing against your skin reassuringly. Her voice is firm, full of conviction, like she’s never been more sure of anything else before. She pauses, your eyes locked together, and her features soften ever so slightly. “Not for us.”

You quirk a small, relieved smile, relishing in the way Paige’s face relaxes, too. “You don’t think it’s impossible?” You don’t say the quiet part out loud – the “You don’t think we’re impossible?”

But Paige knows you. You’ve given more to her  than you’ve ever given to anyone in the past, friend or otherwise, and she doesn’t hesitate. “No.” Her hand settles fully on your waist now, squeezing you gently. “And even if it was… you’re worth it.” She smiles softly, her expression vulnerable and trusting despite the fact that she’s opening herself up to get hurt, too. You’re beginning to realize that the chance of getting hurt is just a risk everyone takes.

You can’t help the entire way your face softens at her confession. You realize that subconsciously, she’d said the very words you’d been hoping to hear for some time now although you never had the vocabulary to tell yourself that – that you never had the vocabulary to tell her that. But you watch the way she studies you, the way she swallows her nerves, and you begin to understand that maybe she doesn’t have the vocabulary, either, but she’s trying her best regardless. This is something that the both of you are doing for the first time; granted, you had one previous relationship, but this new thing between you and Paige feels a whole lot different. She’s the first person you think you actually consciously had feelings for, the first girl, and despite your relief and excitement, that reminder is enough to make you clam up.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly, and you pull your laptop between the two of you. “Well, we should probably get this finished,” you say with the grace of an elephant tromping through weeds. You click over to the next slide. “Does this look fine to you?”

Paige goes oddly silent, her brows furrowing in confusion and disbelief. “Uh, what?” she says.

“I said does this–”

“No, I heard you,” Paige interrupts. When you don’t meet her eyes, she sighs, exasperated, and closes the lid on your laptop, pushing it to the foot of your bed despite your protests. Then, her hand is sliding around your waist again, resting on the small of your back and pulling you onto your side so you come face to face. Your mouth clamps shut; the heat of Paige’s gaze feels like it’s enough to pick you apart, to melt you entirely, and you know well enough by now that you’re not getting out of this conversation without explaining yourself to her. “Why’d you freak out?” Paige’s voice softens, tinged with an anxious embarrassment as she adds, “I thought we — did I say too much? Do you not…?”

Instantly, you feel guilt all over. You didn’t realize how bad the situation sounded before now, with you changing the topic uncomfortably after Paige basically told you she liked you. “No, I—” You falter, your words failing you, but Paige stares at you with a hopeful patience. “I’ve never… done this before,” you confess. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever liked.”

Realization dawns on Paige’s face. “Oh,” she says, a mixture of relief and understanding lacing her tone. 

“Yeah,” you agree, a vulnerable smile quirking on your lips. “It’s new. A little scary. I really like you but I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“S’okay,” Paige murmurs. Her hand finds yours. “I really like you, too. We can figure it out together.” Her breath catches, eyes widening just a bit. “I mean, if that’s somethin’ you’d want. No pressure.”

You laugh, eyes twinkling as Paige’s cheeks flush pink. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” you tease her. 

Paige huffs, flopping dramatically onto her other side and putting her back to you. “Goodbye!” 

You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your cheeks but you do stop laughing. You reach out, resting your hand tentatively over her bicep as you hook your chin over her shoulder. “Hey, come on,” you say. “I can’t be the only one who has to be vulnerable.” You can nearly visualize Paige’s eye roll, but she does shift again, meeting your eyes. “I’d like that. Figuring this out with you, I mean.”

Her eyes light up, a slow smile dragging across her face. You don’t even think she’s consciously aware of how happy she looks. “You’re for real?”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “Yes, Paige, I’m for real.”

“Good,” she states, beaming.

“Now can we finish our project?”

Paige groans dramatically, rolling over again until she’s sprawled out over you. She hitches one of her obnoxiously long legs across yours, looping an arm around your waist and making herself at home like she’s done this hundreds of times. You can’t stop the flutter in your chest, smiling despite yourself. “Do we gotta?”

“Do you gotta pass AP Lit?” you retort. 

That prompts a sigh from Paige, who untangles herself from you to reach for the laptop she’d pushed haphazardly to the foot of the bed. You miss her warmth immediately, but she’s not gone for long before she’s leaning back against your headboard, your thighs pressed together. She doesn’t make any move to turn it back on, her eyes finding yours instead. You look at her curiously.

“I just want you to know I’m serious about this,” she says honestly, taking you by surprise. “About us.” You soften. “I know a lot of people have hurt you. I’on wanna be one of them. You’re my best friend, you know? I care about you. So…let’s take this slow for now, lemme know how you’re feelin’, yeah?”

You nod, smiling gently and she gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “Same goes for you,” you say, leaning into her a little. She presses herself into your body, her chin brushing against your temple as she nods her head. 

“Promise,” she murmurs. 

And with that vow lingering in the air, the two of you share private, almost starstruck grins and get back to work. Once you finally call it quits fifteen minutes later and you submit your project, Paige is all too content to push your laptop to the side again as she wraps an arm around you fully and begins her scroll through Netflix despite the fact that you know the two of you will be watching High School Musical sooner rather than later. You grin to yourself when she does eventually put it on, not fighting the way your cheeks burn when she absentmindedly plays with your fingers or the way your heart races when she shifts to get comfortable, your legs tangling together. 

As you watch the movie, Paige’s words circulate on repeat in your brain. A lot of people have hurt you. I don’t want to be one of them. You know better than anyone that getting hurt is just another part of life. Despite yourself, you can’t help but believe her, confident that no matter what, your heart will be safe in her hands. You don’t think much of Mack’s warning, of Paige’s celebrity, of just how young the two of you are to be making these kinds of promises. You’re not thinking of the future at all. Your happiness clouds your judgement, and whether you realize it or not, you and Paige are operating on borrowed time. 

Things with Paige are great. Scratch that, they’re nothing short of amazing. The two of you spend the entirety of winter break attached at the hip, splitting your time between your house where you drink copious amounts of hot chocolate and binge silly Christmas movies and her house where you and Drew, her little brother, gang up on her in snowball fights. She whines about the fact it’s two on one, but you point out the fact she’s got an arm like a quarterback and it’s only fair. She only really understands what you mean by that when she launches a snowball at you hard enough to bruise your side, which cuts your snow day short. Paige apologizes profusely, much to your amusement, and she insists on “nursing you back to health” which, in retrospect, seems to have been a clever ploy to get you away from her family and into her arms in the comfort of her room — not that you really needed much convincing for that. 

Sometimes, your days are spent in the park, when Paige gets too restless being inside and wants to play basketball. The two of you shovel away enough snow to reveal the three point line and you rebound for Paige as she shoots. She only manages to get a couple of shots in before her hands get too cold and she starts complaining that the only way to warm them back up is if you’ll hold them. You oblige, you always do, endlessly endeared by her (mostly because you can always spot her gloves hanging out of her back pocket).

The park becomes a place of comfort for the two of you. It’s late December in Minnesota so you almost always have the park to yourselves. You’re able to talk freely without either of your annoying little brothers constantly barging in or worrying about your parents catching you. Paige is out to her family and the Bueckers support her wholeheartedly. You’re not out to your parents yet. You know they wouldn’t particularly mind, either; if anything, they’d probably just implement a really strict open door policy, but it’s still all really new to you. You like Paige. A lot. You fall for her more and more everyday. She’s goofy, sweet (even when she’s teasing you or getting on your nerves), confident, and she always knows how to make you laugh. She’s attentive and she listens. Liking Paige is something you’ve accepted, but you can’t help but be scared of the fact that you don’t really know anything about yourself. 

You can’t figure out if you like girls or if you just like Paige. You can’t look at anyone that’s not her and before her, you’d never even looked twice at another girl. Sure, you always averted your eyes when you passed Victoria’s Secret in the mall and you were really obsessed with Shego from Kim Possible and Starfire from Teen Titans, which could mean nothing. You can’t figure out if you like boys, either, if Logan was a one time thing or if you’d just confused yourself because you wanted to fit in. You don’t know if you’re a lesbian, or if you’re bisexual, something in between or nothing at all. You should be fine with knowing that you like Paige. People always say you don’t have to label it, but labeling means that you know and that it’s real and you can’t help but think that because you don’t know what you’re doing, that you’re doing it wrong or you’re just faking it all.

So you don’t tell your parents. You’re still trying to make sense of it all and you tell Paige as much, honestly a little fearful of her rejection. Part of you feels like you’re leading her on because you can’t give her a straight (no pun intended) answer.

“You don’t gotta have it figured out right now,” she tells you a few days after Christmas. The two of you are back in the park, savoring the peace in the emptiness as you sit side by side on the swings, swaying gently.

You groan a little. “I hate when people say that,” you respond. “I feel like I should know.”

Her eyes find you, warm and patient despite the chill and the fact you’ve been going back and forth on this for days now with you stressing out and Paige being endlessly reassuring about it. “Maybe you do know and you just can’t, like, put it into words?” she offers, drawing your attention. “Sexuality is a spectrum. It doesn’t have to be difficult. You don’t gotta look back on your life for evidence to prove it or whatever. Just be you.”

You fall silent, her words hitting home, and you hate the fact that you’ve been losing your mind over this and all it really took to find some clarity was a conversation with Paige on a swing. Maybe she was right. She usually is about things like this. But you can’t help but feel like you’re missing something. You were the type of person who needed a reason or an explanation for everything. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” you rush out, barely registering the raise of Paige’s eyebrows. “I know we said slow. I can do that. But I really like you, like really really like you, and that’s all I’m certain of. I don’t know everything else and I feel like I should because you know everything else—”

“I don’t,” she interrupts, but you keep rambling.

“—but I like you. You’re sweet and you’re kind and you understand me when I don’t understand myself. You always make me feel secure and I hate that this is so confusing!”

Her gloved hand slides into your hoodie pocket. Her fingers tangle with yours, calming a tremor you hadn’t realized you were harboring. She murmurs your name, pulling your gaze to hers, and she squeezes your hand. “Breathe,” she instructs. You do, calming the incessant thrum of your heart. “There we go.” When you’re feeling a little more stable, she continues. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I don’t wanna mess up with you,” you confess, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders when it’s out.

“You won’t,” she promises. “We agreed we’d figure it out, remember? And even if you do mess up, it’s not gonna change how I feel about you. I like you, like really really like you.” This makes you laugh, your breath steaming in the air. “That’s what matters. You like me. I like you. You don’t need to explain why you feel a way and you can’t fake how you feel. I know you.” The expression on Paige’s face is unbelievably fond and you can’t help yourself when you smile, your cheeks heating up. “See?” Paige says with a grin, poking your cheek. “Can’t fake that blush, ma.”

“You’re impossible,” you huff, pushing her hand away, unable to curb your grin. But your rejection does little to stop Paige. Her hands find your sides, tickling you, and you immediately begin squirming in the midst of your giggles. “Paige! You are so annoying—!”

You lose your balance on the swing and you fall off, tumbling safely to the bed of snow beneath you with a slight oof sound. Paige follows you down, the both of you smiling as you try to catch your breaths. She wipes a tear off your cheek that had slipped out in your fits of laughter and it’s only then that you register your position. She’s straddling you, the beanie on her head lopsided from your scuffle, but the joy on her face is radiant despite the blush on her cheeks — whether it’s from the cold or her feelings for you, you don’t know, and when her hand lingers on her cheek, her expression softening, you find that you don’t care. “Paige,” you murmur. You feel your heart slamming against your ribcage, but for different reasons now. 

“Can I kiss you?” she blurts. Judging by the way her face contorts, it seems that she hadn’t expected to say that out loud, but you’re nodding, hands reaching up to grip the collar of her coat and you bring her down to your level. 

When your lips meet, you feel warm all over, like you’re not laying in the snow with Paige’s legs bracketing your thighs. It’s tentative, uncoordinated, and it’s clear that neither of you really know what you’re doing, but it’s your first kiss and it’s with Paige and it’s nothing short of perfect. Your lips move against hers slowly, her hands gentle on your cheeks. Your grip on her coat loosens, wrapping around her neck and pulling her a little closer to you. Her nose brushes against yours and you gasp from the chill of it, which causes her to sigh against you. You’re not really sure who’s leading, but for once, your brain is blissfully quiet; your heart pounds, feeling nothing but a nervous excitement and unfiltered adoration.

You break away for air. Your breaths mingle, clouds of steam fogging between you two and Paige grins down at you, her expression full of fondness and something electric that makes you want to drag her back down again. So you do, your hands a little more insistent this time, and she responds eagerly. Despite the intensity, Paige is unbelievably gentle and each and every press of her lips against yours is sweet. And it’s corny, but your brain feels a little clearer after having Paige’s lips on yours, like you no longer have to search for answers. Like she’s the answer.

She pulls away, her forehead against yours, and you press a gentle kiss to her cheek. Her eyes open slowly, a blush and a smile simultaneously appearing on her face in response. “What was that for?” she asks.

You smile, shrugging a little in response. “It felt right,” you respond, which only seems to make her smile grow. “Someone once told me I don’t always have to have an explanation.”

Paige huffs out a quiet laugh, her eyes crinkling in amusement and fondness. “They sound really smart,” she jokes. 

Your hand finds her cheek, your thumb stroking her dimple. “She is,” you say seriously. Paige’s expression softens, leaning into your touch. “She’s the best person I know.”

“I bet she thinks the same about you,” Paige whispers. 

Despite yourself, you grin, connecting your lips again. The chill nips at your cheeks but the weight of Paige on top of you grounds you, her warmth stabilizing and comforting, and you know in your heart that you’re doing something right.

New Year’s comes and goes and before you know it, school is starting back up in January. Between you and Paige, a lot of things stay the same. She still drives you to school in the morning, often stopping by Dunkin’ and buying you your favorite coffee. On days she doesn’t have practice, she’ll either drive you home or take you to her place where you either work on homework together (although you don’t get much done, most of the time) or binge television together. Paige has you invested in Grey’s Anatomy now, but the two of you have promised to not watch it without the other.

On the other hand, some things do change. Paige walks you to all of your classes now, even when hers aren’t anywhere near yours. Arguing with her was useless, so you learned to suck it up. She kisses you in the empty hallways, something chaste and sweet and sneaky that leaves you wanting more – that was a new thing. Before her, you never realized how nice kissing can be. You’re sure it’s mostly because you’re super into her regardless, but there’s also something about the casual intimacy that you fall for each and every time. She’s gentle and considerate and you’re just so hopelessly attracted to her that you really should have known that kissing her for the first time would alter your brain chemistry. For now, the two of you are content to appreciate the peace and the privacy that you have. Neither of you tell your friends or your family, though you’re sure Mack and Serena are starting to have their suspicions. They’ve asked you a few times, and while you’re not a very good liar, they seem to accept your rejections as they are and they don’t push any further.

Although you do have one, teensy-tiny problem. Paige hasn’t asked you to be her girlfriend yet. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel about that, but there is a lingering nervousness and you’re a little hesitant to ask her about it without sounding obsessive or clingy or insecure. In mid-December, you established that you liked each other, although neither of you really did much about that until you kissed in late-December after Christmas. Did kissing her mean the two of you were dating now? Since then, the two of you have kissed a lot. It reminds you of the scene from Glee where Brittany says, ‘Sex isn’t dating. If it was, Santana and I would be dating,’ and granted, while having sex and just kissing are two different things, you’re starting to feel a little worried by the fact that you and Paige are conventionally girlfriends but not technically.

You convince yourself that maybe you and Paige were just being mature about it. High school relationships have almost redefined what dating actually means. You can’t just ask someone to be your boyfriend or girlfriend and then start the ‘dating period’ per se. You should probably do the ‘dating period’ first and then make it official once you’ve figured out if you’re compatible. You and Paige, however, have been friends for a little over three months, been in this weird ‘dating’ phase for a little less than one month of that time, and by now you’re pretty certain that you and Paige are very compatible. She’s your best friend. But you really want to make it official with her. You’re just not sure how or if she’s on the same page yet.

Making it official with Paige also means making it official to your parents. That thought doesn’t intimidate you as much as it used to. You’re a lot more comfortable in your sexuality now. You’re pretty much head over heels for Paige, you like girls, and you couldn’t care less about boys. Whether that makes you a lesbian or Paige-sexual as Paige had cracked herself up calling it is a discussion for another day. You’re secure in the fact that Paige’s parents aren’t going to care, that your parents won’t mind, either, and that your classmates are worried more about themselves than whoever you of all people are dating. Being out just means you don’t have to stress about sneaking around or if someone’s going to walk into the girl’s bathroom when you’re making out with Paige. Not that you make out with Paige in the girl’s bathroom, because that would just be kind of insane. But hypothetically if you were making out with Paige in the girl’s bathroom, then you wouldn’t have to be scared of getting caught by a classmate. Hypothetically.

The first Friday night home game after winter break is one that you were looking forward to. You knew the Royals were playing a weaker team, so you were excited to see Paige show out, especially after getting to witness first-hand a lot of the effort she’d put into honing her skills over the break. She gave you a ride to school, forced you into her hoodie (yes, the one with her jersey number and her last name on the back and yes, you didn’t really need to be convinced, but you really liked the warmth of her hands on your skin as she helped you into it), and kissed you over the center console of her stepmom’s SUV. It was enough to short circuit your brain. You didn’t need to see her expression to know the reaction she’d elicited from you had made her incredibly smug, but you could visualize it all the same as she made her way to the locker room with her duffle bag slung over her shoulder. Paige Bueckers was going to be the death of you. That much you were sure of.

She’s pure electricity that night. You knew the game was going to be a blowout, but this was next level. If you weren’t so distracted by Paige and the way she was slicing through their defense, you would probably feel bad for the other team. She was putting up insane numbers – 15 points in the first quarter alone, six assists – but she was doing her thing on defense, too. She was clamping the offense, forcing their shots to bounce harmlessly off the rim, and late in the second quarter, she even had a clean block that ricocheted off of the offense and awarded the Royals with the ball. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of her. Judging by the glances she’d shoot your way anytime they’d line up for free throws, you’re positive that she knew of your evident distraction, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be ashamed by it. Watching Paige play was a source of pride for you. She was so good at it and she works so hard everyday to show up and show out. It honestly makes you a little emotional in a good way. You’re just proud of her, of her successes. You admire her dedication and her love for the spot, the care she puts in day in and day out to be the best.

Once the game ends, you make your way out of the crowded gym and out to her mom’s SUV, starting the ignition and settling into the passenger seat. You knew that Paige would have a long line of people to greet and that she was adamant about showering before getting anywhere near you after a game. As much as you would love to see her and hang out right after, the both of you knew that you wouldn’t be able to get in a word edgewise. This arrangement, however, did have its positives. The two of you cherished the time you got to spend alone without dozens of eyes on you and you appreciated being able to speak freely. You pull out your phone, scrolling through social media as you wait for Paige.

She doesn’t keep you waiting too long. You spot her walking your direction, bag slung over her shoulder again and her hair thrown up in a loose bun. She’s illuminated by the streetlight but you know well enough by now that the glow on her face is from the sweetness of the win. You smile, your heart thrumming a kind of anticipation that only Paige has ever been able to draw from you. She opens the driver’s side door, sliding in with a happy grin, and tosses her bag into the backseat before she’s leaning over the center console with a murmured greeting, planting an easy kiss on your cheek. You don’t fight the heat on your cheeks, your smile growing bigger when her hand finds yours.

“Good game, superstar,” you tease, relishing in the bashful smile that overtakes her face.

“Thank you,” she says. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze, her eyes finding yours. “There was a pretty girl in the stands. I had to show out for her.”

“Oh?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Where is she? Not just anyone captures the Paige Bueckers’s eye.”

Paige grins at you again, mischievous and wicked and fond all at the same time. “She’s right where she needs to be,” she retorts, which makes your smile soften into something more tender. “You’re right, though. She’s not just anyone. She’s kind, and funny, and smart, and she’s got this heart of gold. And she’s got this smile that makes you weak in the knees and she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

“Get a grip,” you say, trying to regain your dignity and trying to ignore the blush on your cheeks to the best of your ability. Judging by the way Paige’s smile turns smug, you don’t think it’s working. “You know I like you. You don’t have to woo me.”

“I do,” Paige insists, finally giving you a moment of reprieve when she puts the vehicle in drive and begins making her way out of the parking lot. Once the two of you became friendly and you started showing up to more of her games, a trip out to Dairy Queen became your post-game tradition. She’d buy the two of you a blizzard and she’d park in a quiet, empty lot while you chatted for what felt like minutes but would quickly turn into hours. You know the night’s only over when your spoon hits the bottom of your cup and Paige starts losing her filter. Now, it’s something that you look forward to. “Gotta keep you on your toes. Romance is lifelong, baby. You don’t stop once you got the girl.”

You can’t stop your sudden laughter, amused by her antics. “You got the girl?”

She shoots you an indignant look. “Don’t play. You know I got it like that. I’m all romantical and shit.”

“Total lady killer,” you deadpan. “I’m swooning.”

“You will be,” she agrees. “You make fun of me now but you keep on comin’ back. You just can’t resist Paige Buckets.”

“Maybe I just feel bad for you.” Paige huffs at this, but a smile is quirking on her face. “And nobody calls you Paige Buckets.”

“I do,” she retorts. “Which makes it real. I think therefore I am. That’s Shakespeare.”

“It’s not – you know what? Sure,” you snort, knowing full well that the two of you will sit here for hours arguing about it. “Don’t quit basketball.”

Paige smirks at you as she pulls into the Dairy Queen drive-thru. “Never,” she affirms, only looking away from you when the speaker crackles to life. Paige rattles off your orders (knowing yours by heart, which doesn’t make you feel a little soft) and pulls forward when requested. You make light small talk while you wait for your ice creams and Paige pays – as always; you’d tried once and she confiscated your card until she dropped you off at your house. Then she’s driving off in search of the parking lot you always chill at, her ice cream in the cup holder, her hands firmly on the wheel and eyes on the road. You feed her bites of yours when she stops at red lights, the sheer domesticity of it all feeling so right.

When the vehicle is safely in park, she moves the seat back a few inches, stretching out her legs as one of her playlists echoes through the speakers, a mix of The Weeknd, Brent Faiyaz, and Bryson Tiller. The energy in the car, mellowed out and calmer, still sparks with a sort of electricity that always encompasses you and Paige. Her smiles feel a little looser, more purposeful, and her eyes linger on your face when she looks at you. You talk about everything and nothing, recounting the game and Paige’s insane plays, the homework you’ve neglected to make the most of this time with her, and the date she was taking you on tomorrow night. You’re both nearing the bottoms of your cups, spoons scraping against plastic, and with a soft smile, she offers you the last bite of hers. Her thumb swipes at your bottom lip to clean a bit of ice cream that had run astray. It makes your heart beat a little faster. Paige always had this uncanny ability to make you nervous, to make all of your neurons fire at the same time. You came to the realization long ago that you were hopelessly attracted to her, but it’s times like these that remind you of just how magnetic she is.

The two of you have been here for over an hour now. A glance at the clock tells you that it’s nearing midnight. It always surprises you how easy it is to pass time with Paige. You know that it’s time for the both of you to start making your way home, but Paige doesn’t make any move to shift the car into gear, and you honestly don’t want the moment to end either. You also know that Paige is reaching the end of her sensibilities, her laughs a little brighter and delirious, her fingers restless in how they twist the ring on your thumb.

“You okay?” you ask her, wondering if there’s something that’s keeping her here, if she needs you to drive home or if there’s something else weighing on her. She meets your eyes, a tender smile on her face, her expression soft and sleepy and enamored.

“I’m perfect,” she whispers. “Can we just…sit here a little longer?” The last part is even quieter, if that was at all possible, and you nod. Her fingers tangle with yours fully. And then she starts rambling. “‘M really glad Mr. Mattson partnered us up for that project,” she admits. “It brought me to you. I’on know if I woulda had the courage to talk to you otherwise.”

You giggle, a little in disbelief. “You, nervous?” you repeat. “No way.”

Paige nods emphatically, completely serious. “Yes way. You’re…you’re beautiful, you know that? Like scary beautiful. Like make a girl get super rich during Prohibition, build a mansion, and yearn for you from afar beautiful.”

She grins at you as you roll your eyes. “You are so full of it.”

“And yet,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing soothing circles across your knuckles, “you put up with me, anyway.” You nod, conceding, and she continues. “Point is, you kinda make me nervous. In a good way. I just… I feel like I need to impress you and do right by you. Guess what I’m tryin’ to say is you make me be the best version of myself. And I, you know, I really like doing this with you.”

You smile softly and squeeze her hand. “I like doing this with you, too,” you admit, drawing a smile from Paige.

Then, she’s shifting in her seat, angling her body towards yours, and her face is pensive, like she’s debating with herself internally. You almost ask her if she’s okay but her next words steal the very breath from your lungs. “Will you be my girlfriend?” she says, and your jaw drops slightly, unsure if you’ve even heard her correctly. Then, she’s sighing, clearing her throat and trying again. “I mean, can I be your girlfriend?” The clarification does little to calm the thumping of your heart. The words get stuck in your throat, emotions swirling through you. Excitement. Relief. Anticipation. An overwhelming amount of affection. Paige seems to mistake your stunned silence for rejection because she starts rambling again. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I had this whole thing planned out and it was supposed to be really romantic. I was gonna ask you at dinner tomorrow, like I already called the restaurant and I was gonna get you a slice of cheesecake because you hate the other kind of cake and it was gonna have the, you know, the question on it and I wrote you a letter ‘cause I can’t talk around you, and–”

You curl your fingers in the fabric of her hoodie and you pull her across the center console,  shutting her up with a kiss. She relaxes instantly, melting into your embrace as her hands find your hips, trying to minimize the space between your bodies. She breaks away, huffing because the center console is in her fucking way, and before you know it, she’s lifting you by your waist and drops you on her lap, kissing you again with a different kind of urgency that’s equal parts relief, gratitude, and so much unrestrained fondness. You wrap your arms around her neck, trying to angle your kiss so you can regain some control because her pace and intensity is honestly making you a little dizzy.

When you run out of air, you plant both of your hands on her chest, pulling away from her with considerable difficulty. You have to stop yourself from kissing her again because you know you’re not going to get another word out. You lean back, smiling when you take in the unmistakable shine in her eyes, the dopey grin on her lips. Your noses brush when you finally respond with a simple, “Yes.”

“Yeah?” she repeats, her arms looping around your waist to hold you a little closer to her body. She looks up at you, her happiness evident, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning in to plant one more lingering kiss to her mouth, humming an affirmative. “Knew you’d say yes. I’m irresistible.”

You pull away from her to laugh in disbelief. “Okay, I see how you’re forgetting the whole ‘I wrote you a letter ‘cause I can’t talk around you’ business. Which, by the way, I wanna see, but you’re so lucky you’re cute because you’re kind of a loser.”

“Loser?” she exclaims, indignant. “Nah, that’s actually crazy!”

“No! Like, you’re this badass athlete and you just dropped like 40 points–”

“43,” she cuts in.

“–40 points tonight and you’re over here nervous about asking me to be your girlfriend–”

“I wanted it to be perfect! It was gonna be perfect but you looked so pretty and I couldn’t wait!”

“Babe,” you say, laughing under your breath, your expression fond as you cup her cheeks, drawing her eyes up to yours. “It’s perfect because it’s us, okay? Us, cramped in your mom’s Honda Pilot, our half melted Dairy Queen and your freaky ass R&B.”

“S’not freaky,” she huffs, but you don’t pay her any mind.

“This was perfect,” you reiterate, your voice softening. Paige exhales under you, taking your words to heart. “Being with you is perfect. But is the cheesecake still on the table for tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Paige says, a furrow in her brow. “Just pretend to be surprised when it comes out.” You hum against her again, kissing her cheek, and she squeezes your waist a little, her voice suddenly a lot more nervous. “Uh, what does this mean for us? I mean…like our parents?”

You’re surprised by how calm you are by the question. You play with the stray hairs at the back of her neck, shrugging an unbothered shoulder. “You wanna tell them?” you ask her.

“I wanna do what you want,” she deflects.

“I want you to answer my question,” you retort.

Paige rolls her eyes, amused. “I would…like to be out. With them, at least. I’on wanna hide forever…but I know this is still kinda new for you. And we don’t have to do nothin’ serious at school, either. Seriously. Whatever you want.” Her hands are warm as they slip under your – her – hoodie, and the touch makes you feel more grounded.

“We can tell them tomorrow?” you offer, hesitant, but when Paige’s face lights up, you know you’ve made the right choice. “As for school, I think I wanna enjoy this while it’s still ours, you know? Just us. I wouldn’t mind being public eventually but I do mind the attention. I guess what I mean is we can be out but I don’t want everyone in our business.”

“Private, not a secret?” she asks, and you nod, relieved because she understands exactly what you were trying to say. “That works for me. And we can tell our parents tomorrow before we go out? Together?”

“Together,” you confirm, a smile lighting up your features.

She leans in to kiss you again, her own smile growing against your lips. Her nose brushes yours when she draws back enough to speak. “Just want you,” she promises. “Nothing else matters to me. Other people, the internet, nothing. Just lemme know how you’re feeling and we’ll handle it, okay?”

“Promise,” you swear. Paige grins at you again, drawing you in for a hug. You sit there in her arms for a while before you find your way back to the passenger seat and she drives the two of you back home.

She bids you a goodnight in the car, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before you stand on your porch to unlock the door. She doesn’t drive off until you’re safely inside. When you’re finally in your room, you don’t take the hoodie off, comforted by Paige’s scent encompassing you, and you fall asleep with an unshakable happiness in your heart and a smile on your face.

(The next day, you and Paige tell your parents, officially. You start with the Bueckers’ first and it goes as well as you were expecting. You and your girlfriend sat them down, explaining, we’re dating and we’re very happy. Moe gave the two of you comforting smiles, but Bob cleared his throat and admitted, “Uh…yeah, we saw you kiss on the Ring doorbell.” You wanted to crawl into a hole and die, to be honest, but Moe and Bob pulled the both of you into hugs and promised that as long as you and Paige were safe and happy, then they were happy for you.

Then, it was time for your family, and you were a little nervous. Granted, they had no idea that you liked girls, let alone would date one. Their reaction was basically the same as the Bueckers’, informing you that they had their suspicions since you and Paige were glued at the hip and that your little brother told them that he was pretty sure he almost saw the two of you kiss almost a month and a half ago. That was objectively worse than the Bueckers’ catching you on the ring doorbell. You were correct in assuming they’d make you keep your door open when Paige is over. And judging by the slightly horrified expression on Paige’s face when your dad finishes talking to her in private, you’re pretty sure he gave her the shovel talk of the century.

And, just so it’s absolutely clear, the date that Paige takes you on that evening is the best date you’ve ever been on – so far. She brings you flowers, pulls your chair out for you, and enchants you all night long with easy conversation. When the waitress brings out your slice of cheesecake with Will you be my girlfriend? written in strawberry puree, you sell your surprise and performance so well that the waitress brings out a second slice, chocolate flavored just for Paige. You’re sure that the night couldn’t get any better, but before she drops you off at home, she reads that damn letter to you and you can’t stop the happy tears. She kisses you goodnight, her expression adoring, and you know that you have the best girlfriend in the world.)

The rest of junior year passes in a blur. You’re the happiest you’ve been in your entire life, your grades are phenomenal, and Paige leads her team to a blowout state championship win. As if that wasn’t electrifying enough, she signed with the University of Connecticut the week after the tournament ended on April 19th. Your girlfriend was officially a Husky and would bleed blue for her college career. You couldn’t help but be overwhelmingly proud of her – playing for UConn has been her life goal, hoping to cement her name as one of the greats next to Sue Bird, Diana Taurasi, Maya Moore. While you couldn’t get into UConn with as much ease as she did, UConn would be the first school you submitted your application for once October rolled around. You weren’t sure who was more excited – you or Paige – at the prospect of going to college together, but what you did know was that you couldn’t wait to cheer her on as she took the world by storm.

With the harder parts of the school year long gone, the time for prom came around in late April. Paige secured your tickets as soon as they went on sale and was dead set on making it the best night of your life. She prom-posed to you with what was possibly the cheesiest sign in the world: it was decorated with lopsided basketballs (although you appreciated the fact that Paige made her sign completely homemade) and read ‘Together, we’re a slam dunk. Take a shot at prom with me?’ and there was no way in hell you’d ever say no to something like that. It took you less than four hours to find the perfect dress, although you spent a week with Paige travelling from mall to boutique to find the perfect thing for her to wear. Dress shopping with Paige proved to be a difficult task, especially for someone who seemed to hate dresses as much as she did. When you suggested she just wear a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, she nearly lost her mind in the middle of the store.

“What kind of date wears jeans and a shirt to prom?” she’d exclaimed, rifling through the dress racks, beginning to ramble. “No, ‘cause that actually pisses me off. Like, you see all these girls walkin’ around in these pretty dresses, make up done to the nines, and their boyfriends can’t even be bothered to iron their shirts?”

“I want you to be comfortable,” you said to her. “What you’re wearing won’t matter to me. You know that.”

She huffed, pulling a black dress off the rack and holding it to her torso, glancing in the mirror with a pensive expression. “It matters to me. I can’t be caught dead next to you lookin’ like an idiot.”

“Well…” you trailed off, much to her chagrin, and she pouted at you dramatically as you laughed. “Get that one,” you advised. “It won’t be super tight on you so you’ll have some breathing room. And I like the way your arms will look in it.” When she tried it on, you walked in on her in the dressing room flexing in the mirror, and, well, you were right.

With the dress debacle out of the way, that meant you had to consider other factors, like your matching corsages and dinner beforehand. Those were slightly less intimidating decisions to make. Paige knew next to nothing about flowers and her only demand was “they have to look nice,” so you found the corsages. You weren’t paying for dinner and Paige knew your likes and dislikes like the back of her hand, so she handled the reservations and promised she wouldn’t dirty Moe’s SUV if the two of you could borrow it for the night. All that was left was prom itself and considering it would be your first and you don’t get another junior prom, you were incredibly excited for it.

Dinner was nice – it would have been hard to fuck up since Paige chose a restaurant she knew you liked and it was hard to not enjoy your time with her anyhow. She serenaded you as she drove, belting Keyshia Cole’s Love like she was a contestant on The Voice. And, sure, it was incredibly off-key and her voice cracked during the vocal flips on “I found,” but you couldn’t help your endearment for her. Making you laugh was one of the things she was a master at. You arrived at the school in good spirits, turned in your tickets without an issue, and entered the gym with high hopes.

The music is thumping, echoing throughout the gym. You can feel the bass in the floor and your body almost immediately vibrates from the noise. Paige curses lightly under her breath, her hand finding yours with a wince, and she glances at you curiously, a simple you okay? visible in her eyes. You nod and she leads you over to the drink table where she gives the two-liter soda bottle a cursory sniff before pouring it in a red solo cup for you. You remember hearing that last year’s prom got cancelled early because someone spiked the punch bowl, which is why they shifted to pouring directly from plastic bottles, but you could never be too sure and you appreciated Paige for her protectiveness.

As you drink, you take in the decorations. The student council was tasked with setting everything up – deciding on the theme, ordering the decorations, putting them up. As you glance around the packed gym, your eyes taking in the streamers and the lights (you pretend that you don’t notice a section of lights that have already been ripped down), you determine that you really can’t tell what the prom theme is supposed to be. A girl and her date pass by you in a 20s flapper dress and a wrinkled button up with Timbs, of all shoes; then you’re passed by a girl wearing polka dots and her date in a graphic t-shirt. You’re getting a lot of mixed signals right now.

“Wanna dance?” Paige asks you and you nod, throwing your cup away, allowing your girlfriend to lead you to an emptier section of the gym. For a while, you’re not really sure what’s playing until the bass drop is over and you realize it’s some remixed version of Zedd’s Clarity. You glance around, watching people dance. There’s a group of students towards the front of the gym near the DJ stand jumping up and down like it’s a mosh pit. There’s another section of people bobbing their heads and moving stiffly. To your right, there’s a group swaying, their phones raised as they capture the moment.

“This is not what I thought prom would be,” you comment off-handedly to Paige, who’s halfheartedly shimmying. 

She shrugs a shoulder, reaching out for your hands with a smile and pulling you closer to her, making sure to leave room for Jesus, as she’d once joked. “We can make our own fun,” she yells over the thump of the music. She drags you into an awkward, uncoordinated and off-rhythm shimmy-dance-shake thing, but her smile is infectious enough that you’re throwing all caution to the wind as you allow her to lead you. You laugh along with her for the remainder of the song before you’re joined by a few of her teammates and their dates. Paige introduces you and together, the small group of you dance to a few more songs. You take a few group photos in varying poses, then find some snacks, and you burn another half hour dancing before the pain in your feet gets to be too much and the music starts giving you a headache.

You don’t want to be a buzzkill, but you have to admit that prom is a weird mix of overwhelming and lackluster. It’s a lot better with friends, though; the short period of time you spent with Paige’s teammates was invigorating but there’s just not a lot to do that’s not eating, dancing, taking photos, or watching people try to dance. You intertwine your fingers with Paige’s, drawing her attention and whispering in her ear about needing air. She nods, leading you towards the door and snagging another drink for you on the way out. The cool breeze and the peace does wonders for you.

“I’on wanna ruin your night,” Paige begins, a little sheepish, “but was this kinda…”

“Lame?” you supply, watching the relief spread across Paige’s face.

“Yeah,” she agrees. You offer her a sip of the soda and she takes it gratefully, holding onto the cup for you as you toe off your heels, lowering yourself to the sidewalk and taking a seat. You stretch out your legs, sighing when the pressure in your feet is alleviated. “Wanna get Dairy Queen after this?”

You groan, leaning your head onto hers as she wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Like you even have to ask,” you murmur, appreciative of the peace. Paige chuckles, her thumb rubbing against your shoulder. The two of you sit there for a while soaking it all in before the music inside dies down. You can hear the echo of the DJ as he tells everyone to partner up for the slow dance. Paige sets your cup on the ground, removing her arm and standing up. You glance at her as she extends her hand for you to take.

“May I have this dance?” she asks, and you laugh, unable to say no. You allow her to pull you to your feet as the opening notes of Taylor Swift’s Crazier bleed through the gym walls. She navigates you both to the grass, your feet bare against the cool ground, and she wraps her arms around your waist as yours go around her neck.

I'd never gone with the wind, just let it flow

Let it take me where it wants to go

The two of you sway, the sound of chirping crickets serving as the perfect background to the gentle hum of the music through the walls. Her hands are warm on your side, her chin pressed to the top of your head, your face cradled gently against her chest. If you were being honest, this is probably the most content you’ve been since dinner – being alone with Paige has a way of cheering you up.

I was trying to fly, but I couldn't find wings

But you came along and you changed everything

Paige starts humming the lyrics, the vibrations of her voice soothing you as you follow her lead. Your fingers smooth some of the flyaway strands at the back of her neck, hands mapping the expanse of her toned shoulders, content to just feel her and relish in this tender, unexpecting intimacy.

You lift my feet off the ground

You spin me around

You make me crazier, crazier

It’s then that you’re hit with a gentle realization, the lyrics resonating with you. You and Paige have been together for close to four months at this point, although it feels closer to five months since you admitted your feelings to her back in late December. Every day since then has been full of nothing but pure enjoyment, a whole lot of care, and some of the best times of your life. Paige has this way of always making you smile, even when the day gets hard, this way of making you feel so appreciated and cared for. You’re young and you really weren’t expecting her to come into your life the way she did, but you really can’t deny this overflow of emotion that you feel when she’s around. You know exactly why you feel this way.

You lift your head off her chest, your hands resting on the tops of her shoulders as you pull back far enough to look her in the eye. She gazes at you curiously, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your hips, and you can’t help your smile as you kiss her tenderly. She responds, pulling you flush against her, and you know that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“What was that for?” she whispers, an enamored little grin on her face, cheeks bright with a blush.

You don’t hesitate. “I just love you,” you confess.

You expect her to freeze up. You expect her jaw to go slack, to ask you to repeat what you said. Love wasn’t something you should just drop so casually – the both of you knew that. But Paige’s smile only grows, a lone dimple popping out as her eyes shine under the streetlight. She cups your cheeks in her hands and leans down to kiss you again. It’s soft, barely-there brushes that you can still feel in your heart; her lips ask you a simple question that you can’t help but answer. You lean into it, into the love that has built between the two of you over the months you’ve been together and the months you’ll be together in the future, into the shared promise of I’m yours.

“I love you,” Paige whispers, punctuating her words with a squeeze. “So much.”

You smile against her lips, letting her pull you back in. The music fades into nothing, your focus entirely on Paige, on the way her lips move against yours, the way her hands cradle your face, the way she loves you. You’ve given your heart over to her completely and she cherishes it like it’s her own. Sometimes, there are things you’re just born knowing, and right now, you know that everything in your life has led you to being here now, to being Paige’s. You couldn’t think of anything better than that.

SENIOR YEAR – 2019-2020

Senior year is the beginning of the end.

You and Paige spend summer break attached at the hip, but not overbearingly so. You’d gotten a part-time job mostly to make some extra money and to make your resume look a little better, so you were occupied by that four days a week. Paige, on the other hand, was spending extra time in the gym and running drills with private trainers and coaches. She was committed to one of the best colleges in the country for basketball – summer was not the time to be slacking off. It was the time for her to get better, stronger, faster; if you wanted to celebrate with the best, you had to be the best, and Paige turned that pressure into motivation.

Above all else, you still made time for each other, even when she was exhausted from practicing and you wanted to crawl into a hole and die because food service sucks (seriously, you were a cashier – what makes people think you of all people fucked up their food? Your job was to hit buttons and ask if they wanted fries with that). At the heart of it, you and Paige were each other’s remedies. You were a source of peace, comfort, and relaxation. Honestly, much of the time the two of you shared over the summer was spent napping, but you weren’t going to complain. You were busy and she was busy and you’d take whatever you could get, even if that meant being the big spoon every other night.

Things weren’t harder by any means. They weren’t any easier, but they were just different. You had to get used to managing your time, learn how to effectively maintain a relationship when the only time you really get to see each other is once or twice a week (and when Paige is snoring for most of it). You’d argue that this is just making the two of you stronger. The two of you would only be busier in college. Now is the time for growing up and realizing that you couldn’t reasonably spend every waking moment together, as much as you would like to. You were fine, Paige was fine, the two of you communicated, and you were very happy.

Well, there was one slight issue.

Following Paige’s commitment, your Instagram messages and comments had been blowing up. It started small. There were joking comments (or so you’d hoped) with messages of ‘You better not distract Paige next season!’ and their variations. It all ramped up from there. Trolls accusing you of only dating Paige because she’d become a millionaire once she’s in college, accusing you of keeping her out of the gym. Someone even said that UConn wouldn’t win a national championship anytime soon considering their starting point guard would be too busy playing the part of a doting girlfriend.

You won’t lie. All of the comments and the messages were really heavy. Here you were, barely 18 and you had crazy fans of varying age levels all in your business and saying awful things. There were comments you wouldn’t even dream of repeating. You talked to Paige about it and she’d held you as you cried. It was less of the content, but it was more about the spam and the constant onslaught and the amount of people tearing you down for no good reason. Paige posted on her socials requesting for people to leave you alone. While there was an outcry of support from the kinder folk, you’d somehow gotten even more harassment in your messages. You eventually caved and privated all of your accounts, scrubbing the nasty comments and trying to go about your life.

The damage had already been done.

Senior year was supposed to be your best year thus far, yet everything was bleak. It was nowhere close to the academic rigor of your junior year, but you were taking a few more dual enrollment classes and a lone AP, which means you were spending a lot more of your time studying so your grades wouldn’t slip. You ended up having to drop one of your clubs, too. You were less upset about that one considering it wasn’t doing a lot for you anyways. The fact that everything started piling up and you had to make all of these ultimatums was weighing on you.

Paige was incredibly busy, too. Coming off of a championship win from the year before, her coach was determined to get them back there again this year. Practices were longer, more grueling, and as if those weren’t enough, Paige was spending more time in the gym alone to get shots in and run drills, like she had something to prove. Maybe she did. She needed to show that she wasn’t an overrated high school player, that Geno Auriemma didn’t make a mistake in recruiting her. She needed to prove that she has what it takes to go from a high school championship contending team to a collegiate championship contending team. Combined with her own classwork, she was running out of time to devote to you, so the two of you were honestly just stuck.

The time you did get to spend with one another never felt like it was enough. You tried your best to fit in dates that had nothing to do with school or basketball, just the two of you. You loved each other. You would go through worse things than this, and you were dedicated to making it work, damn it. You communicated – or tried to, at least. You could tell Paige was under a lot of pressure, you knew her well enough by now. Anytime you brought it up, she’d always say that she’s just tired or that she needs to lock in because the pressure is only going to increase when she’s in college. You tried to help, but you just didn’t know how, and you were terrified of pushing her too far. She didn’t need you to be this clingy, obsessed girlfriend who can’t function without her, and maybe you were worried about becoming too much, too. It’s just a hard pill to swallow when you go from being all over each other in junior year to whatever the fuck this is now. You have to remind yourself that you and Paige need the space to be your own people. You’re changing, she’s changing, and you can’t hold onto a past version of her – if you force her to be something she’s not, you’ll just lose her, and that’s not something you can stomach. So you take her word for it, letting her be her own person, even if it feels like you’re still losing a battle you could never have won in the first place.

Growing up is hard, isn’t it? 

And it’s weird – because it’s not like everything is bad. There’s a lot of good times, too. Paige still drives you home after her games, making sure to stop at Dairy Queen, making sure to fit in some time at that parking lot just to chat with you. Sometimes it gets a little heavy when she’s a few hours past delirious and her kisses become a little more insistent, sloppier against your skin and you both have to remember to chill out because your first time is not about to be in the backseat of her stepmom’s Honda Pilot. She still smiles at you like you’re her everything, because you are. It’s hard, but she moves mountains to make time for you, even if that just means spending the night at your house and in your arms and you do nothing but sleep because you’re both just exhausted from life.

You still wear her hoodie, the one with her number and her name on the back and the one that’s starting to smell like the perfect blend of the two of you. You leave your clothes at her house and she leaves hers at yours. You and Paige integrate so seamlessly into each other’s lives that the slow-forming rift between the two of you is unexpected when it eventually cracks, sending the two of you tumbling into a bottomless chasm. Somehow, you miss it entirely — the fractures, the shifting of tectonic plates. Maybe the hard truth is you don’t miss it at all, but you ignore it in hopes that you can patch up the lacerations. 

But that rift doesn’t actualize for another few months, for for now — you’re fine. Unknowing of what’s ahead of you, too busy and too in love to focus on anything but the present. 

The holidays are a much needed reprieve. Thanksgiving and Christmas back to back means your classwork finally lessens and Paige isn’t spending every waking moment in the gym. That doesn’t mean that she didn’t try to spend every waking moment in the gym, though. On the very first day of Thanksgiving break, you could feel her shifting around in your bed at an hour that was definitely not appropriate. She was apologetic for waking you up and said that she just wanted to get some shots in before the local rec teams took over the courts. You weren’t having any of it. Half-asleep, you’d dragged her back into bed with you, climbing on top of her and resting your head on her chest, murmuring nonsense about missing her. The details are fuzzy, but you do remember waking up some hours later after the sun finally rose and Paige was still in bed with you, her arms wrapped tight around your waist.

Spending so much uninterrupted time over break reminded you why you fell in love with Paige in the first place. It wasn’t like you were starved of reminders while you were both in school – she texted you good morning (although this was anywhere from 5-6am) and she texted you good night (anywhere from 12-1am); the knowledge that you were the first and the last thing on her mind made your heart race. She walked you to and from your classes, carried your bag for you, but it was that time outside of school that you were truly missing with her.

When you brush your teeth together in the morning, she flicks water at you teasingly and wipes the foam off your lip when you miss a spot. She’ll sit atop the counter and watch as you do your skincare or your makeup with an enamored look on her face. Most days, she allows you to do her mascara or apply some new skin cream on her face, although the latter usually ends with Paige whining about how it burns and you reminding her that just means it’s working. You spend time with each other’s family, you go on dates, open presents at each other’s house, and a few days after Christmas, she takes you back to the park where you’d shared your first kiss. It’s not your one year anniversary since Paige was, ugh, a gentlewoman and “courted” you (well, as well as high schoolers can “court”) prior to making it official, but it’s close enough for you. The realization that you’ve shared your life with Paige for a year fills you with an indescribable emotion and all you really know is you can’t wait to share more and more years with her.

After New Year’s, everything shifts again. You get busy with school and Paige locks back in for basketball. Her team has been undefeated the entire year and they’re on the right track to make it back to the championship, which seems to ignite a fire under her. She spends her time in the gym, practicing and practicing and practicing. You can tell it’s wearing on her. Her texts become sparse and you often find yourself making your way to the gym at night just so you can drive her home. When you ask why she’s burning herself out like this, her response is always a variation of I need to be better or We’re so close – I can’t let the team down but you know her. You know she’s not telling you the complete truth and that kills you.

What had you done so wrong that Paige doesn’t trust you with her feelings anymore? What had you done so wrong that you’ve forced her into locking herself in the gym until her fingers bleed and her feet blister? Perhaps if you were a little more online, you’d understand why. Between the trolls and your mass amounts of homework, you hardly had the time for Instagram. You don’t see the comments under Paige’s posts, claiming you’d just be a distraction in college. You don’t see the comments arguing that Paige’s uncharacteristic performance in a recent game is your fault.

It’s in mid-February that you grow tired of the overthinking and the ache that’s made its home in your chest. It’s nearing midnight but you can’t sleep. You’ve been staring at Paige’s location on the Find My map for nearly four hours now – she’s been on the court ever since practice ended. You tried to give her space. You didn’t want to be overbearing. You know that she’s under pressure but God you just wanted her to confide in you, to feel more like a girlfriend rather than an afterthought. So, you slide on a pair of shoes, tucking your keys into your pocket and you begin the quick walk to the park.

You hear the rhythmic bouncing of the ball before you see Paige. You hear the dribble, the swish of the net, the clang of the rim. The basketball rolls towards you and you pick it up, coming face to face with Paige, whose face is a picture of surprise.

“Hey,” she says softly. You pause to take in her appearance. She’s dressed in a pair of athletic shoes, ball shorts and a loose tank top. She’s soaked in sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead and her eyes a wild mix of exhaustion and pure determination. Your heart constricts in your chest. Why is she doing this to herself? “What are you doing here?”

“It’s late,” you say, quirking an unamused smile. “Almost midnight. Couldn’t really sleep without knowing if my girlfriend was alive or not.”

She stares at you like she’s trying to read your expression. A slow wave of realization rolls over her and she sucks in a deep breath, knowing she’s in trouble. “I’m okay,” she says but you know she’s not. “Just–”

“‘Just trying to get some shots up,’” you interrupt. “‘Just wanna be prepared for the championship.’” Paige’s jaw ticks and she runs a frustrated hand across her jaw. You soften a little, knowing that you’re not the only one with shit going on. That consideration would get you in trouble one day, but you don’t really care right now. “Can we talk? Please?”

“I need to–”

“Paige,” you breathe out, your voice firm despite the way it cracks. You feel the tears prick at your eyes and you can’t help but feel frustrated at yourself for getting emotional. “Please stop running away from me,” you beg.

She looks like she’s about to argue again, although she thinks better of it, nodding her head and taking a seat on the bench where her bag rests. You sit next to hear, placing the basketball on the other side of you. Paige is silent, her hands folded together and her brows drawn in. You speak first. “I’m worried about you.” That draws her attention, confusion and guilt and hurt lining her expression, but you swallow, continuing. “I hardly see you outside of school and you spend every waking moment with a ball in your hand. I know you think that you need to work harder or train harder, but it’s killing you, Paige. You say you’re fine and I wanna believe that but we’ve been dating for a year now. I know you better than that. This is wearing you down and I just don’t understand why you can’t be honest with me about why you’re doing this to yourself.”

The distant chirp of the crickets is all you can hear. Then, she heaves a shuddering sigh. “I’m not good enough for this,” she confesses in a murmur. “That’s what everyone says. I’m overrated. That Coach Auriemma shoulda recruited someone else – someone better, faster, stronger, taller. Basketball is my future but lately it just feels like that’s another thing I have to prove to people who watch me from behind a screen. There’s so many people relying on me, watching me, investing in me and I can’t – I can’t let them down. I can’t lose. I am so fucking afraid of losing that I forget how to win.”

“Paige,” you whisper, your hand reaching out to hold hers. She intertwines your fingers so tightly that it hurts your hand. You don’t care. “You are so much more than what people have to say about you, okay? Isn’t that what you told me?”

She huffs, something akin to amusement, but there’s no enjoyment in her expression. “You didn’t sign up for that,” she retorts. “They were hurting you ‘cause of me.”

“No one signs up to be an online punching bag,” you state. “Least of all you. You don’t deserve that.” She shakes her head, disbelieving. You lean into her, trying to ground her, and she shivers against you. “You know it’s not true, right? There is no one better, or stronger, or faster than you. Maybe taller, but I love you the way you are.” That’s enough to draw a real laugh from her and you squeeze her hand. “Listen to me. Geno didn’t recruit you because of your strength or your speed or whatever else. Geno recruited you because he knew you had the heart of a Husky and because he knew you had what it takes. And – I know it’s hard, but sometimes you’re going to lose. What’s important is picking yourself up afterward and doing it all over again. Win or lose, you’re always gonna have me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, you know that?”

“I do,” she murmurs. “And I’d do the same for you.” Her words sound more like a grave realization more than a reassurance, but you don’t catch it. You don’t notice the solemn look on her face, the way she looks like she’s coming to terms with something difficult. You don’t notice the determination that reads something like I’m going to win another state championship this year and prove everyone wrong.

“Come home?” you plead. Paige nods slowly, collecting her gear almost robotically, but she presses a kiss to your lips and all you feel an overwhelming amount of relief. Everything will be okay, you tell yourself. This was just a small bump in the road.

Wishful thinking.

Paige’s state championship gets cancelled due to a global pandemic.

She’d been in such high spirits, excited at the prospect of competing, of taking home the trophy one more time before she went off for college. In March, everything shut down. You were out of school for what you believed to be an extended spring break, but the rest of the year was cancelled entirely. The state championship game was quick to follow. You weren’t expecting Paige to take the news as bad as she did.

Your texts go unanswered, again. You know she’s stuck in her house, which was always a recipe for disaster for her. Paige gets too restless, too impatient, always itching to be moving. You let a day go by of radio silence. Two days. By the third, you’re beginning to lose your mind. You simply weren’t built for online education and your little brother makes focusing impossible. On the fourth day, you send another message to Paige, which ultimately gets left on read.

You show up to her house, tired of being iced out like this, of being treated like you’re something disposable when Paige is upset. Bob lets you in, grinning, and you wave at Drew as you walk upstairs, your footsteps echoing like your heartbeat in your ribcage. You knock on Paige’s door, not getting a response, but you walk in anyways.

Her room is a mess. Clothes are strewn about, one of her comforters lying on the ground. You nearly trip over a loose basketball but your eyes lock on her – lying in bed with an almost catatonic expression on her face. Maybe the aftermath is your fault. It doesn’t take a genius to know that Paige wasn’t in the best headspace. While you were her girlfriend, showing up to her room invited while she’s spiraling would make her meltdown make sense. The ensuing argument is a blur.

Paige is frantic, her hands gesturing wildly as she chokes back sobs, exclaiming confessions of “I’m nothing without that championship,” or “I can’t handle this anymore.” It’s the first time you’ve actually been a little fearful – not of her, but for her. You knew the pressure was getting to her and you just let her deal with it instead of intervening. You were too scared to upset her and now the both of you are paying the price of your insecurity.

You tried to comfort her, but it was like something shifted. She told you to go home. That you were too much right now and that it’s obvious at this point that you’re only going to get hurt if you stay with me. You were willing to ignore her words even if they were like knives to your heart, but what truly destroyed was how she flinched away from your touch like it was burning oil. Go home, she’d said again. I don’t need you here. I can’t keep hurting you like this.

Maybe showing up in the first place was a mistake, but so was leaving her. You walked back to your house with tears in your eyes, wondering how you fucked up so bad.

The next day, Paige shows up at your doorstep with flowers. You couldn’t ignore the hurt in your heart and you didn’t want to forgive her so easily, but it was hard to stay upset with her. No matter how mad you were, you were still in love with her. She apologized, describing how the championship cancellation and the lockdown and the pressure was making her go insane. She acknowledged those wrongs didn’t make a right and she’d spend the rest of her life making it up to you. You didn’t want to fight, or argue, or hurt anymore, so you wrapped her in your arms as the both of you cried. You had a lengthy conversation full of more apologies, and foolishly, you’d thought the worst of it was over. It wouldn’t come until much later.

Miraculously, you still have graduation that month although everyone has to wear masks and you have to sit five feet apart on the football field. You and Paige graduate with honors, you take photos, and your combined families have a huge dinner at the Bueckers’s household. That evening, right before you say grace, your phone lights up with an email from the UConn admissions team.

You got in.

As your families cheer, your eyes are too full of tears to notice the expression of pure dread on Paige's face as you throw your arms around her neck. It feels like everything is finally going your way. You and Paige would be going to college together. It would be easier – it has to be. You didn’t really care about what anyone had to say about the two of you. You had Paige and that was enough for you.

You go to bed that night blissfully and ignorantly happy. Two weeks pass and that’s finally when the worst happens.

You feel your phone’s vibration before you hear its ringtone.

Groggily, you open your eyes, hands blindly fumbling through your sheets and under your pillow as you try to locate your device. At first, you think it’s your alarm waking you up for class, but remembering the fact that you’ve just graduated two weeks ago hits you like a sack of bricks. There will be no more morning alarms, not until you’re in Storrs, Connecticut and starting the fall semester. You also realize it’s far too dark outside to be morning, so the ringing of your phone can only mean one thing.

“Hello?” you answer without looking at the caller ID, knowing that it was Paige on the other end. You couldn’t think of anyone who would call you at 1:55 in the morning. The fact that Paige is calling you at 1:55 in the morning, however, is a cause for concern. She had an early flight around 8am – summer practices and conditioning were already starting up for the Huskies, as well as other freshman athlete orientations.

“Hey,” Paige says. Her voice is quiet on the other end of the line, tight and weak like she’s fighting to stay composed. Immediately, your heartbeat picks up, fearing for the worst. “I’m at your front door. Can I – can you come down please? I need to talk to you.”

“I’m on my way,” you respond, already throwing your blanket off of your legs and leaving your room. “Are you okay?”

Paige is oddly silent for a few beats. Your socked feet thump lightly against the stairs as you make your way down, your pulse racing like you’d just ran a marathon. Her name falls from your lips in a murmur and she heaves a shuddering sigh from the other end of the phone. “Please,” she begs, “just come outside.”

“Okay,” you promise, and the line goes dead as you unlock your front door, opening it to reveal Paige standing on your front porch. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and crocs like she’d made the last minute decision to show up to your house. Her shirt is rumpled, the UConn logo emblazoned on it – one she’d gotten from her official visit however long ago. Her hair is disheveled, too, pulled up into a loose ponytail with loose strands at the front. And her face. You’ve never seen Paige look so miserable before, but what truly shocks you is the guilt clouding her eyes, the frown on her lips. “Hey.” Your voice is quiet, opening the door wide enough for her to come in. Paige merely shakes her head, her hand finding your wrist as she guides you onto the front porch. The door clicks shut behind the two of you. “What’s going on?”

Under the porchlight, her features come into focus. Her expression is downcast, eyes red as if she’d been crying, shoulders high and tense with some monumental weight bearing down on them. You know she has a lot going on – the two of you have talked about as much. She was the number one high school recruit and she’s been committed to one of, if not the best college for women’s basketball. There’s a lot of pressure on her to live up to those expectations, to be the best in the game. You also know Paige hasn’t been the same since the beginning of the year, but she’d assured you that it was just exhaustion and the need to lock in. When you come face to face with her, you’re wracked with a near insurmountable quantity of guilt – why hadn’t you tried harder to get her to open up?

“I’m sorry,” is what Paige says. Your heart slams against your ribcage as your mind conjures up thousands of reasons why Paige could be apologizing to you at two in the fucking morning. “I know this timing is super fucked up and this is such a shitty thing to do to but I can’t get on that plane later and not –” Paige’s words trail off, the sound getting stuck in her throat.

You blink, feeling the unmistakable burn of tears in your eyes, the tightness in your chest. Part of you knows exactly where this is going, but the other part of you refuses to consider it. “Not what, Paige?”

Her hands fidget nervously with the hem of her shirt. She throws her head back, suddenly finding the roof of your porch very interesting as she takes a deep breath. “I don’t –” her voice cracks before finally, she meets your eyes, guilt and dread and something that looks strangely like atonement filling her irises. “I don’t think we’re gonna work out,” she says. Your heart all but drops out of your ass and onto the ground, but she keeps rambling in that Paige-esque way that you’ve spent months falling in love with. “We’re not gonna work out in college. I have basketball, and you – you have so many great things ahead of you. You have dreams and aspirations and I can’t…I can’t let you lose sight of those if you stay with me. I love you, so much, but we’re just gonna keep hurting each other if we keep trying to mend something that’s just gonna keep on breaking.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Something ugly twists in your gut, something that feels like a painful mix of despair, desperation, and a deep-rooted anger you’d never realized you’d been harboring. You weren’t an angry person. Sensitive, sure. You were understanding and kind. Never angry. “Why do you get to decide that?” you manage, your voice rough with emotion. Your voice rises in pitch as you continue. “Why do you get to decide that we can’t be fixed? What–”

“We’ve been tryin’ to fix this for months,” Paige points out hoarsely, her throat bobbing as she swallows.

“Because you’re not trying!” you exclaim, arms flying out. Paige flinches, but you don’t stop. “You just – you keep pulling away from me and I don’t know why but I can’t do this on my own, Paige. And when I ask you always say you’re just tired or you’re just busy but I know you. I know you and I know that you weren’t giving us your all and I still trusted you because fuck, I just wanted you! I would never make you choose between me or basketball but I’d like to at least be considered once in a while.”

“It’s not like that,” Paige argues. “I’ve done nothing but consider you–”

“Bullshit.”

Her face falls. “See?” she murmurs, laughing a little despite the hurt in her expression. “We’d never work out in college. We can’t even do this right.”

You seethe. “Because you’re trying to break up with me when we can fix this.”

“I’m trying to break up with you because I can’t fucking protect you!” Paige cries. Her words hit you like a truck and you clamp your mouth shut as she wipes her eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I can’t protect you when we’re both at UConn. Do you even know what they’re saying online? They’re saying I can’t hoop because I’m too busy playing house with my girlfriend. They’re saying that her girlfriend is trying to leech off of her success, that you’re ruining my life, that my girlfriend needs to leave me alone. Everyday I’ve worked harder to get stronger, faster, better, just so there wouldn’t be anything about me they could use to hurt you but they always find something to say. I can’t protect you from that when you’re with me. I can’t let them ruin your life because you love me. You have so much ahead of you and they’ll tear you down. I can’t bear that.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you say, but even you know that’s a lie. You take in the look on Paige’s face, the commiseration, the resolution. Your anger melts away into sheer desperation when you begin to fully realize the gravity of your situation. It feels like your entire life is slipping from your fingertips and you’re running out of time to do something about it. “Paige…” You hate the way she flinches at her name.

“Please,” she begs again. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Just let me do this for us and we can both try to be happy.”

You don’t mention how there won’t be an us if you let her walk away now, but you do step forward, your fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as you plead, “Don’t do this to us.” A tear slips down your cheek and Paige shudders as she wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, an inexplicable amount of guilt in her eyes. “We can fix this, okay? I swear. I promise you won’t even know I’m there. I won’t say anything and I’ll watch your games online – whatever it takes, I’ll do it, Paige; just don’t fucking do this to us.”

She murmurs your name, her face falling as she brushes your hair out of your face, but you’re shaking your head, pressing on. “Just give us some time. Please. We can work this out. I don’t want anything but you. And…and – last year, you said nothing else mattered, right? What everyone else thought, what the media thought. We can be private again, whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” she whispers, voice broken. “You don’t deserve to be hidden away. I can’t do that to you. It’ll kill us before we even got a chance otherwise.”

Your lip wobbles as you say, “You’re killing us now, Paige.”

She nods, a tear of her own falling, and she wipes it away before you can even raise your hand. “I know. But at least it’s on our terms and not theirs.” You shake your head, fingers tightening in her shirt, and Paige crumbles. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, pulling her into your chest as your body heaves with sobs, your tears soaking her shirt. You can hear the tremble in her voice as she fights for her composure. “I’m sorry. Being with me will just hurt you more. I can’t put you through that,” she chokes out. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like you were the only one trying. I thought it would change things but it didn’t. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t save us.”

The irony makes you ache – Paige killing you just to save you. Deep down, you know she’s right. Your social media have been private for months now, but there’s nothing you wouldn’t do just so you could keep Paige. But right now? All you’re truly able to process is the heartbreak, the way the criss-crossing bandages fall off, the way the stitches and the sutures come undone, revealing a festering, open wound that after all this time, you’ve never been able to repair. No matter what, it always comes back to this – your heart on the ground, stomped out and bleeding and ruined. You just never thought Paige would be the one to crush it under her heel.

You’re tender-hearted. You always have been.  That’s why your friends told you to stay far, far away from Paige. You tried, you honestly did – but Paige is magnetic, and she loves you, and you were just a little too weak to say no. Now you’re faced with the ugly realization that maybe you should have listened, that when they told you ‘She’s leaving Minnesota and she’s not going to look back’, they were right. Despite it all, you’re naive enough to say that you’d go through with it all over again. You love Paige. You would give up a lot of things in the world if only you could keep her, but her decision is made and it’s time for you to make yours.

That’s why you forgive her. You sniffle, trying your best to compose yourself as her hand rubs soothing, apologetic circles on your back. “It’s okay,” you manage, your voice impossibly soft and broken down.

“It’s not,” Paige murmurs, her voice cracking.

“It will have to be.” You feel her nod at that, her arms tightening a little, like she’s trying to savor this last moment with you before it’s gone forever. You do, too, pressing your head against her chest, listening to the rhythmic thump of her heart that you’ve spent hours memorizing the cadence of. You’ve spent so many months of your life learning everything there was to know about Paige Bueckers – her favorite color, her dreams, the parts of her that she keeps hidden. You wish you didn’t know what she looked like when she was walking away but you should have known that you and her were doomed by time from the very beginning.

You don’t want to let her go. Eventually, you have to, and looking at her face makes you want to cry and beg all over again. Her hands find your cheeks as she kisses you one last time. You can taste the salt on her lips, hear her shuddering breath, feel her forehead as it presses against yours gently. You know this kiss is more of a goodbye than it is a gesture of affection. That’s enough to make the ache in your chest return tenfold.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again. It doesn’t do anything to fix what’s broken. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you promise. You hate those words because you know they’re true – Paige has just broken your heart on your front doorstep and despite it all, you still love her and you always will.

She releases you, her hands trailing down your arms, trying to commit you to memory. Then, her hands leave your skin entirely and she takes a step back. “Guess this is goodbye.”

You bury your hands in your pockets, knowing that if you don’t do something with them, you’ll try fighting for her again. “Guess it is.”

She stares at you for a long while before nodding, her final goodbye a soft murmur under her breath. You watch her go as she walks down the sidewalk, her figure illuminated by the streetlights. It feels strangely like reaching for a light, something you’ll never be able to physically grasp. It’s like watching your entire future crumble in the blink of an eye, like reminding yourself that some dreams are too costly and that sometimes, desire is impossible. Right person, wrong time.

Your lip trembles as you walk back inside, locking the door behind you. When you turn to head back upstairs and go back to bed, hoping that this is all some kind of fucked up fever dream, you find your mother waiting for you, worry etched on her face. That’s when you crumble again, sagging into her confused arms and sobbing.

“She’s gone,” you manage to get out in between heaving sobs. Your mom understands instantly, hushing you and smoothing out your hair, rocking you back and forth as you cry. You’ve hurt a lot, but never like this. You want this terrible feeling to go away but you know this is a loss that’s going to stick with you for a while.

Later that night, when you’re sure you’ve cried all you could, you lie in bed bundled in Paige’s hoodie despite the heat. On the UConn application portal, you only hesitate a little bit before you click on the Cancel Enrollment button. Then, you navigate over to the University of Minnesota application portal, hesitating a lot longer before clicking on the Confirm Enrollment button. You power your phone off entirely, unwilling to spend the night staring at the picture of you and Paige on your home screen. All you feel is a devastating emptiness and this time, you’re fully on your own now and there’s no one else to help you pick up the pieces.

FRESHMAN & SOPHOMORE YEAR – 2020-2022

To no one’s surprise, you absolutely hate the University of Minnesota. There were a lot of reasons why it wasn’t your first choice. The program it offered for your degree wasn’t the greatest. You hated the dorms. You hated campus life, too. UConn had a lot of things that UMN didn’t. A better sports scene, better programs, your ex-girlfriend who you’re still hung up on, everything. You knew you’d be just as miserable at UConn if you’d gone there, too. Paige was everywhere. The freshman phenom who could truly do it all. The work she’d put into becoming better had paid off and it led to her having an electrifying first season.

Even though your heart ached, you couldn’t help but be proud of her. She was doing everything she said she was gonna do. She’s breaking records and making a name for herself – you’d just wished you could be there for it.

It’s almost pathetic how you’re unable to get over her. You stay off of social media but the knowledge that she’s just one text message away fucks with your brain more than you’d like to admit. It reminds you all too much of Gatsby and Daisy and that stupid project the two of you partnered for in AP Lit, only you’re some weird inverted version of them. Paige is the one with the riches, the grandeur, the mansion, yet she’s the one with the green light on the dock. You spend hours gazing out and hoping that she’s looking back at you, too. You’re the one who wishes you could go back into the past where you were still together, even though Gatsby’s story taught you that you’re only yearning for something that doesn’t exist anymore. You’re Gatsby, unable to move on, unable to fully come to terms with the fact that your dream wasn’t truly attainable, that you desired for too much and you couldn’t reach it.

There’s a scary thought in the back of your head that sounds like you just weren’t worth it. Gatsby’s story also taught you that Daisy’s feelings for Gatsby weren’t worth losing her social status, her life of comfort. Were you not worth it? You would have gone to hell and stayed if only to keep Paige, but perhaps that’s just something you need to work on.

So, you do. You find yourself a therapist in Minneapolis. You’ve been unhappy for a while now, but it’s also become increasingly obvious that you need to work on setting boundaries and unlearning emotional attachments that have done nothing but hurt you. You fall in love (romantically or platonically) far too quick, too easily, and you’re too forgiving. You were told from the start that you should be taking care of your heart and you suppose it’s better late than never.

Your therapist is an older lady who has seen some shit and been through some shit. She’s blunt and honest and exactly what you need. She tells you that you can protect yourself and still give to the world, to others. She also tells you that if you’re so unhappy at UMN that you should probably transfer. You put that piece of advice on the backburner because you’ve barely been here for a semester. Maybe you’ll have more fun and make new friends come spring. Maybe everything will turn around if you give yourself the chance to grow and be happy without constantly looking over your shoulder, hoping to see familiar blue eyes and that teasing smile you’ve all but memorized.

(Spoiler: you don’t.)

The spring semester of your freshman year rolls around and you’re honestly burned out. Your first semester was rough and you had a straight C average, which was quite the culture shock after being a straight A student throughout highschool. You try to show up to all of your classes, but registering for an 8am was honestly the worst decision of your life. You miss a few, your grades remain horribly consistent (more C’s!), and you can’t hold onto anymore friends, not for lack of trying. Your clubs fall through and nothing feels right about UMN. Sure, you’re close to home and you visit your parents twice a month, but UMN isn’t home at all. You know that there’s a piece of you in Connecticut somewhere.

Therapy is helping a lot, though. Fixing yourself emotionally is really taxing, but you’re making progress, and that’s good enough for now. Although it takes a couple of weeks, you manage to make a friend in one of your classes and you study together often. Her name is Krista. She’s a pre-med biology major and quite possibly the smartest person you’ve met in your semester and a half at UMN. She introduces you to some of her friends, too – an assortment of med-school hopefuls and the lone English major. Slowly but surely, UMN doesn’t feel as lonely and your grades start improving.

Eventually, the heartbreak starts to ache a little less. Seeing Paige’s picture plastered everywhere doesn’t hurt as much. You tune in for some of the UConn games during March Madness to cheer her on. It will probably take you a long time to be fully over Paige, but you’re at least mostly over the hurt. You reach out to a couple of your mutual friends just to see how she’s doing. Maybe you’ll regret that decision one day. Maybe not. Hearing that she’s doing okay settles your heart some. That turns into weekly check-ins. It’s something.

You and Paige were friends for a long time before you made it official. You’re not mourning the loss of a relationship, but you’re mourning your best friend, too. Nobody ever told you how devastating it was to go from sharing everything with someone to watching their life in pictures. Part of you wonders if she’s doing the same as you, if she even thinks about you like that, if she thinks about you at all or if she regrets the decision she’d made.

Your first year at UMN is nothing special. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your head that urges you to transfer. If you’re not fully happy after a year, then you’re not going to be happy this year. You think about the friends you’ve made – Krista and the others. Something about them just isn’t right. You may never have the vocabulary to explain it, but no matter how nice and welcoming they are, you still feel like an outsider looking in. Things aren’t all that bad, you tell yourself. Your grades are better and honestly, maybe this is just life. You aren’t always going to have a bunch of best friends. So, you decide to stay at UMN.

(How many bad decisions can one person possibly make before you start getting concerned?)

Sophomore year isn’t any better. It doesn’t suck, but you’re still unhappy. You’re surviving, not living. You start going home every weekend rather than the twice a month schedule you’d originally planned on. Being back in Hopkins reminds you of simpler times. It reminds you of late night Dairy Queen runs, of chatting in an empty parking lot, of that time Paige accidentally honked the horn in her stepmom’s SUV when she tried to pull you onto her lap. Hopkins reminds you of your junior prom, where you and Paige slow danced to Taylor Swift outside the gym, where you told her that you loved her for the first time and she told you that she did, too. Hopkins reminds you of happiness.

In December that year, your mutual friend — Amaya Battle — informs you that Paige fractured her tibial plateau and tore her lateral meniscus. None of that sounded good, but you felt like shit once Krista explained what that all meant. That injury would bench Paige for a couple of months. Despite the time, you still knew Paige well enough to know that she’s not happy about that. You open a long abandoned text thread with her, your last message reading happy birthday! and hers reading Thank you, and begin to draft out a new message. Saying that you’re sorry doesn’t feel like enough, but anything else feels like too much. You settle on simply expressing your condolences and you let her know that you’re praying for her. You’re not surprised when you don’t receive anything more than another “Thank you” in return.

Spring semester is long and uneventful. You still tune in for some of Paige’s games, but once finals are said and done and you’re not feeling any differently, you know that it’s time to move on. You apply as a transfer student for UConn.

JUNIOR YEAR – 2022-2023

You get accepted into UConn. Reading the Welcome to UConn Nation email feels as good as it did the first time you opened it surrounded by your family. It feels like coming home all over again. The break in between semesters feels painfully short and far too long at the same time, but before you know it, you’re moving into your dorm on campus, laughing along with your new roommate Livya like you’ve been friends forever. She helps you get settled in. Then she shows you around campus, pointing out all of the best study spots and the best dining halls. You meet up with a couple of her friends for lunch and it’s like everything just clicks. You know in your heart that this is where you’re supposed to be.

The news, however, comes to you in the form of an ESPN headline rather than a text from your mutual friend. Paige had torn her ACL nearly a week ago playing a game of pick up. Your heart was caught in your throat. You couldn’t help but feel terrible for Paige. This was supposed to be her healthy season back after her previous injury in December, but here she is on the bench again, healing from an injury she didn’t deserve to get. You feel the strangest sense of deja vu when you message Paige again, extending your condolences, but what you’re not expecting is the phone call from her that comes a few seconds later.

It rings once and all you can do is stare at it, jaw on the ground. On the second ring, your thumb hovers over the answer button. And on the third ring, you commit to it, bringing your phone to your ear. Your heart nearly beats out of your chest as you greet Paige. “Hey.”

Her voice is soft when she responds. “Hey.” It’s a little rough around the edges, mature, but there’s a lingering tenseness to it like she’s trying to keep herself together.

“Wasn’t expecting you to call,” you admit.

“Me neither,” she agrees.

You sit in silence for a few moments before you shift, clearing your throat. There’s so many things you want to say to her, but you know this moment is too fragile, too new. You know you’re not talking to the same girl you once knew. She’s changed. She’s older and she’s wiser and she knows what she wants now. You don’t know how to say what you want to say, although it’s evident that Paige is a little lost, too. “How, um…how are you?” you say finally.

The noise she makes on the other line sounds a little amused. “Well,” she murmurs. “At least it’s not both knees, right?”

You can’t help the choked laugh that draws from you. “God,” you say. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed at that.”

“Nah, s’okay,” she promises. You can hear the slight smile in her voice. “I missed that.”

Your heart thumps against your ribcage. “Missed what?” you ask, but you know what she means.

“Your laugh,” she confirms. “Still the same as it once was.”

You hum. “We’re not the same,” you say softly. “We’ve grown up.”

“Have we?” she asks. You swallow. “We’re older. Learned a lot. Doesn’t mean we’ve changed. Just evolved.”

“Is that not the same thing?”

“Pikachu evolves into Raichu but he’s still Pikachu, isn’t he?”

Despite yourself, you grin. “And you’re still an idiot.”

That makes her laugh. “C’mon,” she drawls. “I got a bum knee and you’re making fun of me?”

“Some things never change.”

“They don’t,” Paige agrees. “Heard you transferred to UConn?”

“I did. UMN wasn’t right for me. It didn’t feel like home.”

“It does here?”

You don’t hesitate when you respond. “Yeah. It does.”

The line falls silent again. You can hear the sound of Paige breathing on the other end. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says finally. Your grin melts into something a little more tender. “Do you wanna come to my dorm? We can catch up.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Probably not,” she concedes. “But I’m injured and I just spent two years missin’ you and I wanna see you.”

You should feel embarrassed at how little it takes to convince you. Before you realize the words coming out of your mouth, you’re saying, “Send me the address.” She does. Paige’s dorm isn’t too far away from yours. “I’ll be there in ten.”

When you do arrive, the girl who answers the door is not Paige. It’s Azzi Fudd. She knows you by name, offering you a gentle smile and pointing you down the hall to where Paige’s room is. You thank her, your heart caught in your throat, and you make your way through the apartment. You knock and you enter.

Paige glances up immediately as you walk in, her face softening immediately. She’s sprawled out across her bed, her knee secured in a heavy brace and propped up in a pillow. She’s wearing a loose pair of shorts and a long-sleeved UConn shirt. The first thing you notice is how different she is. Her time on the court and in the gym has treated her well. Her shoulders fill out her sweatshirt, muscles taut against the fabric. She’s bulked up and she scraped her old ponytail for a slick back bun, although the ‘slick back’ part is messy, strands flying haphazardly. Her eyes are disarmingly blue, not like that’s changed from the last time you saw her, and her smile is just as you remember. It’s enough to soften you instantly.

“Hey,” she says as you close the door behind you.

“Hi, P,” you murmur. Her face shifts, taking you in, and you know she’s cataloging everything that’s different about you, too. You wear your hair in a new style and the way you carry yourself is unlike the way you carried yourself in high school. It’s not confidence, it’s surety, more you. Behind the curiosity, you can see the lingering guilt, the realization that she broke your heart two years ago yet you still dropped everything to come and see her because she’s injured. You glance around the room, breaking your eye contact, scanning the basketball posters, album covers, and pictures of her and her teammates strewn about. Her comforter is purple, which makes you smile. Some things truly never change. “Nice room.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you fight a wince because of how awkward it sounds.

“Clean, right?” she jokes, drawing a short laugh from you – you’d always teased her for being messy, often having to motivate her to pick up her room. Her dorm is clean, but obviously lived-in as evidenced by the jacket slung over the arm of a gaming chair and a water bottle or two on the nightstand and the desk. “Nice hoodie.”

It’s only then that you glance down and your face flushes when you realize what you’re wearing. HOPKINS is emblazoned on the front, the number 1 below it. You don’t need to turn it around to know you have BUECKERS stitched on the back. Your eyes find her face again, noting that she’s not upset about it. She’s a little amused, if anything, although there’s something softer in her expression. You shrug a little. “Wasn’t brave enough to get rid of it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Her voice is a soft murmur. You meet her eyes, sharing a soft smile. Then, she clears her throat, shifting, and she nods to the spot next to her. “Come talk?” she requests.

You open your mouth, ready to decline. You know that if you fell into these patterns with Paige again, then you’d truly never get over her. Part of you wonders if you want to get over her in the first place, but you know you can’t put yourself through this again if she’s not in it for the long haul. “I don’t think–”

“Please?” she asks softly, her voice catching in her throat. “I just…don’t wanna be alone right now.”

You’re moving before she even finishes her sentence. She moves the blankets for you as you kick off your shoes, sliding in next to her like it’s second nature. When you do, you’re enveloped by her, the scent of her cologne, her body wash, that same brand of shampoo she’s been using since she was seventeen. You can feel the warmth of her body so close to yours and your breath hitches. You can hear the stutter in her breathing, too, and for a moment, you wonder if she’s missed you in the way you’ve missed her. Her fingers twitch like she’s fighting the urge to hold you, like she’s reminding herself she doesn’t really have that right anymore.

“So…” she starts. “Why’d you transfer? Really?”

You sigh. “I couldn’t really find my place at UMN. I struggled in my classes for a while and I had so much trouble making friends. I found a group, but it always felt like I was a plus one. My psychologist and my parents told me to transfer. Even Drew told me to transfer.”

She cracks a small, surprised smile. “You talk to Drew?”

“Our parents still talk, you know,” you say, nudging her, listening to her laughter. “Plus, Drew and my brother are like best friends.” You pause for a moment, twisting the ring on your finger, and hesitantly, you admit, “Drew told me I should transfer to UConn specifically. For you.”

“For me?” Her voice is pitched, her expression unreadable, and you nod.

“Yeah. He said we were happier before the break up.”

Paige chuckles, rolling her eyes. “He’s such a little shit.”

“I wonder where he gets it from?” At that, Paige half-heartedly shoves you, but there’s no force or malice behind it as you laugh. “But I didn’t transfer for you.”

“Of course not.” Her expression betrays her feigned nonchalance, like she thinks you’re full of shit.

“I didn’t!”

“Okay,” she says insufferably and you shake your head. “I, uh…I’m sorry for how I ended things.”

Your smile drops instantly, features softening. “Paige,” you murmur, but she ignores your words entirely. 

“I’ve thought about it for two years,” she admits, “and every day I wish I could go back in time and undo it. I thought I was protecting you but all I did was hurt us both. In the end, it didn’t even change shit. That’s the fucked up part.” She scoffs a little. “And here we are. I broke your heart yet you text me on my birthday, reach out when I injure myself, drop everything to come see me ‘cause my knee’s fucked? Why?”

You swallow thickly, not really needing to think about your response. “It’s you,” you whisper. You hear her breath catch, see the tears welling up in her eyes again. It’s always gonna be you, is the part that goes unsaid, but you wonder if Paige understands it all the same. “I would watch your games sometimes,” you confess. Paige makes a noise that sounds like it’s in between a sigh and a whimper, like hearing you speak is hurting her. You continue anyways, needing to get it off of your chest. “I’d watch your games and I’d cheer you on and wonder what it would be like if you didn’t change your mind, if I was sitting courtside like we’d always talked about. I’d probably be wearing this fucking hoodie or maybe you’d give me some of your UConn gear. Every week, I would talk to Amaya Battle just to ask how you were, and –” Paige interrupts you with a soft whisper of your name, but you shake your head, feeling the long restrained tears drop. “I missed you and all I wanted was you. You were so close yet so far – impossible and out of reach.”

“Not impossible,” she says firmly, her voice rough with tears. Instantly, you’re transported back nearly four years ago when she’d uttered words not too dissimilar. I don’t think it’s out of reach. Not for you. Not for us. “Never impossible. Not you, not me, not us.”

A tear slips down your cheek and she wipes it away. The brush of her finger against your skin, no matter how small, is pure electricity in your veins and you’re breathless for an entirely different reason now. “Aren’t we?” you ask, your eyes on hers. They’re alarmingly blue, brightened by the pool of tears that’s found home in them. You can’t help the way your feelings come rushing back. You were always going to be in love with Paige Bueckers. That’s not a feeling that goes away overnight or even two years after breaking up with her. She’s ruined you for anyone else and you can’t even be mad about it. “We’re different. You’re different.”

“Not different,” she argues, desperation lacing her tone as she squeezes your hands in between her own. “Evolved. I’m still me.”

“That’s the scary part,” you say. It’s scary because you know you’ll never be able to say no to her. You love her too much for that, and deep down, you also there’s nothing more right than you and her.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Her thumb finds your cheek again, clearing the wetness, and your lip trembles when you look at her.  Paige’s expression is unguarded, a clear promise reflected in her eyes. If this all went to shit, you wouldn’t have the energy or the resources to pick your heart up again, but what are you if not brave despite the ache? What if it’s different this time, if you and Paige have grown, not changed, and you’re better for each other? You know better now than to make those same mistakes. You know Paige well enough to know she means what she says. So maybe you’re a fool, or you’re naive, or too trusting for your own good, but you can’t help but believe Paige. “A lot of people have hurt you. I was one of them,” she continues, uncomfortably vulnerable as she swallows. “I will never forgive myself for that but somehow, you did. Whatever it takes, I’ll prove to you that you didn’t make the wrong choice like I did. Give me time and the chance and I’ll show you. I swear.”

Your heart knows your decision long before your brain has made it. That’s just how you work. You nod at her, watching utter relief and gratitude seep through her features, and honestly, when you look back at it, you’re not completely sure who leans in first. But what you do know is that you’re tangling your fingers in her sweatshirt, pulling her impossibly close as you initiate the kiss, something intense and deep and desperate and everything you’ve been wishing for over the past two years. You know it’s a bad idea, doing this out of order, yet you can’t bring yourself to care because Paige shudders against your lips, her hands finding your hips and dragging you impossibly closer. You’re cautious of her knee, trying to minimize the amount of space between your bodies, and you loop your arms around her neck when you pull away to trail your lips down her jaw, the column of her throat. She tilts her head back, granting you more space, and you don’t sober up until you feel one of her tears fall against your cheek.

You pull away from her immediately, feeling as though you’d been submerged in an ice bath. Paige must not register that she’s crying because she chases after you with a noise of dissatisfaction, her hands pressing into your sides. You push her away gently, smiling despite yourself, brushing her tears away with your knuckle. “Maybe we should, um… not make out when we’re crying and emotional?” you suggest.

Paige clears her throat, leaning away from you with great difficulty. “Yeah,” she agrees quickly. “Probably for the best.” You can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes from your mouth. Paige’s lips quirk up, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “We’re okay?” she asks, a little hesitant.

“We will be,” you assure her, not missing the way her face lights up. “But we should probably…”

“Slow down?” Paige finishes.

You nod. “Yeah. Be friends first. We have a lot to catch up on.”

“I can work with that,” she murmurs, her words a direct echo of the first promise she’d ever made to you.

You smile, your heart feeling lighter than it has in years. You breathe a little easier knowing that you’re still you and Paige is still Paige – you’re not the same, but you’re something a little better, more improved, and you have the knowledge to take better care of each other’s hearts this time around. You and Paige have grown up and matured. You lost your way for a while but as you lay in bed next to her like no time has passed at all, you know somewhere deep inside of your body that this is where you’re truly meant to be.

(You and Paige do commit to slow. You know each other like the back of your hands and the love is still there, but you’re determined to do this right this time. So, you keep things friendly, strengthening the connection between the two of you – she introduces you to her teammates, helps you study while she’s out for the season. In turn, you help her with her rehab and you motivate her on the days that feel more bleak.

When the both of you go back home for Thanksgiving break, both of your families are ecstatic to see that you’re “back together” and you don’t think anyone believes the two of you when you say you’re just taking it slow for now. Your little brothers tease you, your dads share knowing glances, and your mothers smile like they know exactly where this is going.

However, when the two of you return to Minnesota for winter break, Paige takes you to the park that the two of you used to spend your time at, leading you to the swings. You talk about anything and everything and nothing, content to just enjoy the moment, but when Paige asks you to be her girlfriend officially – again, but second time’s the charm, right? – you truly have no choice but to say no, kissing her gently as the Minnesotan snow falls around the two of you.

You’re home now.)

[rosy-hollow]

Gojo who's a little shit and doesn't tell his students that he's seeing someone until he comes to school with a gorgeous ring on his finger that Nobara notices immediately.

"Oi! Gojo-Sensei! Where the hell did you get that ring from?!" she eyes him warily. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

Gojo gapes at her in mock offense. "Kugisaki, I'm hurt! How could you think so low of me?!" he presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically.

Megumi just rolls his eyes from his desk, reading quietly as Yuji watches the two with fervent interest. The ravenette knew his sensei's antics by now - after all, he had met Gojo's lover - you - himself.

You weren't entirely a secret - he knew, Shoko knew, Nanami knew - so why Gojo had forgone telling his fellow classmates was solely because Gojo liked to be annoying.

Tuning back into the conversation - Megumi hears Yuji pipe up, intervening between Kugisaki and Gojo's bickering.

"What're they like, Gojo-sensei?" Yuji asks, and Gojo gets a dreamy look in his eyes that makes Megumi groan internally.

"Oh Yuji, she's the sweetest! She's the most gorgeous, pretty, beautiful, decadent, alluring, attractive, bewitching, irresistable, ravishing, magnificent, stunning, heavenly, hot-"

"OKAY- You can stop now." Nobara interrupts loudly, eyebrow twitching as she cringes from her sensei's strange demeanor.

"- woman ever." Gojo finishes with a big grin, and Megumi wants to facepalm.

Nobara snorts, still not believing him. "Knowing you, Sensei- you'd probably have bought a ring for the hell of it and pretend you have a fiancé just so that you don't seem like a single loser."

Gojo gapes in shock. "My wife is very real thank you very much- you're just jealous." He sniffs, pouting childishly.

Nobara stares at him unamused. "1- 'she's' not your wife yet, and either way, she still probably doesn't exist! And why the hell would I be jealous of you-"

Megumi stops listening after that, but he can't help but feel a little bad for Kugisaki.

Knowing Gojo, he's just going to be even more annoying about it.

So, when Nobara does finally meet you - Mrs. Gojo-to-be, let's just say, though she hates to admit it, Gojo wasn't wrong.

Bewitching, irresistable, ravishing- whatever.

she begrudingly slides Megumi a 10 dollar bill after the whole ordeal was over.

A/N: lowk think gojo forgot to tell yuji and nobara about you and was too cocky to admit it

[daydreamgoddess14]

What's it take to get your number?

What's it take to bring you home?

Here she is! My first Bucky fic (😬)

From my Valentine's Lovebomb event, this one is for Emily 💜

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader insert, no use of y/n, no applicable warnings - just some cute fluff while I dip my toe into another fandom.

Masterlist

Of all of the things Yelena had talked you into, this was undoubtedly the worst.

And she had, of course, talked you into some truly awful shit.

If she could see you now, scowling into your margherita, she’d probably throw something at you.

Hey! Smile a little, huh?

As it happens, the thought of it does make you smile.

She's been good to you since you met. Being Valentina's PA was often an utterly thankless existence. The way she'd collected up Yelena, Alexei, John Walker and the others had been admirable.

Adding Bucky Barnes into the mix had been a goddamn coup.

They mostly went about their business as instructed and paid you little to no attention, but Yelena had spotted you still working away late into the night just before Christmas. She'd disappeared and returned twenty minutes later with cartons of Cantonese food which she insisted you shared.

Since then, a tentative friendship had blossomed between you both.

At the bar, there’s plenty of small talk going on in the background. Lots of organising.

The tables have been arranged loosely in a grid with plenty of space between them to move around.

Not that you have to move anywhere.

The instructions have been made very clear.

Yelena read them out with such glee, you suggested that she go instead.

So you sit, and you wait… then they ring a bell and the men come in and also sit down, yes? Hmm… says you have five minutes. Seems not long enough? Then bell goes again and you stay in your seat. The men move around and you have more handsome men to talk to! Fun, right?

Oh yes. Great fun. So much fun.

Next time Yelena suggests speed dating, you’re going to drag her kicking and screaming with you.

You steal a glance at the time, only a few minutes until the shitshow kicks off.

You signal the waiter for another drink, god knows you need it.

A couple of deep, cleansing breaths and the bell goes.

The noise and activity around you does distract you.

You glance around quickly at the couple of people around you, the beautiful women in their barely there dresses, poker straight hair and lashes so long they could be used as a fan.

You’ve made an effort, of course.

A certain blonde pain in your ass made sure of it.

This top, this skirt, these shoes.

She threw them at you.

Girl, the skirt has pockets!

The woman at the table next to you looks completely underwhelmed by her first five minute attendee.

Her eyes wide and her mouth in a fixed line.

The poor guy loosens his tie nervously.

A tie? Yikes.

He seems uncomfortable, clearly aware of the unfavorable impression he's making.

You’re almost transfixed by the car crash about to unfold in front of you.

This has got to be more entertaining than your date, right?

This is the shit you could watch all night long.

A low cough alerts you to your own car crash.

You steel yourself, a fake smile already in place.

“Hey,” he says.

The smile begins to slip.

You know that voice.

Why do you know that voice?

How do you know that voice?

By the time you actually look at him, the smile is long gone.

“Oh fuck.” It could be a whisper. It could be a squeak.

Either way, it’s barely audible so of course he heard it.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he grins, slightly incredulously.

“What are you doing here, Bucky?”

“Same as you, apparently.”

“Did you follow me?”

“Why the hell would I follow you?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Did Yelena put you up to this? I’m going to fucking kill -”

“She didn’t put me up to anything,” he held up his hands in surrender. “And, I’d like to see you try,” he adds disparagingly.

He’s not wrong.

“So, why are you here?”

“Sam thought it would be a good idea. He says I’m too introspective.”

“Nice. He’s such a good friend,” you bite back.

“Right? He’s got enough charm for both of us.”

“So you don’t want to be here either?”

“Does it look like it?” He frowned.

“Fine. So we sit in silence until you can move on.” You tell him sternly, reaching for your drink and taking a long gulp. You signal the waiter again for another.

He scoffed and shook his head.

“I’m not sitting in silence. Sam says I should talk more, so let's talk,” he declares, and you just roll your eyes at his stubbornness.

“What the hell is there to even talk about?” you ask, “you literally have no idea who I am?”

Bucky seems undeterred by your attitude.

“What kind of books do you like?” he asks casually. “What kind of… seriously?” You eye him suspiciously.

“Yeah, you’ve always got your head in a book. You say I don't know who you are but I've seen you. Recommending stuff to Yelena - not to me, though - so what do you like to read?” He leaned forward on the table, making it wobble.

“Anything,” you mutter with a sigh, “everything, really. The classics, fantasy, thrillers, romance.” He nods along as you speak. “What about you?” You ask hesitantly.

“I’ve been reading the classics lately, actually,” he admits.

“Oh sure,” you roll your eyes.

“Hey, it’s true. I just finished Pride and Prejudice.”

“And did you enjoy it?” As you ask your question, the bell rings out.

“Gentlemen, time to move on to the next table please,” the organiser calls out.

“Hold that thought, doll. Guess I’ll see you around?” He stood, waiting patiently for the man in the tie to move along.

The woman at the neighboring table suddenly seems thrilled with her new date. Bucky offers her a smile, and she responds with a giggle.

He takes his seat at the next table, but instead of engaging with his new date, he leans back over to you.

“I loved it. I like the chemistry between Elizabeth and Darcy and the layers of their relationship. It’s probably my favourite romance.”

The woman next to you looks a little put out.

“Your favourite romance? Which others have you read?” You can’t help but ask.

The man directly across from you is growing increasingly annoyed, watching the conversation unfold with a sense of irritation, like he's watching a tense tennis match.

“I liked it more than Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights.”

A small, surprised smile curves up the corner of your mouth as Bucky continues to ignore his next date.

“Uhh, excuse me?” she interjected, her voice laced with irritation.

“Sorry ma’am, I’ll just be a minute.” Bucky calmly replies, not breaking eye contact with you.

“I’m not a fan of Wuthering Heights either, I tried to be in my tortured youth.” You admit.

He laughs and it’s… magical.

“Any others you’d recommend?”

“North and South -”

“Gaskell?” He confirms, you nod. He mirrors your nod, a small smirk crossing his face.

“Yeah, another brooding gentleman and headstrong woman.”

“Huh, sounds familiar.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Meanwhile, your new date grows increasingly impatient, tapping on the table incessantly, while Bucky's date becomes frantic as she attempts to catch the organiser's attention.

The man at your own table finally interjects, addressing Bucky directly.

“Excuse me, buddy, you're supposed to move on after five minutes, you know?”

“Sorry man, just seeing where this goes,” he shrugs before looking back at you. “Got any newer recommendations? Feels like I’m… stuck in the past sometimes,” he grins lopsidedly.

“Romance, or something else?”

“Let’s stick with romance,” he leans in with his elbows on his knees.

“Try Emily Henry,” you tell him as your new drink arrives.

“Excuse me sir, you do need to move on?” The waiter insists as he carefully places your drink down.

Bucky sighs, turning back in his seat to face his actual date.

“Finally, I might be able to grab a quick minute before the bell goes -” your date starts with a smile.

“Emily Henry, huh? Book Lovers author? I saw it but didn’t pick it up,” Bucky leans over again.

“I’ve got a copy, I’ll bring it over.”

“That’s great, thanks.”

“And North and South, too?” You ask.

“I look forward to it.”

“Excuse me!” Your date interjects loudly.

You look down at the table with a blush as Bucky turns away again.

“So, how long have you been single?” You hear your date ask as the bell goes again.

“And move on again please, gentlemen.” The organiser smiles.

Your date does so, following Bucky with an angry frown.

With another table between you, you assume that’s your additional ‘date’ with Bucky over and turn to greet your next date.

Now, from three tables away, Bucky calls down the row to you.

“Hey, doll, there’s a new bookstore opened by Sam’s place. We should check it out?”

You nod to placate him while disgruntled voices around you mutter and curse his interruptions.

The bell rings again and everyone moves on once more.

From five tables away he asks about the recipe for the pasta dish you made for lunch with Yelena last week.

From seven tables away he shouts to ask whether you saw the last episode of Traitors.

“That is enough, sir. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” the organiser says with exasperation at the next bell.

“But we're getting along so well,” he protests as two waiters try to lead him to the door.

Giving up, he gives you a half shrug and a wave.

“See ya later, kid.”

He leaves without further disruption.

You turn back to your latest date but your enthusiasm has left the building with Bucky.

Despite the tedious hour that follows, no conversation manages to match the level of engagement you experienced in your initial encounter.

You had been under the distinct impression that he had no idea who you were. Of all of them, Yelena was the only one who made an effort. Alexei occasionally pulled you into conversation, usually when he needed an additional body on his side in an argument, but Bucky walked past your desk almost daily without a word or a glance.

You couldn't help but wonder why he chose tonight, of all evenings, to engage with you.

He could have ignored Sam's suggestion to attend. He could have ignored you completely.

You'd given him an out, offered to sit in silence.

His casual comment to your second date echoed in your mind: “Sorry man, just seeing where this goes.”

Those simple words had hinted at a deeper curiosity or interest, beyond just passing time at a speed dating event.

It had been both impressive and frustrating to see the usually stoic Bucky calling across tables, asking you questions about your job, how long you'd worked for Valentina, with an animated excitement that seemed to be reserved solely for you.

The organiser called time and you wrapped your coat tightly around you, the mid-February nights were cold and you were ready for bed.

You shot Yelena a brief text, letting her know you had arrived home safe and sound, choosing to leave her hanging when it came to details about the event.

After a fitful night, you arrived at the office the following morning, books safely nestled in your bag.

Yelena is parked at your desk, her feet casually propped up as if she'd taken permanent residency.

She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“So, did you find the love of your life?”

“I'm never doing that again,” you warn with a pointed finger in her direction.

“Really?” A familiar voice behind you asks. “And here I thought you had a good time.”

You turn around to see Bucky standing there, his gaze fixed on you with a cheeky smile.

Yelena can barely contain her excitement, her grin widening even further.

Her feet hit the floor with a thud as she eagerly joins the conversation, eyes darting between the two of you. She turns first to Bucky.

“Wait, you were there?” Her question laced with disbelief.

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to have attended a speed dating event.

“Yeah, and?” He asked, his indifference only increasing Yelena's excitement.

“You went speed dating?” She asks incredulously. He doesn't look at her as he answers, he looks only at you.

“I went speed dating.” He confirms.

“And all you got were book recommendations?” You add, reaching into your bag to hand him the two books.

“Well I was kinda hoping I got a little more than that,” Bucky smirks, his expression filled with a hint of mischief.

Yelena's eyes widened, her gaze darting back and forth between you and Bucky.

“Wait, what's this? What's with you two?”

“I mean, I did think you were scared of me-” he began.

“You don't scare me,” you cut in firmly.

His smile widened further.

“Good to know.”

Yelena watches the exchange with wide eyes.

“This is so weird,” she mumbles to herself.

“So, you think you'll do it again?" You ask him brazenly.

Bucky grins at your bold question.

“Maybe,” he muses before adding with a twinkle in his eye, “but only if you're there.”

FIN

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 7 - Something I Can See

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Big chapter for fans of yapping and Dean overthinking things.

Chapter title from Something to Believe by Weyes Blood

Word Count: 16.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean drive you home. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, big angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Read on A03!

She was going to be okay. They’d managed to get the knife out of her gut, and Sammy had stitched Her up, so She’d be fine. 

She was still knocked out, but Her breathing was even. The blade had been so hot Dean had needed to use a towel to hold it, but it was out of Her body. Her wound kept bubbling and blistering, but it wasn’t an infection. 

She’d be fine. Dean was going to kill Her, but she’d be fine.

He looked down at Her, spread out across Baby’s backseat and curled into her body. She’d barely made a sound since She’d passed out. Only soft moans and whimpers as they worked on the injury, and a few grunts as they’d moved Her into the car, adjusted Her body in the seat, and set off on the road. 

They’d done everything. All Her shit was in the trunk, Sam was sitting with her to make sure she didn’t fall over or get worse, and Dean was breaking every traffic law he could think of to get there faster. 

To South Dakota.

To Bobby’s.

It had taken Dean too long, in the parking lot, to actually call Bobby. He’d waited until She was settled, until they’d loaded almost everything into the car, and until Sammy was dealing with the front desk so Dean was alone.

He hadn’t been alone. He’d been sitting in the back of the Impala, Her head on his knee and his hand unable to stop tracing over her face.

It was wrong. Looking at Her like this. Features sunken and hollow, lips drained of blood, breathing shallow in a way Dean could feel. It made his own breath labored, his whole body tensed as She relaxed against him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the trust of Her vulnerability, the way Her beautiful face was half buried in his thigh, the way She’d let out a weak, sad sound whenever he tried to pull away.

He’d hurt Her. He’d spent the entire night after their fight ripping apart the club grounds and roaring Her name, giving Sam daring looks to say a single thing. He’d beaten himself into the mud in fear that he’d lose Her twice. Once with spat words and a cold look of hatred, then again with a shredded body and dulled eyes. 

He’d wanted to strangle Her. He’d wanted to apologize, and shout that he had nothing to apologize for. She’d lied. 

Not about what Dean thought She’d been lying about, but She’d still lied.

Although, admittedly, the truth was far more confusing. 

Because Dean had stared at the small, robot-print letters on Her phone screen—pixilated and fuzzy and flipping his world upside—and not known how to process them.

Bobby Singer.

There could be other Bobby Singers that weren’t Dean’s Bobby Singer. That weren’t the guy who was practically his uncle, who he’d played catch with, who’d made him food and given Sammy run-down toys to play with.

It didn’t make sense for this to be Dean’s Bobby. Dean had half grown up in that house. He’d stayed there for weeks on end when Dad had been on a really bad hunt—hunts where he’d come back with hooded eyes and fisted hands, snapping short orders because they didn’t have time to waste on sentimentality—and Bobby had never once had a daughter. Especially not a hot, annoying, impossible one. 

Dean would’ve remembered meeting Her before. There’s no shot he would’ve ever forgotten Her. He couldn’t. He’d tried. Dean was pretty sure that, even if he’d only laid eyes on Her once in passing, he would’ve been drawn down into Her and never climbed back out.

That was simply what She did. Who She was. A walking, breathing song that Dean couldn’t figure out how to touch but still wanted to try to learn. She got stuck in his head and played there on loop, and if he’d ever seen Her before that moroi hunt, he was damn sure he would’ve remembered.

And Bobby would’ve told him. If Bobby had a kid that was around Sam and Dean’s age, they would’ve known. Dad would’ve known.

Dad should’ve known. And he obviously hadn’t. Whenever Dean had brought Her up, Dad had called Her that little girl.

Hell, Dad had told Bobby about Her. Dad had said Her name and Bobby hadn’t gone Fuckin’ Jesus, John, that’s my daughter. The hell is She doin’ huntin’ a poltergeist.

Bobby had reacted strangely, though. Dean remember him hanging up right after Dad mentioned Her.

And She had mentioned her dad was a gruff, smart hunter. Which described Bobby, and explained why She knew so much random shit about hunting, and that was Bobby’s number in Her phone, and-

She’d lied. She’d said She didn’t know a Bobby. She’d asked Dean what he thought of Bobby.

Like She was curious what he’d think.

Son of a bitch.

Because when Dean squinted, he could see Bobby on Her face. Not physically, but in small divets and shadows on Her face and body and voice.

They rolled their eyes the same way. Like they were done with everyone’s shit, and knew that they were the most competent and reliable person in the room. 

She had the same laugh Bobby had. Dean had only heard Bobby laugh—really, fully laugh with his whole chest—three or four times, but it was the exact same laugh. Loud and powerful and almost cartoonish.

They didn’t walk the same way, but they fought in similar movements. Brutal and effective, with no more or less than necessary. 

And if Dean really thought about it, there were smaller things he could draw together. How She turned a page, how She held a pencil, how She drank her coffee.

Small mannerisms She would’ve picked up from being raised by someone, the same way Dean would spin his keys and Sammy always flipped his wallet in his hands before opening it. 

Like Dad did.

Part of Dean hadn’t wanted to call the number. His thumb hovered far too long as he’d debated if he even wanted to know. If this was really what it seemed to be, and he’d have to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t known existed a fucking hour ago.

She could never know that he’d looked down at Her, and that had been what finally got him. That Her scrunched face had made his heart feel like it was being wrenched and pounded, that he’d run his thumb over Her nose, she’d relaxed, and let out a song-like sigh that had been it.

He’d pressed call, held the phone to his ear, and still not fully believed it until the line picked up after two rings.

“Hey, kiddo, I wasn’t expectin’ you to call until you had that Kelpie down. You alright?”

Dean had frozen, his voice caught in his throat, staring at Her face as static sounded in his ear. 

That was Bobby. Bobby clearing his throat, Bobby grunting Her name-

“Is everythin’-“

“Bobby?” Dean’s voice had been hushed, and he’d watched Her carefully to make sure she wasn’t disturbed. 

There had been a long moment of silence, this time from Bobby’s end, and then-

“Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s-“

“Where the hell did you find this phone, boy?”

Dean had said Her name, his hand tracing over Her brow, still checking she was real. “She gave it to me.”

“She fuckin’- where is she?”

“She’s right here-“

“Put her on, I need to talk to her.”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean had swallowed, and She’d shifted slightly, pressing further into his lap. “I can’t.”

“Dean Winchester, I ain’t lookin’ to kill you, but if you don’t-“

“No, I- I literally fucking can’t, Bobby.”

“Why in hells balls can’t ya’ pass a phone-“

Dean said Her name again, something like lead coating his throat. “Uh, she’s- She’s knocked out.”

There was a brief second of silence, and Dean had winced when Bobby spoke again. 

“What the hell typa’ shit have you two gotten into that she’s knocked out?!”

“A demon attacked her, and we- Bobby, we tried to fight it off but it got a knife into her gut, and Sammy patched her up but-“

“Sam’s there?”

Dean had frowned. “Yeah, uh, who else-“

“Never mind, I thought-“ Bobby had sighed through the phone, something tense growing in his voice. “She stable?”

“Yeah, but she told us to call you.”

“Alright, bring her up here and I’ll be ready. And Dean?”

Dean had nodded, staring at Her gorgeous, almost peaceful face, and there had been a long stretch of silence before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him.

“Dean-“

“Shit, sorry, what’s-“

“I don’t want you lettin’ a single fuckin’ thing near her but you and Sam, got it?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t yes, sir me, boy. Promise me you’ll keep her in your sight.”

“I will. Promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say. The thought of leaving Her alone had—even as his head spun, and his chest started to mold with the question of why the hell she’d lied—made Dean feel taut and sick.

And Bobby had hung up the phone, and Dean had kept his promise. He’d never left Her alone, not for a second. Sam had sat with Her because Dean didn’t trust himself to care for her properly—didn’t deserve to have Her half slump over his body and sigh against his skin—and Dean’d had to force his eyes to stay on the road, and not drift to check on Her

It was bad enough that his mind had been wandering. Coming up with more and more reasons this didn’t make any fucking sense, and far too many reasons why it did. 

She’d called going to Bobby’s home, and Dean felt something like bile in his throat at the thought that whenever She’d said home before, she’d been talking about Bobby. And lying. And letting Dean think She was living in a fancy gated palace, when she’d just been at Bobby’s. But now, when Dean pictured Bobby’s table, he could see Her at it. She slotted into the scene perfectly, just as She fit so well in every other part of Dean’s life.

And he still couldn’t hate Her. He had far too many questions—where the hell She’d been whenever they’d stayed with Bobby, why had She never corrected Dean, why had Bobby lied about knowing Her—and he didn’t know what the hell was happening, but he just couldn’t fucking hate Her.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam had asked a few hours ago, watching Dean carefully from the backseat. “What happened, last night? You just, you called me and said she’d stormed off, but-“

“Don’t.” Dean had muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel, and Sam had sighed.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me everything, I just want to know why she’d just fucked off, it doesn’t seem like her-“

“You don’t know her, Sam-“

“But you do-“

“Do I?” Dean had snapped, his eyes flicking back to Her in the rearview mirrors. Always close, and untouchable, and a mystery Dean could never seem to get close to solving. “I’m not sure anyone knows her, and I certainly fucking don’t.”

“Yeah, you do, Dean.” Sam had leaned forward, his tone far too careful and gentle. “Whatever fight you guys had, however pissed she got, I can’t be that bad-“

“Yeah, it can be.” Dean had scowled at the road, his voice lowering to a grunt. “Drop it, Sam. I fucking serious.”

Sam had sighed, and nodded. “Alright, what about the demon? Do you think we need to be keeping an eye out?”

“Eye out-“

“For another one.” Sam had glanced down to Her, she’d made a small noise of distress, and the sound had ached in Dean’s chest. “Dude, it- It knew who you were. And it seemed to know her-“

“There’s- How the hell would a demon know her-“

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking.” Sam had swallowed, and Dean could see the nerves written over his face in the mirror. “You think Bobby will have an idea?”

Dean didn’t know. He’d snapped at Sam that when they got to Bobby’s they’d have plenty of time to figure out what the fuck was happening, but the question was still echoing around his head.

Why would a demon have gone after Her. She was just a year older than Sammy, so she couldn’t have made that many enemies. She wasn’t some kind of target. There was nothing about her that could-

There was everything about Her. If Dean thought about it for too long—which is all he had time to do—She wasn’t just an enigma to Dean. Her family was still her family, no matter how she knew Bobby. Dad had said She’d stolen something, all those years ago. Maybe the demons would want it.

Maybe others felt that pull. Maybe there was something deeper Dean didn’t know how to see. 

Maybe there was nothing at all, and the demon had been hunting Her because of her proximity to Dean.

That thought made him feel sore and ill. Dad said that it was a demon who had gotten Mom. A demon who had gotten Jess. 

And She wasn’t Dean’s. She’d made that perfectly fucking clear.

But he couldn’t stop looking at Her. Couldn’t stop how the air didn’t feel clean in his lungs because Her breathing was shallow, how his hands kept itching on the wheel to brush over Her cheek and soothe the small wrinkle in Her brow. He could tell himself he just wanted to check for a fever, but he also wanted to move the hair from Her face. Sam was just letting is lie there, and Dean knew she hated people touching it, but she always let Dean touch her. She never slapped his hand away when he touched Her. She leaned into him, and sometimes She smile, and sometimes Dean could pretend she was his-

She wasn’t. She wouldn’t be. Dad had known Mom. Sam had known Jess.

Dean didn’t know anything. He didn’t know why the demon had been after Her, or what She been thinking just stomping off, or why Bobby was her home. 

All he really knew was that this still looked wrong. That the sight of Her in pain was making his heart shred itself in his chest, and that he wanted to reach around the seats and touch Her. Pull Her into him until nothing else could hurt Her, until he could get her somewhere safer than him.

She’d be safer anywhere but with Dean. Bobby had said to keep an eye on Her, but Dean didn’t trust his eyes. All week they’d kept seeing things that didn’t really make sense. Every moment they just made Her more beautiful, even as Dean silently cursed himself for still looking. 

He couldn’t stop looking. He fucking hated Her for lying, but every single sharp and blunted piece of wrath in Dean’s chest felt more searing when it carved on his own ribs. She was a liar, but Dean was a piece of shit. He’d bitten Her too hard. He didn’t have a damn clue about Her life, but he’d still aimed to kill and then been a whiny son of a bitch when his shot had landed.

She may bring out the most of him, but it was still Dean who was made of all those foul, uncontrolled pieces. 

Dad knew how to control himself. Dad wasn’t perfect, but at least he kept himself in line, and he’d tried to teach Dean how to do the same but Dean was just weaker. Pathetic and useless. 

He didn’t deserve to be around Her. No matter how much it pissed Dean off that She was better than he was, it didn’t change the fact. Dean wasn’t worthy of being around Her. 

And he still couldn’t stop looking. She was dangerous, and awesome, and looked so perfect in Dean’s car—fit so well with everything that was Dean, everything that belonged to him—but she also was impossible. And insufferable. And seemed to be trying to break Dean into pieces, because Her eyes fluttered, her breath hitched, and She arched her back.

All while mumbling Dean. 

Her eyes drifted open, a small frown on Her face, and the first thing she said was Dean.

She was trying to kill him.

“Dean.“ Her voice was soft, and weak, and rooted right into the cavity of Dean’s chest. Washing it in silver light with only Her voice, saying his name as Her fingers flexed and she reached mindlessly out into the air.

There’s a brief second where Dean wondered if She was looking for him. Reaching out to see if he’d take Her hand, if he’d reassure her with just his touch.

He needed to get it together.

He didn’t know how.

“I- Dean, what’s- I don’t-“ Her voice was growing distressed, Her slightly gazed as they dragged open. Her fingers seemed to be digging into Her skin as she shrank into the bench, Her breathing speeding up and becoming short and shit- 

It looked wrong. It felt wrong. Dean had no right to touch Her, no reason to tense and balk at the sight of Her in pain—small and panicked and almost feral in his backseat, ducking Her head and hugging her body as if she could shield herself—but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting hold Her until she was calm, to wrap himself around her like a barrier from everything else that could hurt Her in the world.

It was selfish as hell. Dean could hurt Her. Dean had hurt Her. He was the asshole who got them here in the first place, all by not knowing how to just control himself.

He didn’t want to control himself right now. Not as Her face twisted in pain. 

Not as She kept saying his name.

“Where are we- I- Dean-“

“I’m here,” He muttered Her name, gripping the back of his seat to stop himself from reaching for her. “We’re in the car.”

She went silent, Her body stilling completely, and cold seized over Dean’s body. Why was She just lying there. Why wasn’t She speaking, or shouting, or sneering. Asking questions or spitting venom about their fight, trying to get up or curl further into Herself, why was she so fucking still-

Dean was about to damn it, reach further back, and touch Her—just to feel the warmth of Her body, just to get something of a reaction—when She finally spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, and Dean would’ve never bet on that being what She’d say. On Her seeming to mean it, her face twisted slightly, Her head bowed, and her voice soft. “I- I didn’t mean to.”

He frowned. “Mean to what.”

“Anything.” 

Her eyes drifted open. Bright and seeming to glow on Dean’s, looking at him like She always had. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve thought their fight had never happened. There was no possible way it could’ve when She was still looking at him. Right into him, into the deep pit in his body that felt smaller under Her attention. Felt lined or coated in warmth and light, because that was what She did to him. 

And She still looked vulnerable. Just watching him, something more nervous on her face than Dean usually saw, something almost afraid. 

He hated it. She shouldn’t fear Dean, She should trust him. She didn’t, but he needed Her to. At least enough to know that, even if Dean—for some sick, fucked reason—tried to, he couldn’t lay a hand on Her. He could hiss and mock and poison Her with his mouth or presence, but he was pretty damn certain that his body would turn itself to ash before it hurt Her.

Which didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational, or reasonable, or understandable. But Dean’s hand flexed on the seat, and She practically fucking flinched, and Dean had never felt lower in his life. Any ideas he’d been holding about demanding answers and shouting about everything—their fight, Her lies, his brimming and spilling desire and how She needed to stop doing this to him so he could control himself—began to vanish into thin air. It was impossible to be really, truly angry at Her when she looked like that. Beautiful and fragile and critical to the blood in Dean’s body. 

He’d find that anger later, and they’d fight later. For now he just let out a long breath, and shrugged. 

“’S fine.” It wasn’t. But it was the only good thing to say here, because Dean might rather stab himself than tell Her about how fucking furious he was, and make Her fold further down. He’d wounded Her enough for a while. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-“ She paused, hands padding over Her stomach. “Did you-“

“Sammy gave you some stitches.” Dean said, watching her carefully. “He’s not great that them, though, so don’t move.”

Her mouth twitched slightly. Dean wished he could touch it. “Where is Sam?”

“Getting gas. We got a few hours left until we hit Sioux Falls.”

“Oh.”

Dean didn’t miss the flash of something over Her face. He didn’t know what. He just knew it was wired, and taut, and brittle. That he wanted to ease it, but didn’t know how. Wasn’t really worthy of trying to learn.

But Sam was taking a while. 

And Dean couldn’t fucking stand how fearful She looked.

“If you press on the stitches, does it hurt?”

She raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to press on them, Winchester.”

“Nah, I know, I’m just trying to figure out how shit a job Sammy did.”

She didn’t look like She believed him, and Dean really wished he’d come up with a better excuse to talk to Her, because now she was lifting up her shirt. 

Her skin looked a little raw and torn around the wound, but everywhere else was soft. Smooth. He’d noticed it while patching Her up, that she barely had any pale, raised patches of skin where other hunters did.

No scars was so fucking rare. 

But so was She.

And Dean needed to pull it together.

“It’ll hold,” She looked back to Dean, and he had to blink at her. Pretend he hadn’t just been gaping at Her bare skin. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, scanning over Her features. She was awake, but there still wasn’t enough color in Her face. Too little fury behind Her eyes, nothing dancing and shining like it usually did. She looked exhausted. Weakened. The little furrow of Her brow tighter than usual. 

They had hours to go, and Dean knew how to fix that. He knew how to poke at Her until she snapped and everything bent with Her—all Her force making the world clearer, Dean’s body stronger—and how to walk right up to the invisible line, touch Her just as much as he was allowed, and make Her relax. Sam didn’t. But Dean did. 

“I’m coming back there.” He grunted, starting to shift in his seat, and She frowned.

“What?”

“Sammy’s gonna drive the rest of the way, I’ll sit with you-“

“No, you don’t-“

He shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Her say he didn’t have to, because it just reminded him that she didn’t feel this. That there was nothing that called Her to Dean’s side, because if there was she’d be fucking begging him to sit with Her. 

He knew that, because he was seconds away from dropping to a new low and begging Her. 

“We had Sammy back there all day,” he held Her gaze, trying to make his voice stern. “Only fair you get saddled with me too.”

“I’m not-“ She cut herself off with a shake of Her head. “I don’t need Sam to sit with me either, De. I’m fine.”

De. She said De, and it was maybe the only thing more powerful than Her calling him Dean. Even if She didn’t mean it, the word felt like a command over his body, and that was only another thing Dean didn’t understand. 

“You’re- you look like shit, Princess.“ He couldn’t stop the nickname from slipping out of his mouth. No matter how screwed things were, the way Her body loosened slightly at the sound of it was always a small high, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop chasing it.

She scowled. “Hey-“

“You just got stabbed, and you haven’t woken up in six hours-“

“I’m awake now-“

“And I’d like to keep it like that.” Dean snapped. “I- you just gotta-“ He ran a hand over his face, because She didn’t want him there, but every time Her eyes drooped or Her body twitched with pain it made Dean’s gut contract. “At least keep Sammy. So you’re not alone.”

She rolled Her eyes. It really did fucking look like Bobby. “I’m not alone, dummy, you’re like two feet away.”

“What if you pass out again? Am I just supposed to pull over?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m not gonna pass out-“

“You can’t know that, sweetheart-“

“I can guess.” She glowered at him, raising Her chin slightly, and even lying down She looked like royalty.  “It’s my body, Winchester, and I feel fine.”

“For now.” Dean muttered, and She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Shut up-“ She cut herself off with a yawn, and Dean’s jaw clenched. 

She couldn’t see Her. Every single second that passed no light returned to Her eyes, and everything just grew duller. She’d just yawned. But Dean was pretty certain that—if She hissed at Sam to get in the front seat and not bother worrying about her—the giant baby would listen.

Dean needed to work around this. She needed to be okay.

“You’ll need to keep talking.” He grunted, holding her gaze. “I hear one second of silence, and we’re pulling over so I can move back there. Understood?”

She gave him a flat look. “Are you serious-“

“Deadly, Princess. Understood?”

Dean might be imagining it, but a little color returned to Her face. The flush. And the breath. And the-

“Understood.” She muttered. “You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You’ve told me.” Dean turned back to face ahead, and she let out a long breath behind him. 

This silence was short, but maybe the heaviest Dean had ever experienced. It weighed on the top of his chest, and he didn’t know how to push it off, and he wanted to look at Her again, but he couldn’t bear it if She didn’t look at him-

“Dean,” She whispered, and his whole body went alert at the sound of her voice. Softer than usual, but still calling him down. “I’m-“

Whatever She was, Dean didn’t get to know. Sam knocked on his window, waving to Her in the backseat, and Dean had to turn and roll down the window so they could hear each other.

“Dude, why are you hunching down like that, just get in the freaking car-“

Sam rolled his eyes, not moving to from the window. “I still need to get coffee, Dean. And,” He said Her name with a grin, completely ignoring Dean’s glower. “You’re up!”

“Yep.” She returned Sam’s smile, and Dean scowled. She hadn’t smiled at him. “Thanks for the stitches.”

Sam shrugged, leaning a little further through the window. “No problem. They feel okay? Because I was rushing a little to get you on the road, and-“

“They feel fine, Sam. I feel fine.”

Those last words were shot at Dean, and he rolled his eyes. “You won the argument, Princess, don’t get all bitchy with me.”

“I am not being bitchy-“

“You’re being dramatic-“

“I just got fucking stabbed, Winchester, I can be as dramatic as I want.”

Dean scoffed, twisting in his seat. “I’m the one who had to watch you get stabbed-“

“How fucking harrowing for you-“

“What the hell does harrowing mean-“

“Hey!” Sam slapped Dean’s arm, shooting both of them a stern look. “You guys can fight all you want when we’re on the road, but we actually need to get on the road. Tell me what you want from the gas station, and kill each other after.”

She let out a long breath. “Sorry, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam said Her name, gave Dean a pointed glare, and Dean scowled. 

“I didn’t fucking do anything-“

She scoffed, the sound a rough cough that almost made Dean leap over the bench to pick Her up and hold her to his chest. “Oh, fuck off, Winchester-“

“Wouldn’t you love that, Princess-“

“Dean!” Sam snapped. “Don’t- Just tell me what you want, please.”

Dean opened his mouth, and She cut him off with sharp, short words.

“Don’t say pie. You’re driving.”

Dean was either going to smother Her with his hands around her neck, or with his mouth slammed to Her’s. She was so fucking hot, and annoying, and Dean wouldn’t strangle her because he knew his dumb body wouldn’t allow him, but Jesus, She needed to shut the hell up before Dean made her and then lost her forever-

“Dean?” Sam was raising his brows. Waiting for a response.

“Gimme some coffee.” He muttered, gripping the wheel like it could save him from Her glare, and how it made his skin feel sore. “And jerky.”

Sam nodded, glancing over to Her, and when she spoke her voice was too quiet. He watched to jump over the bench again. 

“Coffee and candy?”

“Sure, you want anything specific-“

“Whatever’s cheap.” She said, and Dean was going to break the wheel. 

His head was churning and spiraling again. She said that like Bobby said it. The same dismissive cheaper is easier, boy, and I ain’t an idiot to fall for fancy fuckin’ packagin’ tone.

“Snickers?” Sam offered, and She must have nodded because a second later, he was gone.

It was silent. So silent that Dean had a brief, stabbing moment of worry that She was passed out again. His eyes flicked up to the mirror again, and Her eyes were open—pretty and glaring at Dean like She wanted to stab him—but they looked lidded. And the little furrow was becoming more prominent, and Her breathing was a little too shallow, and-

“You’re supposed to be talking.” Dean snapped, and She rolled Her eyes. And it was still exactly like Bobby did, but, son of a bitch it was so much hotter-

He needed to get a grip. He needed to figure out how—when they eventually did get to Sioux Falls—he was ever going to be able to look at Her and not wonder how he hadn’t seen it before. He was a little fucking worried he’d look at Bobby and start to feel that gravitational pull. That Dean would start to orbit around Bobby, and smell him all the time, and hear his voice in dreams-

If that happened, Dean would need to give himself a concussion and pray it erased his memory. He already didn’t love how he wanted nothing more than to crawl over Her and make her smile, and if he started to crave Bobby’s attention too, he’d lose his mind. Crashing into Her was usually good, when she wasn’t trying to give him a heart attack or being the most impossible person Dean had ever met. Crashing into Bobby would be gross. If Dean had to start fantasizing about Bobby under him when he fucked someone, he might just have to kill himself-

“Dean!” She was shouting, Her voice slightly strained, and he turned to frown at Her.

“What’s-“

“What am I supposed to be talking about?”

He frowned. “I don’t fucking care-“

“Alright, then I won’t-“

“No.” Dean pointed a stern finger at Her, narrowing his eyes. “You gotta talk. That was the deal.”

“I didn’t make a deal, you just ordered me to talk-“

“I did not order you, Princess, I’m trying to goddamn keep you alive after you went and got stabbed-“

“Oh, suck my fucking dick-“

The car door opened, and they both turned to see Sam leaning into the car, coffees in hand and snacks under his arms.

“Oh, good, you didn’t murder each other.” Sam passed out their coffees and snacks, his voice a dry mutter that was gonna get him punched. “Actually,” he frowned between them. “If you’re going to fight for the rest of the ride, can Dean  sit in the back so I can tune it out-“

“Neither of you are sitting in the back.” She pushed Herself upright with a small, weak sound, and Her hands were shaking. Dean was going to tackle Her.

“Maybe, uh,” Sam glanced at Dean as he said Her name, like he could see the rough tension over his heart at Her insistence to be as difficult as possible. “I mean, I really don’t mind if I do have to sit with you-“

“I’ll be alright without a babysitter-“

“Because you’re going to keep talking.” Dean muttered, drumming his hands on the wheel. “Sammy, apparently her majesty can’t come up with a topic, so that’s on you, but I don’t want a single second of silence, sweetheart, or-“

“You’ll pull over and be a massive fucking baby.” She snapped, and Dean wished She wasn’t so hot when she was pissed. “He threatened me, Sam.”

Dean scowled. “I did not threaten you-“

“Fine. It was blackmail.”

“It was- I-“ Dean whipped around to glower at her. “You’re such a fucking-“

“Bitch?” She sneered, holding his gaze. “Am I a bitch? Am I a spoiled little bitch?”

“That’s- You know I wasn’t-“

“Trying to hurt my little bratty girl feelings-“

“I never fucking said-“

She scoffed, and Dean could swear something hot and wired was fueling all his anger. Maybe it was how the air in the car seemed to be waving, or how every word was venomous and cold and making something inside of him wither, or how breathing was so fucking painful when She was furious and sneering-

“That I’m a bitch? That I’m a controlling fucking bitch-“

“Shut up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Dean slammed his hand on the bench, and She flinched. Visibly flinched. Recoiled. 

“I- I didn’t-“ She swallowed, staring at Her cup in her hands. “Sorry.”

Dean was a piece of fucking shit. He’d done it again. He’d pushed it too far because he was an asshole.

He muttered Her name, his voice low. “I didn’t- I’m-“

“Don’t.” She mumbled, and She wouldn’t look at him. “I’ll keep talking.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and all he could do was nod. She looked sick. He fucking felt sick. He kept slamming his fist between them, making everything worse, hurting Her in a way he’d never seemed to be able to hurt anyone before-

Sam cleared his throat. Dean had forgotten he was there.

“So, uh, we’re talking.”

Dean opened his mouth to say no, they needed to fucking patch whatever the hell was wrong with him with glue, so he could shove himself into her hands as a pathetic, useless apology, but She was faster. Better. Still a liar, still in pain, but also still beautiful. Still so far away from Dean.

“Yeah. Get in the car.”

Sam nodded, shooting Dean one last look, and leaned out of the car. Dean started the engine—biting his tongue not to vomit a million apologies he knew wouldn’t come out right—and they were back on the road.

Four hours until they hit Bobby’s.

Four hours of beating himself bloody in silence, and listening to Her speak.

Normally Dean would’ve thought there was no better way to spend his time than being drowned in Her voice, and hearing her say anything at all. But normally She wasn’t in this pain, where She’d gesture too broadly and hiss, or Baby would hit a bump and She’d whine. Normally he didn’t have to force himself not to look at Her—and whenever he lost control and his eyes slipped to Her in the mirror, she didn’t look so colorless and drained—and normally Dean allowed himself to speak to Her in more than grunts. 

She was acting like everything was fine. Sometimes he’d look back and She’d be smiling, and it didn’t reach Her eyes, and Dean had done that. That wasn’t the injury. 

That was just Dean. Ruining everything because She’d fallen from the sky into his hands and he’d bashed Her into the mud.

“There’s…” Sam was said Her name, his voice filled with disbelief. “You don’t actually think that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it-“

“But it’s Star Wars! I mean, it’s not perfect, but you can’t seriously believe it’s bad.”

“It is bad, Sam. It’s objectively poorly written, but it has iconic imagery, music, and actors-“

“Because it’s not bad!”

It had been thirty minutes of this. Sam hadn’t needed to look that hard to find a topic, and the moment he’d said the words Uh, you like movies? Dean had known it was over. He’d had this exact conversation with Her before, and it had involved a lot more yelling and shoving than Sam was getting.

It had also involved Her giggling and smiling and leaning so close that Dean could see even the smallest features on her face—tiny bumps and scars, little divets that somehow made Her more beautiful—and smell that strange fruit until it intoxicated him, and he’d thrown his hands up in surrender. 

Her eyes had sparkled then. She still wouldn’t look at him now. Even when Sam would echo a point Dean had made before, She shot it down with ease—and a careful, detailed argument that made Dean think She’s been freaking practicing—and Sam would let out a sigh that sounded a little like a whine.

“I don’t think it’s useless, you know. I’m saying it’s not-“

“You just called it the most overhyped movie ever made!”

“And it is, but that’s why it’s not useless. It was the primary cause of science fiction being popularized-“

“Because people liked it!” Sam looked to Dean with wide eyes—as if Dean could fucking do something about this—and then back to Her with a shaking head. “I- They’re maybe the most popular movies of all time-“

“Popularity doesn’t equate quality, Sam.” She said, and Dean hoped She couldn’t see him mouthing along with her every word, knowing exactly what she’d say. “It can, but it doesn’t have to. Star Wars being popular is its greatest strength, because that mean it was able to serve as inspiration for many, better things.”

Sam scoffed. “Like what?”

That was a mistake. If Dean was allowing himself to participate in the conversation, he would’ve been able to tell Sammy that saying that—especially in a doubtful tone—was never a good idea. She’d have examples, and if She didn’t, she’d come up with some right here in the car.

Dean had fallen for that trap before. And he was too fucking tired and bitter to save Sam from it.

“I’m so glad you asked, Samuel.” Dean glanced in the mirror, and that was a wide, blinding, almost manic grin that appeared when She was about to hand Dean’s ass to him on a platter.

He almost felt bad for Sam.

“I- Samuel?”

She hummed, completely ignoring Sam’s indigence. “Almost all science-fiction movies are somewhat inspired by Star Wars, or owe Star Wars the popularity of the genre. And, Star Wars significantly popularized the use of Monomyth in film-“

Dean didn’t remember what Monomyth was. Sam didn’t seem to either, because She cut herself off with a sigh.

“The Hero’s Journey. In movies.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “Dean said you didn’t go to college.”

Dean cringed slightly, feeling Her glare through the mirror. 

“Did he.”

“Yeah, it’s just surprising, you’re smart-“

“I don’t have to go to college to be smart.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, you just- You don’t sound like you didn’t-“

“I’ve read a lot.” She said, and a vision of Bobby’s library flashed through Dean’s head.

There were a shit ton of books in there. Even Sam hadn’t read them all, and Dean was pretty sure Bobby hadn’t either, but he also remembered Bobby saying that they’d all been read.

By Her.

“And,” She was still talking. Of course She was. “I’ve watched a lot of TV, which is how I know I’m right. Star Wars is terrible-“

In the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam open his mouth, and then make his first good choice of the day and close it.

“But it’s also the only reason we have Indiana Jones-“

“You like Indiana Jones?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Another mistake from Kid Genius in shotgun-

“Shut up, Winchester.”

Dean blinked, scowling at the road. “I didn’t say anything-“

“You were going to.” She snapped, and when Dean glanced back, she was glaring at him. “So shut up.”

Sam frowned between them. “Why would Dean-“

“Her majesty loves Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted. “Good luck, Sammy.”

“Don’t wish him luck, I’m not going to try to kill him-“

“Sure, Princess.”

She kicked the back of Dean’s seat, and he didn’t even grunt. The hit was weaker than usual, and it wasn’t because She wasn’t trying.

She was just weaker. She was still coughing and taking breaths that were far too long. Her eyes were still a little hollowed, and lips in too tight a line, and brow drawn in pain. Dean couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to pull over, grab Her and demand that they forgive each other now—or at least try to pretend nothing had happened in the first place—because she was hurt and needed Dean’s help-

“I’m not going to kill you, Sam.” She said, and Sam didn’t look all that reassured. “And I do love Indiana Jones. I think it’s fun.”

Sam frowned. “Star Wars is fun.”

“Star Wars parodies are fun. There’s an episode of the Muppet Show with the Star Wars cast, and it’s better than all the actual Star Wars movies combined.”

She and Sam kept talking—Sam refused to believe one single episode of television could be greater than a film trilogy, and Dean didn’t think She was capable of just surrendering any sort of argument—and Dean’s head started to wander again. Back to Bobby’s house, and every single sign of Her he’d never noticed. Never had reason to notice, or dwell on, or observe, but now he couldn’t stop remembering all the grenadine in Bobby’s fridge that the man himself never seemed to touch, but always seemed to be in use. All the normal books that weren’t for hunting, and didn’t seem like things Bobby would read.

If Dean squinted in his head, he could see the VHS tapes stacked near the TV. There had been a lot of movies he’d stayed up late to watch—action movies and westerns and some fancy art films he hadn’t action movies and TV shows-really understood—but also some he’d never touched. Comedy films and chick flicks and-

“Bobby had that show.” Dean muttered, and She and Sam fell silent. “The Muppet Show. He had a freakin’ VHS tape.”

They hadn’t mentioned it since She woke up. The looming axe over all their heads, that they were heading to Bobby’s, and She’d fucking lied about knowing him. 

But Dean hadn’t been able to stop himself. He was never able to stop himself with Her. It was fucking amazing, how he kept managing to make this whole thing worse.

“Yeah.” She muttered. She’d tucked Her knees to her chest. “He does.”

Sam cleared his throat, his voice gentle. “I, uh, you don’t have to answer, but can I ask how you know Bobby? Dean said he raised you-“

“He did.”

“Oh.” Sam looked between Her and Dean with a frown. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Her voice becoming taut, and it squeezed around Dean’s throat. “I’ve told you my dad is a hunter-“

“So Bobby’s your dad?”

“No, it’s-“ She sighed. “I- It’s easier to say father than man who raised me. We’re not related.”

Sam nodded slowly, and Dean stayed perfectly fucking still in his seat. If he moved or breathed wrong, She might remember he was here and stop sharing things. 

“If you- How have we never met before?” Sam’s voice was cautious. Dean understood that. “It’s just, Dean and I have known Bobby our whole lives, we’ve spent weeks at his house-“

“I was…” She swallowed, Dean didn’t have to look back to know Her head would be bowed, and she’d be picking Her skin bloody. “Really sick. I had to be kept separated from other people.”

It wasn’t a lie. Dean could fucking hear it, could feel the sinking ache into his bones at Her tired, heavy voice. And it didn’t matter how vague and useless an answer that was—how it just left him with more questions about how sick She’d been, what type of sickness, if She was alright now when she didn’t really seem to be—because it was the truth. 

And She looked sad. She wouldn’t look up, and She was tucked into Herself, and there was hair blocking all Her features from view, and Dean wanted to move it and touch Her, trace his hands over Her face until she smiled and her body went loose-

She wouldn’t let him touch Her. If he tried, he’d probably get punched in the gut, and it would leave a gash in his intestine he didn’t know how to prevent or heal.

He was still pathetic though. Still feeling an itch on his skin the longer She looked like she was trying to hide from something invisible, the longer Her brow pressed to Her knees and the acidic silence stretched on.

He couldn’t just stop.

“Keep talking, Princess.” He grunted, and he could feel Her glare sear through his head. It was better than nothing. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was too gentle. He didn’t get it. How She was too quiet and too bendable and it was making Dean feel sunken and empty. “Maybe we can just listen to music or something-“

“No. Talk.” 

Sam’s eyes widened, and if he kept gaping like that, Dean was going to kick and punch him. 

“Well, Deano,” She was still glaring at him from the backseat. “What the fuck should I be talking about?“

“Anything, just-“

“Anything isn’t helpful-“

“Tell Sammy what food he is.” Dean snapped, and Sam blinked. 

“Tell me what?”

“I’m pie,” Dean muttered, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Because the smartass back there is a little genius.”

“I am a genius.” Her voice was harsher than before. Stronger. “And I didn’t just say you were a pie, I said you were pecan pie, you asshole-“

“Same thing-“

“It’s not. The specification is important-“

“It’s damn pie, sweetheart. Pie is pie-“

“Why pecan?” Sam asked. “I mean, why not apple, or cherry-“

“Because I don’t pander.” She said, and Dean had to bite down a snort. “And he’s not nearly sweet enough to be cherry-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“And,” She pushed on, ignoring Dean entirely. “The chewiness of pecan is very Dean.”

He didn’t know how to protest that. He didn’t know what to say to that. Not when he glanced back in the mirror and Her face was so unreadable.

She didn’t sound as pissed anymore. Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding, looking between Her and Dean with another unreadable expression. Everyone needed to start saying what they were thinking soon, or Dean was gonna lose it. “I- Yeah. I can see that. What food am I, then?”

“Bubblegum.” 

Her answer was quick, and if Dean didn't have to drive and brood, he would've laughed at the look on Sammy's face.

"I- Why?"

“You’re sweet. And flexible but still kinda stiff.” 

Dean frowned, lowering his voice to speak under his breath. “I’m sweet.”

She hummed. “Yeah, but you’re an acquired taste, Deano. Like pecan.”

She kept talking, but the word bounced and echoed around Dean’s head. Deano. She only called him Deano when he’d said or done something stupid, but She wasn’t really that pissed about it. Deano had an underlying tone of affection to it. A higher sound on the De and a long moment on the O.

She might not hate him.

“Okay.” Sam was nodding slowly, still twisted in his seat. “I can be bubblegum. Is- Do you do that a lot?”

“Do what?”

“Uh, sort people, I guess? Like, what type of drink would you say I am?”

“She doesn’t drink, Sammy.” Dean muttered, and his seat got kicked again.

“I still know what drinks are-“
“Could you tell us what each one is like?” =

There was a brief pause—Dean could imagine the small, pouting frown on Her face—and then- “No.”

Dean shot Her a wink in the mirror before he could think better, and it was a mistake. She was glowering at him. She was really hot when She glowered at him—Dean could easily imagine smoke rising off Her body and small, silver spark flying over his skin when he touched Her—but her easy, high beauty wasn’t nearly enough to distract Dean from how shitty she looked. There was more gray in Her face than before, She was curled more into her own body, and, son of a bitch, Her eyes were fluttering slightly-

“What about music genres?” Dean said, just to keep Her talking, and She blinked at him. “What?”

“Music genres, Princess. You know hip-hop, pop, the blues-“

“I know what music genres are, asshole, why are you-“

“Which are we.” Dean gave a vague, one-handed wave between himself and Sammy. “Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing-“

“Yeah, you do. Give it a shot, sweetheart. Music genres.”

Sam gave Dean an unwelcome, amused look. “You know, it kind of feels like one of us-“

“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean looked back in the mirror, raising his brows at Her. “And you’re supposed to be talking.”

She wrinkled Her nose him, but she also started talking, so Dean didn’t really care all that much. He was rock—but She was annoying, said Latin pop first, and giggled for five straight minutes after—and Sammy was jazz. Fancy bar Jazz. 

Dean didn’t know what that meant.

But he really liked the sound of Her voice, and the way She said most everything. She could’ve probably called Sam country music and he’d agree, just because of how She’d say. With a smooth, passive authority that told something in Dean’s brain She’s right. All the freaking time, even when She’s obviously wrong, she’s still right.

Sam was starbursts, and Dean was a KitKat. Dean was dusk, and Sam was noon. Sam was a Lily of the Valley, and Dean was a rose.

Dean had no interest in being a flower. He did like Her telling him what he was. He liked the idea that She’d been looking at him. That She’d thought about him enough to think he’d be a car if he was on object—which was a cheap shot, but still made Dean feel fuzzy—or a tree if he was a plant, or a seal if he lived in the ocean.

He frowned, waiting for Her to elaborate—he still wasn’t allowing himself to speak all that much, because this felt delicate and still slightly fractured—and decided he wouldn’t kick Sam’s ass for being a butthead the whole car ride when the kid took the bullet for him. 

“Why am I an octopus?”

She yawned. It made Dean’s stomach clench. “You’re productive and floppy.”

Dean snorted, and Sam shot him a glare.

“Well then, why’s Dean a seal-“

“Cause he’s all big and toothy.”

Dean scowled. He wasn’t nearly as big and toothy as Sammy was, but fighting with Her on reasoning almost always ended up being a dead end. Just as how asking Her what she was only ever resulted in a hum and shrug. Dean’s goal was to keep Her talking, so he had to move on. 

“Whatever, Princess. What about out of the ocean animals?”

She shifted a little in Her seat—letting out a small noise that hurt Dean’s whole body—but kept talking. Sam was this, and Dean was that. Dean was that, and Sam was this.

And every time she spoke, Dean could imagine the tilt of Her head, the way she was probably rubbing Her skin at she examined them and thought of an answer with far too much sincerity. He wanted to rub Her skin. To trace his hands up Her legs, watch Her look at him with nothing but softness in her eyes, feel nothing but molten light fill him up from the inside-

He needed to figure out how the hell She always did that. How all of Dean’s fury was now smothered and coated Her, how all the way in his soft tissue he just really wanted to touch Her. To stop giving Her reasons to sneer at him, to stop pushing Her until she fell away forever, for everything to just be alright. 

For this conversation to be not edged with the knowledge that She probably didn’t want him around now. Even if She didn’t hate him, he must have snapped everything too much to fix it. 

But Dean was pathetic, so he still wanted to care for and protect and follow Her.

He wanted to fix this. To salvage it. 

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just drop this, just sit with the fact that everything was ruined and over. Why something to the right of his heart seemed to pound and roar at the idea of never touching Her again. Not ever a hand on Her back or brief high-five. 

Worse was imagining never hearing Her voice again. Only hearing it call him on the wind.

He couldn’t really hear Her voice now. 

She’d slumped forward, Her brow resting near Dean’s shoulder and her eyes turned towards the floor. 

“Dean.” She mumbled, and his whole body tensed. “Can we be done with the talking game?”

“No,” Dean grunted Her name. “It’s not a game, you gotta keep talking-“

“I’m good.” She let out a long breath. It was too ragged. “I- I think I’m just a little tired.”

“Well, I need you to keep fucking talking-“

She shook Her head, her temple pressing right into Dean’s arm. “I don’t- it hurts, Dean.” She made a high, weak noise, and Dean was going to break the wheel with only his hands. “Can I have five minutes, please?”

Fuck. She was saying please. 

“Princess, just- shit- for an hour, keep talking for an hour- Sammy-“

“Got it. Hey,” Sam said Her name, and his voice was too gentle. She needed it to be shouted, She needed to hear that she had to stay awake, that it wasn’t a damn option for Her to sleep. “Can you tell me more about, uh, movies? What’s your favorite movie?”

She didn’t have a favorite movie. She had about fifty, and they were all dumb, and She was always adorable when She told Dean about them, and why wasn’t She talking-

“Sammy.” She mumbled, grabbing Sam’s arm and turning Her head to him. Away from Dean. “Why does Dean call you that?”

“It was, uh, it was my nickname growing up.” Sam swallowed, giving Dean a desperate look as he continued. “Did you have a nickname, when you were a kid?”

“No.” She mumbled. “People don’t give smart little whores nicknames. But,” Her voice got softer, dropping like She was telling a secret. “Dean calls me Princess sometimes.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve heard it. He said it like five seconds ago-“

“I like it.” She said, and Dean was going to grind his teeth to dust. “I like him. He’s an asshole, Sammy, but I like him.”

Sam had no right to look like he’d been punched. Dean was the one who had to keep driving and acting like he couldn’t hear.

Sam said Her name, his tone slow and careful. “I think-“

“There’s something wrong with me.” She said, and there was nothing angry in Her voice. She really just sounded sad. Sad and tired. “It really hurts.”

“I know, but Dean’s right, you need to stay awake until we get to Bobby’s-“

She groaned, and leaned further into Dean’s arm. “He’s gonna kill me-“

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll kill you-“

“He will. He’s gonna tell me I’ve been dumb and reckless, that I was supposed to-“ She paused, then sighed. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Sam frowned, looking back to Dean. He needed to stop doing that. Dean didn’t have a clue what was going on. “Why?”

“You’ll tell Dean. Then Dean will kill me. I like him, I don’t want him to kill me.”

“I’m pretty sure Dean’s not gonna kill you-“

“He is.” She let out another sad, little sigh. “He already hates me, Sam-“

“He doesn’t-“

“I don’t…” She yawned, shifting Her head just enough for Dean to see her eyes were closed. “I don’t hate him. I think he’s…”

She yawned again. And She didn’t finish her sentence, and Dean could swear their bodies were going to be glued together. She didn’t seem to remember he was there, but She was still moving closer into him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

Because She was asleep, and they still had an hour to go.

Dean swerved over from the far-hand lane, stopped Baby on the side of the highway, and got out of the car. Sam was smart and understood what was happening—scooting into the driver’s seat without a word—and She just kept fucking sleeping. 

She barely stirred when Dean pulled Her backwards, letting Her head rest on his chest and her body slump in his arms. He wasn’t supposed to allow himself to touch Her like this. She might stab Dean if she found out he was hugging Her, holding Her like she was fragile and vital to everything around him. She would stab him again when he’d tell Her that’s because she was. 

Everything was easier when he stroked his thumb down Her nose, and She let out a soft, breathy sound before curling fully into his body. The same way She’d tuck into herself, or sink into the mattress or couch after an episode. Like She was trying to shield herself from something. 

But now, Dean was Her shield.

And he was so goddamn confused.

They had an hour until Bobby’s—more like fifty minutes now—and Dean still couldn’t wrap his head around what was becoming more and more obviously the truth. 

If it was, She wouldn’t be spoiled. And that would make sense—She’d never really seemed spoiled, mostly just smart and confident—if that didn’t really mean that She’d been raised by Bobby. That the girl who’d painted Her nails on Dean’s motel table, who always smelled like sugar and fruit and kind of looked like She was forged deep in a star, had been raised by freaking Bobby. Beer and books and cars and no need to give me extra attention Bobby. The Bobby who was practical, and sharp, and didn’t take any shit-

Son of a bitch. 

It still didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Her to lie about knowing Bobby. Dean had even told Her he liked Bobby. That Bobby was the best hunter he knew, after Dad. 

He’d probably yell at Her about it, if he could. Shout and sneer and bite—he didn’t know how to just be moderate with Her, how to hold himself the hell together—until She gave him answers. And that never seemed to work. 

But Dean also never seemed to learn. Not when it came to Her.

Because even as the confusion and anger bubbled in his chest, it wasn’t nearly as powerful as how goddamn sick he felt. Yelling at Her had gotten them here, and Dean never learned. If he hadn’t pushed and snapped Her, she never would’ve gone off alone, and the demon never would’ve seen her. It had probably realized that She was a hunter and stuck to her trail.

She wouldn’t be in all this mumbled, whined pain if it wasn’t for Dean. She wouldn’t be in danger. She’d probably just be sitting with him and Sam at a diner, laughing and talking until they parted, then found their way back to each other’s paths a few weeks later. 

This time, Dean didn’t think She’d come back. One way or another, She’d be gone. There was the way that made the pit in his chest turn into a chasm—the way he outright refused to entertain—but there was also the second, slower way. Where She didn’t hate him, and She wasn’t gone, but Dean still lost Her. She left, and he was alone.

Dean wouldn’t allow the first way to happen. Every time Her breathing was too shallow, he’d snap at Sam to hurry up and try to soothe Her until it was even again. He could give CPR, if he had to. He didn’t know how to do CPR—he should probably learn—but he’d seen Sammy do it, and it didn’t look that hard. Dean could sing Stayin’ Alive. He could press his lips to Her’s and give her his fucking lungs out of his chest to fix this. He could peel off his skin and patch it over Her wound if he needed to. 

Stab wounds aren’t supposed to be this bad. And Dean had never been stabbed by a demon, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be any different. The knife that the son of a bitch had lodged in Her gut hadn’t even been all that special. Just a smooth, iron blade that was knocking Her—Her—down for the count. 

She had to hang on. Dean would want it to be for him, but he knew better, so he’d settle for it being for Bobby. 

Because Sam finally parked the car in Bobby’s yard, and Bobby was already outside. Hunched on the step, shooting to his feet before the engine was even off. 

Dean suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be touching Her, or holding her tight against his chest, or trying to smell Her like a creep every few minutes. She smelled good. Like wet dirt—but in a sharp, earthy way that mostly made Dean feel comfortable—chlorine, something vanilla that was cheap and strong, and there was the fucking fruit-

Bobby probably wouldn’t care that She smelled like an odd, unplaceable fruit. He also didn’t have to know why She smelled like chlorine. Dean wasn’t looking to get shot and—based on the way Bobby was glowering at him through the window—explaining what they’d been doing last night didn’t feel like it would be welcome information. 

Because Bobby had never looked at him like that. Really fucking angry, with a drawn brow and deep scowl. Dean couldn’t tell if the glare was at him, or for Her, but he knew Bobby was pissed. If his expression wasn’t a give away, the gruff, low tone of his voice was.

Dean was barely out of the car—Her body cradled carefully in his arms, an apologetic grimace already on his face—when Bobby started snapping.

“Fuckin’- balls- Bring ‘er inside Dean, and Sam, grab the stitch kit. My stitch kit, I don’t wanna be usin’ that fuckin’ weak one in the trunk of your car.”

Sam nodded, walking into the house with a tight, nervous expression at Dean over his shoulder. Dean would’ve shrugged in return, but he didn’t want to shake Her in his arms, or make Bobby think he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He couldn’t not, because it was Her. And Her breathing was weak, and Her features were so washed over and Her lips were pale and she kept clinging to Dean’s arm-

“Dean.” Bobby grunted, jerking his head to the door. “Inside, now.”

“Yes, si-“ Dean cut himself off, changing himself to only a nod as he moved her into the house.

It was exactly as he remembered it. Nothing ever really changed at Bobby’s house, and every piece of furniture and color was exactly in place with how it had been in Dean’s head, but there more now.

Things Dean had seen but never really given deeper thought, like a mug that was a soft pastel color in the side-table—slightly stained with coffee, and looking long-empty but never moved—and chapstick near the TV, and-

“That’s her jacket.” Dean said, a little stupidly, and Bobby shot him an odd look.

“What’re you talkin’ about-“

Dean said Her name, nodding to the leather jacket that was hooked over a chair. It was a woman’s jacket, not really Bobby’s style, and Her’s. Dean knew it was Her’s. She about ten different jackets—all in different styles and cuts and materials—but Dean also knew all of them. That was the one She’d been wearing on the onryu hunt, that had ended stained in her own blood and the spirit’s ash. She’d shoved it into her trunk before She left the next day, and told Dean she’d clean it later when he’d offered, because he was pathetic and hadn’t known how to not offer. 

He’d asked if She even knew how to clean it. She’d flipped him off, told him She did, and said that she’d do it when She got home.

A small part of Dean had gotten toxic at the idea of Her being home. That maybe She’d just pass the jacket off to a servant she didn’t know the name of—She’d probably have known the name, but it served Dean’s anger better to imagine she was worse than she was—and let them touch a piece of Her instead of Dean.

But She’d been here. Cleaned the jacket here, at Her home. 

And there really wasn’t any evidence to prove that She didn’t belong here. So Dean was fucked.

“That’s… It’s her jacket.”

Bobby sighed, rolling his eyes. “Believe it or not, Dean, I’m aware. Put ‘er down on the table.”

Dean nodded, tearing his gaze away from Her jacket and setting her flat on the dining room table. She tried to hold onto him. Dean pulled back, and She tried to hold onto him, and he was going to go insane.

Bobby didn’t wait for Dean to fully step away before he was moving. Adjusting Her on the table so She wasn’t trying to sink into the wood, scanning over her with a tight, unreadable expression.

“Knife got in her gut?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, his hands fisting at his side. “Sammy did stitches, but they were quick, and-“

“I’ll fix ‘em.” Bobby grunted, hiking Her shirt up her stomach and-

Fuck. 

The wound was worse. The stitches looked frayed in Her body, and her skin was definitely blistering, and there was something yellow and sticky that smelled horrible-

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was tight, his eyes never leaving the wound. “This ain’t lookin’ like a stab wound-“

“It was, Bobby, I saw it-“

“You still got the weapon?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Alright, go get it while I deal with ‘er.”

Dean didn’t want to go get the weapon. He didn’t want to leave Her side. She was in pain, and She’d tried to hang onto Dean and he didn’t want to leave Her-

“What’re you just standin’ here for-“

“You can-“ Dean swallowed, his attention trapped on Her dulled, beautiful face. “Bobby, you can fix this, right? She’ll- She’s gonna be okay?”

“She’ll be alright. Gonna have some explain’ to do when she gets up, but she’ll live.”

“Explaining-“

“How the hell she ended up with you boys and a knife in her damn gut. Matter of fact, you and your brother better start gettin’ your story straight, cause I ain’t just gonna let you drop my kid off bleedin’ on my doorstep then drive away.”

Dean tensed, and finally managed to really look at Bobby. His expression was still flat, still neutral, but there was something in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before. Not glazed, but not sharp, just… heavy. Bobby looked heavy. He was staring at Her body with a painfully neutral face that had slightly lines of tension on the edges. He was standing taller than usual, his whole body rigid and wound up, and Dean could really, truly see it. 

It had been the truth. If the way Bobby stood and spoke—in tight, clipped words like he didn’t have room to be anything but short—wasn’t a giveaway, it was those last words.

My kid. 

Bobby’s kid.

She was Bobby’s fucking kid. 

Dean forced himself to move away, his head ducked down and his steps quick as he passed Sam with only a grunt of acknowledgment and returned to the Impala trunk. Sam hadn’t been careful about how he’d grabbed Her things. They were smushed and scattered, pressed against each other and all looking like Her things. Those were things she owned, that they’d grabbed from Her car and motel room. Clothing that wasn’t covered in blood and dirt, a lot of notebooks Dean really had to fight himself not to read, and fewer personal possessions than he would’ve thought. 

There was that small, colorful bag that had all Her girl stuff in it, and Her knife, and a backpack that—when Dean zipped it open—was filled with more notebooks, and… plants and rocks. A lot of plants and rocks.

He didn’t have time to try and work out why the hell She was keeping plants and rocks in her bag. He didn’t have time to overstep and push it like he always did, and let himself comb through those notebooks. One did fall open, but nothing Dean saw in it made sense—he didn’t speak that language, he didn’t even recognize it, and there was a weird drawing that he didn’t even know how to start interpreting—so he had to move on. To grab the demon’s knife from when he’d tucked it in the back and close the trunk, because all of this could wait until She was better.

She’d have to get better. 

Sam and Bobby were working in silence when Dean returned. Sam holding Her arms to the side as Bobby cleaned the wound and re-did the stitches, a bottle of water at his side that he kept pouring over her skin.

Dean set the knife on the kitchen counter, walking over to stand by Her head. That little wrinkle was back, and Her lips were pressed together, and She was in pain-

He had to restrain his hands to stop them from moving to touch Her. To sooth the wrinkle and brush sweat and hair from Her face. Sammy wasn’t holding Her right. His grip was too tight, and Her arm didn’t look like it was at a good angle, and Dean could hold Her better-

She took a slow, ragged breath, eyes fluttering, and Bobby glanced up to where Dean was standing over Her.

“You get the knife?”

“On the counter,” Dean muttered. “She’s…”

He trailed off, and Bobby let out a long breath. “She’s alright. Almost done with these, and I’m gonna have to fight with her about restin’ when she gets up, but you get ‘er here quick enough. Nothin’ that can’t be patched up.”

Dean glanced down to the wound, and that seemed true. Bobby’s stitches were cleaner than Sam’s, and the pus was half-gone. He didn’t really know how that was possible. Infections didn’t usually just… vanish. But Bobby splashed more of the water over Her stomach, made another stitch, and Her breathing grew steadier. 

There were too many questions. What was with the water. Why had one stab wound managed to infect and maul Her skin like that. How the actual fuck was She Bobby’s kid, and why had Bobby never mentioned Her, and why had She lied about something so dumb, and did Bobby know about Her family? About the shit Dad had found, about Her past, about all those weird episodes and how She always hunted alone, except when She was hinting with Dean-

Dean didn’t think Bobby had known they were hunting together. Which offered another question about why. Why hadn’t She told him. Why did She think Bobby would kill her for this, when it wasn’t Her fault, it was Dean’s.

Bobby might kill him. Dean had never seen Bobby so pissed with him. Every time he grunted for Dean to pass him something, his eyes were harsh and focused. It wasn’t hateful, but it was angry.

But Dean had gotten Her hurt. He deserved it. 

If She stopped talking to him after, he’d deserve that too. If Dad snapped at him for being an idiot when Bobby told him they’d been hunting together, Dean would deserve it-

“You say a demon attacked her?” Bobby’s question was quiet, and Dean almost didn’t hear it. 

He nodded, and Bobby’s jaw clenched.

“You see the assholes eyes?”

“His eyes?” Sam frowned. “You mean the demon-blink thing? Where their eyes go all black?”

Bobby looked up, frown deepening. “They were black?”

“I- I think so?” Sam looked for Dean for help, and Dean just shrugged. He hadn’t really been looking into the demon’s eyes, more focused on beating the shit out of it, and helping Her. 

“I dunno, Sammy-“

“Did you see them?” Bobby interrupted, glaring between Sam and Dean as he cut another stitch. “See the bastard go all black?”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but demons have black eyes-“

“Not all demons.” Bobby muttered, glancing up to Her still pained face. “I’ve seen black eyes, orange eyes, and red eyes. If you boys saw anythin’-“

“We didn’t.” Dean looked over Her, then back to the wound. “It attacked, stabbed her, and Sammy exorcized it. Son of a bitch got away-“

“It give you a name?”

Dean frowned. “We didn’t exactly have time to introduce ourselves and shake hands, Bobby-“

“No, ya’ idjit, if we have a name we can know what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Looking for?” Sam leaned forward, looking between Her and Bobby with a frown. “Has- Have you needed to look for a demon before? Like dad?”

“No, Sam, I ain’t-“ Bobby cut himself off, his head shooting up to glare between Sam and Dean. “Did John know you boys have been huntin’ with her?” 

“That’s uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “That’s a question for Dean, I think.”

Bobby raised his brows, and Dean scowled. Sam was back on the getting punched list.

“Never got a chance to mention it.” He muttered. “Haven’t seen Dad in months.”

Sam rolled his eyes—punched and kicked—and Bobby’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Dean wanted to ask what the hell that was about—Dad was a good man, even if Dean never really wanted Her around him—but Bobby was already moving on.

“How long you been huntin’ together?”

“A few years.” Sam said, and Dean shot him a glare.

“How’d- You weren’t even fucking there, Sammy-“

“She told me on the onryu hunt.” Sam shrugged, looking back to Bobby. “They’ve been hunting together for years.”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. “That true, Dean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dean, you call me sir again and I’m makin’ you wait outside-“

“Sorry, I-“ Dean let out a long breath, his gaze trapping back on Her. In so much fucking pain. “It’s true. And she, uh, she never mentioned she knew you, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed something that might have been a laugh. “Wish I could say I was surprised by that.”

“You aren’t?” Sam blinked. “I mean, I- I’m still not understanding-

“Questions later, Sam.” Bobby grunted, cutting the last stitch. “Right now I need your hands brinin’ her shit inside.”

Sam frowned. “Can’t Dean-“

“Dean’s stayin’ here.” Bobby shot him a glare, and Dean swallowed. “No fuckin’ funny business while I’m gone, boy-“

“She’s passed out, Bobby-“

“And if she wakes up, you’re askin’ her how she feels, callin’ me, and droppin’ it there.” Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “No fuckin’ interrogations. You can ask me questions when we get ‘er settled. Understood?”

Dean scowled, but nodded, and Bobby let out a long breath.

“Good. Sam-“

“Coming.” Sam threw Dean a what the fuck is happening look over his shoulder, followed Bobby out of the kitchen, and Dean was left alone with Her.

She didn’t wake up. In the long moments where it was only Her and Dean in the whole world once more, She didn’t stir for even a second. Her breathing grew more and more even with every passing moment, but She didn’t open those brilliant eyes and look at Dean.

Dean didn’t know if She would ever really look at him again. 

She didn’t hate him.

She’d been keeping secrets—so many fucking secrets—but She didn’t hate Dean, and when he allowed his hand to trace over Her cheekbone, she leaned into the touch.

Maybe She would leaned into anyone’s touch, but she wasn’t. Right now, She was leaning into Dean’s. 

He let his hand linger there as long as he could. She was warm, too warm, almost burning, but it was better than Her being cold. Color was returning to Her face, and there was a heavy flush over her pretty cheeks, but it was better than nothing. No color. No slightly uneven breaths or dried sweat on her brow.

Dean finally got to brush the hair away, and he wasn’t sure how She only got prettier. She was pretty in a way Dean never really cared for before her. She looked like a bird. Untouchable and free and delicate. Breakable, but not because She was weak. Because She wasn’t supposed to be on the earth like this, just how Dean wouldn’t be free or light enough to go where she went. 

Because even if this was Her life—even if she wasn’t spoiled and born from comfort Dean would never know—he still couldn’t have Her. If anything this just made that more certain. That She was so good and unnaturally better, that She’d been living down in the mud with Dean this whole time and he’d still been blinded. If She ever managed to crawl out of here, She might become ethereal. Glorious. Brighter than the sun and more heavenly than a paradise Dean didn’t believe in.

And if Bobby really raised Her, everything Dean tried to loathe about Her would probably vanish into the air. Bobby was smart. And good. And didn’t like pointless shit, so there was no way he’d let Her become spoiled or entitled. She wasn’t spoiled or entitled. 

She was just awesome. 

And Dean didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to live with that now. That he’d bitten Her, and the mark was festering in him.

She let out a soft breath when Dean thumb stroked down Her nose, the movement subconscious, almost automatic. 

He had to yank his hand away the floor creaked, and Bobby turned the corner only a second later.

They didn’t speak at Bobby hauled Her up and carried Her away. Dean wanted to go with Her. He needed to go with Her. He needed to have Her look at him one last time, and he needed to work out how to apologize in a way that didn’t make him sound like a little bitch, and-

“Dean.” Sam leaned into the kitchen, tilting his head back to the living room. “C’mon, dude, Bobby said we could get three questions.”

“Three?” Dean frowned, glancing past Sam to where they’d vanished up the stairs. “We only get three-“

“Between us.” Sam sighed. “And he, uh, I think he might be pissed at us.”

A door slammed upstairs, and Dean raised his brows. “You think?”

“You two.” Bobby appeared behind Sam—for a fairly big dude, he could move faster than thought he had any real right to—and pointed between them with a glower. “Sit. Now.”

Sam shot Dean a worried look and shuffled to the table, tugging Dean into a seat as Bobby stood before them, arms cross and eyes narrowed. 

“What the hell did you idjit’s say to her?”

Sam blinked. “We didn’t- I mean, I didn’t say anything-“

“Hey!” Dean shot him a glare. “Dude, what the hell-“

“I can’t speak for you, Dean! I mean, you guys are a lot closer-“

Bobby’s glare turned to Dean—the feeling of it searing through his skin—and Sam was now getting punched, kicked, and body slammed.

“Sammy.” He hissed, bracing a fist on the table. “Shut your fuckin’ face-“

“How close would you say you two are, Dean?” 

Bobby’s question didn’t need to have that silent, underlying threat for Dean to flinch. It was already a question he didn’t know the answer to. She lied and he sucked ass, but She also liked him—enough that he’d been allowed to hunt with Her at all, enough for her to slur it to Sammy in the car—and he couldn’t stop thinking about Her if he tired. 

And he had tried.

And he’d never really seen Her interact with people except for Sam and Dad. And She and Dad clashed, but She and Sam got along, and Bobby obviously cared for her so maybe her liking Dean wasn’t all that special-

“Dean.” Bobby snapped. “Answer my question.”

“I, uh, I don’t-“

“Sam?”

“They’re just friends.” Sam shrugged, saying Her name in a voice that wasn’t nearly reverent enough. “From the hunting.”

Sam was back down to being kicked and punched, because the little shit could’ve easily laughed and said that Dean had a crush on Her—he didn’t, She was just his best friend and the only person he liked to hang out with—but that would’ve probably made everything worse. Especially given Bobby didn’t seem all that happy with the just friends answer either.

“How many years you two been huntin’, exactly

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s been like two- But that,” Dean pointed up the stairs. “Hasn’t happened before, Bobby, I swear-“

“I don’t give a shit about that.” Bobby snapped, jerking his head back. “You boys did the smart thing, for once in your damn lives, and listened to her. Brought her here.”

“If you don’t-“ Sam frowned, his face returned to pure confusion. “If you don’t care that she got stabbed-“

“No, Sam, I care that she got stabbed.” Bobby let out a long, breath, shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit that it happened with you two. If she’s gotta get stabbed, I’m happy she ain’t alone to try and stitch herself up, cause that girl ain’t good at takin’ care of herself in way that matters.”

It was Dean turn to frown, sitting a little straighter in his chair. “What do you mean, she can take care of herself-“

Bobby scoffed. “She can do her hair, Dean. She ain’t gonna do stitches.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Has she never done stitches on herself?”

“Not good ones-“ Bobby cut himself off with a glare between them. “This ain’t the point. What’d you do, Dean.”

Bobby and Sam were both looking at Dean, and he groaned. 

“I didn’t do anything, Bobby, and if you’re not pissed about her getting hurt-“

“Some injuries ain’t on the surface, boy. I could give a flyin’ fuck about what danger she puts herself in, I know she can handle it better than you two dumbasses, but if you hurt that girl, I ain’t gonna stop her hurtin’ you.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face, and Sam cleared his throat.

“Bobby, how, um-“ He glanced to Dean, expression nervous. “You said she’s- I still don’t understand-“

“Sam, if you got somethin’ to say-“

“How do you know her?” Sam’s words were quick and frantic. “That’s- you said we get three questions, and that’s our first.”

They hadn’t actually discussed the questions, but Dean could live with that one. Shit, he’d spent the whole day trying to work that one out himself, and Bobby seemed to know it had been coming, because he dropped in a seat across the table with a long sigh. 

“It ain’t my place to tell you everythin’,” he muttered. “All I can tell you two is that I met her when she was a kid-“

Sam opened his mouth, and promptly shut it as Bobby shot him a glare.

“You ask that question, Sam, I’m countin’ it. She was eight, I found her wanderin’, I took her in. Kept her from killing herself, raised her like the daughter I didn’t get before. Which,” Bobby turned to Dean, and it wasn’t fair that he was being singled out. Sammy was here too, hell, he’d asked the question- “She may not be my blood, but she’s the closest thing I got. Understood?”

Sam mumbled an agreement, but those words weren’t for Sam.

So Dean nodded, and hoped Bobby could see all over his face that he really just wanted to go upstairs and check on her. He’d do that after, if he could get away with it. And She was probably fine—Bobby wouldn’t have left her if she wasn’t—but Dean needed to see it. With his own freakin’ eyes, making sure she was comfortable, and relaxed, and peacefully asleep-

“What’s up with those, uh- the-“ Sam swallowed. “Those weird episodes?”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Episodes?”

“When she likes, freaks out and shit. I mean, is it like a really bad panic attack?”

Sam was back to getting punched, kicked, and body slammed. That wasn’t their thing to tell Bobby about. Bobby might know more about Her past, but he obviously hadn’t known that they’d been hunting together, which meant there might be other shit She didn’t want to tell him. Other shit She’d trusted them—trusted Dean—to see, that Sam had just fucking told Bobby-

“Those aren’t panic attacks.”

Sam frowned. “Then what-“

“Not my place.” Bobby said, his tone making it clear that was final. “I know what they are, so does she, and if- It’s up to her what you know. She’ll tell you if she wants, but she’s had a rough time, Sam. So don’t go pushin’ her about it.”

Sam nodded, even as the nervous expression remained on his face, and Dean cleared his throat. He had to ask. Even if all he got from Bobby was a not my place, Dean just needed to spit it out and ask.

“Why’d you… I mean, how did we never know, Bobby?” Dean held Bobby’s gaze, every word slow and careful. “You said she was eight, Sammy would’ve been seven, so we knew you by then. Shit, we were here all the time but never even heard her name. I don’t- Why?”

Bobby let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “It’s complicated.”

Dean scowled. He was really starting to fucking hate that word.

“But,” Bobby pushed on, giving Dean a firm, solemn look. “I wasn’t ‘cause of you boys. I said it already, I ain’t gonna tell you what’s not mine to tell, but I never liked keepin’ you apart.”

“But you did.” Dean grunted, and Bobby sighed.

“Yeah, I did. And I’m not gonna tell you I had reasons, cause that’s fuckin’ bullshit help and we know it, but I will say it was all I could do. Not for the best, but the only damn option.” 

Dean was pretty sure he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the same alarm he’d learned to set off with her, but it was close. That seemed to be the truth. 

Dean wished it wasn’t. 

“She said she was sick.” Sam muttered. “When she was a kid. And that’s why we couldn’t know each other.”

Bobby let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Course she did. Sick is one way of puttin’ it. I-“ Bobby looked between Sam and Dean, something weighted behind his eyes. “There were times when she could’ve used you two. Glad she seems to have you now. And I don’t know where your Daddy is, but-“

“He’s hunting a demon.” Sam said, and Dean was out of ways to kick his ass for saying stuff. “The one that killed our mom.”

Bobby’s eyes widened, and the conversation moved on. Bobby asked if She and Dad had crossed paths, Dean told him not for years, and Bobby and Sam started to talk demon. Bobby had books Sam could read. Sam had questions about what Bobby had run into, with his own wife. 

She’d told Dean Her dad’s wife died.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, Bobby went out. They’d stayed at the table as Sam and Bobby descended into nerd talk—mostly just Sammy being a little dweeb, Bobby was just smart—and Dean had spent the hours stealing glances up the stairs and wondering how he could get up there. How he could see Her, check on her, without Bobby getting on his ass and shouting about Dean being careful with Her, because he always was-

Except when he wasn’t. Expect when he poison and ruined and wrecked Her in a way he’d never wanted to. When he made Her sad or hollow, put Her in danger, showed her exactly why Dad had been right, that they shouldn’t be close to each other. 

Dad had just gotten the wrong reason. Dean shouldn’t be near Her. She was annoying, and stubborn, and reckless, and a know-it-all, and kinda mean, but in a hot way. She was bossy, but it was adorable. She’d snap and taunt Dean, but she never did it in a way that left a mark. Dean always left a mark. And invisible bruise or scar that Bobby must have seen somehow. It must have been why he was so automatically pissed, why he’d accused Dean of hurting Her.

And he had.

So he didn’t deserve to go up those stairs and see Her.

But he was still selfish. And he still didn’t know when to stop.

Bobby muttered that he was going off to get food. The he hadn’t been expecting Her back for a while, let alone Sam and Dean with her, so all he had was canned food that tasted like pig-shit and a half-eaten chocolate cake in the fridge. 

Sam grabbed the tiniest, most bitch-baby piece of chocolate cake with a mutter of long week, and moved to settle in library. 

Dean started to snoop.

It was so plainly obvious She belonged here. Just like with Her mannerisms—seeing Bobby all over them once Dean squinted—all it took was one quick scan of the kitchen to see more places She’d probably been before. Not just grenadine, but a box of cheesy kids snacks in the back of the pantry. Dean had always assumed Bobby had gotten them for him and Sammy, then never thrown them out. But he’d seen Her buy those exact snacks countless times, and a few of the boxes looked practically unopened. 

In the living room there were all those books and movies, and a blanket that was far too fuzzy for Bobby to like. A pair of women’s sneakers and boots near the door. A glittery toothbrush on the bathroom sink, some of that sugar-smelling shit Dean knew she used under the skin, and fancy shampoo in the cabinets.

Dean had seen some of this stuff before, but he’d always assumed Bobby just had a lady-friend. A weird, sparkly lady friend who wrote notes on the margins of some of the lore books in that same language from before. From Her notebook. In Her handwriting. 

Lady friends didn’t use a towel—carefully tucked and folded in a closet—that had a little princess stitched onto the corner. Lady friends didn’t watching animated children’s movies so much that, when Dean open the case, the tape looked well-worn and used.

And lady friends didn’t draw with crayon. 

But in Dean’s defense, he’d never seen the drawings before. That was part of the snooping. Shifting casually through Bobby’s desk for more evidence, and coming out clutching old, well-worn drawings of colors. A lot of colors. Most of the drawings seemed to be odd shapes and patterns, all in bright colors.

There were a few more, where the drawings were red and black and yellow, with sharp lines and jagged symbols that resembled Her strange writing. Those symbols were repetitive. 

Briefly, Dean had an image in his head of a smaller Her, holding a crayon and sitting on the floor of Bobby’s living room, scrawling those symbols over and over until Bobby took the paper from Her. She had braids in that vision. Oddly complex braids that Her small, swollen fingers couldn’t have done. 

But Bobby could’ve. And now Dean could see that same small version of Her on the couch, humming to herself as she read a book that looked far too big in tiny hands, while Bobby braided her hair with a scowl. 

Dean blinked, and returned the papers back to the drawer. He was about to close it when something shifted in the very back, and a last drawing caught his eye. 

It had been separated from the others, and drawn on black construction paper. Tucked into a book and folded carefully. And it was the only one where Dean could tell what the hell it was.

A stick drawing—round body and tiny arms and legs—of a man with a thick blue line on his head and scratches of brown on his face, holding the hand of a girl. Same eyes and hair as Her.

She’d drawn this one too. Of Her and Bobby. 

She’d used a light green for Bobby’s skin, though. And a metallic silver for Her own. And the grass was golden and the clouds were red and the sun was white. It was really fucking weird. 

Dean chalked it up to the creative liberties of an eight-year-old, and carefully returned the drawing to its place before sneaking up the stairs. 

He needed to see Her. 

It took him a minute to find Her room, because up until yesterday, he’d thought he knew all the rooms in Bobby’s house. Kitchen, library, living room, bathrooms, and guest rooms. The only room he’d never been in was on the third floor, because Bobby said that room was off limits, and-

Son of a bitch. 

He’d always assumed that was Bobby’s room. That Bobby just didn’t want to little boys snooping around and finding his private shit. Dean had imagined that the room would have a wooden-poster bed, dresser, chairs, and simple decorations. Not all that lived in, because Bobby was practical, and knew that in this life getting attached to a lot of personal possessions was pointless. 

This room was lived in.

By Her.

Those were books Dean had seen Her grab from public libraries, or exact copies that She’d pulled from her bag. CDs of albums he’d known She liked, plus a few he hadn’t. A few Dean liked, scattered on the dresser next to a book he’d seen Her read, sunglasses he’d seen Her use, and a shirt that he’d never seen Her wear.

It was monotone black, and not Her style or size, and looked like a men’s shirt. 

The was a bitter, hot pang in Dean’s intestine and along his heart chamber, because why would She have a men’s shirt. If the overflowing dresser was any indication, She certainly didn’t need more shirts, and it certainly wasn’t Bobby’s, so it all together meant that was the shirt of someone who had given it to her. And she’d kept it, because it looked clean, and Bobby had said he hadn’t expected her back, so it had been there for a while, and who the fuck was giving Her a shirt-

She shifted on the bed, and Dean’s head turned without his permission to look at Her. He’d been trying not to. Gun pressed to his temple, he’d swear he’d tried so fucking hard not to watch Her sleep like a pervert creep. But Her siren-like voice made a small sound, and this room was drowning in that fruit smell, and Dean couldn’t fucking help himself. 

It took him a second to find Her. She’d burrowed herself under the covers, the only parts of Her that were visible being a single hand falling over the mattress and Her gorgeous face smushed against the pillows.

Her bed was shockingly normal. This whole bedroom was shockingly normal. She had curtains and a nice carpet, a desk and chair, a large amount of blankets and a hamper and a cork board on the wall. Pinned with notes that were in English—Dean could read those, and they mostly seemed to list new monsters and reminders for hunts—and a few more in that odd language. The walls were painted a dark color, and it made the room feel smaller. Safer. Like this was the only place in the world.

It might as well be.

Dean dragged a chair to sit at the side of the bed, because that felt less creepy than standing over Her as she slept. For a long while he only watched Her sleep peacefully. Softly.

Then Her brow wrinkled, and Dean’s hand moved without thought. Petting over Her nose until she relaxed, and made a soft noise that kicked him right in the heart and reverberated over his ribs.

He let out a long breath, and started speaking in his lowest, quietest voice. Before he could think better.

“You… you got a lot of explaining to do, Princess.” He muttered. “Bobby handled some of it, but he also won’t tell Sammy and I jackshit that matters until you give the go ahead. So you gotta wake up and do that. Plus, I want to call you a fucking idiot for hiding something so freakin’ dumb from me, and I can’t do that while you’re knocked out. So… Wake up. Soon. Get better and wake up soon and I’ll be waiting, because I- I’m just gonna stay a while. ‘Least until you give me some god damn answers. And,” he let out a long breath. She couldn’t hear him. He was allowed to say it, when no one at all could hear him. “I don’t want to leave. I like you, Princess, and if you really don’t hate me, I’ll stick around.”

He had more to say.

But She hummed like she could hear him, rolled a little closer to the edge of the bed, and none of it really seemed that important anymore.

Her fingers flexed. She didn’t hate him. 

Dean took Her hand, and he fell asleep at Her side because he never learned, and really didn’t want to.

And when Sammy woke him up, saying Dad needed them for something back in Colorado. That he’d called Dean but he hadn’t picked up—his phone was in his jacket downstairs—so he’d called Sam instead. 

Sam had said they were on their way, and told Bobby they were heading out. That they’d let Bobby know how it went, and hopefully be back with good news about the son of a bitch who killed Mom rotting in whatever was lower than hell. Sam hadn’t mentioned Her.

And Dean had to go, but She was still asleep. He needed to go, because Dad wanted him there, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here, in Her small room that was he could sink down into if he tried.

But he had to go. 

He wanted to leave Her something. To promise in silent words that could be right to not hate him. That he’d really like Her to keep not hating him. But he didn’t have much. He had his car, and his jacket, and ring-

He set his ring on Her dresser. He’d come back. He didn’t know how not to come back, and hopefully when he did, She’d still like him. At the very least, She wouldn’t have started to hate him. 

Because Dean knew at this point that there was no way in hell She felt the pull. He also knew that he’d still follow Her all the way down, and up, and just here. 

Dean might just like being with Her anywhere.

And She didn’t hate him.

So he’d press a soft, dangerous kiss to Her brow because he couldn’t help himself, and look back because he had to, and come back because he wanted to. 

He’d come back. 

End Note: One of the glorious things about nearing the end of the season 1 arc is all of us knowing what happens at the end of the season 1 arc.

Also, as we hit 100k words, I'm unspeakably grateful for the support of the story!!! I can't say it enough, thank you so so much for reading!! I hope y'all continue to enjoy the story!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[borathae]

BTS Reaction: Breakfast in Bed

Anonie said: Sibiuuu I'm back 😚😚😚 thank you so much for all the other reactions, I'm so happy yippiee 😚 neow listen kween 👉🏾👈🏾 Bangtan's reaction to getting breakfast in bed? I just think it would be so fluffy and sweet 👉🏾👈🏾

Genre: Fluff

Gender: not-specified

Wordcount: 3k

a/n: anonie my love! this is exactly the kind of content I lose my shit over gaaah i LOVE!! this got so insanely fluffy and romantic i'm so happy but also omgmgm listen 😔 the thought of having a lover? and surprising them with breakfast in bed? i cry because it's not my reality 😔

Namjoon

CW: hinted “night after” trope, bsf2l!AU

This is the first time he stays at your place. You and he aren’t new per say. As a matter for fact, you were best friends before you became more. Namjoon always said that friends can’t become lovers until he fell for you. Namjoon was also at your place before, many times actually, but he never slept over. Especially not as your boyfriend. After a, well, after a very nice night. 

He traces the spots you touched last night, reminiscing with closed eyes how it was to be with you. Namjoon always thought that love making was only thing of movies. Sex stems from humans and humans are too flawed the create something as innocent as love making. Then he laid with you and felt your breath against his neck and Namjoon finally got it. 

He opens his eyes before his racing heart can overwhelm him. He sits up.

“Holy fuck”, he presses out, touching his own chest to make sure that he was still alive. His heart never raced as much before. So this is how it feels like.

You have some books on the bedside table. Namjoon reaches for one of them in order to distract himself from the massive butterflies in his stomach. He begins reading, glasses perched atop his nose while his tummy continues to tingle.

The books is about philosophy and art. No wonder he fell for you. An art exhibition is only truly enjoyable when he visits it with you. Philosophy only really makes him want to think if he knows that he can share his thoughts with you later. Nature is truly only relaxing if he knows that you get to be next to him. Falling in love with you was as easy as breathing. 

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Namjoon lowers the book, giving you his full attention. His hair is messy, his glasses sit on his nose very prettily. He isn’t wearing a shirt, honey skin kissed by the sunlight entering your bedroom.

“I am. Good morning. Damn, you are really beautiful”, he says, tummy fluttering.

“Thank you. You are beautiful too.”

Namjoon watches you close the distance, “what are you carrying?”

“Breakfast. I thought I could impress you. You know, first night together and all that.” You explain, putting the tray on his lap. “Let me know what you think of it.”

Namjoon studies it, feeling lost for words. You aren’t his first relationship and yet you are the very first person to ever make him breakfast in bed. Well, except for his parents when he got sick as a kid, but this was totally not the same thing. 

“You’re quiet. Does this mean you don’t like it?” you ask quietly.

“What? No, I love it. I’m sorry, I just can’t believe it, that’s all.” 

“Wait till you taste it. I really put my whole breakfastussy into it.”

He cracks up, scrunching his eyes. You snicker, swaying from side to side giddily.

“If that’s the case, I have to try it. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

You put on some music in the meantime. It is the same vinyl you listened to last night. 

Your eyes meet shyly. His heart is racing as much as yours is. The memory of last night is so sweet.

“Is it okay if I put on some music?” you ask.

“It's more than okay. You're fucking perfect”, he assures you.

“Nice”, you return to bed, getting comfortable on your side. You sit cross-legged, snatching some of the food to snack on.

But Namjoon can’t concentrate on breakfast. All he sees is you.

He finally gets it. Namjoon finally goddamn gets it.

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. You stop munching, meeting his eyes in curiousity.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, thumb tracing your knuckles, “I know, first morning kiss and us being in the middle of eating and all, but maybe?”

You giggle, nodding your head. “Yeah, I’d really like to kiss you too”, you confess and close the distance to do exactly that.

Seokjin

“Wakey wakey to some brekkie”, you coo, entering the bedroom with a tray full of food. 

Seokjin, your boyfriend and occasional private chef, gawks at you in surprise as the roles are reversed this morning. He was already awake, scrolling on his phone, when you entered the bedroom. 

“You made me breakfast?” he asks, voice dripping in disbelief.

“I did and it’s your favourite. Now careful, there’s lots on there.”

Seokjin stares in pure shock, feeling his heart speed up. His ears are flushed. 

“Wow, I mean, wow. I love it, but why?”

“Why? Because I want to treat you, that’s why.”

“I see”, he murmurs and lowers his head shyly, ear flushing even harder. “Thank you, wow.” 

You snicker, climbing on bed.

“Now try it, pookie. Before it gets cold.”

“I don't even know where to start. Everything looks so good.” 

“Maybe this? I made it with extra love.”

“Wah, you and your cheesy lines.”

You laugh, “I learned from the best”, you tease, nudging his soft cheek.

Seokjin lets you because you are the only person he allows touching his face. Because he loves you and trusts you. And because your touch is always placed so gently. 

“Then I guess I have to start with this”, he says and picks up the chopsticks.

You snicker beside him, making him sneak a glance at you. You are so adorable to him right now. 

Seokjin lowers the chopsticks, meeting your eyes. He looks at you in ways you have never seen on him. Serious, intense and deeply in love. 

“What?” 

“Just making sure that this is real. You’re so perfect.”

“Be quiet.”

You fluster, lowering your head. The racing of your heart increases when he tilts your head back up with two fingers under your chin. His brows are lifted in a gentle invitation to open your mouth and take the bite he offers. 

Of course you take it, heart truly losing it when he wipes the corner of your mouth and licks his finger. 

Whatever happened to your goofy boyfriend right now, please don’t let it end. Don’t misunderstand, you love his dorky side, but this is changing you as a person. He is so attractive right now.

“Is it yummy?” he asks, gazing at your lips as he caresses your chin.

“It is. Wow, you just made my heart race.”

Seokjin grins lopsidedly and leans closer, “good.” He whispers and kisses your lips with such seriousness and emotion that your heart begins racing yet again.

Yoongi

Yoongi is already awake when you enter the bedroom. He is staring at the wall, trying to come alive on the lazy Saturday this way. Like most mornings, his hair is dented at the back and sticks up messily. It’s a cute look especially paired with his puffy cheeks and barely open eyes.

“Oh? You’re awake? Perfect. Brb”, you say after sticking your head into the room to check on him.

Yoongi acknowledges you with a hum and smacks his lips. He sits, waiting curiously for you to come back while his sleepy eyes run over the dimly lit room. 

You return with something in your hands and a goofy grin on your lips.

“Good morning, darling.”

“What’s this?” his voice is still raspy from sleep.

“Breakfast in bed. It’s raining today and I wanted to be romantic.” You put the tray on his lap. “Tada.”

Yoongi scans his eyes over the array of his favourite breakfast food. You even made him an iced Americano and put together a small flower bouquet with flowers from the garden. 

Yoongi feels so giddy that he could burst. But he is also a little shy about being openly giddy (and very sleepy), so he sits and stares while his heart races unbearably. 

“What do you think?” you ask him, running your fingers through his hair.

“You did this for me?” he sounds in disbelief. 

“Of course I did.” You peck his cheek. “You deserve it and I love you.”

“Thank you. This makes me so happy”, he says and begins eating with flushed cheeks and a giddy smile.

“And? Is it good?” 

“It is. I love breakfast”, he gushes and puts his arm around your waist to pull you close. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, giggling happily when he kisses your cheek. His eyes sparkle in adoration once he pulls back.

“Thank you for this. I’m very happy.”

“It's because I love you.”

“I love you too.” He closes his eyes and rests his head on your shoulder, giving your waist a soft squeeze, “Thank you.”

You love how Yoongi shows affection, melting in fondness. You hug his head, giving it a little kiss.

“Anything for you, baby.”

Hoseok

“Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you~” 

You are entering the bedroom singing and dancing. Hoseok, who is already awake and merely thought that you went for a shower, gawks at you with an open mouth and widened eyes. He even startled a little at first, still clutching his imaginary pearls.

“Happy birthday my Hobi babyyyy~ happy birthday to you.”

You stop by his side, grinning down at him. A purple birthday hat adorns your head. 

“Happy birthday, baby. I hope you’re hungry, I made you breakfast.”

Hoseok giggles, dropping into the sheets to kick his feet. He covers his face behind his hands, looking so adorable that you have to giggle with him. 

You love making him happy. Happiness suits him so well.

“Wow baby, I can’t believe it. This is perfect. I love it”, he gushes, sitting up so he could hug you. Very aggressively if one might add.

“Careful, the food.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. Show me.”

You put the tray on his lap, eliciting another giggling fit from him. 

“I love it. Thank you. This is the best birthday ever.”

“And it is just the beginning. I have so much planned. So many presents to give you”, you say and lean down to hug him, giving him a big smooch as you do, “I’m gonna treat you like a king today, baby.”

Hoseok leans into your embrace, closing his eyes for it and squeaking giddily.

“Thank you so much. Wow, wait. I need to take pictures. And videos!”

“Do that, my cutie.”

Jimin

CW: hinted "night after" trope but make it flirty

He is supposed to stay in bed and let you surprise him. But of course he doesn’t. Although you made sure to sneak out before he wakes up, you suddenly find yourself in the kitchen with his arms around you and his chest against your back.

“Mhhm smells like breakfast. I’m so hungry already”, he purrs sleepily, using his lower register for it as his soft lips nibble on your neck. He rubs your tummy and waist softly, “what are we making?”

“You are not making anything, you are supposed to be in bed. Goddamn it, my plans are ruined.”

“What plans?” 

“I wanted to use your sleeping-in-tendencies to my advantage and make you breakfast in bed. But of course you have to wake up timely today.”

Jimin chuckles, kissing your ear. 

“I’m sorry. Last night knocked me out deep enough that I feel well rested.”

“Noted. I know what to do next time I want you to relax.”

“Please do, I’ll turn into your devotee.”

You chuckle, but tingle a moment later when Jimin sucks on your skin gently.

“Last night was amazing”, he purrs, kissing a path up to your ear so he could tickle it with his lips, “was it good for you too?”

“It was and you’re teasing”, you say, barely wanting to keep your eyes open. He feels so good.

“I’m not. I’m reminiscing.”

“You are totally teasing”, you laugh, “and you’re not supposed to. You’re supposed to go back to bed. I’m almost done.”

“But the kisses.”

“No buts. Breakfast in bed.”

“At least let me carry something. It’s the least I can do after ruining the surprise.”

“No. Back to bed now. I’m the one to romance you today.” You turn around and shove at his bared chest gently. “Hop, hop. I’m not asking again.” 

Jimin takes your hands and pulls them to his lips for a kiss, giving you flirty eyes.

“One kiss before I leave, to thank you for cooking.”

“Fine, one kiss. And then I’m sending your cute butt back to bed.”

Taehyung

He knows that you are awake, floating in a state between sleep and awareness. The sound of you doing something in the apartment is his background music, increasing the cozy state he is in. The bedroom windows are open, letting in the warm morning breeze. The curtains dance in the wind and the sun shines onto his skin. He isn’t wearing a shirt because he gets hot easily. The sun feels really good. Warm. It’s a nice, deep warmth. The kind of warmth which gets rid of muscle aches.

Life couldn’t get any better than this. You suddenly enter the bedroom and life actually does get better than this. A lot better. 

“Oh crap, your eyes are open”, you say, halting in your once confident steps.

Taehyung smiles at the view of you, “good morning.”

“Good morning, hey. You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to surprise you.”

“With what?”

You pull flowers from behind your back.

“For me?” he gasps and sits up, stretching his arms out to you. 

“Yeah for you. I meant to put them on the bedside table next to you, so you’d wake up to them”, you explain as you trott to his bedside and put the flowers on their planned spot. You pout.

“But they’re so beautiful. Don’t be sad.” He assures you in a soft spoken voice, holding your hand. “I love them.”

“My surprise though. It’s ruined.”

He kisses your knuckles, “no, it’s not. It’s the most perfect surprise ever.” 

“There’s even more.”

“More?” he sounds in disbelief, following you with widened eyes as you leave again.

“Soon.”

Taehyung gazes at the flowers while he waits for your return. His heart is racing. This is such a romantic surprise and he loves these kinds of surprises.

“Eyes closed”, you announce your return.

“They’re closed.”

“And no peeking.”

“I’m not.”

He listens to you come closer again, then suddenly feels a weight on his lap.

“Okay, open them.”

Taehyung instantly gasps, eyes wide and tummy bursting in butterflies. 

“You made breakfast in bed?”

“I did.”

“Darling, oh my god. I don’t know what to say. This is…wow, it looks so yummy.”

You climb onto bed and sit down next to him, picking up a little strawberry which you tipped into whipped cream. 

“Open up.”

Taehyung takes in the strawberry with the cutest, most adorable expression, sending your heart into overdrive.

“Gosh, I have the cutest boyfriend ever”, you gush, caressing his cute little cheeks. 

Taehyung scrunches his nose giddily, leaning into your touch. His eyes are sparkling. 

“Open up. I’m feeding your adorable butt today.”

Taehyung giggles, letting it happen with a racing heart. He loves when you pamper him.

Jungkook

You and he went out with his friends last night. It got late and the two of you got drunk. He stayed over at your place, sleeping with no shirt on and his hair a total mess. Judging by how loudly he snores, he must be sleeping very well. You slept well too, despite the alcohol. Luckily for you, or perhaps because of your clever precautions of drinking lots of water, you don’t feel hungover. Just hungry. Really hungry. But you are also lazy and don’t want to leave bed. You have been staring at your boyfriend obsessively ever since you woke up.

You are so lucky. He is so handsome and he was so lovely last night. He kept close to you at all times and made sure you felt welcome with his friends by always including you in the conversation. He even borrowed you his jacket when you got cold and held your hand as you walked home. 

Jungkook snores especially loudly next to you, startling himself awake with it. He lifts his head, staring at the sheets with empty eyes.

“Good morning”, you chuckle, ruffling his hair.

“Hmhornming isf imf snorim ismsloud”, he mumbles something unintelligible and drops into the pillow again. His eyes close. His lips part. He fell back to sleep. He is so funny without even trying.

“Okay, you’re a sleepy head. Guess I gotta eat without you”, you decide and roll out of bed. 

Breakfast is prepared quickly and you return with your tray of food. You just about sat down when Jungkook lifts his head again. He is frowning sleepily, pouting.

“Good morning. Again”, you tease.

“Food?”

“Yes, this is food.”

“For me?”

“Do you want food?”

He nods his head. You already knew that he wouldn’t last long next to the smell of food, but this is a new record of how quickly he wakes from it. Doesn’t matter, you already prepared his tray in the kitchen.

“Sit up then.”

Jungkook obeys, grumbling and groaning as he does.

“Hungover?”

“Little.”

“This should help. Here we go.”

“Thanks.”

You leave the room to get his tray (which is now your tray because you gave Jungkook the first one) and return to Jungkook munching on his breakfast happily. His hair is a mess and his eyes are still puffy, but he looks happy. And a lot less hungover. 

You get on bed next to him, halting in your attempt to eat when he stubs your arm with his fingers.

He is looking at you with the puppiest puppy eyes ever.

“Yes?” 

“Did I take your food?”

“No, I planned for both of us.”

“You can have more if you want to.”

“It’s perfect for me. Just eat, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Eat, baby.”

Jungkook holds your hand, “thank you for this. And for last night. I really appreciate everything you do for me and I love spending time with you.”

“I love it too, baby.”

He squeezes your hand, “and I love you.”

“Wow, you.” You and he didn’t exchange the big L-word yet. “You really mean it?”

“I mean it. A lot.”

“Kook, wow. I love you too.”

[ilovewomenfr]

can u do a Vi x a bullied! chubby! fem! reader where the reader gets bullied and Vi makes her feel better with taking her virginity and Vi is very experienced while reader is a virgin?

cw: virgin!r, experienced!v, fluff, pretty vanilla, soft sex, body worship, praise kink, porn with a bit of a plot, use of y/n when necessary, reader is shorter than vi, vi lokey just yaps for a bit, pet names, a bit of overstimulation (r! receiving), oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), KNEE THING (r!receiving)(YIPPEE!!)

~~~men dni!! 18+~~~

an: i kind of played around with structure and text in this just to get back into the flow of writing. the photo of the outfit is just kind of what i was picturing the reader wearing in the video mentioned. im gonna get the requests out slowly, i havent forgotten about them i just got way more than i expected! i’ve got another one in the works rn as well as my own little ellie fic along with being in school.

You recently posted a tiktok on your pretty small account, only followed by friends and a few random people. It was just a fun little video of you and your girlfriend doing a fit check; you were wearing the cutest maxi skirt and felt confident as hell. That was until the video blew up, raking in thousands of views, which then evidently resulted in several comments about your weight. Of course some of the comments were positive: ‘you guys are so cute together’, ‘omg this is soooo butchfemme i love it’, ‘stunning!!’ But they quickly got overshadowed by all the hate: ‘ew your girlfriend deserves better’, ‘oh she’s fat… gross’, ‘this isn’t cute…’

After your classes you head into your single dorm, setting up to study and trying to ignore the comments that just keep flooding in, some homophobic and some body-shaming. Your phone is blowing up and you seriously just need to focus on school, so you go to put it on do not disturb, the last comment you see in your notifications says ‘people like you don’t deserve love’. That’s the last straw, you sit in front of your laptop as you feel tears building up for the umpteenth time today. Your phone buzzes once more; you reluctantly check it,

vi❤️ - i saw the comments on your video are you okay?

With a deep breath you answer:

can you come over?

Less than ten minutes later she knocks at your door, when you open it she pulls you into a hug, “I’m so sorry y/n” she murmurs, pressing a kiss onto your head, you look up at her, “how much did you see?” Vi shakes her head, “doesn’t matter because none of them are true.” You look up at her, bleary eyed, “how many of them did you read, Vi?” you ask, your voice breaking as you bring her to sit with you on your bed. The two of you sit down as Vi nods her head, her throat bobbing as she swallows, “I saw most of them, and they’re all fucking ridiculous.” she scoffs, “so you don’t agree with them?” Vi turns her head, “are you serious right now babe? Why on earth would I agree with them?” You sniffle and Vi pulls you onto her chest, lying down with you, “Hey, don’t pay attention to those comments, you’re beautiful.” She pulls you in for a kiss. It’s soft and gentle, her hands holding your hips, when she pulls away, she smiles fondly, “I love you, so much. Don’t let random people on the internet get in your head okay? Your body is perfect and who cares if you’ve got curves it just makes everything better.”

With a small smile on your face, your lips meet hers once again, her tongue making its way to meet your own, drawing a hum of desperation from you. Vi flips you while keeping her lips on yours, carefully slotting her leg between yours; quelling the soft ache beginning to form. You pull away, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, “Vi- you know I haven’t-” you whisper, “We don’t have to if you don’t feel rea-” “No! No, I want this, I’m ready.” Vi grins, “yeah?” You bite your cheek and giggle, “Yeah.” “You’re so cute holy shit.”

Vi’s lips crash into yours and her thigh presses against your clothed cunt, your breath hitches, she hasn’t even done anything yet and it already feels worlds better than when you do it yourself. Vi’s tongue delves into your desperately parted lips as if on a journey, swallowing the moans coming from you. Her hands are everywhere, one on your hip, on finding its way up your shirt to brush her thumb over your nipple, eliciting a whine from you. If you weren’t soaked before, you definitely are now. She smiles, tugging your bottom lip with her teeth before her lips find their way onto your neck, finding your pulse point and sucking gently, your breathing gets heavy as Vi trails her lips down to your clavicle; teeth and lips and tongue all along the skin. “Let’s get this off you” she tugs your shirt up- throwing it somewhere in your room once it’s off.

Her blue irises darken at the sight of your tits, “God you’re so gorgeous babe,” Vi squeezes them together and pulls your right nipple into her mouth, tongue swirling and sucking the pebbled skin; “H-holy shit” you gasp, hands finding her pink locks, “haven’t even gotten to the good part yet” she mumbles, a slight chuckle coming from her. Vi does the same on the other side and moves down your stomach, kissing practically every inch of skin, “You’re so pretty y/n” she murmurs against your skin, the pits of your stomach flip-flopping as she finally gets to your waistband. “Can I?” “Please.”

Vi eagerly tugs down your pants, leaving you in a soaked baby pink thong, “Holy shit you’re so wet.” she smiles, amused. You bite your lip as Vi runs her thumb along the fabric, “o-oh” your voice comes out as a breathy moan, heart racing as she starts teasing your clit ever so slightly through your underwear. She pulls her hand away and runs the both of them up your thighs, “why’d you stop?” Vi just grins, swiftly tugging down the fabric, pupils blown out. “Oh my god.” the words sound so desperate, without any warning she pulls your legs over her shoulder, “you’ve got a pretty pussy,” her breath fans across the wet curls. Vi looks up at you, ensuring to make eye contact before she licks your aching cunt from the bottom to the top then focusing her tongue on your clit, drawing a whine from you, “Viii.” You feel her smiling as she rolls her tongue perfectly against you. It feels better than anything you could do yourself. The soft licks gradually get stronger until she’s flicking your clit and your nails are digging into her scalp.

“Oh fuuck” whines are escaping you without any control and it’s only egging her on, “Fuuuck Vi!” you try to squeeze your legs around her head but she pushes them back open, her middle finger tracing around your entrance before gently curling it into you, “Holy hnghh shit!” your back arches as her slender finger pushes into you repeatedly, Vi laps at your clit again, a soft moan coming from her and sending vibrations up your body. “More pleaase babe” you beg and feel her smile against you. She adds a second finger, filling you up, and your moans become pornographic at the dual stimulation she’s providing you. Vi’s fingers are grazing your g-spot perfectly and you think you might have already came a couple times but you’re so in the moment you don’t know or care. Your pussy is squelching obscenely with every movement of Vi’s fingers, soft moans leaving her as well. “Vi I think I’m gonna cum!” you grasp onto her hair and you hips buck as you clench around her, resulting in more moans from Vi. You feel yourself shaking as she slips her hands out but keeps licking at your drenched cunt like it’s the air she breathes, sucking onto your clit like she’s never going to get this opportunity again. “Vi! I- mhh too much!” you push her head away from your pussy. She smiles lazily, her chin sheen with slick, “You taste so good, got carried away” she giggles, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. “Wow.” you breathe out as Vi wraps her arms around your waist, “You okay?” she asks as she holds your face, resting her forehead on yours as you nod, she kisses your nose softly, “I love you so much” you smile for the umpteenth time tonight, “I love you more.” After a few moments Vi sits up from the bed, “Where are you going?” “Gonna grab a towel so I can clean you up, stay here okay?” she kisses your forehead. The two of you fall asleep in each other’s arms shortly after.

[dingo-ate-my-hot-lettuce-crazy]

-+-layers-+-

author's note: heyyy, this is my lil try at the event in the supernatural writer's community, my tags will be at the bottom of the page for acknowledgements! <3 also someone please tell me if i did this wrong i have not done events at all i hope this is ok...ALSO i wrote this as dean from preseries all the way to season 1 and 2 in mind, but really you can imagine it to any ofc

summary: falling in love with dean is more than just a couple of flirtatious comments and winks. love takes time and vulnerability. and the more you read into the little moments, the more severely you fall in love with him.

pairings: dean x reader

characters: dean, sam, bobby

word count: 4.8K

warnings: cursing, disgusting fluff

-+-+-+

there was this beautiful change you've noticed over the years with dean. he's still the same person you've been falling in love with, but he becomes more and more human to you, you realized.

before this gradual revelation, you admit, you viewed him as what he presented himself as, which was the "ladies man" or "sex god", as he would refer to himself (and you denied it when he claimed it so, even though all you could think about was putting it to the test). he plays into his tough facade, this macho-man exterior. and you can attest, he is a masculine guy. he's chivalrous, but he still finds ways to be 'a man' about it. he holds doors open for almost any woman he sees, but he makes a bigger deal about it if it's you he's opening it for, of course.

-+-+-+-

"i'm not hating on ac/dc. i like their 'sound', but every song sounds the same." you argued.

"they do not. their 'sound' is consistent. that doesn't mean they sound the exact same. that's like saying to you that every britney spears song sounds the exact same." he rebuttled with a feigned anger.

"i never said 'exact' same-" you tried to finish your thought as your hand reached the gas station door handle before you were roughly pulled away from it, as dean's hand wrapped on your bicep. he had yanked you behind him, not even looking back, as he cut in front of you to open the door and gave you a shit-eating grin as you stepped through the entrance. "jesus christ." you had incredulously eyed him at his aggressive chivalry, to which he just smirked and followed you inside.

-+-+-+-

he gives you jackets anytime you’re cold- more so shoving it over you at the shiver he sees. he pretends to be annoyed at you too, but secretly, he wants to do it. he yearns to. he wants you to ask, but he knows you're also too stubborn to ask for anything.

-+-+-+-

"oh, jesus." you hissed, walking out of the diner as dean held the door open for you, the harsh New England winter breeze licking your skin.

"what?" dean's head turned to you.

"nothing- just almost fell. didn't see the step." you lied. you couldn't tell dean you were cold...he told you to bring a jacket before you left the motel.

a moment passes before dean's gaze falls to your exposed arms that now had goosebumps trailing along them, and you heard him scoff, "i swear- didn't i tell you?" and he was already stripping himself of his leather jacket, hanging it on your shoulders as you both continued to walk.

"dean-" you protested.

"take it."

and he meant to sound as bothered as he did, but behind you, it was getting harder to control the swell in his stomach that he got when he saw you in his clothes.

-+-+-+-

you are simply not allowed to get hungry around him. he won't let it happen. no matter how much you tell him that you're not hungry, or that you'll eat later- he hardly takes no for an answer.

-+-+-+-

"hey." dean tried to get your attention from the motel bed, as you were diligently researching at the table across from him. "yoo-hoo..."

you were zoned in on the lore book you were reading while the rest of the world was dead to you. that was until a pencil almost lobotomized you. it smacked against the wall and bounced onto the page you were reading, causing you to flinch, before you whipped your head to dean. "do you mind?"

"no, not at all." he shakes his head, unbothered by your irritated demeanor. "i'm gonna get food from the Chinese place down the road, what do you want?"

you waved your hand before turning back to the book, "nothing for me, thanks."

he raised a brow at you, standing up from the bed and putting on his shoes, "no Chinese? i can grab a pizza instead..."

"no, go get Chinese. just don't worry about me, i'm still full from lunch."

dean stood up, just looking at you as your attention was still on the book. he's angry, but it's an anger he can't explain or vocalize to you. he can't stand when you don't feed yourself, or don't take care of yourself. and he's well aware he does it too, but that doesn't matter, it's you we're talking about. you need to eat. you need to live. so he leaves with a curt, "fine, i'll be back in a bit."

and about forty-five minutes later, he wordlessly strolled back in the motel room, and plopped a plastic container with your typical take-out order and a side of spring rolls on the table next to your book. you bit your cheek, trying to make eye contact with him, but he knew you would try to give him some excuse not to eat, so he ignored your stare, and sat down on the bed to go to town on his own food.

-+-+-+-

he pays for any of the road snacks he gets you, takes care of your car if it needs oil or repairs, hardly let's you go anywhere alone, and will watch your drink at the bar like a hawk. he's a protector, and a gentleman, and he likes to be viewed as one. it was what he felt he was made for. and he especially loved protecting you. and he didn't think you needed protecting. it made him want to all the more. he knew you could easily take care of yourself- you made that known. you're clearly self-sufficient on hunts, independent, and you hardly ever asked for anything from dean. that's why he loved being the one to protect and be there for you. it was an honor for him.

now...

that doesn't mean he was always "that guy" around you.

you treasured the moments he let go in front of you, or with you. as time went on, and as you fell harder for him, these moments seemed to really stick out to you.

it takes a painfully long time for dean to be comfortable around someone. completely, anyway. he can joke around, and he can express his concern for people, and he'll provide acts of service to those around him. while it all means that he is maintaining connections, it's not the same as being internally comfortable. being truly relaxed in front of people was harder for dean. with you he was, and it meant that he could be his true self. one of those moments was when he realized that he could talk about anything with you, and you would listen- really, listen. he didn't even know how much he appreciated it in the moment, but he knew he felt so connected with you. and you, well... you can't help but just listen to him.

-+-+-+-

"...and it was considered a Chevelle at the time, when the Impala was just a Chevrolet. but, it was a B-body, so it was bigger than the Malibu, and way sturdier. anyways, they marketed the Malibu as a family-car back then, even though it's an A-body, and it could've easily sold as a sportier model instead with all the modifications they offered. i mean, the thing was a V8, and they didn't intend to advertise it as something classier than a family-car? with how lean that thing was?"

dean watched a documentary about Chevys in the 60's last night at the motel before going to sleep. he had many opinions on the information that he had caught up on.

"i mean, it's no Camero. which they were talkin’ bout…y’know they built that beast from scratch? the first model of the Camero in ‘66- well, it was a ‘67 but they made it in ‘66… it was from scratch. another reason why Chevy beats Ford any day- because Ford based their F-body on their previous car, the Falcon- then they made Mustangs from that model.”

the two of you were walking back from an interview you conducted about fifteen minutes ago. he had been talking about cars and Chevys and everything in between since he saw a Monte Carlo parked on the street near the interviewees’ residence. it was honestly the most excited you had seen him in a long time… just letting him ramble. and when you asked a question (because you inevitably had to when it started to sound like he was speaking a foreign language), he explained it to you happily, and with no connotations that you weren’t as knowledgeable as he was about the topic. when he explained, he’s really trying to teach you- not like a mechanic who’s telling you how to switch gears…dean wanted you to understand so you could respond with the same level of knowledge. and you couldn’t help but just let him do it. you wouldn’t retain any of this information, in fact, you were still confused, but you just wanted to let him speak about his interest. you don’t even recall hearing him talk about anything this in depth.

you lovingly watched his facial expressions as he chatted with a boyish enthusiasm, and you hadn't even realize you were smiling at him until he matched yours slightly, with a questioning grin, ”what?”

you shook off your starstruck gaze, and recovered quickly, “no, nothing…just, Mustangs aren’t cool anymore?”

he opens his mouth, his face tightening as he finds the right words to convey his opinion, “no, I mean...they’re ok. but,” he scoffs, “they’re just like toy cars, compared to Chevy. they aren’t durable. you run a Mustang over a speed bump too fast and it’ll fold up like a lawn chair, i swear-”

you giggle, soaking in everything he wants to say, and he just gleamed for the first time in a long time as he kept your ears hostage. it was the least you could ever do for him.

-+-+-+-

you had a feeling your connection was mutual after some time, thankfully. there were little mannerisms or hints here and there that you would remind yourself of in case you started to lose hope in a future with him. the chivalry you would write off as just dean being dean, but this comfortability he projected was for you specifically.

he couldn’t leave you alone. not just out of the whole protection thing either, but he just was drawn to your presence. even if you didn’t talk, he wanted to just be next to you.

-+-+-+-

you raised the eyeliner to your waterline in the reflection of the mirror, lightly drawing it on when you heard the motel door open.

“turns out all three victims were on the same community baseball team. the last victim,” he elaborated as he eventually made his way to lean against the bathroom door frame, “was a coach before. this is the third victim with any relation to the team, even though he wasn't actively coaching-" his face twisted into a grimace of concern as his eyes landed on you, "why are you putting a crayon in your eye."

you maintained your focus, proceeding to the other eye, "it's not in my eye. the waterline...is just really...close." your speech broke apart with your focus. you leaned back from the mirror as you fingered through your makeup bag for a couple other small touch-up items. "alright, so when are you taking me out to the ball game, winchester?"

he glances to his watch, "their practice starts in three hours."

"buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks?" you turned to him playfully.

"only if you promise not to care if we ever get back." he pointed a taunting finger in your direction.

you smirked as he completed your reference, and you put the eyeliner back in the bag. "sounds good, but in the meantime, i need to pick up a new formal outfit or two. i figure we're going as reporters? i need to find new blouses...one has this bloodstain from our last hunt and it just won't come out. i was gonna go take a walk down by the goodwill, it's two blocks down."

dean shrugged, "i'll drive you."

you were grateful for the offer and assured him anyway, "i can walk. no point in just driving me two minutes."

"i can just go with you."

you faced dean at his suggestion, and tried to analyze his expression. he didn't seemed annoyed by the prospect of going with you to shop. "you sure? i don't know how long i'll be."

he shrugged again, "as long as we make back for the practice, it doesn't really matter."

you ran your teeth over your bottom lip, trying to bite your growing smile away. "alright, give me ten minutes then."

"'kay." and that would've been dean's cue to go watch the tv, or get the car started...but he stayed leaning against the entrance, putting his hands in his jean pockets, his eyes aimlessly wandering. he inhaled, as he mindlessly watched your makeup routine.

"you wanna sit down?" you offered cheekily, pulling out concealer.

he pursed his lips, as he thought about it and ultimately decided to, but what you didn't expect was him to sit on the closed toilet seat lid and stay in the bathroom with you. you let out a small huff of laughter, that thankfully he didn't pick up on, as he drew a carefully hand into your makeup bag. he was quiet, reading through all the products you used. he went as far as opening some of the bottles, curiously examining your products. he would make comments about the hunt or about something relevant here and there, but really, he was just there to be with you. he finally stopped rummaging through your makeup with a disgruntled shove at the bag, glaring confusedly at it as he muttered, "you really don't need that much."

you chuckled, appreciating his sentiment as zipped up the bag, gesturing for him to follow you as you left the bathroom to head to the impala.

and his need to in your near vicinity didn't end there.

once you were in the goodwill, you had assumed he would find a men's section to look through, but he trailed right behind you like a puppy dog. you had a decency to show him some of the clothing pieces you were looking at, a penny for his thoughts. and while he wouldn't give you true dictations of your fashion choices, he did offer comments along the lines of "that's nice" or "it's okay". but he obviously wasn't here because he wanted to talk fashion with you, although, if you wanted to, you know he would try to his best to keep up.

-+-+-+-

it even got to the point where sam started to pick up on dean's sense of trust and vulnerability around you. which didn't surprise him at all after he got to know you. in fact, he adored you too, as a sibling. he was glad to see dean have a bond with someone at the same level as he was. and sam knew that there was something blossoming, but he would only lightly tease, he didn't want to scare you off with the idea, god forbid it wasn't ready to happen yet. but, he could tell that you loved him. and sam could without a doubt, tell that dean loved you.

there's a psychological tell when it comes to subconscious love. they say when you get tired around certain people, whether you know it or not, you feel safer around them.

-+-+-+-

it was a rather tranquil afternoon in yet another motel room, sam had dragged a chair over to face the tv while you and dean shared a queen bed, even though there were two of them in the room. the hunt from the previous day, or should you say, that morning, had run until about 5am, and you had begged the boys to just lounge until the evening, knowing they wanted to take off into the next hunt soon. they can't say no to you, so they opted to relax for a couple of hours to recuperate. dean lied with his arms folded across his chest, his head dipping lower into the pillows by the minute, as you sat just a bit higher than him, with one knee drawn in.

on the pathetic motel tv, Scream from '96 played as sam was still clacking on his laptop, searching for new hunts. you had been making a few jesting remarks towards the movie, and sam would raise a baffled brow.

"all i'm saying is, if he didn't kill me, and just hauntingly threatened me over the phone, i would be turned on by ghostface."

sam blinked at his computer screen, "you are all kinds of weird." he looked over his shoulder to find you deviously smiling, and did a double-take in your direction as he looked from dean to you, and he dropped his jaw a bit, "did he fall asleep?"

you craned your head down slightly to see dean's eyed now closed, breathing slow and relaxed, and his head even fell closer to where your arm was next to him. you pouted your lips at him slightly, smiling after, "he did."

sam scoffed, shaking his head, "he never takes naps when anyone is with him. he hardly naps when it's just me and him... he won't even with dad, and definitely not other people." he mused.

you blew him off, butterflies frantically flying in your stomach, "oh, i'm sure he's just tired from that hunt. we didn't get in til the early morning."

"yeah, but, dean has run on days without sleep. he could've stayed awake if he wanted to, even if he only got a couple of hours. it's just...funny, i guess." he meant "funny" as in "wow, i can't believe my brother who is always on guard from everyone, can finally let it down around someone".

you glanced to dean with an enamored smile once more, this time lingering a bit, as you listened to his deep breaths, and light snores, "we can leave after he's up. i'd feel horrible waking him now."

sam nodded, turning back to the tv, and he even lowered the volume some. even he felt more relaxed, knowing just how much dean was able to be comfortable around you. he grinned to himself, happy for his brother, and for you. his grin grew into an open smile when he turned around twenty minutes later to find you asleep as well, sunken down completely into the bed, and your head inches away from dean's shoulder. he grabbed a picture on his phone, and made a mental note to show this to you and dean when you both get out of your own heads.

-+-+-+-

while you knew you were definitely a special person in his life, this relationship did confuse you more often than not. he couldn't muster up the words to ask you out, or be his partner, but he had the audacity to be all touchy-feely with you in front of bobby.. and of course, if sam could see through you both, bobby could in a heartbeat. the only difference between sam and bobby, is that bobby wanted to just take dean by the shirt and shake him til he scrambled out the words "i love her". bobby saw their love right in front of them. but he knew better than to intervene, though he was okay with shamelessly hinting it towards you and dean when the other wasn't in ear shot.

-+-+-+-

you and the boys had been dealing with a hunt about two hours west of Sioux Falls, but dean had practically forced you to just help with research, and to stay behind at bobby's while your ankle healed from a recent sprain. bobby was no help in this case, insisting he could use the help around the house, but since it's been the two of you, all he's asked you to do was to go find a two beers in the fridge. and one of them wasn't even for him. he asked you to drink so you would, and quote, "stop wearin' a hole in the floor" and relax while they were gone.

though you did help bobby figure out how to change the hdmi on the tv.

sometime around 11:30pm, your cell had started ringing in your pocket as you woke from the siesta you were taking on the couch. you fumbled for it groggily, opening the flip phone to answer it, "hello?"

"hey," sam winced as he said your name, already knowing that you're not going to like the contents of the call.

"everything ok?" you heard it all in his tone of voice.

"yes and no. i got off easy, but dean's got a concussion. not bad enough for the hospital, but bad enough to where he needs to be on bed rest for a week, at least. just uh, wanted to let you know." sam said distractedly, as you assumed he was the one driving, too.

"oh, shit. is he ok?" you breathed worriedly.

"he's fine, or at least will be fine, soon. but, he is asking for you...i don't know if he remembers that we left you at bobby's." sam mentions, tugging slightly at your heart strings.

"jesus, well- hurry home. i'll help take care of- it." you fumbled for words before the two of you hung up.

bobby had been awake still, and you informed him on the call as you both prepped the couch and sat idle for their return. you didn't think dean would be able to make it to the guest room up the stairs just yet, so for now the living room was dimmed and had water bottles stocked close by, and had a trash can for... well, just in case.

you were outside waiting before you even heard the rumbling engine pull up to the front of the house. the car had barely been in park before you raced to the backseat, where dean had been lying on his back, his eyes squeezed closed a bit, and his breath ragged and shallow, with a large, blood stain that had dripped from his left temple, and wherever gravity had taken it, which had been on a few patchy spots by his ear all the way to his jaw. poor baby. bobby and sam were the ones to lug him out, with a lot of moaning and groaning from all three of them, while you made sure to hold the door open, and bring in some of their duffels from the car.

dean was carefully eased onto the couch, his chest now rising with careful, calculated deep breaths, while blowing air out of his mouth. he had moved painfully slow as he laid down on his right side, his eyes shut tight.

you quietly sat the bags from the car by the entrance, hurriedly making your way to the couch, interrupting sam and dean's hushed conversation.

"stay down, man." sam whispered to his brother, keeping a light hand on dean's shoulder as he fidgeted.

"she wasn't in th'car, sam." dean croaked, eyes still closed as he dug half his head into the pillow.

you stuck your lips out in an exaggerated frown, bending at the knees next to dean, you cooed softly, "hey, crazy...what happened?"

he peered through squinting eyes, groaning slightly before answering, "mmm. hit m'head." aside from his visible pain, he actually looked like he sunk deeper into the couch when you made yourself known.

you run your hand over the blood matted on his hair, and your finger tips came back tinted. dean inhaled sharply at the touch, his eyes pinched shut again.

"sorry...sorry." you moved your hand away, grimacing. you turned to behind you, "bobby, could you-"

"already on it." bobby eyed you two before walking to the kitchen, and returning with a bowl of water and a rag.

sam rubs his forehead, addressing you and bobby, "he threw up on the way here once...but that was about fifteen minutes after the hunt. he's been ok since...just, dizzy, nauseous, and a bit confused."

"if he throws up again tonight, ya might wanna consider takin' him in." bobby exhales, "otherwise, seems like he's all in one piece." bobby deduced.

as sam and bobby conversed, you had moved to sit at the edge of the couch by dean's torso, while you gingerly cleaned his head up. he would mumble incoherently in the pillow when you got close to the opening of the cut, but risked moving himself carefully so you were within is sight. "where were you?" he rasped.

"i was here the whole time, i swear. you know where you are?" you looked to him with care, checking his battered memory.

he opened one eye for a moment before everything started to spin again, "bobby's."

"yeah. good... we're at bobby's." you nodded, and internally sighed of relief.

sam sank into the loveseat a couple feet away, keeping near in case things started to take a turn for the worse, but he was well aware he could leave him with you while he got some rest. you were more than capable of keeping watch over him, and tending to him. it was just for sam's own satisfaction to see that he was alright, after being a bit startled by the initial injury.

you finished with wiping down his hair, brushing your fingers through the dampened spots on his head before pulling your hand away. he moaned at the immediate absence of your touch.

"sorry, i'm done, i promise." you soothed as you set the rag and bowl away from the couch.

"no," dean grumbled, "felt good...yr'hand."

oh.

you hesitantly brought your hand back to his head, just barely brushing the fingertips through his disheveled hair, avoiding his wound. dean sighed heavily, the pained lines in his brows slowly returning back to their resting state.

a sweet tightness wrapped around your heart. you kept up with the motion for an hour or two, even though you knew after a couple of minutes he had already passed out. sam started to crash too, falling asleep in the chair with his head propped up by the heel of his hand.

bobby had treaded in from downstairs after a while, walking over to sam, patting him awake, basically demanding him to go to the guestroom to properly rest. when he walked over to you, he caught on to what you're doing, and shook his head with a slight smile. before he could comment, you defended yourself, "he asked me to do this."

"mhm. how long has he been 'sleep for?" bobby smirked.

you couldn't deny the care for the young man, "a while."

bobby nods his head to the stairs, "why don't you and i take shifts... you go get some hours in, and i'll wake him up in a few to make sure doofus here still remembers he's in love with you."

you reddened at his statement, gaping your mouth slightly at his bluntness, "bobby-"

"get some rest, kiddo. he'll be alright." bobby echoed, warmly.

you sighed, looking to dean one last time for the night. you tried to stand up, but felt a tug on your shirt, accompanied by a pitiful, "no."

dean had curled a fist into your shirt, keeping you sitting next to him, as he kept his eyes closed still. you could hardly tell if he was lucid. you exchanged glances with bobby, before shrugging it off, "i got him, bobby. just make my coffee strong in the morning."

bobby frustratingly teased you before starting back upstairs, "you kids..."

you turned your gaze back down to dean, still holding your shirt in his hand. bravely, you took his hand and unraveled it from the fabric and just held it. dean blinked his eyes open carefully, risking a tender glance at you, "hey," he attempted to smirk.

"hey, you." you casted him concerned smile. "how's your head?"

"mmm...still hurts." he whinged. he gave you a once over, "where's the nurse-maid outfit?"

you rolled your eyes, brushing a thumb against his hand in your grasp. "bobby's trying it on now."

he groaned into the pillow, this time less out of throbbing pain but out of disgust, "this is not the heaven i imagined."

you huffed a quiet laugh, watching him almost squirm uncomfortably at the thought. "yeah, well...you aren't dead yet, mister."

"coulda fooled me...i've got an angel in front of me." he flattered.

you shake your head, turning away from him, but not yet letting go of his hand. "you're delirious."

"this is the most 'with it' i've been all night." he counters, huskily.

and once again, you are left in a buzzed, romantic silence. you couldn’t even find it in you to look at him, otherwise you might’ve just professed your love for him. "you should rest."

dean's eyelids fall closed gently, "staying?"

by then you turn back to him, "i can."

"you should."

your lips turn upwards, as he peeked through one eye, waiting for a response. "i shall." and you felt a squeeze back in your hand.

-+-+-+-

and some days you do think to yourself, "god, is he ever going to tell me he loves me?" some days you wonder if this is all a big game, or test. but it occurs to you in moments like these, that it's exactly what he's doing. he just screamed "i love you" from the top of his lungs, and you heard it. it would mean nothing to a lot of people, but you understand, and it means the world and then some to you. and he got it right back. he understands, too.

-+-+-+-

tags: MOODBOARD BY @ash-muses , @chevroletdean & Supernatural Writer's Community

[cuntyji]

cw: highly suggestive but v funny please laugh, reader wears lingerie 🙉

your first mistake was leaving choso alone in the apartment.

your second mistake was not expecting him to do something stupid when left unattended for more than an hour. but this? this was new.

you came home, fully expecting to see him napping on the couch, scrolling through his phone, or maybe reheating leftovers in the microwave. instead, you found him standing in front of your underwear drawer—organizing.

which, in itself, was already suspect behavior, considering you’d never seen him fold a shirt properly in his life.

but it wasn’t the tidiness that had your soul leaving your body. no, it was the fact that he was standing there with your panties over his face.

not in a pervy way. not like those spicy fanfics you’ve definitely, totally never read at three in the morning. no, your boyfriend—your 27-year-old, full-time salaryman boyfriend—was wearing your victoria’s secret lace-trimmed underwear over his face like a spiderman mask.

and he was making pew pew noises.

“take that, villain!” he whispered aggressively, using one hand as a makeshift web-shooter while the other expertly color-coordinated your socks. his movements were swift, methodical. he was, horrifyingly enough, completely immersed in his role.

you should have left. you should have turned around, walked back out, and never spoken of this. but no, you had to be brave. you had to step forward and, in the worst decision of your life, say:

“…cho?”

chaos.

choso shrieked. not a yell, not a grunt—a full-on horror movie shriek. his entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted, hands flying to his face as if he’d forgotten what he’d done. his wide, horrified eyes locked onto yours for one agonizing second before he attempted to remove the evidence—attempted being the keyword.

because rather than just taking the panties off his face like a normal human being, your boyfriend, in his absolute panic, yanked them.

RRRRRIIIIIIPPPPPP.

the sound was deafening. the death of good fabric. lace fibers shredded in his grasp. the remnants of your once-beautiful underwear dangled limply from his trembling hands.

a heavy silence fell between you.

“…”

“…”

choso slowly lowered his hands. then, in the most pathetic, guilty voice you’d ever heard in your life, he croaked out:

“…hey, babe. how was work?”

you inhaled. deep. long. controlled. you were going to kill him.

“CHO—”

“WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! I CAN EXPLAIN!”

“EXPLAIN?! EXPLAIN WHY YOU’RE PLAYING SUPERHERO WITH MY UNDERWEAR?! WHY ARE YOU EVEN ORGANIZING MY DRAWER?! YOU DON'T EVEN ORGANIZE YOUR OWN SHIT!”

his mouth opened, then closed. then opened again. “well… it looked messy?”

you blinked at him. he blinked at you.

“… i’m gonna pretend you didn’t just imply my organizational skills are subpar,” you deadpanned.

“no! that’s not—! i mean—! it was just a little… chaotic?”

choso was walking on dangerous ground, and he knew it. you could see the regret in his eyes, but you weren’t about to let him escape unscathed.

you crossed your arms. “so you put my panties on your face?”

“… i got distracted.”

“distracted by what?”

he shifted awkwardly. “… spiderman?”

oh, he was so sleeping on the couch tonight.

[diushek]

The Shen Yuan who in his modern world is a serious and respected fantasy writer with a fairly large fanbase and film and television adaptations of his works, an adult entering his fifties, grey-haired and wearing his long hair in a half ponytail, who is attending a good therapist to deal with all that repressed homosexuality, with an ex-wife who supports him from a distance (distance like, another city an hour or two away by train or something, she had a lot of Shen Yuan in her life), and two teenage children aged fifteen and seventeen who live at home until they finish school and are old enough to go live with their mother, and an older daughter in her twenties who already lives with her.

In fact, reading PIDW was just a stupid distraction about ten years ago when he was entering his forties and going through his divorce, and even though randomly some silly and ridiculous thing from that webnovel pops into his head without paying rent, he doesn't think about it too much.

And one day, he sees Luo Binghe.

Well, it's clearly Luo Binghe. PIDW was a huge success, with physical books, live action adaptations, and international translations. Of course, ten years after from the highest peak of fame of the novel, there would be some fans cosplaying him. However...

Well, he's seen a lot of cosplay in his life. He's seen the beginnings of cosplay when the internet was still a piece of shit with telephone wires. He is actually familiar with seams and costumes and the artificial shine of wigs.

Nothing he sees in front of him looks like cheap cosplay. And the boy, Luo Binghe, beautiful as only words could describe, is staring at him.

"Can I help you?" Shen Yuan asks, because despite everything, he is a kind man in the accommodated neighborhood who has raised his children.

And "Luo Binghe" looks at him with the strangest expression in the world.

"This Lord is looking for someone," the cosplayer says. "Can this man let this Lord know where the Shen family home is, by any chance?"

Shen Yuan feels an unpleasant chill.

“Why do you ask?” he says, however. And the Luo Binghe in front of him just smiles.

"Oh, this one is just looking for someone who owes this Lord a debt."

Shen Yuan hopes there are more Shen families in his fucking neighborhood or for heaven's sake none of his bratty kids have gotten into trouble with cosplay gangsters. Thanks.

[hyckvr]

spidermark bf thoughts

spidermark x reader // warnings. mentions of being tied up, blood, mentions of being saved. idk any others😭 // a/n. ngl i don’t read much kpop stuff anymore so i apologise if any of these r overused😭 i wish my tv would let me play the spider-man games bc im having withdrawals. thanks to my wife for helping me with the smut since im shit at it🙏 @chenlezip

bf spider!mark who is a dedicated boyfriend who is always ready to take you swinging whenever you request it. no matter the hour, he never hesitates to drop everything to make your wishes come true. his willingness to help is unwavering; if you ask him to take you to the top of a tall building, he will do so without a moment's delay, ensuring that you have an unforgettable experience. whether it’s the thrill of the swing or the breath taking view from above, mark is always there to make those moments possible.

bf spider!mark who has a playful passion for recreating the iconic spider-man kiss. despite the fact that he often ends up tumbling onto his head in the process, he finds joy in the effort. each time he leans in upside down, his heart races with excitement, knowing that the moment is sure to bring a smile to your face. for him, the little mishaps along the way only add to the charm of the experience, making it all the more memorable. seeing your smile in response to his antics makes every fall worth it.

bf spider!mark who is the kind of person who never fails to surprise you with thoughtful treasures from his little adventures. as he swings through the bustling streets, his eyes are always scanning his surroundings. suddenly, something catches his gaze—the glimmer of a unique trinket or the vibrant bloom of a beautiful flower—that instantly makes him think of you. with a spark of excitement, he quickly turns around and retraces his steps, eager to gather that perfect find that he knows will bring a smile to your face.

bf spider!mark who often calls you when he’s lounging at the top of a tall building, enjoying the breath taking view of the city skyline. as he overlooks the bustling streets below, he eagerly shares captivating stories about his thrilling adventures. he recounts tales of daring escapades, the intense fights he has faced, and the amusing incidents that make him laugh. each conversation flows effortlessly, filled with his energetic enthusiasm for life. as you listen, the soft glow of your phone illuminates your features, casting a warm light that captivates him even more. he finds comfort in the way your face lights up, reflecting your engagement in his storytelling. meanwhile, the vibrant city below- full of life, lights, and movement- creates a stunning backdrop behind his phone with your soft smile glowing.

bf spider!mark who consistently offers his assistance with homework. whenever you find yourself struggling or feeling overwhelmed with assignments, he's the first person you turn to for help. his understanding nature and patience make it easy to approach him with questions. sometimes, he goes above and beyond, taking the time to complete entire assignments for you, which can be both a blessing and a curse when it comes to learning the material yourself.

bf spider!mark who is the kind of person who would go to great lengths to ensure your safety. he is unwavering in his commitment and will stop at nothing to protect you. whether it requires tackling difficult challenges or facing daunting obstacles, he won't rest until he knows you are out of harm's way, dropping anything he's doing to instantly come aid you. his devotion and determination shine through in every action he takes, proving that your well-being is his top priority.

bf spider!mark who always knocks on your window late at night, his presence a familiar yet unsettling ritual after a long day spent out fighting crime. no matter how late it is or how tired you feel, you can never bring yourself to turn him away. as you open the window, a sense of apprehension washes over you, mixed with an undeniable urge to bring him in. once inside, he perches on the edge of your bathroom counter, his posture slumped and weary. the harsh light reveals the extent of his exhaustion—the dark circles under his eyes and the way he runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. blood smears across his beautiful face, a stark contrast to his usually charming smile. It’s a haunting sight, one that tugs at your heart, leaving you wondering what harrowing experiences he faced to return to you in such a state. the only good thing that came from this is your medical skills are top-notch now, you're always able to patch him up.

bf spider!mark who loves to tie you up with his webs. seeing you struggling to get out of the tough webs turns him on even more, the look of pure bliss on your face sends him into an overload. "you like being tied up don't you?" he let out with a smirk plastered onto his lips, you could only whimper and nod aggressively in response. the webs are strong and sticky on your wrists, the pain that spread through your wrists from the tight webs had your head going fuzzy.

bf spider!mark who shows off his strength. whether that be picking you up, holding your thighs and pinning you against the wall.. slamming you down onto his bed, hovering over you and pinning your wrists down. another example, he loves to fuck you in an alleyway, you pinned up against a wall as his hips go at a relentless pace, hand over your mouth to keep your moans at bay.

bf spider!mark who has a cocky smile on his face when you finally request him to keep his mask on during sex. he's been fantasising about this for ages, so when you finally came to him about it he was overjoyed. he wastes no time, instantly picking you up and throwing you onto your double bed. soon, the air in the room changed all together and mark had you right where he wanted you. you bite your lip, “fuck- ngh, mark,” you whimper as you feel him slipping inside of you. the eyes on his mask soon close, you can’t see the blissed out expression on his face but you can tell he feels just as good as you do.

bf spider!mark mark loves when you switch the tables over, topping him. it was probably one of his favourite things, he loved seeing you on top of him taking charge, putting him in his place. he was too exhausted after a night of fighting crime and saving citizens. he threw himself down on the bed and you could see he needed the relief after a hard day. you smile and make your way over to the bed, falling to your knees and stroking his thigh, “let me ease you up, pretty boy. deserve it.”

bf spider!mark who is always loud in bed, he never fails to let it be known how much you pleasure him. especially if he’s receiving oral from you. you’re swallowing down on him and he hisses, bucking his hips up, “shiiittt, baby.. just like that, yeah, keep goin’ for me sweetheart..” “fuck, you’re so good” “right there, right there, fuckkk”

bf spider!mark who can go as many rounds as u want and never run out of stamina. he'll be fucking into you, hips going at a rapid pace as you struggle to keep up with him, pleasure taking over you, making it hard to speak. all you could do was whimper and whine as mark kept up his relentless pace. “m-mark, mark..” you pant. it was your third orgasm already, and it didn’t seem like he was going to stop.

[pomefioredove]

Hear me out....

Yuu writing a book were the "hero" is just Vil. Like, keeps up the cold professional stunt but cares so much and slowly unravels to be more- not genuine, just more comfortable with the people around him and himself y'know?

Anyway Vil promoting the book (Or it going viral on it's own) and Yuu gets like- a movie deal. (The contract goes through multiple revisions from Yuu, Rook, Azul, Riddle etc.) They only accept on the condition that Vil gets to play the hero.

So imagine Vil just being so proud of Yuu because they wrote a whole book! And they're getting all the attention and admiration they deserve and they feel good.

He picks up a call from his agent or whatever one day, telling him about this brand new movie based on a viral book. Vil asks what book, he's busy with school (going to Ramshackle to watch Yuu get flustered when they read nice reviews on their book). His agent tells them it's for Yuu's movie and they specifically asked for him, though the budget wasn't as big as other movies so if he wanted to demand a higher pay it's totally understandable- And Vil just interrups her, asks her what role it is. Yuu didn't think the villain character would suit him. ...Did they?

His agent tells him it's for the hero, not his usual role so totally understandable if he doesn't want it- It's so diferrent from what he's always done- Vil immediately accepts. He tells her to call the studio right now and tell them to not even think of letting one else audition.

He hangs up- debates if he should calm Yuu or re-read the book to make sure he wasn't going crazy- And calls Yuu, demanding an explanation.

Yuu tells him that yeah they did base the character on him, and that part of the reason they wanted to write the book was so that Vil could have a chance at being in a movie where he could be the hero one day. They weren't expecting it to be so soon but...

And Vil just stands quite for a bit, baffled at how??? Adorable and determined and sweet and ridiculous and considerate and amazing and all this things his partner is. He tells them he'll be over at Ramshackle in half a hour and they should be ready for the consequences of their actions. (Marriage)

Idk man writing a whole book for your partner so there's a CHANCE that'll get turn into a movie and he'll star in it and fulfill his lifelong dream is some "I'll be devoted to you for the rest of my life kind of shit"

Ps. You can tell the entire book by the descriptions and writing that the author lives this "hero" so much.

Idk just a VilYuu fanfic thought I've had since book 6

Dropping my VilYuu fanfic ideas in the number one VilYuu inbox is terrifying but whatever I've done it befire an I'm too tired to funtion or fell so whatever ✨✨✨ Whatever go my scarab/ref Mentallity unlocks at sleep defficiency

this is really beautiful though... oh to write a book that people read and like... that's the dream, romance aside lol

this is very cute and I like it very much!!! I really like muse x artist with vilyuu too and this really captures that (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ when the when the the when the love is so profound you can't hold it all and it makes a home in everything you create

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: the dancer and the angel PART 5 (finale)

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: a forbidden kiss, a fallout, a drunken secret and a broken girl… it all comes down to this

parts: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

warnings: SPOILERS FOR TGG, swearing

a/n: what a journey!! who knew this whole series could come from one request!! thank you @emelia07, I owe this all to you my love!! and thank you for everyone who has read along and been anticipating this part, your support and love has been AMAZINGGGG

taglist: @lovethornes @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @fleuriosa @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket @lanterns-and-daydreams @hermesenthusiast @eternal--dream @shattered-glass-roses @book-nerd-emi @peppapigsposts

YOUR POV

Light streams through the window and my head thumps, a constant monotonous banging. I groan, wincing slightly as I try to roll over into a more comfortable position to re-enter sleep. I feel like I’ve just been hit by a bus, my limbs ached and weighed heavy against the rest of my body. Even my mattress feels uncomfortable, it’s much stiffer than it usually is.

I don’t open my eyes, I prefer the solace I’m finding darkness at the moment. With a pounding head and sore body all I want to do is go back to sleep but it seems my overactive brain has other ideas. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a flash of memories. Last night rushes through my brain in jerky disconnected moments. Grayson kissed Lyra. I had gone clubbing with Avery. Gigi was missing. The bottle of alcohol I’d snagged to drown everything out, the crying, the running, the ocean and Grayson in my room.

Oh. Shit.

I suddenly realise I can smell him all over me. My mouth grows sour. I struggle to open my eyes, they feel velcro-ed shut but I manage to pry them open. Everything’s a little hazy, though once my vision clears I realise why my mattress feels so funny. Beneath me isn’t a mattress at all. It’s a man I never wish to see again.

I sit up suddenly, jerking away from him as a wave of nausea rolls over me. I know it’s not the alcohol, I don’t get sick from it. It’s the realisation, the dread pooling the deepest pit of my stomach. This couldn’t be happening.

Scenes replay in my head, like a twisted sort of horror movie where I am the main character who walks into the room the audience knows the killer is in, the same audience who is screaming at their television screens that I shouldn’t walk into that room alone with no weapons. But that’s the thing, you can’t change a film but screaming at the tv. What’s done is done.

Everything I said, I remember it so clearly. I’d told him everything. The truth. The truth that I’d planned to bury alive until it died naturally. It was never meant to have a voice again but of course under alcohol my brain was persuaded much more easily.

“I love you,” I’d mumbled, the words tumbling out in my drunken phase.

I’d admitted to still loving him at least three times and that was how many times in remembered. I feel a little more queasy at the thought.

I dare to glance to my left. Half of his face is buried in the pillow, golden hair spilling over the other. His eyes are closed and his face looks calm, peaceful, beautiful. How dare he look like that.

Panic seizes in my throat. I don’t know what to do. Wake him, yell at him, kick him out, kiss him, leave the room and tell him it was all a dream if he questioned it. My head spins and my heart thumps. I can barely see straight, overwhelmed with a sea of emotion. I’m angry and I’m upset and I’m desperate and I’m confused.

His eyes flicker of open before I have the chance to decide my best move. He immediately meets my eye and sits up in the bed. He’s frozen, half way between going to say something and saying nothing at all. Any lingering tiredness dissipates into panic.

“What are you doing here?” I yelp, before he even has the chance to plead innocent, “why are you in my bed?”

“You were drunk,” he blurts out suddenly, arms defensive over his naked torso.

“And that’s why you’re in my bed,” I cry out incredulously, widening my eyes.

He rolls his, “you wanted me to stay, I couldn’t leave you alone on that state.”

“I was only in that state because I was trying to forget about you,” I snap back, climbing off of the mattress to pull my shoes on.

“Forget about me?” he murmurs, almost in some sort of daze as he shifts his weight on the bed.

I glance up, not accustomed to the vulnerability of his tone when we were arguing. Of course I don’t want to forget about him, I’d wanted to forget that I’d been stupid enough to give someone my heart.

But he didn’t have to know that.

He looks delicate, just sat there, his features soft and mellow. I want nothing more than to reach out and cup his face in my palms and kiss all his pain away, all his built up fear and uncertainty. To run tender fingertips across his shirtless chest, to his collarbone and neck, only for them to get lost in the golden halo of hair that sat atop his head.

My own cravings and desperation annoy me. Why am I still drawn to someone who caused me so much hurt? My head spins. I always make the same mistakes, you’d think I would’ve learnt by now. I just decide in the flash of a moment that I need to see this through, whatever this is now, it needs to be over.

“Oh,” I tusk, rolling my eyes, “don’t sound like such a hurt bird.”

“I don’t I-“

He stands up and attempts to make his way over to me. I move away.

“Just shut up and get out,” I groan, cutting him off, pressing my cold fingertips to my temples, “I’ve got a banging headache and I just want to be alone.”

I sound like a bitch but he’s not exactly making this easy for me not to. I’m hungover and heartbroken, not the best mix.

He looks at me, eyes scanning over me too tenderly. I want to melt back into his arms and fall asleep with the comfort of his soft breathing. When his eyes roam me like that I feel vulnerable, like he can see all of the things that are hurting me most. I don’t like it, he shouldn’t have that right, not anymore.

“Let me help you,” he says quietly and twinge of desperation in his throat.

My insides are screaming at me to just collide with his mouth and accept anything that he says. I look him up and down and discard this moment, these feelings and whatever happened last night. I remember who he really is and what he really did. The part of him I can’t sugarcoat.

I scoff, tightening my arms across my chest., “I think you’ve helped enough.”

He look even more hurt as he steps closer, “please let me-“

A tingle runs down my spine at the familiar position we’re in. I can’t do this.

“Grayson,” I say sharply, “leave.”

And so he does.

He turns his back and walks out of the door, shutting it gently behind him. Part of me wishes he fought harder and part of me is glad. I sink down to the floor my head in my hands. I wait for the tears that are bound to fall but the tease me and make me wait that little bit longer to cry.

Head pounding, heavy with exhaustion and all I want is his touch back, I want his voice back, I want him back but I can’t afford to want anything like that. Not anymore I suppose.

***

GRAYSONS POV

“Grayson,” the way she says my name sends a sort of electrical shock through me, her tone is so attacking and bitter I almost wince, “leave.”

Leave. Last night I was supposed to leave but she asked me to stay, this time she’s asking me to leave but all I want to do is stay.

But I turn my back and walk out of the door. I owe her this and so much more, I can’t deny her of anything else, I can’t be selfish enough to stay. My token of selfishness ran out last night or maybe even long before that.

I feel numb. Through my veins courses an icy silver liquid, my brain is a void of empty blackness lacking thoughts or emotion and my heart can’t seem to beat. Everything is gone. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff waiting to meet my death, I’ll never know when it’s coming or who caused it but I’m contented, maybe even intrigued with the possibility.

I wanted nothing more than to fight for her, stay there and demand she didn’t let me go. I want her to know how much again, how sorry I am, but what good is an apology when you’ve destroyed someone’s heart?

The numbness floods away and it hits me out of nowhere that this time I’m leaving for good. The realisation attacks me hard in the chest, bullets raining on my skin, making it a little difficult for me to breathe. A tightness constricts my upper body and I feel hazy.

I’m not going anywhere in particular, I just let my feet carry me away. Where is there to go without her? I’m an idiot. Why did I think this morning it would be any different? I’d brainwashed myself into thinking she still actually wanted me because she’d said it when she was drunk. Deep down I knew this would happen and I still stayed.

I’m a selfish bastard. Just like my grandfather.

Where to go from here? I’m alone, sat on a slab of ebony rock, staring out to sea. Usually a practice like this would calm me enough to get me to think straight but today it’s a different story.

Slowly I strip my blazer coat from my back and disgusts the shirt I’d rushed on only moments ago and trousers. I leave them folded on the black rock and make my way to the ocean. I come to the edge, the waves coming to shore lapping my bare feet and ankles.

Then I dive.

As far out as possible into the waters, until I’m out of my depth. Whilst treading waters I analyse how far out I am and the seven best possible ways to get help if I come into danger before I begin to swim.

I’ve spent so much of my life swimming, I know when I’ve hit twenty five meters and then fifty. My body is used to how it feels. So I just do it over and over and over and over. I can feel my brain becoming a blank canvas. Swimming helps me think.

Though, I’ve never enjoyed swimming the ocean, not properly swimming anyway. But I suppose that’s not what the ocean was made for. A pool is reliable. There’s no current, no salt burning your eyes, no creatures lurking beneath the surface. As I swim, I’m constantly thrown off course by the waves, that only seem to grow in size. But maybe that’s a good thing, I have to work that much harder to reach my goal.

Suddenly I stop and make my way to shore, breathing heavily as I sit on the edge where the sand meets the sea. I know what I need to do and my chest feels hollow before I even do it.

LYRAS POV

My chest heaves in and out, rising up and down as I gulp in the oxygen that dance had just stolen. I stay on the floor, toe pointed, arms poised. I don’t know how long I’m there for but eventually I will myself to stand up. I’ve danced, my feelings should be processed, but oddly enough they don’t seem to be. Not like they usually are.

I feel someone’s eyes on me, a prickling sensation creeping down the back of my neck. I turn and face the my unwanted visitor. Perfected blonde hair though seemingly a little damp, mellow gray eyes and a suit. He’s here, of course he’s here. He can’t leave anyone or anything alone, he has to have it all. My peace, my freedom, my expression and his shadow bears weight over it all.

Fury courses through my veins, like lightning ready to strike. It crackles and hisses impatient to put a deadly shock through someone. I feel my expression morph into a scowl, my eyes narrow into sharp slits and despite my previously open body language through my routine I now tuck myself in and away from his prying eyes. I force myself up, legs still a little shaky from the adrenaline of the routine. I stand still, if he wants to talk, he can walk to me.

“Lyra-“ he begins, stepping inwards.

“You,” I spit, a bitter venom coating my tongue, acidic and sharp.

Something flickers across his face. Is that fear I sense? Good. I’m ready for a fight, for a battle, maybe even a war.

“Look-“ he tries to begin again.

I don’t give him the chance to continue. He doesn’t deserve to plead his apologies, I won’t be swayed with empty words.

“You are a horrible man,” I seethe, fire in my belly, “if you can even call yourself a man, I’ve got several other less polite words for it.”

“Please you do not need to list them,” he replies dryly.

I bark out a surprised laugh, “still arrogant, still full of yourself, after everything you’ve done and the people you’ve hurt you have the audacity to-“

“I’m sorry-“ he interrupts me with an earnest look in his eyes I can’t ignore. Maybe just maybe he really is sorry… or maybe he’s the fantastic actor he’s always been.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” I tell him coldly.

His desperate eyes dare to find mine, “hear me out-“

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m done with listening to you and your lies.”

He winces as if I’ve struck him across the face, “Lyra I didn’t mean to-“

“You did. And you won’t make that mistake again,” I say, an uninvited rawness in my voice, “not with me.”

“Lyra please-“

“Beg all you want,” I cut him off again. I know the lines he’s rehearsed, I’ve heard them said by other men. I don’t give in to excuses, not from a man like him, “get on your knees I don’t care there’s nothing you can say to save yourself now and who’s fault is that?”

“Mine,” he barely murmurs, looking like a scorned child.

“Funny,” I say, dropping my voice low, “it’s so convenient now is the time you take responsibly for your actions, maybe you should’ve thought about them before-“

“I made a mistake,” Grayson bursts, the action so sudden and out of character I wonder if it’s really him talking or some deranged drunken version.

I check his eyes. He’s sober. And yet here he is standing in front of me, admiting he’s wrong and actually looking apologetic for it.

“That much is evident,” I scoff, still I can’t trust any word that comes out of his mouth, any look in his eyes, “but you did worse than that. You hurt me, you hurt the girl who loved you, who gave you everything but still wasn’t enough to satisfy your egotistical, spoilt desires,” I seethe, “you didn’t only do that but you made me into someone I’m not and you of all people don’t get to do that. I write my own story, paint my own picture, dance to my own tune. You don’t get to decide who I am and you have, you’ve made me the slut who goes around kissing other people’s boyfriends.”

“She knows you didnt know,” he replies, almost softly.

“And what’s it to me now?” I ask with a crisp laugh, “What’s done is done and everything is ruined.”

“You’re right,” he mumble miserably.

“You know if I’d even thought for a fraction of a second there was someone else I wouldn’t have even looked in your direction,” I tell him.

It’s more than true, I could never do that to someone, not on purpose. It isn’t me.

“I know,” Grayson says, “you’re a good person.”

“I don’t need you of all people to tell me that,” I snap, keeping up every wall I could. He will never get past them again.

“You intrigued me,” he admits, as if it makes the situation better.

“Men are led by greedy eyes and tiny dicks,” I spit, such fury in my voice I almost don’t recognise myself.

He can’t stop his eyebrows from shooting upwards in surprise.

“The first half of that sentence was true,” he murmurs.

“Protecting your pride still,” I sneer, as if any man wouldn’t have, “how can you come here and look me in the eye to plead for forgiveness after what you’ve done.”

He looks pained, “I don’t know.”

“You’re an asshole,” I tell him. One final time.

“I know,” he sighs.

I’ve never seen a man that held himself with such composure look so defeated. I don’t enjoy this, making anyone feel like this, even if it’s him. He may have hurt people but it doesn’t make him immune to feeling hurt himself.

Still, that didn’t kill the pure anger within me, the burning ferocity for someone who had done me wrong. And maybe I’m a fool for being blinded by such an explosive emotion but I don’t care. I can’t afford to care.

So I almost smile, “I hope she doesn’t still love you, in fact I hope she hates you for the rest of your life and you spend your days torturing yourself over this.”

“I’m sorry I kissed you Lyra, I’m sorry I played with your heart,” he says solemnly.

“You didn’t play with anything,” I laugh, “if you think you got remotely close to my heart you’d be gravely mistaken.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you then,” he replied calmly, “and I’m sorry I painted you in a bad light.”

“But you’ll win this game in the end won’t you,” I say with a shrug, my voice softens, “of course you will.”

“There’s no game here Lyra,” he responds, a vulnerability in his tone, “just a stupid man and two angry women.”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” I reply, looking him up and down.

“I know that,” Grayson admits, “she never has.”

“And you proved that to her,” I remind him, salt in his wounds, I want them to burn as much as her heart does.

“I know that too,” he says, his voice soft and quiet.

He looks too agonised and suddenly I can’t bear to look at him.

“I want you to leave,” I tell him quickly, “and don’t look back.”

He nods silently, “I’m sorry, truly.”

I stare, waiting for him to leave. I would not run from a man, he should do the walk of shame out.

“Don’t even think about coming anywhere near me after this,” I call out, “this is a forever goodbye, Hawthorne. Stay out of my life.”

He doesn’t respond, only gives a second nod before he turns his back and walks off slowly. I exhale softly and hit play on the music to start a second routine with a now cleared head.

***

YOUR POV

The bathroom tiles are cold under my thighs but they’ve almost gone as numb as the rest of me. I’ve been sat here for who knows how long recounting last nights events over and over, all the parts I didn’t want to remember and maybe some parts that I won’t admit I do. This is one of the reasons I don’t drink, but of course I’d break that rule for him, betraying my own morals again for the same stupid man. I’m exhausted, physically exhausted by it all. I tip my head back and rest it on the edge of the bathtub, a chill runs down my neck reminding me of what his touch to me.

‘But I can’t say it out loud, because then I’m an idiot for loving someone who cut me deeper than any weapon could ever cut me.’

Of all the things to say I really did have to spill everything didn’t I? There’s no way of taking back, even twisting it into something it’s not. What I said was too raw to be lied about. Denial seems like my new best friend. If I pretend for long enough I never said it, maybe I’ll fool myself into believing it too.

‘And I tried to drink it all away, believe me I tried, but then halfway through my fifth glass I kind of realised it wasn’t working.’

Even my drunken tongue had lied, I’d realised before the alcohol even had the pleasure of burning its way down my throat that it wouldn’t work. I’d just convinced myself it might attack the pain receptors in my body.

‘It’s because I still fucking love you, how depressing is that? You murdered my heart and yet it can’t stop beating your name.’

Did his heart beat mine? His replies are hazier than my memory of what I’d said. My stupidity is woven deep into my brain, his hit the hardest when he’s kissed her so any other stupid things past that were more forgettable. My stomach rolls at the thought of all I’d admitted to last night. I groan wishing for the floor to swallow me whole and softly drown me into an eternal darkness.

But I can’t keep walking through this endlessness, whatever feelings I had left for him I had to leave behind. I’m good at tricking my mind and that is my plan now, trick my mind into thinking I don’t love, I can’t love. Maybe next time I won’t be so hurt. I stand up and gaze at the girl in the mirror, finally silencing the voice that was picking out all the features Lyra had that I didn’t. I inhale and exhale deeply. All my feelings would be discarded, here and now I decide. The moment I step from this bathroom and close the door, I’m closing off connection to him.

I walk slowly towards the door, my legs a little more shaky and a little less numb. I can’t tell which I prefer. I breathe deeply as I step out, taking in our happy memories for one last time, before this mess of a relationship it has become. And finally, finally I shut the bathroom door.

He’s out of my mind and I’m focussed on something else. I want to find Gigi, then I want to have a good nights sleep and then I want to go and find a career I love and cut this Hawthorne part of my life out completely. To truly lose him, I needed to lose everything close to him too. I can’t afford to be drawn back again.

I leave the room I’d slept in the night before and walk, fast paced and strong steps that leave me slightly breathless after a while. The island is bigger than it looks with many different pathways to walk.

I pick the one that seems the longest. I need to clear my head and focus on where Gigi could possibly be. I feel consumed with guilt that I hadn’t been trying harder to find her, instead I’ve been wrapped up in my own problems. She could be dead, dying or something worse that I didn’t even want to start imagining. All I know is, we have to work harder to find her and it starts here and now.

I need to gather all the information. When. When did she go missing? Exact time stamps of everything to calculate how swiftly any of this happened. Where. Where was she taken? We needed to revisit all the places she could be or could’ve been taken from. How. How was she taken? Did it leave any evidence? Would that give us a clue to who it might have been? Why. Why would someone want her? What’s the motive behind it all? What. What did they want? Surely they wanted something right? Who. The big question mark and blank face. Who in the world would want to kidnap Juliet Grayson?

A hand touches my shoulder and I flinch, immediately going into fight or flight. Unfortunately for the other person I choose to fight, twisting their arm quickly. They clearly aren’t expecting it as they cry out and don’t react fast enough. When I hear the sound of her voice I immediately drop the tight grasp I’d had on her and repeat apologies.

“I am so sorry,” I exhale, “I was thinking deeply about Gigi and I thought you might be a kidnapper.”

“It’s okay,” Avery says, hiding her wince quite well as she adjusted her arm, “you totally would’ve kicked ass if I had been a kidnapper.”

I try to smile but can only manage a half grimace, “thanks.”

She tilts her head as our eyes meet.

“You okay?” Avery asks, looking pitiful.

I hate it. I hate to think she feels sorry for me. What’s done is done, we all just need to forget and move on and her pity is only making me remember. I run a hand over my face to break eye contact. Clearly I look worse than I thought I did despite trying to hide my tired eyes and hollow cheeks with makeup.

“Fine,” I respond with a small shrug, as we begin a slow walk down.

She hesitates, I can tell she’d unsure to carry on the conversation, but she does anyway, “you don’t seem fine.”

I chew my bottom lip trying to come up with some sort of plausible excuse, “rough sleep,” I manage, my throat a little dry.

The silence between us feels thick and heavy, not the way it usually might. The paranoia in me thinks she knows something.

She stares at me for a moment and then sighs, saying what’s really on her mind, “why did Grayson walk out of your room this morning?”

And for once the paranoia is right.

I don’t say anything at first because I don’t know what to say. I’m trying to forget about him but slowly I’m learning every second I’m here I’ll be reminded. As soon as I can I’ll leave for good this time.

“Long story,” I murmur.

“Care to share?” she asks. Avery isn’t one to push, if I told her to drop it now she would immediately. But part of her knows what I don’t want to admit to. I need to talk about this, get it off of my chest. Burying it alive doesn’t mean it’ll die immediately. Maybe I need to kill it first.

“I got drunk,” I explain, more ashamed now because saying something out loud always makes it more real, “and said some things I shouldn’t have and he stayed… because I asked him to.”

She winced, unable to hold it back this time.

“Oh wait,” I laugh, through some pain, “it gets worse.”

Avery bites her lip, “please no,” she begs in a small voice.

I sigh and meet her eyes directly, “And then, like the idiot that I am, I told him I still loved him.”

She gasps, air caught in her throat. She stills in her sheer surprise of it all.

“Yeah,” I grimace, with an awkward cough, “so if you’re wondering why I look like crap that may or may not have something to do with it.”

“Rewind,” she says, “do you?”

“What?”

“Still love him,” she clarifies.

“Of course,” I murmur. If I’m going to keep lying to myself from now on I want the last person I tell the truth to to be someone who I can truly trust, “but he’s not supposed to know that.”

“This is tricky,” Avery says, tapping her fingers at her sides.

“You’re telling me,” I blow out a breath, “I have no idea what to do.”

“Did he tell you?” she asks curiously, “that you told him you loved him I mean?”

“No, that’s the weird thing,” I reply slowly, “he hasn’t said a thing about it.”

I hadn’t really thought of it until now. Why wouldn’t he use that against me? It’s perfect. Too perfect. He could’ve easily just explained the whole conversation and my only defence, I was drunk, which when thinking about it isn’t even a defence.

Avery’s eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head confused, “so how do you know you said that?”

“I remember everything,” I blurt out, “every single second.”

“But he hasn’t referenced it?” she clarifies.

“He doesn’t know I remember,” I say slowly, “and I’m keeping it that way.”

She nods in understanding but I can see part of her is wondering why.

“I can’t afford to love him Avery because I love too hard,” I admit, each word killing me softly, “I trust too much.”

“I understand,” she purses her lips, “but doesn’t it mean something, that he hasn’t said anything.”

I tilt my head to the side, “how do you mean?”

“He knows what he’s done is beyond wrong,” she begins, “and he also knows you still love him, but he also knows you don’t want to be with him, so maybe he’s trying to make it easier for you to leave, to just forget.”

I chew my lips, “I suppose.”

We fall into a silence of pondering. Maybe he is really trying to let me do what I want to. Maybe he is helping me leave because I asked him to. Maybe he knows if he asks me to stay, I will, so he’s not asking at all.

“I’m sorry,” Avery says quietly, wrapping as arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her.

“What are you sorry for?” I sniff, suddenly aware of a dampness on my cheeks, “none of this is your fault.”

“It’s not you either,” she whispers tentatively.

I don’t know how she knows but she knows I need to hear this. I keep trying to find the flaws in myself, all the things that I’d done to cause this to happen. And as much as I hate to think I would do that for a guy, it’s what I am doing.

I look up at her, glossy eyed.

“No,” she says firmly, “don’t you dare start blaming yourself.”

“Too late,” I smile sadly, a tidal wave of emotion hitting me hard. If I hadn’t been a problem, if there wasn’t something wrong with me, then why kiss another?

“Oh sweetheart,” she says tenderly, hugging me tighter, closer.

“Maybe I wasn’t good enough Avery, maybe if I was smarter, maybe if I was prettier, if I could dance like her…” I trail off, “I know I’m a lot, I know I’m hard to deal with but I just thought… I really thought I’d found someone who understood that and embraced it. I thought he loved every part of me, that he’s never feel like that for anyone but me. I was stupid enough to think for once I was the special one but I was wrong. I’m the girl I’ve always been, I’m not enough Avery.”

“Look at me, look at me right now,” she says with a fierce love, “you are enough. In fact you’re more than enough. You’re so kind and lovely and sweet, you light up a whole room when you walk into it, you’re constantly putting others before yourself. You’re brave and you’re beautiful and he’s letting all of that go. You are everything and don’t let him make you forget it because I’m not going to sit here and let a stupid boy make you think you’re not enough.”

I force a laugh, my throat so hoarse so the sound of scrapes and scratches.

“And I’m not even just saying this,” she says, once again proving that she can read minds, “you know me, I’m an honest girl and I wouldn’t lie to one of my best friends. He’s not worth you, he let you down, he hurt you and that’s on him, that’s a reflection of him. It has nothing to do with you, okay?”

I nod snivelling, “god I love you Ave.”

“I love you too,” she smiles through her own tears now.

We hug again and even thought I’d thought it was impossible to get ourselves any closer, we still managed.

“I can’t believe I’m crying over a boy right now,” I laugh through my tears.

She laughs too, wiping them from my cheeks, “it’s okay, I’ve been there one too many times.” I beam at her and slowly loosen my arms around nee to let her go.

“Avery,” I say carefully.

She hums in reply, brushing my hair behind my ears.

“Can I ask you a question?” I say.

She looks at me, almost knowing what’s coming yet still replies, “sure,” in such a way that made me more than comfortable to even ask.

I inhale deeply, “what would you do if Jameson did this to you?”

A sudden sadness coats her hazel eyes.

“Honestly,” she sighs, “I don’t even know, I wouldn’t know what to do. I know that’s the last thing you probably wanted to hear.”

I shrug, “it’s okay. I don’t really know what I expected you to say.”

***

GRAYSONS POV

My pride is wounded two times over. Good. Maybe that’ll teach it.

Ever since I was a child I had been raised to be a proud man, someone who held their head high no matter what they’d done or in some cases what they hadn’t. I could blame my grandfather for the way I turned out, the man who bred me to be such a foul and malicious creature or maybe my neglectful mother, absent father or a smiling red headed girl who pitched herself off of a cliff edge. But what good I blaming someone when I’m still stuck as myself?

I find myself back at the beach. A place that is both achingly familiar and distant all at the same time. I wonder if the salt in the water will cleanse me of what I have done. As I close my eyes and inhale, I remember pulling her between my legs, telling her she was the only one our first night on this island. I would do anything to go back to that moment.

Why is nothing ever enough for me? I don’t know when to stop, when to feel satisfied, when to recognise I have more than I want. Why am I the way I am? My head is a swirling mess of antagonising thoughts and strangling voices all on top of one another.

Though one is the loudest, one shows me the most.

I hurt her more than I could ever imagine and it’s killing me. Pieces of me are eroding away in the acid coursing through my veins. I can feel myself slipping away, everything growing heavier by the smallest fractions that build up over time until everything just crumbles one day and you look back and wonder what the hell happened.

I have hatred for a lot of people but my most loathed enemy is the man who looks me in the eye every day in my bathroom mirror, the man who shares my name and my blood and my mind. I hate him for hurting her. I want to destroy him for making a single tear slip. I wish nothing but an agonising life for him.

I feel someone sit beside me and I already know who it is. It isn’t the way she moves that gives her away, nor the smell of her perfume or sound of her breathing. I just know. Like I’ve always just known. She sits by my side and stares out to sea, not meeting my eye when I turn to look at her.

“I’m done with this,” she says, her voice stone, cold, “the tension, the arguing, all of it. I’m done with you Grayson. I want to make it clear. When I say stay away from me, you will stay away from me. I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

She’s still looking out, every weighted word is said towards the ocean and still I feel every jab just a heavy on my chest.

She’s so beautiful, too beautiful. I’m selfish in this moment for almost being glad she came, just so I could look at her, really look at her one last time. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, as well as her nose slightly pinkish. Long thick lashes curl up to almost touch her eyebrows. Her lips only taunt me in their perfection, rounded and red, making my desire to take them into my own that little bit more violent.

I understand what she wants, but I don’t want her to want it. But I have to give her this, if I truly love her, I have to let her go. But if this is the last conversation we ever have, I don’t want it to end here.

“What do you remember from last night?” the question escapes my lips before I can filter it.

Still she does not meet my eye, “are you not listening to me?” she’s agitated, annoyed and desperately trying not to glare at me in fear of making eye contact.

“I will do whatever you ask,” I tell her, praying she could hear my earnestness, thick in my throat, “I promise you-“

She scoffs cutting me off, “yeah because promises went far last time.”

A pang of shame attacks my heart, it aches and pulsates in agony. It’s my own fault and part of me is guilty it isn’t writhing more, I suppose it’s still holding out for some false hope.

“I swear it on my life and yours,” I say, slowly, “I’ll do whatever you ask. But please, please tell me. What do you remember from last night?”

“Nothing,” her voice almost softens, it’s not as harsh as before but not as sweet as I remembered.

It stings. Reality usually does, but I don’t think I’ve felt it this strongly since Emily died. I’d thought maybe somewhere there would’ve been part of her that remembered her confession, part of her that believed it. All I know for sure is I’m not going to say a word about it, I owe her far more than that and despite how much I want her, crave her, need her, I can’t do this to her.

“Absolutely nothing?” I murmur, wondering if words were even being processed by my brain anymore because I don’t remember thinking them.

“I drank a load of alcohol and then went to my room,” she replies briskly, her frostiness returning like an icy sheet on a winters day, “next thing I know I wake up with you next to me.”

“So you don’t remember anything you said?” I push, testing the waters.

If this truly is our last conversation, I need to know for sure that she doesn’t remember anything, that I should forget like she’s already forgotten.

“No and quite frankly I don’t care Grayson,” she groans, eyes blazing with a fury I wasn’t used to, “I’m tired of this vicious circle. You messed up and no amount of apologising is going to save you now.”

“I love you,” I blurt out.

I can’t help it. She’s everything to me and she needs to know it, even if she doesn’t believe it.

She shakes her head, almost sadly, “and clearly that’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” I say desperately.

I understand why she can’t see this like I do. I understand why she won’t consider it. I understand I’ve hurt her beyond her limit.

“This is what I mean by a vicious circle,” she chokes out, “we’re back to the same place again. You tell me you love me, then I ask why you did what you did, you say you don’t know and I can’t forgive and forget it.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I tell her, “but you know it as well as I do, we’ll go crazy without each other. I’m already losing it and so are you-“

“Oh thanks,” she scoffs, sarcasm clinging to her tone, “good way to win me back there, telling me I’m a mental case, real attractive.”

I wince then regain composure.

“You don’t drink,” I say, “you’ve never been a heavy drinker and now what? You suddenly are.”

“I’m allowed to do what I want,” she spits back, “habitual or not.”

Something about the way she is so defensive about being so reckless makes me feel sick to my stomach. I don’t want to be the reason she destroys her health.

“So you expect me to sit back and watch you hurt yourself!” I yell, suddenly angry, more with myself than ever at her.

“Well you’ve had no problem hurting me before,” she snaps, her voice almost acidic.

I fall silent. What is there left to say? She’s right. She has me backed into a corner of speechlessness. I’ve run out of defences to plead.

“You know what Grayson, it’s fine,” she says bitterly, harshly wiping away tears, “people move on I get it but couldn’t you have just said it to my face before you went behind my back? You knew, you knew I was insecure about her and you still went ahead and kissed her. What kind of sick person does that?”

She looks like she’s physically in pain, it agonises me to even watch her, let alone realise that I’m the one who caused this. Guilt consumed me so long ago and yet it feels like my first taste all over again.

“I don’t know how to tell you this again,” I fumble over my words, my hands shaking, “it meant nothing, I felt nothing.”

“Then what made you do it?” she sobs, “what made you do it?”

“I don’t know,” I ramble, “she was there and she was upset and I felt bad and I’d just spent the last 24 hours with her and she reminded me of you and so I got confused-“

“Confused.” she says darkly, she looks livid, “Confused? We’re completely different fucking people, Grayson. Please don’t try and feed me that excuse because it won’t wash with me!”

“I don’t know, I really don’t then,” I reply, holding my hands up to surrender, “I don’t know why this happened or how, all I know is that I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Good,” she snaps, “as you should, now are you done here?”

I look at her longingly, my eyes latching to her body. I don’t want this to be goodbye but if it has to be then I want to remember every inch of her.

“If you promise me you’ll be careful,” I murmur, barely audible.

Her face scrunches up, “don’t tell me what to do.”

“You scared me last night,” I admit, softening my voice.

“I’m a grown woman Grayson,” she sneers, saying my name so coldly I feel it burn in my chest, “I can do what I like, I don’t care if it scared you, get your big boy pants on and get over it.”

“That wasn’t you,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” she laughs gently with a bitterness caught in her throat, “and I thought this wasn’t you but I was wrong too.”

“I don’t want you to waste away because of me,” I tell her.

“Oh, you do like to flatter yourself,” she shakes her head with a sad smile, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

I look at her as earnestly as I can, “I’m serious.”

“Grayson if I scared you so much,” she states simply, folding her arms across her chest and taking a dangerous step closer, “then why not just leave?”

“I couldn’t leave you like that,” I reply with the truth because I’ve lied far too much.

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” my voice cracks, “and no matter how much you scare me that fact doesn’t change.”

“You should’ve left,” she replies coldly, staring dead at me, like she’s trying to keep her emotions in check to defy the glistening tear stains on her cheeks.

“I know,” I respond quietly, “and I tried but you asked me to stay.”

“I was drunk,” she exclaims, raising her voice, “and being an idiot, I didn’t know what I was saying!”

“And if I’d left would you be any happier?” I shoot back, anger taking hold for that split second.

She falters, “no because the bottom line is you’ve hurt me more than I know I could hurt, so nothing you do can be worse.”

My heart throbs.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing the word will never be enough.

“That’s meaningless to me,” she shakes her head.

“I know but I’ll still say it until I’m blue in the face,” I shrug.

“Be my guest,” she replies, stepping backwards, “it’ll still be meaningless.”

She’s stepping away, she wants this to come to an end, she’s scared it won’t. I don’t want to let her go but I will. I ask myself if this is our last conversation. If so, I have to take the gamble.

“Being away from you is torturing me,” I say.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you had your lips on hers,” she only shrugs in reply, opting for her stony tone, unsympathetic eyes meeting my own pleading ones.

“I know it’s torturing you too,” I whisper.

The world comes to a standstill for a moment and I feel like I’m in a place between life and death. A surreal sort of slowed experience where it doesn’t feel quite real but not quite synthetic either. Waiting for her to reply sucks the oxygen from my lungs.

“Of course it is, you idiot,” she groans, “I’ve got double the torture because not only am I now alone, I was betrayed by someone who I thought loved me.”

“I do love you,” I tell her.

I hope she can hear the emotion in my throat. She knows me well enough to know I could hide it, but I don’t want to. I want her to know that I feel more for her than I’ve ever felt for anyone else on this planet. I need her to know that she is everything to me.

“Empty words Grayson, all of them,” she replies. It’s what happens when you hurt someone so pure too many times, you ruin them. “The ones you said before and the ones you’re saying now, they’re meaningless to me,” she shrug.

It feels like it’s the end and it is consolidated as so when she walks away from me. She’s finished, she’s done. War is over.

But selfish me can’t let her do that, selfish me is still fighting, selfish me is taking over my brain and selfish me needs to try one last thing, as awful as it is, he has to.

“No they’re not,” I say loudly.

She stops, frozen in place. Her head whips around, fast, “are you seriously doing this?”

Her eyes blaze with the purest of fury. I begin to think I’ve done the wrong thing, but there’s no turning back now.

“You told me you loved me last night,” I blurt out.

I can’t believe it’s come to this. I hadn’t wanted it to but I don’t feel regret. I can’t hide this from her too.

She stares me dead in the eye, “I know.”

The wave of shock almost knocks me flat.

“You know?” I gape, jaw dropping. This whole time she knew and she just didn’t say anything.

“Of course,” she tusks, rolling her eyes, “I said the stupid words.”

“But you said-“

“I lied,” she snaps sharply cutting me off.

My eyebrows furrow, “why?”

“This reason,” she points to the both of us as my eyebrows draw together even tighter, “to avoid this.”

“What is this?” I ask. I need to clarity, I need to know what’s going on inside her head.

“This conversation,” she says, “I don’t want it.”

“Why?” I ask again, the painstaking monotony of the word making me feel like a petulant child.

“Because,” she meets my eye and her voice wavers for a moment, “I don’t want to look you in the eye and tell you it’s over again, because this time I don’t think I’ll cope.”

“Then don’t tell me it’s over,” I blurt out.

I never think straight when she’s involved, it’s always this mess of chaos in my brain and I say and do things without thought, without fear, without overthinking,

“But it is Grayson,” she replies, pain ripping through her voice, “it was over the moment you put your lips on hers.”

“I don’t love her,” I tell her again, she’ll never hear it enough but if I stop saying it I fear she’ll believe I do.

She shakes her head and her bottom like trembles, “that doesn’t change what happened.”

“How can I prove it to you?” I ask, trying to reach out for her in my desperation, “what can I do?”

She moves away so my hands can’t clasp hers. I’ll beg her in my hands and knees if I must.

“Grayson you have to understand that I can’t trust you anymore,” she explains, “and how can I be in a relationship with you if I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, “but we could try, you could rebuild the trust.”

She pauses for a long while, not moving, barely breathing. She limbs rest still as she analyses me, her eyes trailing up and down me slowly until they finally meet my eye and stop themselves from wondering. I can only hope she sees how much I mean it, the eyes are the window to the soul, she once told me. How clear is that window now?

She takes one step in, a single tear glistening as it rolls down her cheeks, “how do I know you don’t love her,” she whispers.

I take her face into my palms and I kiss her, deeply, smoothly. I say a thousand words without uttering a sound and I already know she feels every single one of them before we’ve stopped.

We break away naturally, “because I didn’t kiss her like that,” I say breathlessly.

“I won’t forgive you with just a kiss,” she shakes her head, pushing me away gently, “you can’t win me over with sweet talk.”

“I know,” I murmur, fingertips lingering like a ghost touch on her hips.

“And if we’re going to be us again it’s going to take time,” she responds, taking a step away so my hands fall from her body and we’re just two people looking at each other, “a long time.”

“I’m fine with waiting,” I tell her, “I’ll wait forever just to be with you.”

Every word is the truth, every word I mean.

She looks at me and I can’t quite read her, though she looks in deep thought, “you have the next stage of the game now,” she reminds me quietly.

“I don’t care,” I shrug.

And I don’t. This stupid game has caused me nothing but misery and I don’t want any part of it anymore.

“Go,” she whispers with a smile that still looked sadder than usual, “I need time.”

My heart clenches.

“Forever, I’ll wait forever.”

a/n: ahhh it’s so bittersweet to end this series!! I can’t believe how much it grew, starting from that one little fic to this whole story I somehow created?! special shout-out to @inmyheaddd and @midiosaamor for being my biggest cheerleaders 💘💘 I love you with all of my heart and thank you so much, but also thank you so so so INSANELY much to anyone else who had liked, commented or read this fic, it means more than anything to me

okay so this is PROBABLY a controversial ending because she doesn’t get back with him but she doesn’t not get back with him, I’ll leave the decision to you guys… (I know it leans towards she probably will BUTTTT hear me out: this is fiction and I wanted the main character to end with with grayson and I think it’s not like she just got back with him, she has conditions, she’s being cautious, but her love is so overwhelming that she still wants to be with him even though he brain is telling her no)

ANYWAYS i hope you enjoyed this final part, a little bit of me is scared it’s too underwhelming but I liked it :)) thank you all again <33

TIG masterlist

[dicklessthewonderclown]

Do you have any advice for someone who wants to write fanfic but gets too in their head about grammar and it feeling choppy?

absolutely!!

the biggest piece of advice i have is to just keep writing. no one is going to be the second coming of shakespeare the moment they put pen to paper. the only way to improve is with practice. i know it’s super easy to get into your head about it, but just keep going

the other big piece of advice i have is to write for yourself. write things that you want to write, things that you want to read. make yourself your target audience, not anyone else. along those lines, don’t feel pressured to post your fanfic. you can write a story and let it sit in your google drive until the heat death of the universe. you don’t have to share your writing with anyone if you don’t want

writing is something that you’re supposed to enjoy doing. the process of coming up with ideas, planning them, and watching them come to life under your fingertips is supposed to be fun. if you aren’t enjoying it, or you need to take a break for a bit, don’t force yourself to keep writing. doing that only makes you associate that shitty feeling with writing. on a similar note, you don’t have to finish a project if you don’t want to

you don’t have to write long, intricately plot driven fics. when i was getting back into writing fanfic in college, i wrote exclusively oneshots. i still write a lot of them. i have trouble staying on task over the course of days, weeks, even months. oneshots are so much fun, and they’re also an incredible way to get a lot of practice- instead of writing a 50k fic, you can write 10+ fics under 5k words. you get to develop so many different ideas and get a feel for how you write

kinda cliche i know, but you are your own worst critic. it’s very very easy to read something you wrote and go, “holy shit this is hot fucking garbage.” but i promise you that you’re nitpicking things that other people won’t even notice

and finally, your fanfic does not have to be perfect. nobody expects perfection. imperfection is a part of the human condition, and it’s part of what makes art (of any kind) beautiful. because it gives the world the tiniest glimpse into who you fundamentally are. whatever you do, don’t go to ai. even if it’s just to ask it how to improve your writing. it will not help. and doing so will stop you from ever improving at all

best of luck dude !!

[seijorhi]

Good day (or night) Rhi!!! I've been reading your stuff since 2021 or something, wild ride. And I have to say pressing on reading that one Oikawa Yandere fic of yours (Bully I think?) 4 years ago was ONE OF THE BEST DECISIONS OF MY LIFE. Like no shit your fic changed my life now I read them everynight as my bedtime story and you're one of my most my fav writer, not just yandere. You and your writing inspired me so much, so even though we're just strangers on the internet, please take all my love Rhi!!! ﾟ+.ヽ(≧▽≦)ﾉ.+ﾟ

Anyway enough with my rambling. The thing is All In has been my new obsession lately (not a surprise), have been rereading it too many times and deliciously chowed down on the answers you gave on other asks. Truly life has been beautiful. And I have some questions for you if you don't mind how far behind this ask is:

What did the trio do after they got the reader to their nest?

Considering how sick she was, did they at least give her some times to recover physically and adjust or just jump straight to the sexy stuff with the excuse "she's their beta, she can take it"? 👀

And lastly how was poor reader's reaction of waking up in a strange room smelled and filled with the predators that kidnaped her, knowing she was fucked??

Lots of love, thank you!! ❤️🌹

ahhh thank you thank you bby!! bully feels like a lifetime ago but then so does the start of this blog tbh

as for all in, it's straight to the nest. i would say straight onto a knot but the tendou and semi aren't heartlessly cruel, and unlike ushijima, they're not in a rut – they've got all the time in the world to work their girl up to taking their knots. don't get me wrong, it's still gonna hurt, and she'll be sore for a while yet, but it won't be the violent frenzy it was back at the restaurant.

for her part, it's a mixed bag. she's angry and terrified and hopelessly fucked, but the mating bond's working against her – she'll feel her pleasure AND theirs. physically, she's doing better than she has in days. she wants to hate them and claw their eyes out, she wants to bury herself under the covers and scream through tears. she can't bear their touch, can't bear it if they stop. every orgasm is twice as intense. it's everything she thought she wanted delivered on a golden platter in the worst possible way.

[pleaktale]

(this reblog starts on the 4th lol)

IS HE SEARCHING FOR US FOR DAYS???? JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

wait why am I crying why is this so beautiful in a way (and why did I relate Reader being a noxian to being a woman nowadays- like, we have to be this and be that and people think we don't have our moments of vulnerability but when we have is something to be ashamed of or made fun of- ok ill shut up)

I want to cry he's so sweet :(

NOOO HE WANTED TO TOUCH HER :(((((

THEY BROKE OUR HAND?????????? ARE YOU KIDDING ME ARTIST'S WORST NIGHTMARE RIGHT HERE

jesus christ this is a suicidal mission after all why didn't I see this coming katy when i catch you

I legit feel like crying of emotion from how well you write these dialogs like wdym this isn't real??? THIS IS OBVIOUSLY REAL LIKE ??? HELLO??? WDYM IT CAME FROM YOUR HEAD

do you see this world building??? katy I want to be you when I grow up

"this is why I liked you from the get go." DON'T MAKE ME CRYYYYYYY AHHHHHHH

jesus christ I've only read like 1/6 of it what the fuck

I CANT BREATH WITH FIGHTING SCENES HELP MEEEEE AHHHHH

"Looks like you didn't learn your lesson after Jinx, huh?" KATY WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IMMA NEE DTO THROW HANDS WITH YOU

WE ARE SO BADASS LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

HELLO WHAT IS THIS IS THIS A THROWBACK IS THIS MEMORIES WHAT IS THIS KATY WHAT IS THIS

OH FUCKING HELL GET BACK YOU DEMON WHAT THE FUCK

oh my fucking christ I literally got chills

oh the way he softens seeing us awake :( i dont want to continue i know this will end i dont know if this will end good though katy im scared of you

(long time skip on my end, now it's feb 8 😭)

the way he gets curious but then R feels how it is like to be asked was a kick to the already beaten me

VI WAS VISITING!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰 HI POOKIE DOOKIE

Vi is literally that "it's always me and you and you and me and your friend STEVE-" but because she sees this thing going with the both of you ☺️

HE ACCEPTED TO HELPRK29WAAAAA😭😭😭😭😭😭

katy what tbe fuck I literally cried when we were on Mrs. Talis interview I could hear her old and shaky voice but I don't even know how she sounds like????,

INVITING HIM OVER 👀👀👀

one answer to that particular scene: 🧎‍➡️ folded

SIR HELLO ARE YOU TRYING SOMETHING OR SHOULD I GET SCARED

he didn't go away 😭

oop, hiding Viktor are we? I see you Katy 🧍

THESE TWO DUMB MFS PLAYING LIKE HIGH SCHOOLERS ON THE LIBRARY 😭😭😭😭😭 UGH

WAIT SO THAT'S WHY YOU TALKED TO ME ABOUT PORO YOUUUUUUUU *shakes you*

I'll literally give you the world for this little jealousy scene with Steb I swear to god 🧎‍➡️🧎‍➡️🧎‍➡️🧎‍➡️ "So.. you and Steb?" AJBSIWRKOQ*+*#¥×#?¥+*#×¥$ BARKING CLAWING THE WALLS PINCHING MY ARM AHHAHHAHRJWJAA

KATY I OWN YOU THE FUCKING WORLD

still scared because there's a shit ton of words still and for you to make this into tension again takes two words 🧍

Bite Marks

Pairing: Ekko x fem! Reader

Word count: 18.6k

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), CW food mentions, TW death mention, body horror, CW violence and injury, TW blood and gore, alcohol mention. Slowburn, Part 3 of ink and bedrock, noxian! Reader. Spoilers for s2.

Ekko Masterlist

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Part 2 <<< Part 3 >>> Part 4

Ekko has been all over Zaun and Piltover, his board leaving trails of green smoke as he looks for you and the familiar shade of red you always wear. As the hand on his pocket watch ticks, his concern grows larger.

His first stop at the Vyx was hours ago, earning a shocked look from the business’ madam. He even tasked a few of his firelights to look for you after he combed the entirety of the lanes. While the search goes on, his worries eat at further. The wind turns harsh, cold and nipping at his skin while he hovers around at quick speed. Then, a last minute decision comes to mind, he turns his board around, twisting expertly around buildings to get to the docks where Sevika's place is near. Maybe she saw you, or better yet, you're there for another extra interview.

As he flies overhead, his eyes are cast down on the ground in hopes that he'll see you walking by. His heart almost sinks down to his stomach when he sees your noxian red jacket floating in the waters of Zaun. He drops down immediately at breakneck speed.

The water feels cool under you, waves crashing against your clothed legs, skin raising into pinpricks of goosebumps. Ekko finds you half submerged in the waters of Zaun, baptized by its tides, mixing in with your blood.

His boots crunch under the pebbled sand, footsteps measured and quiet as if he's trying not to startle a doe trapped in the jaws of sharp metal. Eyes roaming over your sitting form, legs folded on itself, arms embracing your body close— your blank eyes stare at the fading sunset in the horizon. Its hues paint you in its orange and pink glow, illuminating your swollen cheek, shining a light on your injuries.

The docks are quiet this time of day, no workers running around and trying to finish their quota for the day. No ships passing by, or machinery beeping and whirring above the sound of the waves.

Seagulls squawk above, wings flapping as they fly off into the sunset. The air feels fresher near the water, the cool breeze feeling like needles upon your heated skin. Your breath is shallow as you intake air, fists shaking as it remains tightly closed.

Ekko remains standing next to you, his own mind reeling from the sight of you, you whom he thought was invulnerable, tough like raw metal; and incapable of being the small form balled next to his feet. You're a force to be reckoned with, a noxian who's not afraid to bite. And yet, you sit on the banks shared by Zaun and Piltover, looking like a lost child.

Ekko knows this feeling well, having lived through it a dozen times before. He remembers the day he lost everyone he ever knew in a single night— the blank stare he had, the tear stained cheeks, and the hidden anger swirling in his eyes. All he ever wanted that day was for someone to stay with him, not to speak of apologies or comfort. Just for someone he knew to be there for him. So he sits down wordlessly next to you, following your heavy gaze to where the sun fades down into the water. The sky slowly turns a dark blue, as if waving goodbye to you.

A minute passes, then five, then ten, and he's still sitting there with you, his own lower half drenched in the water together with your own, his presence warming you. Your plan was for him to get used to you so that he'll slowly warm up to you— But you hadn't realized that he has done the same to you. With him just being there alone could help calm the buzzing in your ears, wave away the rose scented wind wafting across your bloodied nose to be replaced with the smell of seared metal and mint.

You open your split lips, wheezing a sharp exhale before speaking. Your lungs aren't any better than the state of your face. Chin placed atop your knees, the previous sunlight is now replaced with the street lights, its harsh white light not doing you any favors.

“S–Sorry, you must've been waiting for me back at the hideout.”

“I thought you were going to see Sevika?” Ekko still sits right next to you, eyes roaming all over your swollen and broken face. He notices your rolled up sleeves, free of your usual crimson jacket that now reveals battle scars dotted along your arms. Pinpricks of raised skin, marks left by a blade, long elongated scars that still bear the pain it once had.

“That was last week, Ekko. We finished last week.” You gesture with your head towards the councilor's home further away by the docks. Its towering roofs are unmistakable. Your shoes are completely drenched under the lapping tides, the water ebbing upwards and wetting more of your clothes. “No one's home anyway, I think she's stuck in a meeting at Piltover. My other interview went well at least, despite, you know.” Your hand ghosts all over your swollen face.

“Why didn't you fight back?” His voice is soft, not laced with a condescending tone or a reprimand.

For once, you think he's concerned about you.

“How'd you know I didn't?” You glance at him as best as you can with your black eye, seeing his hand reach towards you. His trepidation wins over him before retracting his hand back to his side.

“Your knuckles, they're pristine, spark.”

You chuckle at the use of the nickname, eyes flitting across your fists before unfurling them despite the throbbing pain on one of your wrists— all the while hiding the fact that your assailants might've broken your dominant hand.

“Guess they are.” They're as unclean as the dirt under your nails. “They ambushed me is all.” A moment passes between you as you let the cool water kiss your skin, drenching you and Ekko further and further with the rise of the tides. “I–I didn't want to fight, how would that look if they found me with their bodies? It could cause another crisis. Have another war on our hands.”

“They wouldn't be dead. You wouldn't have killed them.” He cranes his neck towards you, brows knitted together, eyes glimmering under the light.

“You don't know that, Ekko.” Your eyebrows furrow, fists opening and closing to shut your anger down. “I could've— I could, I know I can.”

“So you didn't bother to fight back?” He inhales, reeling in his anger that was untoward. Remembering that you're not the enemy. “Did you see their faces?” He gently takes your shoulder, eyes shining in the light as he stares at your split lips, swollen eye and bleeding brow. “Did they—” he inhales shakily. “Did they do anything else to you?”

You shake your head, hand gingerly wrapping around his wrist. He thinks you're about to pull him off of you, but you don't. Instead you run your thumb across the inside of his wrist. “They didn't. They took my bag and my pen before running off. I guess they were still afraid of me so they whacked me on the head and kicked me a few times before bolting off.”

Ekko nods, guilt written on his face. You know it well. “Or they were afraid of me.” He lets go, hand falling back on his lap.

You laugh despite the ache on your face, grin subsiding when you see his serious face. “Oh, you were serious? Yeah, sure, probably, bossman.”

He huffs, head shaking with a subtle smile. Another silent moment passes, it's a comfortable silence that has your mind finally calming down. His palms gather pebbles next to his legs, balling them together and picking up bits of colourful sea glass.

“That's pretty.” You say as he holds a blue sea glass in the palm of his hand. “Did you used to gather them up when you were a kid?”

Ekko reminisces, lips curling into a small bittersweet smile. “Off the record, spark?”

Chuckling, you scooch closer to look at the sand, pebbles and sea glass all bunched together in his hand. “Off the record, firefly.” Smiling, your index rummages through the pile, finding a bright emerald glass that reminds you of the shape of your old home. It's smooth around the edges, sheer but opaque enough to let the colour show.

“A few times.” He pockets the blue glass before picking up the green one and raising it above the two of you to see the light reflect on its smooth surface. “Used to swim here too, before the water got too murky and smelled of shit.”

“Now it doesn't smell like shit, thanks to you and Sevika.”

Placing the glass back down, he flips it in between his fingers. “I did it for my people, so the kids could experience what I had.” With a glance at you, he pockets the green sea glass before handing the pile on your waiting palm. “Why do you do this?” Blurting out, he expects you to glare at him, instead, you continue to rummage through the pile, wordlessly letting him continue. “You're noxian, you're doing something against your own people.”

You hum, tired eyes finding a shard of red sea glass among the pile of rocks. “I could be from Demacia or from Ionia, being noxian doesn't change anything. I hate their warmongering, a lot of us share the same sentiment, but not all of us. Not enough.” Heart stuck in your throat, you take the crimson glass, dropping the rest of the pile next to your feet, watching it plop down in the water. “That's why I'm doing this, the more people who know the effects of what they've done to the other nations, the more people would be against it. Something has to change.”

“What if it doesn't work? That you running around Piltover and Zaun would be for nothing?” He ducks to meet with your downcast eyes. “That you getting hurt would be for nothing.”

“Well, someone has to do it.” You smile sadly, “after this gets published for the whole world to read, I–I may not be able to go home.” The shock is evident in Ekko's brown eyes as he settles in on the sadness of your tone. “The moment I step foot in Noxus I— they could kill me for what I've written.”

Ekko inhales sharply, brown eyes scanning your features for a lie. He finds none. “They can't do that just because of it.” A half lie. He truly doesn't know that they would, only that they could be capable of it.

“They have. And they will. There are forces in Noxus that the world will never see, or even hear of.” Your eyes fill with unshed tears, a sob threatening to escape from your throat. “My professor was supposed to be here with me, did you know that?” Looking at Ekko, you see yourself in his eyes, finding the same hurt you have in those pools of light. “She lived a hundred lives, wrote more than anyone in the world has, dedicated her life to the truth. And she— she should be here, not me.” You throw the red glass angrily into the depths.

You stare at the ripples it has left on the water until it reaches you. “Mel found me in the bottom of a bottle, blacked out drunk just after I found out.” You grimace at your previous pitiful self. Ekko listens intently with an open heart. “She trusted me enough to continue my professor's work. I promised them both, Ekko.” Moving your head towards him, the tears flow freely from your eyes, mixing in together with your determination. “So please, we need to trust each other for this to work. Right now as we're talking, people in Ionia are dying from the hands of my own people, and people barely blink an eye at it. The entire time I've been here I've only seen the war mentioned in the papers twice. Twice!”

Heaving, you feel his arm hover above your back unsurely. You blink the tears away, wiping it with the crook of your elbow. “I may not be able to stop what's happening there, but I can warn people about it. Tell them their strategies, their ways of conquering so people would know how to defend themselves when they come. Noxus is on a conquest, and the entire continent is on its path.”

You continue as his eyes morph into worry. “Piltover was a lesson to them. Something to learn from so they could be better the next time. Bolder, and more terrifying than the last.”

“They're planning something, aren't they?” Ekko's eyes narrow angrily, mind going back to the fight.

“Mel thinks they are. They hate Piltover and even Zaun just because you helped. They could be, knowing what they're doing in Ionia right now. There's also that shit back home,” you spit out, cursing their very being. “Let's hope that they're too busy fighting themselves to set their sights back here.” You switch to a more light hearted tone after wiping down the tears gathered in your eyes. He seethes next to you, feeling his warmth ebb closer to your own form. So you try to calm the storm within him. Nudging him, you gently smile. “They hate you over there.”

“Do you?” He raises a questioning brow, air feeling much lighter than before as he stares at your unwavering smile. But the dark feeling still looms over his head, simmering into his hundreds of worries.

“No, I don't. I get why you've closed yourself to others, built a wall around you. I know it too well.” You sigh, hands rubbing along your arms for warmth. “And I don't hate you, Ekko. I rarely like people and I guess you're one of them now.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” He uses your own words against you. His small smile fills your chest with comfort.

“Finally got the boy savior to smile.” Beaming at him, the lamp light illuminates your features.

He inhales, twisting around to face you fully, leg propped up with his elbow resting atop his knee. “If you want me to trust you, you need to tell me the truth.” His instincts still defy him from trusting you fully. “Who are you really? Before you took up a pen. And no more lies.”

“I…” you swallow down your trepidation, palms balling into fists before releasing the pressure. The scars on your skin feels like it's on fire. “...Was part of a guild back home, not the kind that weaves baskets or sells shit. The kind you didn't want to mess with. If you got the gold then we get the job done. Whether it's messy or clean, we do it. Then I was briefly in the noxian legion after my father pulled rank and dragged me into their shit show. I thought I would be doing good back then, until the real fighting started. Barely a fight when your enemies couldn't defend themselves.” You shake your head, regret spilling from your words.

Ekko listens with a stiff lip. “Then after a couple of years I went home and I found him—” you hesitate for a moment, choking in your own words. “My younger brother— passed and I was lost. So I went back to the guild, stained my hands for gold so that I could be worthy of a noxian death just like they have.” Shutting your eyes, you let a tear escape before exhaling and opening your eyes to see the open waters of Piltover. “Until I came across my professor. Or rather, I saw her on the end of my gun.” You chuckle at the memory, chest heavy with sorrow. “Can you believe that she managed to talk me out of killing her?”

“She must've been something.”

“She was.” You smile, nudging Ekko gently with your shoulder. “I had to lie to the council, Ekko. I told them I'm just a historian so they'd let me do what I need to do. If I told them I used to… they wouldn't have let me. My promise would've been broken before I could start.”

“You lied to the council?” He's impressed based on the tone of his voice. “What else have you lied about?” He challenges you with his sharp gaze.

“I actually did study under my professor. Straightened my life out, got my degree, masters. And got more degrees. I've got a talent for it, you see.” You proudly say. “I cut ties with the legion and the guild way before that so you don't have to worry about more noxians popping in the undercity looking for me.”

His brows knit together, trepidation on the tip of his tongue. “You must've been too young to do all that shit.”

You chuckle without humour. “They start you young back there.” Your tone wavers as you stare back into the dark depths, aching legs now stretched in front of you, watching the water lapping across your legs.

“Anything else?”

Humming, you feel the hard rocks underneath your palms, anchoring you back into the present. “I have no one else back home. Parents are long gone just a few years after my brother.” You shrug, shivering in the calming cold. “Everything else I've told the council and you were truthful.”

“And Mel? Did she know about you?”

“Yes. I thought she was going to recruit me like her mother did years before, and I almost fought her because of it.” You remember the day she trespassed in your own home only to find you almost passed out from drinking the day away. Good thing you blacked out before threatening the younger Medarda with your sword.

“I would pay good money to see that.”

“Is that a joke? Coming from the boy savior himself?” You smile, chuckling softly as you look at him.

“I—” his own smile fades, eyes darting behind you. “Right in the fucking open.”

Following his gaze, you see a familiar group a few ways away on the shore. They look weary and worried as they wait in front of what looks like a broken down building. The two of you watch as a large man opens the door and lets them in with a simple wave. It's a shimmer deal.

“Oh, now I remember what I'm doing here. Must be the concussion making me forget.” Standing up, you stretch your throbbing neck and dominant hand that's definitely broken from how you were shielding yourself from their onslaught of beatings.

“What? I know you want to help but you're injured.” Ekko clicks his tongue at you, arms crossed over his chest.

“They're the ones who took my pen, Ekko.” He gives you a pursed look. “Just like you, I don't do anything half assed. I heard them whisper about where they're trading it before they left me.”

“And here I thought you were here to brood.”

“Oh I was.” Shrugging, you unclasp your belt and pull it from the belt loops to wrap it around your fist in makeshift brass knuckles. The golden buckle shines under the moonlight, the carved rune on it taking Ekko's attention briefly. “I'm going to take back what's mine, Ekko, whether you let me or not. I'll hold back my punches, don't worry.”

“You can barely see straight and you're still bleeding. At least let me call for backup—”

“They'd be long gone by then.” You step in front of him, standing toe to toe with him in ankle deep water. “I've been hurt worse before.” Your walls crumble further down as you stare into his deep chestnut eyes. “The pen was my brother's. Please let me take it back.”

With apprehension, Ekko nods once. Before you could race towards the dilapidated building, he takes your hand gently to pull you away. “We need a plan.”

You smile, “this is why I liked you from the get go.”

—

Your banging fists against the metal door resonates throughout the whole building, shaking it at its core.

“Help!” Kicking and screaming, your throat pinches in your neck. What must've been a minute of yelling, the rusty door swings open, revealing the same man from before. His metal jaw tightens at the sight of your beaten up face. “Sir, please help me! I've been robbed and I just need—” just as planned, the same crew who ambushed you stands inside the room with a shimmer dealer. “Them!” Pushing past the metal jawed man, you manage to take him by surprise and even make it halfway inside the building before he captures you in his arms. “Where's my shit?!”

“It’s the noxian!” The one who held a gun to your temple says. Everyone seems to freeze up in place. Your pen and satchel is in his hands, ready to be traded, while the other is in the middle of exchanging it for a whole bundle of purple vials.

“You brought a fucking noxian here?!” A sharply dressed woman with face tattoos exclaims, worried eyes roaming over your form.

Now that the haze of pain from before has ebbed away by the rush of adrenaline, you now realize that the same crew who took your belongings and beat you were the same ones who tried to rob you on your first day in Zaun. Ekko's not going to like this.

With a swift back kick to the man's groin, you're free from his grasp as he kneels down on the dirty ground, groaning and tearing up. Running at quick speed, you raise your arm above your head as if you're shielding yourself from the sun. Your eyes hone in on them like a predator hunting its prey. Body moving on instinct, as if you never left the fighting behind. You barely make any noise from your rushed footfalls.

The sheer terror on each of their faces was worth almost getting captured. Luck seems to be on your side for now.

“Shit!” The group braces themselves, a few raise their weapons, guns and knives aimed at your form.

Just as you're near them, the glass roof above the building shatters. Glass shards fall like rain upon their shocked faces. With a streak of green light, Ekko drops down, hoverboard whirring as he strikes the dusty ground with his green clock arm weapon, twisting and turning around them on his board, collecting them in the middle and creating a whirlpool of dust and smoke to hide you from their eyes.

While they're too distracted by Ekko's tornado-like movements and the dust in their eyes, you tighten your hand around your belt that's still wrapped around your fist. The golden buckle glows, yellow light appearing around you like a halo as it creates a shield.

At a mad dash before your opening closes, you make it inside the curtain of smoke, quickly taking your things from the befuddled man in quick succession.

Jumping away and skidding across the ground, you meet up with Ekko just in time for him to stop right where you landed. He grabs you by the waist, guiding you up on his hoverboard.

“Got it?”

Looking down at your hands, you see your pen in your palm and satchel around your elbow. “Got them!” You hold on tight to his waist.

He pats your hand before kicking and flying up. As you fly higher and higher, you see the assailants cough and pick shards from their face and bodies. Serves them right.

“Let's go, Ekko. We'll get them next time—!” Before the hoverboard dashes away into safety, a loud thunk hits the metal fans inside, sparks flying, causing the board to malfunction and fall. “Shit!”

You feel his arms wrap around you as you both fall on the hard ground, puffs of green smoke enveloping around you.

Both of you clatter and split up on the dusty floors. A cloud of smoke trailing behind you as you skid on the rough ground harshly. You groan at the pain blooming on your head, hand feeling numb from how you landed wrong on it. If your hand wasn't broken before, it's definitely broken now.

Eyes wandering to your side, you see Ekko lying a few feet away from you, his eyes are bloodshot, capillaries broken from the fall. His nails dig into the dirt, trying to stand back up.

The hoverboard sparks from a couple steps ahead with a sharp dagger embedded in one of its metal fans. Your head throbs as fresh blood drips down your face, mixing in with the dried ones. Ekko yelps in pain, and you look at him immediately. His face is shoved on the dirt by a boot, and you immediately see red.

The next thing you know, you're up on your feet again, lunging and shocking the tattooed woman. She flinches and hurriedly throws daggers your way. dodging blades, you block it with your glowing rune that's still wrapped around your fist. But it may not be enough when a few nicks your arm and legs.

“Come on, noxian! Show me what you got!” The same one who had her foot on Ekko's head taunts. Her purple eyes from using shimmer glows, mixing in with the golden light the rune emits. Her feet dance with your own, auburn hair flowing as she dodges your frantic and angry attacks as you take her attention away from Ekko.

Meanwhile, Ekko shakily stands up, temple bleeding as his vision warbles for a second before clearing up. The four men look at him with frightened eyes, weapons clutched in their shaking hands. It seems that his reputation has gotten to them.

The firefly leader gets up, crimson flowing down on his lips, staining the ground in red. “Didn't I tell you to go home?” He kicks his hoverboard up, standing it straight into his waiting hands. His weapon is too far away from him to get a hold of, so he settles with the next best thing.

“Noxian gold pays better than being a bartender.” The one with the gun says, “are you running away, firelight?” He taunts, eyes narrowed at the hoverboard in Ekko's hand.

Ekko glances at you briefly, seeing that you're holding on your own despite your injuries, you've gotten hold of your sword again as blades crash against each other. Fixing his stance, he holds the board with two hands like a large bat ready to strike. His mind works on instinct, calculating all the ways they could attack him. And in turn, he plans his retaliation in his head. His breathing evens out, mind settling on a plan, and with a measured step, he bolts off towards them.

His head moves a few inches to the side, dodging a whizzing bullet, feeling the air run by him. Just like he thought it would. Then with a side step, he smacks the nearest man right on his head with his hoverboard, effectively dodging his rusty knife aimed at Ekko's side. Blood gushes out of the assailant's nose, eyes rolling back inside his head as Ekko knocks him out. Fountains of crimson splashing out whilst Ekko dodges again to avoid another bullet aimed at his leg.

Twisting around, his furious eyes hone in on the second man with a butcher's knife shaking in his lithe hand. The man slashes wildly at him, Ekko uses his board as a shield, but one passes through, the blade nicking his forearm. The man uses this opportunity to hack and slash at him frantically, and Ekko staggers backwards.

Then a sudden golden ring of light protects him, he glances at you, seeing that you're protecting him even though you're occupied with your own battle. With the protection, you give him time to immediately push the board towards his assailant and make the man stumble backwards and slam into the one with the gun. It accidentally goes off, shooting his own friend.

“Shit–!”

Ekko pushes and rams them both until they hit a stone pillar, smashing their bodies together on the solid wall. Their heads slam in tandem, a sickening crack bouncing off the walls just like how their heads bounced on the wall. They fall limp, knocked out and bleeding as they slide down the pillar together.

“Get fucked!” The unfamiliar voice says victoriously, spitting out blood as she staggers backwards.

Ekko hears you yelp in pain. Head turning towards you quickly. His eyes widen at your crouched form, your hands holding onto the broken rapier. He yells your name, feet already moving to shield you from the oncoming blow you're about to face. But he gets yanked backwards, hands flying towards his neck, he feels rough leather wrapped around him. Falling down harshly, his body skids across the ground as he's pulled and dragged towards the doorman whom you encumbered beforehand. Ekko didn't see him coming and standing back up from how hard you kicked the man in between the legs.

His choked breaths echo around the building, struggling against his binds whilst the man tightens his hold on him. A hulking arm wraps around his neck. The firelights leader struggles, legs kicking about and nails scratching at the man's arm. Ekko opens his mouth, biting down at flesh, drawing blood. But it barely fazes the assailant.

“I thought you would've fought better, boy savior.” The doorman chuckles against his ear. “Go watch your girl get her shit kicked in. Looks like you didn't learn your lesson after Jinx, huh?” He lifts Ekko up from the ground, making him watch as you receive blow after blow on your face and body.

You take it all in, shield building up but getting shattered almost immediately. The sound of Ekko's choking grabs your attention, mind remembering the same position your brother was in all those years ago. The thorns wrapping around his neck, roses blooming around him before he disappears into the rose scented void.

Ekko's vision fades away slowly, unconsciousness slithering and threatening to hold him down.

You see red, fire engulfing your body.

With a thudding heart, adrenaline fueling your broken body, you launch yourself towards your assailant, yelling a battle cry.

Pushing her down with a firm shoulder, making her fall backwards. You don't waste time in building the rune up with a silent whisper of words you learned years ago during your years in the legion. Clawing your way up to face her, you raise your fist as the golden light encases your whole hand. Quickly, yellow light engulfs the whole room, warmth seeping from your body and flooding everyone’s senses. Her eyes widen in horror as the light turns solid, like molten gold about to drip down on her face and scald her skin. The last thing she saw was the gilded punch meeting her nose, and the sickening crack of her cartilage filling your ears.

Warm blood stains your clothes, mixing well with the crimson tint of your noxian clothing. Spitting out ichor, you quickly grab a fallen dagger, sending it flying across the room and towards the hulking man holding onto Ekko.

He tries to use Ekko as a shield, but with a squeeze around the rune, you shield him with the warm light. The blade grazes the golden hue, harmlessly bouncing off of Ekko but hits the man directly on his shoulder.

The large man falls back, groaning in pain and letting Ekko go.

“F–Fucker.” You shakily heave out, stumbling towards Ekko as he gasps breathlessly whilst crouched on the ground. “Ekko.” He continues to cough out, hand placed on his bruised neck. “Ekko, move!” You now sprint, eyes wide as the doorman looms over him with the whip held menacingly.

With a guttural scream, you shield Ekko with your own body, grabbing the whip with your own arm as it wraps tightly around you. “Enough!” With a pulse of energy, you send it crawling up until it hits the handle and sending the man flying backwards into the wall with a hard thump. Your hands and clothes are smoking, letting out small puffs of auburn smoke. You give a hard yank at the leather, breaking the whip from its handle and tossing the weapon away, your eyes stares furiously at the man.

But he still doesn't give up or cower away, metal jaw grating as he clenches it tightly. You ram him further into the wall with your shoulder, barely making him stumble. So you quickly grab hold of the dagger embedded on his shoulder blade, wasting no time in twisting it until he's on his knees, yelling in pain.

“I said enough!” You scream, voice grating, eyes aflame. The rough handle of the knife fits perfectly in your grasp. “Stay down or I'll make you stay down.” The man nods, but you see a lie within his eyes. Yanking the blade out, you stab him again on the same spot, sending out ribbons of warm iron to splash across your face. He falls limp against the wall, unconscious from the pain and shock.

Ekko whispers your name, voice hoarse.

As you turn around to face him, you see the same woman you fought start to clamber up, crawling towards her fallen dagger.

You step around Ekko, eyeing her down, waiting for her to throw it towards you. Just as you predicted, she aims and throws it.

You raise your arm and shield in just the right time, slowing the blade's momentum until it's fully stopped in between the shield and mere inches away from your face. Grabbing the handle, you twist around, sending the dagger hurling towards her at great speeds. It hits her dead on the stomach. Her screams ring in your ears. You ignore it.

As you turn back around, you give Ekko a helping hand. He looks at your open palm that's stained with iron, then over to your face that's marred with running blood. Your heart clenches at the thought of him being afraid of you.

Instead of flinching and running away, he takes your hand in his. Staining his own hand with the same crimson. He holds onto your arm, and you hold him up with your hand grasping on his back.

“Are you okay?” You ask, tone whispered. Your vision warbles, legs shaking underneath your weight.

“I— that was you holding back?” He jokes, palm placed on the small of your back.

Chuckling, your smile fades as your eyes roll on the back of your head. Darkness encapsulates you, but warmth holds you in place.

“Spark!” Ekko catches you in his arms, hand placed right on your pulse. You feel like you're running a fever. He sighs when he feels your heart still beating, but it's slow. Dangerously slow.

He needs to get you out of here.

—

“Ekko?” Your voice is carried by the breeze as you set foot inside the familiar treehouse. You find him on his desk as usual, back hunched and turned away from you while the single red light of his lamp shines down on him. “I bought sweets as an apology.”

As you step closer, the door shuts close behind you, sucking in any light from the outside. “Are you still mad?” Once the words leave your lips, a searing heat hits your cheeks like a windblown flame carried by the breeze. “Jeez, can we open a window here? Your machine's going haywire again.” Chuckling, you cross the distance towards him, finding the familiar head of white hair. “Firefly?”

Your hands inch closer towards his still shoulder, the second your palm touches the soft cloth of his jacket, his head tilts back at inhuman speed— breaking his neck, bones cracking as thorny vines crawl from his neck up to his sunken cheeks. His brown eyes are now white as sheets, devoid of life.

“No! Ekko!” Flinching back, you hold your screams in your trembling hand, eyes wide as his limp body rises from the chair and floats above you with his arms raised to his sides. “Not him, you bitch!”

The fire in you settles in your chest, pushing you to lunge at the vines holding him up. As you click your pen and summon the gilded rapier, hacking and slashing at the vines— you try to cut him down. Desperately trying to free him.

“No, not him! Take me instead!” Your throat burns as you scream his name. Vines are cut but more replace them with every hit of your sword. “Please! You can't take another!”

Thorns fly from the severed vines, landing on you and piercing your skin in a gush of blood. But you don't stop cutting. Ekko's head tilts to the side, dangling loosely down to his clavicle as he opens his mouth and reveals a rose.

The room smells like funeral roses.

Suddenly, the vines holding him up bloom into bundles of red and black roses. The bulbs open up, revealing faces you've met, people you've cut down with your own bare hands.

The scent is overwhelming, acrid on the nose, a stench that cannot be washed out like the blood staining your hands.

As you look down at your hands, the sword clatters down on the floor as the void spreads around the room, shadows oozing from the torn off faces until darkness covers the whole place.

Your heart feels like bursting from your chest, hands trembling, feet frozen from under you as you look around the domain of chains and thorns. Tears flow down your cheeks freely as you watch Ekko hanging above you.

A silent scream escapes from your mouth when you see who's beside Ekko. There, trapped within the vines, skin pierced with thorns and eyes lifeless— is your brother.

“Hold—!” You reach towards him but you're yanked back by a vine and into the light.

Your head spins on its axis, vision blurry from the bright light shining from above you. Like the sun is in your eyes, warmth sweating through you akin to a fever. Heart beating like a war drum, you can still smell the roses in your nose.

Groaning, you place your hand above your eyes to shield yourself, only to find that your wrist is wrapped in a tight cast. The stark white plaster makes your head ache, a thrumming sensation bouncing around your skull. You feel like you're drowning in mud, sounds muffled and breath heavy in your throat. You can barely feel your fingers, wiggling each of the digits, your relief is palpable when they dance above the cast like rabbits peeking above the snow. You surmise that your wrist is broken.

“Shut the lights off, Scar.” Ekko's voice is the light in the tunnel you follow as the lights dim, and his face greets you from above. He sighs in relief, tensed brows easing up from the sight of your opened eyes. “You're awake.”

“Leaving you to her. I'll tell the others she's alright.” Scar's voice fades away as your eyes try to steady on Ekko's worried face.

Eyes narrowed at him, you purse your lips together, feeling the dry skin crack as you run your tongue over it. You exhale, breath shaky as you let it go. “Ekko?”

“Yeah,” sighing, you don't miss how his eyes wander towards your hand. “Water?” He asks, voice soft.

“Please.” The second the word escapes from your dry lips, you immediately hear water getting poured out into a cup for you. Roaming your eyes around the room, you recognize your surroundings— you're in Ekko's treehouse, all bundled up in his sheets, head placed atop his pillow that still has his minty scent wafting over your nose. “Why am I h–here?” Clearing your throat, he returns with a glass of water for you.

“You don't remember?” He asks permission to touch you, with a quick nod from you, he gently slides his hand on the back of your neck to sit you up. His thumb is placed right on your pulse, feeling your quick heartbeat under his finger.

You shut your eyes as the scene of the fight flits around in your vision. “I–I remember, why am I here?” You croak out the words.

“Drink first.” Ekko instructs, his hand is warm underneath your neck, while the other is cold as he holds the glass near your lips, condensation dripping from his fingertips.

You do as you're told, leaning closer to let him help you drink. The cold helps you feel at ease, senses slowly returning back with every gulp. To help yourself drink faster, you take the glass with your free hand, unknowingly holding Ekko's hand in turn. Water drips from your lips, and Ekko patiently waits for you to finish your drink.

With one last sip, you dip your head back and he helps you gently lay your head against the bed’s headboard. Clearing your throat, you see the bruises on his knuckles, purple hues marring his hands, and lesions along his clavicle and arms. The purple contusion on his neck has you frowning, and drowning in guilt. He places the cup on his work table right next to what looks like your pen sword all broken in half. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the sight of it.

Your brother entrusted you with it and you manage to get it destroyed like everything you touch.

“I was asking why I'm here in your room instead of the infirmary.” Your voice floats above the silence, tone raspy as you take a breath.

“The fuckers are in the infirmary.” He curses and practically spits their names out. “Don't worry, our doctor treated you, not me.”

“I don't doubt your medical abilities, Ekko.” You manage to joke, cheek squished above the hard headboard. The bed is nothing special, the mattress is lumpy but comfortable enough to sleep in, sheets in patchwork cloth that he probably sewed himself. But the pillow under you is soft, perhaps even made with real goose feathers. You softly smile at the thought. “Did you at least get yourself checked out?” There's a sudden tightness against your forehead, reaching above, you now feel the bandage wrapped around it. The pads of your fingers gliding over the rough surface.

“I'm fine,” he says, jaws clamped shut at the way you tug at your bandages. “Here, let me. You're gonna rip your stitches.”

“Whoever the doctor is, tell them that they wrapped me too tightly. I'm still too alive to be mummified, you know?”

Ekko manages to scoff at your joke, a sound akin to a laugh. Crossing the small distance, he gestures for you to scooch over and make space for him to sit next to you. You of course oblige, moving a little as the bed dips underneath his added weight.

“‘I’m fine,’ is the code word for ‘no, I haven't seen the doctor.’ I know it well, I invented that shit, Ekko.” You let him unclasp the bandage briefly and adjust it to a more comfortable wrapping by making sure two of his fingers fit inside it. He smells of dried blood and smoke. It reminds you of home. “Can you let me at least look you over?”

“Are you a doctor now on top of being a historian?” His arm flexes above you as he secures the bandage.

There's a deeper gash on the back of his arm that you notice. You stare at him through your lashes, breath hitching in your throat as you can see every scar and mole on his skin and face. He's too occupied to notice it.

“Technically I am, but not a medical doctor. I know basic first aid from my time fighting.”

“A talented noxian then.” Ekko removes his hands from you, eyes giving you a once over for an injury he might've missed. “I'm fine, spark.”

“The cut on your arm is deep, Ekko.” You poke near the inflamed skin, making him wince and flinch away. “It'll get infected if we don't clean it. At least let me help you with that. I may be down with one hand but I can suture with my eyes closed.”

���I can do it myself.”

“It's on the back of your goddamn arm, unless you want a crick in your neck—”

“If I let you do it will you shut up?”

You smile victoriously. “Maybe.” Shrugging, you watch as he stands up, tongue clicking in annoyance.

While he grabs the necessary supplies, you look around on this side of the room that you never bothered to take a peek at for his privacy. There's a few portraits tacked on the wall, drawings of people he cared for, some you already know— especially the familiar head of blue staring down at you on his bed. You try to close a fist with your broken hand, finding that you can't do that anymore, not while it's still in a cast. Sighing, you keep roaming your eyes around the small space, there's trinkets on his bedside table, a small lamp made from an old pipe. A cracked seashell, a few screws and bolts right next to a recognizable set of colourful sea glass.

The sound of a chair scraping on wooden floorboards gets your attention away from his knick-knacks. Ekko pushes an armchair closer to the bed, the same one you've been sitting on for months. You notice his iconic jacket laying on the seat. Looking outside the window, you find that it's already dawn, bitter blue slowly ebbing away the dark of night— which means he's been sleeping in the armchair all this time, looking out for you. Your eyes brim with hot tears, which you immediately wipe away before he notices. No one has looked out for you since your professor died. Before that, it was your brother.

He notices your stare. “What? I wanted to be comfortable.” Your lips curl into a knowing smile without saying the exact words. “Can you get up?”

“I think so.” You lift both arms up like a child asking to be carried. “I need help though.” You smile wider, eyes sparkling with mischief. Ekko stares at you, brown eyes heavy with lack of sleep glaring straight into your soul. “Don't push it, got it.” You say, sitting up with few resistance from your aching body. And unbeknownst to you he was readying to help you up. Dangling your legs over the bed, you take the box of medical supplies from him and wash your hands with alcohol without another teasing jab as you concentrate on cleaning his wound.

He scooches closer to you, arm folded and lifted above his shoulder so that you get a better view of the gash. As you lean closer with the antiseptic, he sees himself in your eyes. Now seeing the burden that once gathered in the swirling pools. There's tiny scars dotted along your neck and chest that he just now notices. Like the scars on your arms and hands, it bears the ordeal of what you have done back in your homeland before you decided to take a pen rather than continue on whatever path you thought was best for you back then. Whatever it was, whatever you've done, he knows you're still trying to atone for it, carrying it over your shoulders in a lead covered box of grief.

Ekko knows that it took a lot to get where you are now. To be the kinder person than you were before, to cover the jagged lines with cloth, to make the sharpness of your teeth blunt and no longer pierce through skin like razor blades. It hurts to know that Jinx could've done that with time on her hands, if only she had time, she could've been good just like you.

“Ekko?” You call, and his eyes immediately hone in on you. “I was asking, what's gonna happen to them?”

“Sevika.” You nod as you gently tap the cotton of antiseptic on his wound. “One of her people saw what happened, and she called the enforcers to take them once they can breathe through their noses again and not through their mouth.” He intended to only glance at you, but his eyes stayed focused on the concentration on your face. “All I'm saying is they'll live.”

“There goes my reputation with Sevika.” You sigh, relieved that you didn't kill someone on the undercity soil. Your eyes glances towards Ekko's face, only to find him already staring back at you.

“Trust me, Sevika and the council already knew you could fight.”

You scoff, accidentally inhaling a whiff of the strong concoction. “That's a stereotype, Ekko. You know better than that.” Pausing to grab the suture kit, you make a face at Ekko. “They're right though.”

Ekko chuckles breathily, earning a smile at you. “Sorry about the sword.”

“Don't worry, I'll get it fixed once I'm back in Noxus. I'm more of a claymore girl myself anyway.” As you thread the needle, your tongue pokes out in between your lips. He can't help but chortle at the sight of your expression and how hard you're focused on putting the thread into the eye of the needle with one broken hand. “Damn.”

“Here, give it.” Flexing his open palm, you surrender the sutures to him. “It's that deep?” He gestures with his head towards the gash on his arm.

“Yeah, just a bandage over it won't help much.” You sniff, rolling your neck as you stretch the stiffness away.

“You hurting?”

“No, just stretching.” Your nape throbs, but you don't tell him. A comfortable silence settles in the room as he easily threads the needle.

“There,” Ekko hands it back to you and resumes his previous position as you ready the cold needle against his skin. “Where'd you learn this?”

“Short answer, you fight too much and you end up with a lot of stitches.” You chuckle, “deep breath, Ekko.”

“Don't have to—! Shit.” Wincing, he hisses at the piercing pain.

“Told you to breathe in.” Shaking your head with a smile, you continue to suture his gash carefully. “My brother was the one who was doing most of the stitching. He had a steady hand, and eyes that are so clear I swear he could see an ant from miles away.” Smiling at the memory, you remember him nagging you with every stitch he does. But he still does it for you. “After the ninth visit, he finally taught me so I stopped bothering him in his lab. He still does the suturing whenever I bleed on his floor though. He told me I'm shit at it even though I'm pretty much an expert.”

“Is he the one you were dreaming about?” Ekko didn't mean for the words to fall out of his lips, his curiosity got the best of him.

You freeze in place, needle half inside his skin. “I was dreaming? What was I saying?”

“A name.” He answers with a solemn tone. “And mine.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. Hands going cold underneath his warm skin. He can feel it too, so with an apprehensive hand, he wraps your wrist with his fingers, anchoring you to him and in the moment. He knows the feeling, he's awfully familiar with it even though he refuses to acknowledge it whenever it rears its ugly head.

Smiling shakily, you take your eyes off him and continue to stitch him back together with gentleness. “I don't remember the dream. Must've been something though. We fought together and that must've made my brain make up things.” You ramble on. Your eyes dart towards his neck, tears pricking in your eyes from the sight. The pads of your fingers brush along the bruise, guilt felt through the subtle touch. “I'm sorry about this— about everything.”

He whispers your name, voice apologetic and brown eyes swimming with concern. You move away from his touch, quickly and effectively covering his injury with a bandage and some tape. “I'm—”

“My head suddenly hurts.” You try to play it off, finger jabbing at your temple, but the shaking of your hands betrays you. “The doctor said I need to rest, right?”

“Yeah, he said you need to stay here for a few days.” Ekko holds the fresh bandage, lips pursed together. “Look, I'm—”

“Sorry, I know.” Patting his knee, you give him a tight smile. “You just caught me off guard is all. It's okay, really. You're curious. Now I know how it feels to be questioned.”

He nods, but he can't help but feel the guilt gnaw at his chest. “Fine, go rest. If you need anything I'm just here.” Standing up, he takes his hoverboard that's perched on the wall. Dusk lights up his features, hair shining under the sun even with the grime of today's activities mar it.

“Yeah, I'll yell for you.” You joke as you slide back down on the bed and tuck yourself in.

Ekko places his board on his workbench to fix it. “Always a show with you.”

“Hey, it's effective, okay.” You can see him behind the armchair in the same position you always see him— hunched over his work table with his gloves on. “You should rest too, Ekko.”

His head turns to you as he slips on his goggles. “Where? You're on my bed.”

“It's big enough for two.” You tease, fighting a yawn. His pillow is so soft that it's cradling you to sleep.

“Shut up and go to sleep.” When you don't turn around after he clicks on his soldering machine, he sighs and twists back around towards you. “Turn around or I'll blind you.”

“I like watching.”

“Turn around.”

You make a mocking sound, blowing raspberries at him, “my nurse is rude. Absolutely no bedside manner.” You say as you reluctantly turn your back to him.

Ekko fixes his board for a few hours, finding that there's minimal damage at the least. He rubs his tired eyes before sneaking a peek at your sleeping form. Your chest rises up and down, lips slightly parted as your eyes dart underneath your eyelids. You're dreaming again.

When he moves his attention back to the table, he sees your broken sword and weighs the gilded handle in his hand. It wouldn't hurt to try a crack at noxian tech.

—

A familiar knock against the door to the tree house echoes out into the room— one short knock followed by three sharp knocks consecutively. The same signature knock you've been doing whenever you visit Ekko in his tree house.

“In a minute, Ekko!” You say as you pull down a clean shirt over your head. Trying to look presentable even with you being bedridden for three days, you smooth down your shirt and pants before sitting down on the edge of Ekko's bed.

“How'd she know it's you?” Vi's muffled voice sounds out from behind the door.

“Okay, entré!”

The door creaks open, the light outside flooding in as Vi pushes Ekko to get inside first. Making the said man grimace at his childhood friend.

“And they said you won't make it!” Her heavy footsteps follow her as she walks towards you with an arm stretched towards you. “How are you, spark?” She clasps your head, gently patting you and careful of your recent injuries.

“Better, the doctor said I only had a mild concussion and some bleeding.”

“Her hand's broken.” Ekko adds flatly, sitting down on the armchair with his arms crossed and leg over the other. “And it wasn't mild. Not even near mild.”

“C’mon, firefly, I was trying not to worry her.”

Vi watches the interaction with a curious brow.

“She's gonna find out anyway through Caitlyn. There's reports about what happened.”

You puff your cheeks at Ekko before ignoring him and turning your attention towards Violet. He rolls his eyes, yanking off his gloves to stretch his hands. “Where is Cait?”

“She sends her love. *Firefly here doesn't like it when she visits.” She teases, using your nickname for him as ammo. You'd pay big money just to see them during their younger years.

Ekko scoffs, head moving away from Vi but eyes staring daggers at her. “She's persona non grata, Vi.”

“C’mon, man, let bygones be bygones!” Vi claps his shoulder loudly, “that was years ago.”

“You're lucky I'm still letting you in here.” His nose scrunches, face paint folding as he glares at Vi. Thankfully, you already know what they're talking about. Kiramman's task force sending out the grey into the streets of Zaun three years ago still hasn't seen Ekko and Sevika’s forgiveness. “You have ten minutes left by the way.” He checks his stopwatch, its chain dangling from his belt.

Vi sighs, “whatever, firefly.” She turns towards you again, smiling when she meets with your eyes. “I've got your clothes from your place, I hope you don't mind me taking them.” You now notice the paper bag in her hand. You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I didn't snoop!” You narrow it further, lips pursed together. “I swear, I didn't!”

Taking the bag from her with a disapproving shake of your head, you rummage through the pile of clothes, finding that it has everything you need. Hair brush, deodorant, a tooth brush and your perfume.

“You look good for someone who hasn't brushed their teeth in days.” Vi teases with a grin.

“I brushed my teeth, Vi.” You look at her, offended.

Ekko sits up from his seat. “Please don't tell me you used mine.” You smile, eyes shining with playfulness. “You—!”

“I didn't!” You laugh, hands raised in surrender. “Scar gave me a new one, jeez.”

He sighs, sitting back down but without leaving his pointed glare from you.

Vi smiles at the interaction. She sits down next to you, bed dipping down under her.

“Great, everyone's taking my bed now.” Ekko mumbles, jaw clenching in annoyance.

“You took the chair, man!” Vi exclaims, hand gesturing wildly at Ekko. They both settle down as you chuckle at them. “So, tell me what happened?”

You swallow thickly, the stitches in your head radiate phantom pain. “I—”

“She got robbed.” A half lie. Ekko answers for you after noticing your trepidation.

You can't exactly tell her that they ambushed you simply because they're holding a grudge on noxians. Vi will tell Caitlyn and Caitlyn will tell the council, and that might put your position in danger. And your work in danger of being disapproved.

“I did tell her not to flash her money.” He continues, eyes glancing at you briefly. You give him a subtle smile as a quick thank you.

“Well, good thing our boy saviour was there to help you beat them up, huh?” Vi gently nudges your shoulder and pushes Ekko's boot with the tip of her shoe.

“Yeah,” you look at Ekko softly. “Good thing.” With an inhale, you bring your attention towards Vi. “Thank you for bringing my things, Vi, but I won't need it since I'm coming back to the apartment.”

“No, you're not.” They simultaneously say in different cadence. Ekko's tone was more intensely concerned. While Vi said it with surprise.

“What? I'm fine now, trust me, this is nothing compared to—”

“We get it, you're noxian, you're tough and you've seen battles yadda yadda.” Vi mocks a talking mouth with her hand.

“Hey!” You knit your brows at her.

“The doctor said you're still not in a good shape to walk around.” Ekko explains in a much kinder tone this time. “You need a few more days of bedrest.”

“He's right. I'm no doctor, spark, but you're still swaying and you're just sitting in place.” Vi says apologetically, hand placed in between your shoulders to reassure you. Or to keep you from unknowingly swaying.

“I am?” They both nod. “I just don't want to intrude. I've been here for three days and Ekko hasn't slept in his own bed. I need to get back out there.”

“You said it yourself, there's no deadline.” Vi looks at Ekko for backup.

“I’m fine sleeping on the armchair for a few more days, red.” Ekko agrees with Vi. “‘Sides, you're not getting any writing down with your broken hand.” With the mention of your injury, the three of you look at your plastered hand with the many writings and drawings of firelight children that came to visit you.

“I'm ambidextrous.” You blatantly lie.

“I've seen you wield a sword, no you're not.” Ekko tilts his head back, looking at you like you're one of his firelights that needs a reprimand.

“I cannot not write!” You frustratingly say. “What am I supposed to do? Stay here until the doctor cuts this off?” You lift your broken hand for emphasis, waving the cast around. “That will take months!”

Vi hums next to you, eyes darting between you and Ekko. “I've got an idea.”

You pout, eyes trying to decipher her look. “Do you want Ekko to build me a writing robot that can write whatever I dictate?”

“No,” she backtracks. “Smart but no. Wait, can you do that? Like, record whatever she says?” She asks Ekko, awe in her tone.

“That'll take longer than for her hand to heal.” Ekko shrugs, but you can tell that the cogs in his head are turning trying to build your idea in his head.

“Well, in the meantime you can help her.” Vi holds the two of you by the shoulders. Connecting the two of you together.

“How?” You and Ekko speak at the same time.

“Thought you two were smart?” She chuckles, “you dictate.” Her head turns to you, “and you write.” Then she turns to Ekko.

“No.” He flatly says.

“Absolutely not.” You nervously say. “He's busy, and I've still got a lot of interviews to go through. Not to mention my own research at the mines— I'll be running around!” Rambling, Ekko nods with every word, except for when you mentioned the mines.

“That’s exactly why you need him.” Vi intercedes. “You can't write, and he has hands for it.” She takes Ekko's dominant hand and wiggles it about in front of him before he wretches it back with a glare. “And what if you suddenly collapse? Or a bunch of assholes try to rob you again? That cast is a fucking sign that says ‘I’m vulnerable, please rob me!’”

“But—!” You and Ekko share a look.

His watch clicks, a sign that your visitation hours are done.

“Looks like my time is up.” She stands up, clearly glad of the excuse as she smiles at her two flabbergasted friends. “You two can figure it out.” Before you and Ekko could protest again, she's already at the door. “Zaun’s brightest and Noxus' genius together working hand in hand!” Cackling, she leaves the room.

Silence permeates the room, and you slowly turn towards Ekko, who has his fingers pinching the space in between his eyebrows; Mumbling a curse upon Vi’s name.

“She does have a point, unless you already have that robot.” You intend to tease, but you're between a rock and a hard place right now. Maybe you can hire someone to follow you around?

“No.” He sighs, standing up, hands placed on his hips as he thinks.

“I can just ask Steb or—”

“I'll do it.” Ekko stares at you but his eyes avoids your own for a second before meeting your own. He figures that you've only got a few months left in the city before you finish your research so he agrees in hopes that the months will come by quickly. “But on my own terms and schedule.”

A grin blossoms on your cheeks. “You've got a deal, firefly.”

—

“So,” you start whilst munching on a piece of toast courtesy of the firelights mess hall. Ekko sits adjacent to you, eyes looking much better after a certain pink haired woman gave him his own mattress to sleep on after you've made a home for yourself in his room and former bed. You could've moved to a spare room somewhere in the hideout, but truth be told, you're still shaken up from what happened. Ekko's presence was a welcome peace to you. He never protested, and the two of you danced around the situation. “On the agenda today—”

“The doctor just cleared you. Too much spark, spark.” He looks at you over his mug.

“I know,” you shrug, eyes roaming around the open space with its string lights and people milling around during breakfast rush. “I don't want to waste time, genius.”

Ekko sighs, remembering the words genius and madness that suddenly popped up in his mind after years of not thinking about it. Chugging his coffee with a gulp before he stands up and gathering his things, he leaves you on the table.

“C’mon then.”

“Wait, hold on, you haven't eaten your bread yet!” Taking your satchel and jacket, you juggle between your toast between your teeth Ekko's uneaten slice for him to eat while walking. Feeling eyes on you, you see Jericho, the firelights chef give you a glare. “I'm giving it to him!” You reassure him that Ekko gets his daily dose of carbohydrates instead of eating it like he thought you would. As if you’ve stolen Ekko's food. Well, it happened once, and Jericho was the only one who gave you shit for it. You still have no idea how he even knew you did that.

As you run after Ekko, you fall back into pace with him, noticing that he slowed down for you and didn't take off on his hoverboard.

Shaking the piece of toast in front of him until he groans and takes it, you smile victoriously as he finishes it in three bites. The two of you exit the firelights commune, and the undercity greets you with the scent of coffee and steel lingering in the cool morning air.

“So schedule for today.” You wipe the crumbs off of your hands. Opening your bag, you grab your notebook and open it to where you bookmarked it last night. Your chicken scratch writing is evident on the page courtesy of your broken hand. “We have an interview with Mrs.Talis, but we have to make a quick pit stop to my place before we start talking to people.” Rubbing your temple where the ache persists, the action isn't missed by Ekko.

“Why?” He asks, keeping a close eye on the people that pass you by. “You forgot something?”

“Yeah, a pen.” You sigh, missing the weight of the gilded pen in your hand. “I've just been using yours, and sorry, but it's shit.”

Ekko casually brings his hand to his jacket pocket, rummaging through it whilst walking along the streets towards the bridge of progress. His hand feels around the cold cylinder, then without wasting time, he hands the golden pen to you.

You pause midstep, eyes widening at Ekko's hand. “You—” your breath is stuck in your throat. It looks much better than before, shinier as if nothing happened to it. It looks just like how you remember it when it was still your brother's. “—you fixed it?”

He makes a face, nose scrunching, giving you a casual smile as his eyes look behind you while you're distracted. He can't let his guard down, the people who hurt you might be behind bars now, but he still hasn't found the chem baron responsible for it. Apparently after some investigation from the enforcers and Ekko's own interrogation, he found that the said chem baron sees you as a threat. A noxian in Zaun brings less traffic for his business as some people still see you as someone to be feared— that you're in the undercity to put out any remaining flames from the past. He finds the guy, he ends the shimmer production once and for all and in turn would keep you safe. It's easier said than done, especially that you have him by your side every morning throughout the afternoon for three days a week. It's a miracle that he talked you down from making it to six days a week.

“I did.” He says, now staring at the awe on your face.

“How? I've seen people get blasted by ink just because they forced the fucking thing open!” Exclaiming excitedly, you catch a handful of attention towards you and Ekko.

With a casual hand on your forearm, he guides you back to walking further towards the bridge in the distance. “It's delicate,” he says, eyeing a particular man watching you. “You can't force it open.”

“Is that why you got a splotch of ink on you a few days ago?” You poke his side teasingly, feeling how tense he is under his jacket. Making a face you act like you're staring at something behind him. “What's that?”

“What's what?” Ekko quickly turns around trying to find what you were staring with concern at.

Reaching towards his chest, you place your warm palm atop where his heart is. He looks at you, glancing between your hand and your face with furrowed brows. “Quiet, it's beating.” His heart beats louder as you whisper to him closely. “It's beating faster.” You say, feigning shock and awe.

“Right, I get it, shut up.” He pushes your hand away gently, eyes rolling from your joke. Glancing at a shadow near an alleyway next to the two of you, he visibly stiffens.

“You okay, Ekko?”

Turning his attention towards you once the man walks away, Ekko nods and squeezes your arm before letting go. “Yeah, what's on our agenda today?”

Clearing your throat, your smile hasn't faded since you got the pen back in your hand. Clicking it open, you scratch out the first part on your schedule. “Well, we don't have to go to my place anymore so, Mrs. Talis first in upper Piltover, then if we still have time we need to swing by the academy.”

“We'll make time.” He says, eyes stopping by Vander's statue and the eternal blue flower that's always fresh near his bronze feet.

“We don't have to rush, you got hurt too you know.” Nudging his shoulder, you spot him stare at the flower for a brief second before he turns towards you. “Thank you by the way,” you say softly, “for fixing my pen sword.”

“Don't worry about it,” he places his hands back inside his pockets. “We're even now, spark.”

“Nope, I owe you.” You laugh when he glances at you with a raised brow and flat look. “How about…” glancing around, you see the last drop, it's probably almost done based on the fact that they're now putting up the lights. “I’ll buy you a drink once the tavern opens.”

“You won't even be here when it opens.”

“Says who? Stop trying to get rid of me, firefly.”

“You just noticed?”

“I'm hurt, Ekko.” You say as he abruptly stops near the bridge that's now bustling with life. Smiling, you nudge him gently on the shoulder. “Looks great, right?”

“There used to be barriers and spotlights here.” He utters, tone soft and small from the memory. He has flown above the bridge a handful of times before, but he never got too close to see it all.

“I think they scrapped those.” Grinning, you gently take him by his sleeve, urging him to walk through the bridge but not pushing him. You let him go at his own pace. “They have a shop here that gives out free shit if you're a new customer. They have a wheel you can try and it's full of free stuff you can win.”

Ekko closes his eyes for a moment, head turned towards the blue sky. The sunlight bathes him in its glow, illuminating his subtle smile. “Where?”

Grinning, you can't hide your excitement as you tug him along the shops. “Come on! I need to show you where I buy my ingredients and sweets!”

—

Ekko's boots thump quietly on the hallway leading towards a lone apartment at the end of the expansive hallway. The walls are in the signature Piltover colors, pristine white paint and golden accents decorate the space. When he was younger, he always wanted to stay at a place like this. Now that he's older and much wiser, the place feels stiff, something akin to feeling out of place. It doesn't feel like home to him.

“What am I supposed to do here?” He asks gruffly, pausing by the door as you ready your knuckle to knock. He senses your slight apprehension.

“Just write everything I ask and their answer. I'll clean it up once I can actually hold a pen.” Sighing, you stare at the number on the door. “And if you're feeling poetic, you can write what the atmosphere is like, or how they're feeling.”

“How would I know how they're feeling?” He leans against the side wall, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at you with a questioning brow.

“I thought you're perceptive, firefly.”

“Never said I am.” He raises his chin at you, “what are you waiting for?”

“Just…” you inhale, “If you ever decide to get in on the conversation, please remember to be tactful. These people lost someone, and us talking to them would take so much out of them. We're dredging through things they don't want to be reminded of.”

“You said that you don't ask questions if they don't let you.” You nod at his genuine question. “Then why do they let you?”

“Closure. Sometimes people just want to let it all out to someone rather than letting it fester. Even if that someone is a stranger.” Finally, you knock, the same rhythm you always do. You leave Ekko thinking in the corner as the door swings open.

“Can I help you?” A lithe older woman opens the door, peeking through the tiny crack as she looks at you and Ekko with uneasiness.

“Hello, Mrs.Talis, I'm the one you sent the letter to, the historian.” You smile politely, “and this is my assistant, Ekko.” He side eyes you, subtly rolling his shoulders. “I hope you don't mind that I brought someone with me. My dominant hand isn't in good shape.”

She opens the door a bit more, concern written on her face as she knits her brows at the fading bruises and the cast on your hand. “You're hurt?”

“Not anymore, thanks to him.” You gesture with your head towards Ekko, he glances between you and Mrs.Talis for a second. “I'm recovering well, don't worry. And I'm sorry for rescheduling our meeting three times.”

“It's alright, now I know you weren't joking about the reason.” She chuckles, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, I was just putting the kettle on.”

“Thank you.” As you enter, you immediately notice the empty shelves and cabinets where there's still shapes made of dust, as if she took all the decorations out and left the place bare. You and Ekko share a look.

“Please sit down, I'll get the biscuits.”

“Oh, no need.” You show her the paper bag that has pastries you bought just for the occasion. It's missing a couple of pieces from when you and Ekko snacked on them on the way. “We got them from the bridge. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.” She smiles, but you can sense that she's nervous. It's probably the first time she has guests over in a long time. “I'll get the plates.” She scampers towards the kitchen, disappearing from view.

You sit down on the plush couch, placing down the paper bag on the coffee table. Ekko sits adjacent to you on a brown armchair. Rummaging through your bag, you hand him your notebook and pen. “Here, before I forget.”

He stretches over the table to get your things. “I've got my own pen.” He doesn't miss the fact that you've entrusted him with the precious pen.

“Didn't know you're prepared for this.” Chuckling, you smile sweetly at him. “Use whatever you want.”

With a shrug, he opens the notebook, careful not to give the pages a read as he flips through to get to an empty page. He swears he saw a drawing of him in a couple of them. Glancing at you as you look around the apartment, he clicks your pen, ready to take down the interaction.

Eyes roaming around, you see the walls that are covered in old photographs. Some are from what you surmise as Jayce's childhood, the others were pictures of his achievements. From a newspaper clipping, to his graduation picture that sits front and center, his smile is plastered all over the walls. As you look to your left, you see an ajar door, where boxes upon boxes of arcane memorabilia is hidden from view. There are stones that are as blue as the sky, runes carved in various shaped stones. You now know what used to sit on the empty shelves. Eyes narrowed to see closer, you spot a single picture frame where a dusty photo of Jayce and someone you don't recognize stands next to him. You decide to be extra careful with your words during the interview.

Feeling eyes on you, you crane your neck over to Ekko as he gestures towards the kitchen, where Mrs. Talis is currently exiting with a tray of plates, teacups and a teapot.

“Sorry for the wait.” She smiles as she gently places the tray next to the paper bag of sweets.

“No worries, it wasn't that long.” You say as you help her place the pastries on each plate, making sure you give the bigger one to Ekko.

An uncomfortable silence permeates around the room while she pours tea over each cup.

“Sugar?”

“Please.” You smile politely as she hands you your cup.

Mrs. Talis turns her attention towards Ekko, and he shakes his head at her. “None for me, thanks.”

“My partner here doesn't like tea.” You try to lighten the mood. “Says that it makes his nose itch.” Ekko scrunches up his nose at you, face paint folding as he tries not to huff.

“Oh, alright then.” She chuckles, and you smile victoriously from getting a genuine reaction from her. And in turn easing the tension. Taking a sip from her cup, the slight shake from her hand can't be missed as she places it quietly back down on the tray. “Sorry, I haven't done this before.”

“It's alright, just treat this like we're old friends chatting away at a cafe.”

“That's a nice thought.” She places her hand over her heart.

“It is. I'm sorry about your son.” She purses her lips, the words leaping over her head as if she has heard the exact words one too many times for it to matter anymore. You hear Ekko writing away, and you smile fondly at how he's slowly falling into deep concentration like how he usually is when he's trying to fix tech. “How are you, Mrs.Talis?”

She chuckles nervously, fingers picking at the dry skin around her nails. “After everything?” You nod, “I— I don't know really. Just…floating around, I guess. Have we started yet?”

“We have, but if you want we can strike that from the interview.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I—I…feel alright. Getting there.” Clearing her throat, you can see her shoulders stiffen. “I know you're here to talk about my boy, so I won't waste your time talking about myself when there's nothing to talk about.”

“That's not true, Mrs.Talis. I'm here to talk about you too.” You try to get her to ease up, but the way her lips wobble, you know she's still hurting. “We're conducting this research about citizens in Piltover and Zaun. To know the effects of war on regular people. Not just what happened that day.” Ekko, looks at you and then to the anxious woman.

Her sniffs shift through the quiet in the room. You let her take her time, inhaling through the emotions rolling in her. You know that she reached out to you for a reason, to finally get the pain out of her chest even if it hurts more to speak about it. Because saying it loudly makes it real, but not speaking about it would eat at her, chipping away the woman her son knew.

“My son was a good boy.” She says after a minute of silence. “I want the people to know that.”

“The people know that, Mrs. Talis. They're grateful for everything he has done for them.” You say, and the grieving woman takes your hand abruptly. Ekko watches the interaction with a close eye.

“I just— I can't help in thinking that it was my fault.” She squeezes your hand. “You said that we should talk like old friends, this is me speaking like we are.” You nod in understanding, letting her speak her piece. “I warned him years ago. I told him to let it go. But maybe I shouldn't have, I pushed him away further into it.”

“Further into what, Mrs. Talis?”

“Further into the arcane just because it saved me that day.” She continues as you search her tearful eyes. “If that didn't happen, he might be alive, I'd be dead but at least he'd be alive. He was so young, too young for… I don't even know what happened to him up there. They just told me that he was taken by an explosion caused by hextech.” Heaving, she wipes away her tears. “That damned hextech.”

Her sobs echo around the room, prompting you to grab a piece of tissue from your bag and hand it to her. She accepts it gratefully, then wiping away at the fallen tears.

“It wasn't your fault, what happened to him was set off by different circumstances that no one could've prevented or seen coming.” You try to ease her as more tears flow. Your heart weighs heavy at the sight of the grieving mother. Was yours like this when she heard of your brother's fate? You wouldn't know when you chose to run away from it all.

“I know what happened up there.” Ekko's voice has the woman looking up at him. “I was there.”

You trust Ekko enough to let him take the reins, but you can't help but worry that his next words wouldn't bring comfort to the sorrow in her heavy heart. With a nod and a wordless look at him, you let him continue.

“You saw him?” Mrs. Talis stares at him with shock, listening intently at the stranger before her.

“He fought until the very end. He brought me enough time to get the final hit in.” Ekko's eyes shine under the light, soft as he comforts her. “We wouldn't be here if he didn't. He didn't fail.”

“He did all that?” Her sobs turn into a hopeful smile. “Oh my boy.” She turns towards his picture on the mantle, palm placed above her heart. “Thank you.” She tells Ekko tearfully.

You gently smile at Ekko, and he gives you a curt nod. After a while, Mrs. Talis looks over to you with renewed energy. “Can we continue? This time I won't derail the interview.”

“You didn't do any derailing.” You whisper to her with a more playful smile that she gladly beams at. “Are you sure we can continue?”

“Yes, the people need to know about Jayce. I'm not letting my boy dissolve away.”

You pat her hand, nodding at Ekko to continue writing. “Alright then. Tell me if it gets too much and we'll stop.”

—

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Talis—” You say before you're interrupted by a hug from the woman. “Oh.” Patting her awkwardly, Ekko tamps down his chuckles with a hand.

She lets you go, holding you at arm's length. “Thank you, I feel…alright now. Lighter.” Turning towards Ekko, she gives him another grateful grin. “And thank you again, Ekko. What happened up there would've been a mystery to me if you didn't say anything. So thank you.”

“‘Course.” He says, smiling softly at her.

The two of you leave the building in silence. It's midday now and people are milling about the restaurants to grab a seat during the lunch rush.

“Do you want to have lunch at my place?” You blurt out, nudging his side.

“You buying?”

“No, but I'm cooking.”

“As long as it's not sweet.”

“I'm not hearing a no though.” You say with a lilt. He rolls his eyes, but the subtle smile he has on his lips betrays him.

—

The air smells savoury as Ekko opens a window to let out the smoke from the kitchen. You stir at a pot of stew, it was quickly thrown together with whatever ingredients you have in your fridge, but neither you nor Ekko are complaining about it. Your sleeves are rolled up, battle scars unabashedly on display. And Ekko is more casual now that he doesn't have to look over his shoulder and behind you with vigilance. He shrugged off his jacket a while ago, now in his regular tank top and bandana. Twists up in a bun after he helped you chop some vegetables.

“How do you do it?” He asks as he leans against the counter right next to you.

“I just threw whatever I thought would taste good together.”

“Not what I meant, spark.”

“I knew exactly what you meant, firefly.” You pause from stirring, lifting up the wooden spoon to scoop out a bit of the stew. After blowing on the steam, you hand it to Ekko. “Try it. I might've added too much salt.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“Taste the stew and I'll answer it.” You push it towards him until he takes the spoon, hand brushing along your own briefly.

He gives you a narrowed look before sipping at the soup. “More pepper.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Ekko places the spoon on the counter as you shake the pepper shaker a few times before stirring the pot with a new spoon. “The question.”

“I’ve gotten used to it, this is my job you know.” You stretch your hand before mixing again. “And I'm not as heartless as you think I am.”

“I don't think that you're heartless. And that's not what I meant.” Ekko takes the spoon from your hand, and you let him. Side by side, he stirs the pot for you. “I meant how you could listen to all of that without wanting to fight against the very thing that hurt them.”

You lean on the counter, hip pressed against the cold marble. “I want to and wanted to. But violence answered by violence leads to more bloodshed. But that doesn't mean I haven't tried. Or have done it before.”

“You took revenge for someone else?” He levels with you, hearing the stew bubble up before shutting the stove off and blending it again.

“Too many times, Ekko. But I quickly learned that how many times I do it for someone, nothing will bring the dead back.” You leave the counter to take the plates from the cupboard. “And I got an earful from my professor, which helped.”

He chuckles as you briefly leave the kitchen to place the plates on the dinner table. Your apartment is small and cozy but you're grateful enough to even have your own place while you're here. Ekko feels right at home with your strewn about papers all over the bed in the corner, and various photographs that you temporarily taped beside your bed. He saw what looked like you and your brother in a small laboratory, and a polaroid of you with an old woman. You're all smiles in all of them, but your eyes hide pain underneath the printed ink.

You return to his side, leaning over him to grab the drinking glasses from the upper shelves. His back presses against your front, and he side steps to give you space, swallowing thickly from the brief contact.

“Your turn.” You hold the glasses, eyes staring at him suspiciously. He raises a brow. “Are any of the things you told Mrs. Talis truthful?”

Ekko stares at you head on. “Does it matter? It helped her.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Yes, because this is history, Ekko. If you decide to change it on a whim, how truthful would the rest be?”

“I assumed that he did—”

“So you lied?”

“You did.”

The argument has the air inside the apartment tense and smothering. The heat from the stove has you over the edge, but with Ekko beside you, he holds you away from the cliffs unknowingly.

“I did,” you move closer to him, standing toe to toe with him. “So I could do my job. Now tell me, Ekko, what really happened to Jayce Talis?”

He inhales, getting a whiff of his own soap on your skin, and the sweet smelling perfume you always wore. “He was already injured when I got there. So I assumed that he fought hard until he couldn't. Viktor was too powerful,” he knits his brows together, memories of that day flicking through his mind. “I can't explain it, but I saw them talking to each other in the void for a second when his puppets got to me. I think Jayce talked him down.”

A smile slowly spreads across your cheeks, clinking the glasses together like you're celebrating.

Realization hits him. “You knew I wasn't lying.”

“Yep, I can read you like an open book, my guy.” Walking away, Ekko follows behind you, hand reaching for your elbow. He twirls you around, gentle enough not to hurt but the shock of it is evident on your face. The small of your back hits the dinner table, he notices, sliding his hands in between you and the wood to prevent it from happening again. He then leans close to your face until your breath fans across his cheeks. He looks like he's about to swallow you whole. “Finally got something out of you, boy savior.”

“What is up with you?”

“Still can't get a read on me?” You tilt your head, palms placed atop his chest, his warmth radiating off him. You look like you're about to let him swallow you whole. “Let me spell it out for you. You're stubborn, and if I'm never going to get an answer out of you, then might as well get a partial one.”

He glares at you, the light shining right on his eyes. If anyone walked in on the two of you right now, they'd think something else was happening as you're placed so close to him that his face is mere inches away from you. If you just lean a bit closer you can smudge his face paint with the tip of your nose.

“Has anyone told you that you have pretty eyes?” You say with a longing sigh. It's not a lie, not even a half assed one. “It's so easy to get lost in them.” The simple words have him letting you go with a huff.

Ekko pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly irked by you and your mind games.

“If I didn't ask, I wouldn't know about Viktor if you didn't mention him. Until now he has been nameless. Vi called him the cult guy. It's like they erased him.”

He lifts his head up, “no one told you about him?”

“Nope. Now I really have a genuine reason to ask the council permission to go ask questions around the academy.” Your sly smile has Ekko conflicted.

Ekko groans, stomping away towards the coat rack to grab his jacket. “We were supposed to go there today and you're telling me that you don't have a permit to go and sniff around?”

You shrug, “yeah. Now you're into permits?” He puts on his jacket with a click of his tongue. “Before you storm out, can we eat? I made too much and I don't like wasting food.”

Ekko takes a beat, head downturned, shoulders sagging and admitting defeat. Then he yanks off his jacket and places it back on the rack before shuffling towards you and sitting down on the dinner table.

“Good choice.” You snap your fingers at him. “Get ready for your taste buds to be opened!” He groans in reply.

—

Ekko waits for you outside the academy, hoverboard strapped on his back, and a face that has students walking away from him before they could ask what his business he has in the place.

The morning sun is pleasant across his cheeks, warming him up from the cool breeze when he was flying towards Piltover. He takes out his watch for the umpteenth time, checking how late you are. With every minute that passes, Ekko's annoyance gets bigger. And with every second that passes where he doesn't see you in the designated meetup place, he worries that it's just like time. What if you got beat up again? The sight of your limp body in his arms still haunts him to this day. He'll never admit to anyone that he was in awe of you that day, or that you remind him of a certain someone. He'd rather talk to you about what happened to him during the war than speak about his thoughts while he was desperately getting you back to the hideout.

Your familiar footsteps have him looking up from his pocket watch. “You're late.”

“Holy shit, you're here.” You heave in place, stopping right in front of him.

“Why wouldn't I be?” He quickly checks you for injuries, thankfully finding none.

His eyes on you doesn't fly over your head. “I thought you'd be too mad at me to actually come.”

Narrowing his eyes, Ekko walks away with his hands in his pockets. “You're right.”

“Wait!” You reach for his wrist with your good hand. “Come on, you're already here anyway.” Smiling sweetly, you give him a squeeze. “Please, Ekko. I promise I'll be on my best behaviour this time. No mind games, no bullshitting you.” You haven't noticed that your hand has slid down his wrist, and that you're now holding his hand in the middle of the academy plaza. “Just honest to god work.”

Ekko looks at the intertwined hands, mind reeling back to the day before the war when he held her hand. You duck to meet with his eyes, following his line of sight, you take his silence as him being uncomfortable with your touch. So you slide your hands away, chuckling nervously as you wring your hands together

“Sorry, I sometimes forget that I'm touchy with friends. Haven't hung out with one in a few years.”

“We're friends?” He raises a brow, genuinely asking the question, he doesn't mean to hurt you with the words. But after everything, he doubts that you see him as one.

“I'm going to act like that didn't hurt me.” Turning around, you hide the pained look on your face with the excuse of getting inside the academy. “Anyway, we've got a full schedule for today. So let's get on with it before you burst a vein.”

Ekko opens his mouth to say…something. He doesn't even know if it'll be an apology or another sarcastic comment that usually matches your own. Before he could, the large double doors open automatically. The gears churn from the weight, and he marvels at the engineering. It's simple but given its age, it was advanced back then.

Stepping inside, the large expansive halls of the academy greets the two of you. Walls upon walls of portraits and sculptures line the hallway. Anyone who was important in Piltover and the academy was there, leaving their permanent marks on its ancient walls.

Marble columns hold up the place, decorated with laurel leaves and carved owls that look down from their perch. There, in the middle of the room sits a statue of no other than professor Heimerdinger. His marble form is perfectly carved in stone, Ekko can practically hear his voice from the sight alone.

“The man of the hour.” You say, looking up at the statue. “Does it look like him, Ekko?”

He takes his attention from the statue to you, “it's accurate enough, needs a bigger mustache though.”

Your rolling laughter echoes in the halls, a few students pause to check the commotion before returning to what they were doing. Ekko smiles softly then takes another look at Heimerdinger.

“He looks intelligent.” You whisper to him after you disturbed the peace. “Was he fun? I heard from the council members that he was actually quite funny. Eccentric was the word they actually used.”

Ekko gives the statue a fond smile. “He was.”

“Come on,” you nudge him gently. “We need to talk to a lot of people.”

“I thought we were here for Viktor?”

“Yeah, and Heimerdinger too. Apparently no one knows what his fate is. And as someone as important as him, that's fucking weird.” You walk away, and he falls right into step with you.

“And you think you'll get your answers here?” He asks, eyes glancing at you.

“Nope.” You pop the letter ‘p’, a bit too cheerful for the subject of the missing professor. Eyes flicking towards him, you smile. “It won't hurt to try though. What if he's just hiding within these halls, you know? I like a good mystery to solve.”

“He's not here.” He shakes his head at your playfulness. He's thinking that you already have a theory on who might know what happened to him. And the answer is staring right at you.

“And you'd know that because?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Sure, a hunch.” Your smile tells him the answer to his own question.

—

After five whole hours of speaking to a few of Heimerdinger's former students, fellow professors and even the lunch lady, you surmise that he's not anywhere near the academy. Or even in the same country. There's a few theories floating around in your mind, either he ran away to another country after what happened to hextech. Or the answer lies to the last person who saw him, who coincidentally is right next to you, shuffling through documents in the academy archive.

The place is as expansive as its history. Rows of bookshelves line each wall. Like a library but filled with boring information like student records and academy files rather than riveting stories. The harsh lights have you shielding your eyes, and the air is kept stale inside to preserve tha documents. So no windows to open to let in fresh air, not to mention that you can't bring in food or drinks, so munching on sweets while researching is out of the question. You're bored out of your mind after three hours of looking through documents. it's like you're back in your academy studying things you already have knowledge about. The place even smells like it, old books and withered paper floating around the windless space.

You roll up next to Ekko on an office chair, arms crossed over the back casually and chin pressed atop it. “Psst!” You let out a sound like a bird call. Ekko rolls his eyes, craning his head to look at you. “Do you have the answer to number twelve?”

Ekko furrows his brows with a confused smile. “What? Is that how you got your numerous degrees?” He jokes back, earning a grin from you.

“No, and I was just fucking around.” You chuckle, poking his bicep, unintentionally feeling the hard muscle underneath. You clear your throat with a timed cough. “Any luck on your end?”

“None, just the usual academy shit. Complaints, student records, nothing on Viktor.”

You furrow your brows, “not even a mention?”

Ekko shakes his head, frustration rolling off him like waves on the shore. “You're right, it's like they erased him.”

“That's fucked up.” Pushing your feet forward, you roll around him, stopping when your hip hits the other side of the table. “Is there a chance you know anything about him?”

“No, all I know is that he helped develop hextech and that he was from the undercity.” He sighs, pinching the corner of his tired eyes. “I remember that he preferred to be in the background, but his name was everywhere back then. Not as much as Jayce, still, he definitely existed.”

“Maybe I can find something in Zaun then. You're just as intrigued as me, huh?” Poking his cheek, he leans back, waving your finger away from him. “Are you sleeping well, Ekko?” Your tone is laced with worry.

His eyes narrow suspiciously at you. “Why are you late?”

“Asking my question with a question, classic deflection tactic.” You chuckle, feet swinging around as you stare at him teasingly. He stares at you, not backing down. “Fine, nosey. I had to convince the council to let me conduct an investigation here. It took some convincing. And me talking down at them and saying that if they've got nothing to hide, then they shouldn't worry.”

“And that worked?” His brown eyes widened for a second.

“God no. I only said that in my head.” You poke your temple, joking and earning a chuckle out of him. “I did manage to convince them though.”

“With bribes?”

“Of course.” You tilt your head, the tip of your shoe nudging his seat. “You know me so well.” Smiling, you pull yourself closer to him with your foot kicking you in place until you slam gently against his chair. “My turn, have you been sleeping well since I left?”

“What makes you think that you've got anything to do with it?” He pushes you away from him with his foot.

“Please, you were sleeping like a baby when I was there.” Not backing down, you pull yourself back into place, annoying him further. “Was it my calming presence—?!” The next thing you know, you're rolling away from him after he kicked your chair.

“It's the opposite, spark.” He says, now ways away from you as your chair hits a book cart.

“Your snoring says otherwise!” You yell, palms cupping up next to your mouth. You ignore the ache around your broken wrist.

You can hear his scoff from where you are. “I don't snore.”

“Yes, you do.” Chuckling, you see him rolling towards your way. “Shit.” He's getting closer, speeding up towards you. “Catch me if you can!” Waddling away, using your legs as paddles as you push and roll away from him, your laughter echoes throughout the space.

“Come back here!” He can't prevent the smile appearing on his lips. “I don't snore.”

“Yes, you do!” Giggling, you mimic the sound of snoring.

The sound of a ruler slamming down on the table has you and Ekko freezing up in place.

—

“Man, I can't believe that old lady can be so mean.” You frown, stretching your broken wrist as the two of you exit the double doors of the academy after getting kicked out. Your wrist has been throbbing ever since the archivist made the two of you clean up all the piles of books and documents you picked up from the shelves.

“You haven't met a lot of old ladies then.” Ekko glances at your wrist. “You hurting? How's your head?”

“I'm good, don't worry.” You chuckle, eyes staring fondly at the concern on his face. “Just aching a bit from all the lifting.”

“I told you to leave it to me.”

“What do you know, I'm stubborn, just like—”

“Me, I know.” He interrupts, and yet you grin at him.

The sun is setting, birds chirping and the people are on their way home just like you. It's way past Ekko's designated schedule with you, but he doesn't seem to mind when he hasn't mentioned it.

“I've got a question, Ekko.” He side glances at you, lips pursed together. “Off the record, I promise, just genuinely curious.”

“You're always curious.” He stops walking, letting you continue.

“I'll take that as a compliment.” Smiling, you stare at him through your lashes. “Why didn't you go to the academy?” He saw that question a mile away. “You're smart, I'm sure you would've gotten in. Hell, I'm betting good money that you're smarter than the students we interviewed today. Seriously, who describes being sad as sad? You're a PHD candidate, use sorrow or melancholy for fucks sake.”

Ekko's laughter has you grinning from ear to ear. The sunset shines on him, brown eyes sparkling, hair drenched in orange as the charms wrapped his twists glimmer just like his smile. Your heart skips a beat, hopefully unnoticeable by the man himself.

His laughter subsides, leaving the crinkle in the corner of his eyes in its wake. “I didn't have time, I had people to take care of. Studying in the academy wasn't worth it when you don't know how you'll be able to survive to see next week.”

Your heart squeezes in place. “That's— I'm sorry.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Don't worry, I know I'm smarter than them. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me that I am.”

“Very humble of you, firefly.” You playfully punch his forearm, “very true though. You're smarter than anyone that I currently know.”

“That was almost nice of you.”

Your shared laughter mixes together in harmony, filling the near empty academy plaza with warmth.

Suddenly, your name is called from behind, stopping the two of you mid laughter. Turning around, you see the source of the voice.

Your face brightens up even more from the sight of the familiar enforcer. “Steb! What are you doing here?” Waving him over, he speed walks towards you as he carries a bundle of fur in his arms. “You cold or something?”

His eyes smile at you, blue skin sparkling under the setting sun. “No, just arresting a little menace causing mayhem in the streets.”

Just as he says it, a pair of eyes pop open from the bundle, then a snout, and then the cutest yelp you've ever heard.

“Is that Heimer’s dog?” Ekko asks, whilst you coo at the ball of fur.

“He's so cute!” Your hands reach towards Steb, palms splayed atop his hands. Ekko sees the enforcer softly smile at the contact. “Oh,” you lift your head, staring at Steb. “Steb, meet Ekko. Ekko, meet Steb.”

Ekko lifts his chin up in greeting, shoulders straight, and hands nonchalantly in his pockets. Steb nods curtly, glancing between you and Ekko briefly.

“Nice to meet you.” The enforcer politely smiles then turns towards the cooing you with a much gentler smile. His voice is smooth, like a whisper in your ears. You always found it calming, just like Ekko's. “Found him running around with trash in his mouth, so don't let him lick you.” You giggle, petting the tiny ball of fur. “He's not usually this friendly to strangers. Do you want to hold him?”

You gasp, grinning. “Can I?” Steb nods, handing the dog to you carefully. “He's so soft!” Jumping in place, the small dog looks up at you with a tilt of his head. You introduce yourself to him like usual, making the two men next to you smile. “You're so cute! You remind me of the dogs back in Noxus, the only difference is that you won't maul me.” Giggling, you cradle him in your arms. “What's his name?”

“Porofessor. Poro for short.” Steb answers with a subtle smile as you squeal in place. “He's blind in one eye, probably just as old as his owner.”

“Who's his owner?”

“Heimerdinger.” Steb and Ekko answer at the same time. Ekko glances briefly at the enforcer, while Steb clears his throat, hands crossed over his back.

“I heard you were attacked.” Steb asks, concern laced in his tone. “I processed the criminals myself.” Your smile falters for a second, aching wrist throbbing against your cast. “But I want to know how you are.” His hand grazes along the white plaster. Ekko clenches his jaw briefly, eyes looking between you and the uniformed man in front of him.

“I'm doing okay now, Steb. You really don't have to worry. You know me, I can handle a punch, or two.” You reach for his elbow, giving him a squeeze before releasing. He smiles, Ekko can practically feel the fondness rolling out of Steb in waves. “Anyway, who's been taking care of poor Poro?” The dog barks when he heard his name.

“No one,” you and Ekko give the dog a worried look. “Well, everyone pitches in to take care of him, but he keeps running away and back to the academy. He doesn't stick too long in one place.”

Your hand brush along his soft fur. “He's probably waiting for him.” Your tone is mournful, arm giving the dog a squeeze. “What if I take him with me for now? I'm sure he'd like the company. And just like you said, he's gonna run back to the academy anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Steb asks, taking a closer step towards you. To Ekko's surprise, you don't move away. “If it's not too much trouble for you, I can inform the academy grounds keeper that Poro’s with you. He's usually the one feeding him.” With a hand upon your back, Steb casually gives you a half hug. Ekko feels like he should turn away, or fly away. “I'm really glad you're alright, red.”

Ekko realizes that he's not the only person who calls you that.

“Thank you, blue.” The two of you smile at each other. Ekko should really turn away now. His eyes look around, refraining from staring at the two of you for too long. Suddenly he finds the roof of the academy intriguing. “And yeah, I'm sure. And I promise to bring him back before I leave.”

Steb leans away, hands retreating back to his side, smile never leaving his lips. “You better, he's the academy mascot at this point.”

You lift up Poro in front of your face, his pink tongue rolls out of his mouth. “I'll be back. Don't worry, Steb.” You say in a high pitched tone, miming like the dog is the one who's talking.

The uniformed enforcer chuckles, “right, see you around, red.” He gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Ekko.” Nodding at Ekko, he returns to his straight edge enforcer self as Ekko replies with his own brief nod. With one last smile from him to you, he walks towards the academy.

You turn towards Ekko this time, Poro still lifted up in front of your face. “Wanna have dinner at my place?” you continue to mime using Poro, who looks like he's having the time of his life as he wags his tail happily. “I'm starving!”

Ekko shakes his head, laughing at your antics. He can't believe you're the same person he saw beat up a whole gang even when you're already injured. You must've been something during your time at the guild and the legion.

“Stew?” He asks, petting the dog as he smiles at you.

“Sure, if you want it again. I've stocked up on ingredients this time around.” Putting back Poro in your arm, you beam up at Ekko. “We have to invite another guy though.”

Ekko frowns for a half second before realizing that you're talking about Heimerdinger's dog. “I'm sure he likes the invitation.” You grin bigger at his reply.

The two of you start walking outside the academy gates. Ekko casually takes the satchel from your shoulder, and you let him carry it as you glance at him with a knowing smile.

“So you and Steb?” He asks, a bit muffled above the breeze and Poro’s breathing.

You tamp down your grin by biting down at your lower lip. “Simple answer, no.”

Ekko nods, hand reaching behind you with an open palm placed on the small of your back with the guise of guiding you around the busy city.

A/N: I had to cut this in half because it's gotten too long lol thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️

Photos are from Pinterest

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[hyperions-light]

Okay sorry but with the Solas/Rook/Lavellan thing like... if the relationships are all generally positive, it's interesting how they become different reflections of Solas' relationship with Mythal.

Like, with Solavellan you can see Lavellan as the person Solas was meant to be with, in contrast to Mythal, who he was possibly romantically involved with but the relationship was toxic and unequal. Solas had to contort himself into something he wasn't for Mythal; with Lavellan he gets to be himself.

With Rook, you could argue that Solas lowkey takes on a somewhat Mythal-esque role, especially with the accusation from Rook that he strung them along with scraps of praise and approval. I wonder if that was a gut punch BECAUSE he maybe saw himself in that accusation.

Don’t apologize! Everyone can always talk to me about the game! I just might take a little while to get back to you bc I have like

a LOT of notifs to deal with lol

Like pretty consistently

So if I don’t answer you somewhere it’s not bc I don’t love you it’s just because I probably have like two dozen RIHs to read/reply to and fic to comment on and event stuff to do, and, and, and etc lol

OMG yeees I am like sooo obsessed with whatever the fuck toxic shit Mythal and Solas were doing… like… “I will always follow where you go” makes me insaaaane

Personally do not understand why ppl were mad about the vague implication of Solas/Mythal + her needing to be there at the end bc it makes Solavellan so much sweeter and more meaningful to me!!

Like… she loves him as himself. He doesn’t have to change, or to be a symbol or an inspiration for her. She loves *Solas*. Who has ever loved him not for his wisdom or his power, but only for himself? It’s beautiful!

Yeah ! and I also think like he sees in that accusation himself becoming the type of person he hates. He has contorted himself into a shape that allows him to be what other people need and expect, and it brings him so much pain 💔

Thanks for sending this, wee-chlo!