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98oceans · 3 days ago

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🌺 . sometimes ! ୧ || 03. it's ok, i'm ok

manon and yn have had a.. pretty bumpy relationship. so far, at least. between manon's schedule and yn's new album roll-out, there has not been a lot of time for them to correctly love each other. manon's eyes have also been on her ex, and yn has noticed.

an: half-written.. um... sorry it's a little bad i wrote this after work and i am exhausted 🙏 written parts' wc is 723 tl: @kianthegirlkisser @urwavvy @meiyokbf @98oceans @tenjito @sewiouslyz @marvelwomen-simp @liancacoltrane1 @1-800-sistershookth @runm3over @camiraeken @wtfisthisnoclueman

you sat, legs criss-crossed. you were wearing a navy blue hoodie— manon's hoodie— on your couch, a sorbet bucket in your lap and the spoon on the coffee table in front of you. you stared at your phone, anticipating the knock on your door. manon always knocked before coming in, even if she knew it was unlocked.

knock knock.

"come in," you called, the feeling of genuine fear welling up in your stomach for the 5th time that day. the door opened and shut quietly. manon appeared in the living room after a few seconds, shoes left by the door.

"hi," she said, voice hoarse. she was wearing a white sweater and black baggy jeans.

you stared at her. there she is. it was honestly underwhelming.

"can i sit?" she asked, fidgeting with her car keys.

"yeah, sure," you replied flatly. her eyebrows knitted, just for a moment, as she sat on the couch next to you, enough space so your shoulder's couldn't touch. she sighed.

"yn.." you braced yourself, "i'm sorry. really. i should've told you that me and ari were meeting,"

"yeah. you should've. why didn't you?"

she doesn't reply for a moment. "i don't know."

"manon."

"i know, i'm sorry." she replied, voice breaking. you almost felt bad for her, but she was in your house, on your couch, ruining your life. that's what it felt like.

"that's not going to fix anything," you stood up, placing your sorbet on the coffee table and facing her. "'i'm sorry' my ass, manon. you're not sorry. if you were sorry, you would've told me you were meeting with your ex." the words have more bite and venom to them than you were expecting, but you couldn't care. she'd hurt you. you didn't owe her kindness.

she looked at you, the hurt registering in her eyes. "i know, but i don't want to lose you over this."

"okay. fine. what'd you two talk about? what was so important that it simply could not wait? so you couldn't tell me?"

"i told you, she just wanted to talk. nothing else,"

"do you realize how absolutely fucking stupid you sound?" your voice was shaky. you didn't mean for it to come out lacking that much confidence, but it was too late to correct yourself. you stared at her in disbelief.

"yes, i.. i do, and i will make it up to you. anything, yn, just tell me."

"right. well." you pause. you don't know what you want her to do, because she normally figured this all out on her own. she didn't normally make these mistakes.

thinking about it, slowly, you realized all the little things she's done. how distant she's been, especially since the label party. and it scared you.

"do you even want me anymore? i know you love me, sure, and you like me, but.. do you want to be around me anymore?"

"yes, yn, always," she replied quickly. too quickly. you were stepping on her toes and she was getting nervous. you sighed deeply. "you know it's only you, yn,"

"i'm not sure about that anymore," you retorted. "if i really was the only one, you'd've told me you were going to see ari. it's.. whatever. it's not okay, you know that, i know that, but-"

she stood up and grabbed your wrist, effectively silencing you.

"yn, listen. please. i love you, just you, i am past aria." she said. you almost believed her, but you could tell. she was lying through her teeth. you pulled away, though she didn't let go.

"go home, manon. we can talk about this later. i have a photoshoot tomorrow and i need to sleep."

she paused. you could tell she was processing it roughly.

"okay. i'll see you later. i love you," she let go of your wrist and walked past you.

"yeah."

you heard the door open and shut and her car engine rev. you stood quietly in the living room, realizing you were wearing her hoodie and everything in your house smelled like her and you still kept one side of the bed cool for her. you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your palm and took the hoodie off, draping it on your couch. you put the sorbet back in the freezer and the spoon in the sink. your phone pinged.

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#recommendations ◌#MMHH #ANGST🤤🤤#katseye x reader #manon x reader #katseye smau

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98oceans · 5 days ago

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set point

✧ genre/au: sophia laforteza x reader [she/her]. college au. volleyball. sports medic x varsity captain. slow-burn?? rivals-to-lovers. sharp banter, jealousy, emotional tension. mutual pining. team meddling. late-night confessions. ✧ word count: 3.6k ✧ converted from one of my older wattpad stories

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙𖦹

summary: it starts with an ankle injury and an ice pack, but sophia’s hell-bent on making it your problem. between her reckless plays, your refusal to coddle her, and a team of unapologetic instigators, the line between irritation and interest gets dangerously thin. by the time a bonfire, a bus ride, and a late-night truce roll around, neither of you can keep pretending this is just medic and athlete.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

It started with an ice pack.

Well, that's not entirely true. It started with a rolled ankle during a preseason scrimmage on a hot afternoon, a loud thud that silenced the court, and Sophia refusing help with gritted teeth and the kind of pride that could kill a horse. Her coach practically shoved her in your direction, and that's how she ended up sulking on the edge of the treatment bench while you stared her down with the apathy of someone who'd already iced four ankles and two shoulders that morning.

You were new then. Still finding your footing. The campus' shiny new sports medic with a clipboard tucked under your arm and a habit of chewing gum during practice to stay awake. You weren't interested in drama, or cliques, or who was who in varsity volleyball politics.

You just wanted to do your job.

And Sophia hated that.

"I'm fine," she snapped, scowling as she peeled at the tape around her sock with all the finesse of someone losing a battle.

"You're not," you replied, crouching with quiet precision to inspect her ankle. "Sit still or I'll call your coach back."

That got her to shut up.

You'd barely unwrapped the ice pack when she muttered something under her breath—something that might've been an insult but sounded too flustered to land.

Since then, Sophia Laforteza has made it her mission to test every fiber of your patience.

—

Sophia's name carried weight. On campus, in the volleyball world, in the way people moved out of her path when she walked through hallways with that lean, effortless swagger and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. She was the team's ace, their most consistent point-earner and most charismatic disaster. She wore the number 1 jersey like it was armor and fought like she was born to win.

She was also a nightmare.

"Ignore her," one of the assistant coaches told you the second week of classes. "She's a star, but she's stubborn. Just do your job."

Doing your job, however, became significantly harder when said star started limping into your office three times a week, grinning like she lived to annoy you.

"You again?" Sophia asked one Tuesday, dragging her knee brace behind her like a child with a security blanket.

You didn't look up from your notes. "You say that like you don't roll in here every other day with a new complaint."

She hopped onto the bench and tossed her towel to the side. "You should feel honored. I'm giving you job security."

"And you're giving me migraines."

Megan—wide-eyed and nosy—peeked in from the hallway and gasped. "What is this tension?"

You deadpanned, "Because someone's irresponsible."

Lara wandered past with her earbuds still in. "I'm telling you right now, if you don't want her, I will shoot my shot."

Sophia rolled her eyes.

You blinked.

They all laughed.

—

Sophia made it a habit of flirting with pain. A bruise on her shoulder here, a strained tendon there. She played hard and refused to sit still, even when you told her to take it easy. It became a cycle: she'd get hurt, you'd patch her up, she'd sass you, you'd sass her back, and she'd leave with a smirk like she'd won something.

Except you didn't play games. Not with athletes. Not with people like her.

And that's exactly what made her obsessed.

"You really don't like me, huh?" she asked one evening after everyone had cleared out.

You gave her a look. "It's not about liking. It's about not encouraging a reckless streak."

Sophia tilted her head, curious. "You always this cold, or just with me?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer I let you tear your ACL for fun?"

She smiled. "You do care."

You sighed so hard it felt like it left your body.

—

Later, after a particularly intense away game, you caught Sophia icing her hand behind the bleachers alone. You hadn't seen her get hurt.

"You didn't tell me," you said, crouching to take a look.

She flinched. "Didn't want to hear a lecture."

You shook your head, fingers gentle. "You're impossible."

"You're stubborn," she shot back. "Always so professional. Always so distant."

You didn't answer right away. Then: "It's my job."

Sophia looked up at you with something unreadable in her eyes. "Yeah. But sometimes I wish it wasn't."

You didn't know what to say.

So you wrapped her hand in silence.

—

A few days later, during an afternoon practice, the team ran drills at half-speed—everyone buzzing with leftover energy and heat from the court lights. The gym echoed with squeaks of sneakers and the occasional burst of laughter as the girls tossed the ball around with barely a formation.

Sophia slammed another spike over the net, harder than necessary. The ball bounced and rolled, ignored.

"She taped my wrist like I was made of glass," she grumbled, adjusting her ponytail.

Manon caught the next ball and set it lazily. "Maybe because you keep looking at her like she's your thesis project."

"I do not," Sophia shot back.

"You do," Megan said flatly, seated on the floor with her legs stretched, smirking. "It's giving Olympic-level denial."

Lara leaned back on her hands, watching the chaos unfold with a glint in her eye. "If you don't want her, Soph, I'll take her. She's hot. She's grounded. She's the kind of girl who'd give you CPR and then sue you for making her late."

"I'd date her for her Spotify playlists alone," Daniela chimed in from across the court, flipping her water bottle. "Girl had Erykah Badu and Carti. Duality."

"Yeah, she iced my shin while talking about Kill Bill Vol. 2," Manon added dreamily. "I ascended."

"She gave me a pack of gummy bears from her med kit once," Yoonchae said quietly, passing by with the ball tucked under one arm. Her tone was calm, expression neutral. "Kind of made my week, not gonna lie."

Sophia blinked at her. "You're the youngest. Why are you like this?"

Yoonchae shrugged. "You're the oldest. Why are you like this?"

The entire team howled.

Sophia groaned into her elbow.

"She taped my ankle and I felt seen," Megan said again, just to twist the knife.

"Touch-starved behavior," Sophia muttered.

"Jealous behavior," Lara corrected, not missing a beat.

Sophia didn't respond. Instead, she spiked the next ball so hard it rebounded off the floor and hit the wall with a loud boom, cutting the laughter short.

She didn't speak for the rest of practice.

But she trained harder the next morning.

When she passed you in the hallway laughing at something a track guy said, she didn't like the way it made her chest feel.

Jealousy. Distraction. Whatever. It didn't matter.

She just knew she hated it.

—

The bonfire wasn't your idea.

You avoided most social events tied to the teams—too much noise, too many drunk undergrads, too much explaining that, no, you didn't want to become a physical therapist. But this one had been planned by the team captains as a "chemistry-building experience," and your coach made it very clear that, as staff, you were expected to at least show face.

So there you were. Hoodie on. Med bag tossed in your trunk just in case. Your jacket hanging off your shoulder. And a vague plan to ghost by 10:30.

The fire crackled in the middle of the field behind the rec center, half-contained by a questionable ring of bricks and a very confident Lara Raj who swore she "knew how to build campfires like a Girl Scout drop-out." Megan had brought her speaker and was DJing like her life depended on it, skipping from SZA to early 2000s R&B without warning. Daniela was dancing already, her cup spilling a little with every sharp move. Manon was double-fisting juice pouches and hard seltzer, grinning like she was on vacation.

And Sophia—Sophia was already watching you.

You felt her gaze the moment you stepped out of your car and made the mistake of locking eyes with her. Her ponytail was loose, her hoodie half-zipped, her signature knee brace noticeably absent. She looked relaxed. Unbothered. Like she hadn't spiked a volleyball into a wall out of sheer jealousy a few days ago.

You looked away first.

"Y/N!" Daniela's voice cracked through the night air like a whip. She waved dramatically, spilling her drink in the process. "Get your fine ass over here!"

Before you could retreat, Megan had already wrapped an arm around your shoulder, dragging you closer to the circle. Lara handed you a half-melted chocolate bar with no context. Someone shoved a marshmallow stick in your hand. Sophia stayed on the other side of the fire, hands shoved in her pockets, eyes never quite leaving you.

The night buzzed around you. Daniela was telling a story about getting caught sneaking into the film department's rooftop screenings. Manon and Yoonchae were slow-dancing to the Twilight soundtrack playing on loop from Megan's playlist. You laughed more than you meant to. It felt... almost nice.

Until someone joined you. A guy.

Jake—or was it Jay? Something aggressively collegiate. He was from the men's track team and had a habit of leaning too close when he talked. Friendly. Overly so. He asked questions about your major, your job, your opinion on recovery massage techniques.

Harmless. Mostly.

But Sophia noticed.

Her next volleyball serve in the spontaneous pickup game went directly for his sternum. Everyone pretended it was an accident. Everyone but you.

Afterward, she stomped over to the drinks cooler like she hadn't just weaponized a volleyball.

"You good?" you asked, crossing your arms, trying not to smile.

"Totally fine," she said, voice clipped as she cracked open a bottle. "Just hate bad players."

"Right," you said dryly. "It's definitely how he plays."

Before you could prod further, chaos broke out—Daniela yelling something about Lara cheating at s'mores assembly, Yoonchae giggling like she was watching a sitcom.

You walked away to help Yoonchae untangle a roasting stick from her hoodie string. Still, Sophia's gaze burned into your back.

—

Later, the team thinned out, many drifting indoors for ramen and reruns. You stayed by the embers, seeking a little peace. The fire was low, embers glowing orange and red, flickers of heat reaching toward the sky.

Sophia showed up five minutes later, pretending she hadn't followed you.

"You leaving?" she asked, arms crossed, standing just far enough to feign indifference.

You shook your head. "Not yet."

A pause. Then she stepped closer. Close enough to see the shadows under her eyes and the flicker of something uncertain behind the attitude.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pretend nothing gets to you. Like you're made of steel or something."

You blinked. "Because it's easier than letting people in."

Sophia tilted her head. "So you are a robot."

You smirked. "A very well-programmed one."

"I don't buy it."

"Not for sale."

She studied you like she was reading between lines you didn't even know you'd written.

"Why do you care?" you asked, softer.

"I don't," she said automatically, too fast.

You didn't believe her.

The silence stretched again. You could feel her heat beside you, not from the fire. Her shoulder brushed yours, barely. The air around you shifted.

Then—

"HEY! S'MORES ROUND TWO!"

Daniela kicked open the back door like she was starring in an action movie, a marshmallow already flaming on her stick.

Sophia stepped back so fast she nearly stumbled.

You didn't say anything. But your heart? Still hammering.

And from the way Sophia kept glancing back as you rejoined the group, hers might've been, too.

—

You weren't avoiding Sophia Laforteza—okay, maybe you were. But only in the highly professional, totally-justified way of someone who was definitely not spiraling over the way your last interaction ended in near-hand-holding, way-too-long eye contact, and a very suspicious moment of silence that didn't feel like hatred anymore.

You were a sophomore, for god's sake. You taped ankles and iced down sprains and handed out ibuprofen like it was candy. You were not in the business of having feelings for Katseye volleyball team's unshakable junior captain. Especially not one with fast hands, a sharp tongue, and the kind of smirk that lingered behind your eyelids hours after practice.

But Sophia had been looking at you differently. Not in the usual "I hate that you exist" way. This was new. Focused. A little too aware.

So yeah, you took the long route to avoid her during practice. Yeah, you pretended to be elbow-deep in ice bags when she walked by. Yeah, you started packing up "early" and became a regular in the basement athletic supply closet like it was a second home.

Daniela caught on by day two.

"Emotionally constipated much?" she muttered, lounging across the bench like the most dramatic Roman senator to ever wear a Katseye warmup jacket. "I've seen blocked drains with more flow than this situationship you're running."

You ignored her. She kicked your shin with the casualness of someone who'd known you for exactly three months and still treated you like a sibling.

"Let me live," you groaned, rearranging the tape rolls for the fifth time.

"Live? You're not living, babe. You're limping. Emotionally. And I hate to say it, but I love to say it."

Still, you avoided Sophia. And Sophia? She didn't chase, but she didn't hide either. Her eyes lingered longer. Her jokes softened. She no longer plowed past you in drills with shoulder-checks and indifference. Now she paused. Now she looked. Now she waited, like she was giving you the choice to stay or go.

It was unnerving.

One Wednesday, you stayed behind to re-organize the med shelf. Again. Maybe for real this time.

Lara had exited dramatically after the vending machine ate her dollar. Megan had mumbled something about needing "matcha or medical intervention," and Daniela had ghosted with her phone on Do Not Disturb. Manon had gone off with a TA to talk about cameras and the concept of "romantic melancholy." Yoonchae vanished without a word, headphones in, sipping cold brew.

You were sure you were alone. Then Sophia reappeared.

Still in her practice gear. Hair up. Calm. Like she hadn't just seen you twenty minutes ago pretending not to exist.

She dropped onto the court floor and started stretching.

"Gym's closed," you said, eyes not leaving the roll of gauze in your hand.

"Didn't hear the whistle," she said, completely unbothered.

You stacked gauze like your life depended on it.

"You always this quiet when you're avoiding me?"

"Not avoiding. Just... working."

"With gauze?"

"It's important."

She stood, rolled her neck, and smirked. "You're jumpy."

You didn't look up. "You're irritating."

"True," she said, walking closer. "But you're shaking, which makes me think this is something else."

You looked down. Your hand was indeed shaking. Damn her.

Before you could respond, the gym doors burst open.

"Soup!" Manon shouted.

"Stew!" Yoonchae replied, like it was personal.

They were followed by Megan, sipping a comically large boba with the energy of a bored judge, and Lara, who was loudly telling her Notes app why the vending machines were part of a government plot.

Sophia raised a brow. You shoved gauze into the box with slightly more force than necessary.

The next day, taped to the inside of your first aid kit��tucked right behind the knee wraps—was a note:

"Library basement. 7PM. Don't chicken out."

Her handwriting. Sharp. Tilted. A challenge.

Of course you showed up. You weren't a coward. (Okay, maybe a little.)

Sophia was already there. No books. Just her. And two bottled iced teas.

"Peace offering," she said, pushing one across the table.

You sat. "Is this where you ambush me with a playbook and tell me to stop messing up your passing drills?"

"Tempting," she replied. "But no."

Silence.

"You came," she added, a little softer now.

"You told me not to chicken out."

"Classic sophomore behavior."

"Says the junior stalking my workplace."

She smiled. "You hate me less now."

"No," you said. "I hate you differently."

Sophia laughed, eyes flickering to your hands on the table. You moved one away, just slightly.

"I don't hate you either," she said after a beat.

You looked up.

"That's a weird confession."

"Better than pretending nothing's changed."

You tilted your head, studying her. "So, this is you being honest now?"

She shrugged. "Trying it out. Don't get used to it."

The air thickened. Not in a heavy way, but in the way it does when something's about to shift—like the beat before a serve, like the quiet just before someone crosses the line.

You didn't kiss. Not yet.

But the way her eyes dropped to your mouth and back again said: soon.

—

You hadn't slept properly since that night in the library basement.

Not because anything irreversible had happened, but because your mind kept replaying every micro-moment between you and Sophia. The way her voice dipped in volume just for you. The offhand glances. That maddening, self-satisfied smirk she wore like armor—and how you kind of wanted to knock it off and kiss it away.

Before you could make any sense of what had shifted between you two, the team was swept into a weekend scrimmage against a neighboring university.

It wasn't just a practice game—it was a full-on, unsupervised chaos ritual. No coaches. No parents. Just the varsity squad, a handful of alumni, and enough caffeine to sedate a horse.

Which left you on a charter bus, crammed into the aisle seat between Daniela—who was blaring reggaeton through one earbud—and Sophia, who was entirely too calm for someone who nearly confessed to you 48 hours ago.

Daniela nudged you mid-song. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine."

"You haven't blinked in two exits."

"I said I'm fine."

Sophia didn't say much. But her knee kept brushing against yours like it was asking questions.

The match was an exercise in delightful absurdity.

Lara flirted so relentlessly with the opposing team's libero that a ref literally gave her a warning. Megan, determined not to lose to herself, nearly flung her body into the third row of bleachers for a save. Yoonchae, quiet and calculating, read opposing serves like she had the scouting reports memorized—spoiler: she did. Manon offered you a high five every time someone scored, including you when you successfully untangled a rogue ankle wrap mid-game.

And Sophia? Sophia was a goddamn menace.

She played like something had possessed her—every spike violent, every serve brutal. You didn't need a sports psych degree to know she was playing with something to prove.

Maybe to you.

Midway through the third set, she nailed a kill shot that nearly decapitated someone. Then she looked at you—not the scoreboard, not the team. You.

You were off-court, sorting hydration packets, but her gaze still landed like a direct hit. Your fingers trembled around the sports tape.

The Airbnb that night was more chaotic than restorative. The team had decided that instead of sleeping in assigned hotel rooms, you'd all pile into one massive rental under the guise of "team bonding."

Megan, Lara, and Manon transformed the living room into a karaoke coliseum, belting throwbacks at 1AM. Daniela took over the kitchen like she was auditioning for MasterChef: Drunk Edition. Yoonchae, curled into a beanbag with her latest dystopian graphic novel, offered the occasional vicious one-liner that sent the rest of the team reeling.

You retreated to the sunroom. Just you, a med kit, and the soft hum of your own spiraling thoughts.

And then Sophia found you.

She leaned against the doorframe, holding two energy drinks like offerings. "Peace treaty or bribery. You decide."

You gave her a look. "What if I choose both?"

"That's on brand for us," she said, and stepped inside.

She plopped into the oversized armchair and motioned for you to sit at her feet. It should've been awkward—your team was right outside, barely a wall away—but the energy between you two folded in on itself like gravity.

She broke the silence first.

"Do you think it'd be a bad idea?"

You looked up. "What?"

"This," she said. "Us."

Oh.

You didn't respond right away. She passed you the drink like it held weight, and in a way, it did. You sipped.

"I think we'd argue a lot," you said honestly.

She smirked. "Hot."

You rolled your eyes. "I think you'd drive me completely insane."

She leaned in a little closer. "Then it's mutual."

The air felt charged.

Sophia tapped her can's tab. "I keep trying to rehearse what to say. Something smart. But you mess my brain up every time."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Wasn't meant to be," she murmured. "It's just true."

You leaned back against her knees, her body framing yours. "You scare me, sometimes."

She exhaled, a laugh pressed tight against her chest. "You terrify me."

Beat.

Then she leaned forward, arms slipping around your shoulders in something gentler than you thought she was capable of.

"You wanna try it anyway?"

Your breath caught. "Try what?"

"This thing. You and me. Not the fights. Not the rivalry. Just... whatever this is when we're not throwing verbal punches."

You nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Sophia slid off the chair and sat beside you instead, her thigh pressed to yours. She didn't grab your hand, just let her pinky brush against yours like she was testing the idea.

Whatever this was? It didn't feel like war anymore.

It felt like truce.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

#recommendations ◌#sophia x reader

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