#''or--you know--you could learn to make it yourself.''

[gangplanksorenji]

Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done. 

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.” 

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom. 

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do. 

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are. 

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!” 

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing. 

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now,  you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

[dreamer-milore]

--misinterpretations.

// first meetings with our beloved deliverer

IN WHICH • You firmly believe a certain Chrisos Heir has his eyes on someone, and it's definitely not you, based on the numerous times you've seen him with the Prince of Kremnos. You conclude that they're in a secret relationship. Or perhaps you've misinterpreted everything all along? (You're fully convinced Phainon is attracted to Mydei).

FEATURING • Phainon

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You've seen enough for you to come to a conclusion. You have visual evidence, so you're not being unreasonable. And your claim is completely logical and rational.

That blue-haired knight you keep seeing is homosexual, who may or may not be in a secret relationship with the Prince of Kremnos.

You don't know that knight's name, but you are sure that he's well accustomed to the perils of the battlefield.

Well, if you were being honest, you barely know anything about Okhema. You were just a refugee who came from a distant city-state that was now in ruins thanks to the Black Tide.

You arrived just a few weeks ago, bruises and cuts littered your body--the marks of a warrior, they say-- and you're sure you'll be decorated in scars after a few weeks.

But that'd be the case if you do manage to last, and you did, otherwise you wouldn't be witnessing the secrets of that certain knight.

(You don't know the name of that blue-haired knight, so you just gave him the nickname 'knight.')

You didn't bother to ask for his name, since you're a hikikomori and you'd much rather prefer to stay within your living quarters. The Black Tide just had you in a 'cowardly' state. You find comfort and security within the confines of your home, believing that the place not within the walls of your house is dangerous.

Though, there are times where you did step out of your home, but the occurrence is rare, and the duration of your visits to the outside world is short. Not lasting more than a few hours. (The most you've done is 2 hours).

During these trips of yours, you would sometimes catch glimpses of the knight with an ash blonde-haired individual who you learned was Mydeimos, Prince of Kremnos. And during those times, you always, always, saw the two in a very close distance--one that you could not just dismiss as that of friends.

This continued on, with each and every one of your trips, you would accidentally spot those two.

One instance, you saw the two really really close to each other, as if they just finished a kissing scene. (They were whispering about top-secret confidential case. You just saw it wrong).

And you also take note of the trust they put into each other, which you observed via eavesdropping on them, but you could only make out very few lines.

You're sure those two are in a secret relationship. So when rumors broke out that of a certain knight asking a florist for courting rituals, you concluded that the lucky girl, or more accurately, the lucky guy, was Mydeimos.

You knew someone who's been crushing on Phainon for a while now, and you can't deny that you feel bad for them sometimes. But it's not like you could do anything. I mean, you can't just tell her to confess, since Phainon will definitely reject her, and you don't want that happening, so you end up discouraging her instead. You know it's a grim method, but you suppose it's still helpful, right?

So when you got called to the Council of Elders, you had no choice but to abide by them. You went there, begrudgingly, and it seems like it's for a mission to save a group of refugees that are en route to Okhema.

You are aware of how dangerous the outside of Okhema is, so you don't mind why the Council takes the matter seriously. Since you were a former knight yourself (of course you have trauma), you were deployed to handle the mission, along with some others. (You didn't want to go, but you have to abide by it. And it's also kind of obligatory.)

That was the case, until one member argued that Okhema is running low in manpower, and there are various other matters to attend to, so they suggested that a Chrisos heir should handle the current mission, accompanied by you.

The Chrisos heir they wanted to deploy? The 'knight.' More accurately, Phainon. You learned his name is Phainon.

The Council agreed to the member who gave the suggestion.

(The Chrisos heirs are the chosen ones from the prophecy, no? Shouldn't it be fit that they handle things like these? If you view it from this angle, it seems about right. It's objective. The Council is just being rational and objective. Totally not because of their disdain for the Chrisos heirs. And how considerate of them, for putting you into this mess. How truly kind.

As agreed by the Council, you were sent to the borders of Okhema to meet up with Phainon, so the two of you could start the mission. You two made your way to the location of the refugees, carefully navigating through the outside lands of Amphoreus.

You barely spoke a word to him, so he, too, didn't say much in return. It was only when you both reached the location did he start being a little bit more talkative. He'd tell you some snippets from his life, and whatnot. And it wasn't just you, but he also talked to the refugees to ease their worries.

Just from that alone, you can tell Phainon is a really good guy, and now you know why people seem to like him.

When monsters emerged, you were quick to shoot them down with your gun. Though you're not very skilled in close combat, sniping with your gun is where lies your true talent. Even Phainon heavily complimented this talent of yours. (It saved him, after all.)

It took a while, but you slowly began to talk more to him, and to the refugees too.

At last, you reached Okhema safely, with no harm done to the refugees.

After that mission, you and Phainon helped the refugees get settled in. Afterwards, the two of you reported back to the Council. The Council was delighted, and dismissed you two.

(Finally, one less thing to worry about.)

You walked outside of the Council's place, with Phainon at your side. You've grown to be acquainted with him, and the same can be said for him. Only that, his might be a little more complicated.

You already bid him farewell, but he cut you off and asked you if he could treat you for lunch. You were taken aback, but said nothing. (You can't really say no to free food now, can you?)

As much as possible, Phainon wants to prolong this. He finds something akin to comfort while he's in your presence. With you, he doesn't need to act strong and brave, nor feel the need to act according to his title--Phainon, the Chrisos heir, Phainon, the Deliverer.

He's just Phainon. And he likes it that way.

He has no explanation for this phenomena, but he suppose it can be attributed to that one time you saved him. You've met before, a few weeks ago, when you first came to Okhema. Clones of Nikador attacked the Holy City, therefore a battle ensued. But this time, he was on the losing side. Heavily injured, with barely any comrades to aid him, Phainon fought with the best he could do. And when he was cornered, he fell to his knees, and prayed for a savior. His prayers were answered, in the form of a refugee with one heck of an expertise with guns--You, in short.

Shortly after, Mydei and the others came, but by the time Phainon was well, his savior was no longer around to be thanked.

Phainon is not sure if you still remember.

But he'll definitely make it up to you.

"Hey, I actually have this friend Aglea. The demigod? I just need to talk to her after. Do you mind tagging along?" Phainon asks you, his tone light as always. Or at least, that's what you think, when actually, he's been meaning to tell you that minutes ago. He can't help but choose his words carefully out of nervousness.

You nod with a hum. "I don't mind. You're already treating me to food, so why not?"

True to his words, Phainon indeed treated you to lunch, at a quite expensive-looking eatery, which made you raise an eyebrow at him. His eyes consistently stayed glued to your face, staring and gazing as the two of you talked. Mostly about the battlefield, since it's a shared aspect between the two of you. Barely anything personal, really. Phainon takes note of that. Maybe you weren't as open as he thought you were. He will absolutely make sure you'd gradually loosen up to him, someday.

After the two of you finished lunch, you accompanied Phainon to the bath house, where Aglea is. You notice how the people there (Phainon's Chrisos buddies) kept looking at you. Strange, so you made sure to keep your guard up. You finally bid farewell after that.

When you got home, the first thing you noticed was that your bedroom door was slightly ajar. You could've sworn you closed it before your departure. But oh, nevermind.

Consecutively, Phainon kept visiting you without fail for the past few weeks. He even introduced you to the rest of his friends. Including Mydeimos, or Mydei.

So there are friends but are secretly in a relationship? That must mean the others don't know, you thought.

Well, what you didn't know, was that your conclusion was absolutely wrong. You found this out in the most unimaginable way possible.

"Hey Phainon, is that the girl you've been crushing on?" A little girl with red hair, asked.

All of Phainon's friends stared at the little girl, shocked and defeated for unearthing the 'secret' they've been keeping for a while now.

(Phainon told everyone about you. It was always you that he could yap about the past few weeks, ever since you saved him. And since then, he's also made sure to keep a really close eye on you, watching you from a distance. Or from the window of your home.)

You look to Phainon, whose face was burning red. He catches your gaze for a second, his mind short-circuits as he looks away.

"So, uhhh... Tribbie..." Phainon managed to say, "this is (Name)."

Wait, so he's bi?

[brights-place]

[KPDH] ．°˖✧ Ｂａｂｙ ˚₊ ⊹ x Reader

Contains: Fluff, Stupid Stuff, and Acts of Affection

A/N: I LOVE BABY I THINK ITS JUST CAUSE I LIKE CHARACTERS WHO ARE ABLE TO RAP

Summary: You love nothing more than pampering your partner despite his deep voice and tough rapper image, he’s got the most precious baby face and golden, doe-like eyes that shine whenever he looks at you. Whether you're gently applying under-eye masks, brushing his bangs out of the way, or softly kissing the corners of his eyes, it’s all about showing love to the boy behind the bars the soft, golden-eyed sweetheart who’s yours.

Somehow, Baby always made looking flawless look effortless. his pout practiced, his smirks camera-ready, and those golden eyes always wide and shimmering like he was made to be adored.

He had the kind of face that didn’t match the deep, cutting voice he rapped with the kind that made people do double takes, wondering how someone so baby-faced could spit bars that left rivals speechless and Baby knew it. He leaned into the contrast, played it up on stage, charmed his fans with fluttery lashes and smug little grins like it was second nature.

But when it was just you and him no cameras, no stylists, no fans or managers poking their heads in with reminders he let himself be softer in a way most wouldn’t believe.

He was lounging on the couch, legs kicked up and head tilted lazily back, letting you sit in his lap while you gently dabbed cooling eye patches beneath his lashes. His skin was already perfectly smooth, of course, but you claimed it was "maintenance." Baby didn’t complain. Not when your fingers were that gentle, or when you tilted his chin to get a better look at him like you were studying a masterpiece.

“Still looking at me like I’m breakable, [Name],” he muttered, voice low and syrupy, a slight rasp catching at the end. “You trying to spoil me again?” “You say that like I haven’t been spoiling you since day one,” you teased, brushing a strand of his hair from his forehead. “I know you're all growl and swagger on stage, but off it? You're basically a spoiled house cat shiny eyes, dramatic naps, attitude for days.”

His lips quirked up, he looked away like he was pretending to be unimpressed, but the way his hand crept up to rest on your waist betrayed him. He liked this. He liked you maybe more than he wanted to admit out loud.

You leaned in a little closer, just enough to whisper, “I like making your eyes shine. That’s all. No big speech.” that made him blink slowly, with a softness he rarely let anyone see.

You always treated him like more than the polished image he gave the world, and it left him unsteady in the best way. Nobody ever stayed long enough to learn the real him impatient, moody, selfish in the way all demons are but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t leave.

He tilted his head again, those doe golden eyes now glossy under the cool patches. “You gonna kiss me now or just keep acting like you’re a dermatologist?” You smirked. “Skincare is love.”

“Ugh, lame,” he groaned but his arms wrapped around your waist anyway, tugging you against him with a little huff. “Fine but if my eyes look extra cute in the next teaser photos, it’s on you.” “Can’t wait for the fans to see you with that glow I gave you.”

“Don’t post it,” he warned quickly, voice dropping a little lower. “Keep it for yourself.” and you understood. The world could have the rapper, the idol, the flirt but you got Baby the bratty, clingy, secretly soft demon who melted under your touch and trusted you with the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else.

۶ৎ ⌗ 𝐊-𝐏𝐎𝐏 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⸝⸝

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

[manyegos]

I wrote on 2019 "Me during the last decade" I think I gained so much wisdom and strength on 2023. The last 2 years were absolutely miserable, whereas in my early childhood and youth it was embodied with trauma, violence, abuse, poverty and utter loneliness . . . the last years specially after covid (and a little bit still) were marked by stagnation, dissapoitment and unkown. I am etraordinary better now and I can handle them but these years were difficult even if I would like to say otherwise. My financial situation really affected me to a point I reached a low point for consecutive years. I am very strong because the combination of everything with the pandemic and the recessions would have taken anyone out. I am better today and it makes me happy to read what I was feeling and going through and to know I gained so much wisdom and strength. That movie also represented how much I felt disconnected, lost and a feeling I can't put into words "stolen" from life. Now Blue is the warmest color does not have the same effect on myself.

By the way on a funny and uplifting note, at one point I reached the Fat Thor (if you seen Avengers you will understand) state of mind, where I had given up on everything and I was a mess (still not the lowest I have been, as I was hedonistic and careless) I posted this back then, thankfully all those questions have been answered and I am still working on the last one. “do you have a boyfriend yet?” Yes I did, I almost get married. Thank GOD I did not. By the way youngerself, you become a master and a pro in relationships and on ending in good terms after a nightmare fall out and dating so many frogs. You will find so much pleasure in being alone and single and even envision creating a family on your own! You also learned that anyone even the sort of wrongly titled "love of your life" are just complements, being good with yourself fixes everything around you and truly attracts people! “when are you gonna get a job?”Well youngself, you will discover soon after COVID hits that we actually had more luck back then and there was so much more we could do. You will experience a new industrialization wave (the AI and supercomputer wave.) Neither Trump, Communist, progressives or any party will fix it. You have to survive, good luck We are still doing that! “what are you gonna do with your life?” Well young self, I am still answering that. I keep avoiding and ressisting. Going after our dreams isn't as clear, easy or serendipitous. It is scary as fuck, sometimes and for many close to impossible and as we are discovering not even applicable (AI changed the landscape, laws change things, the economy, war, etc) But we are actually very motivated and more focus than when we were young.

Bonjour Tristesse (1958) // Blue is the Warmest Color (2013)

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Just don’t step on my foot - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Reader

Writer's note: Inspired by Alexia's Instagram photo dump, dancing salsa with her mother.

It started with a text.

Alexia: Is it weird I kinda wanna learn salsa?

You squinted at your phone. This was at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. She followed it immediately with another:

Alexia: Like… like actually learn it. With you. 💃🏽🕺🏽

You: You just compared yourself to a small man emoji.

Alexia: I panicked.

And that was it. A casual comment turned into a real plan. Three weeks later, when her birthday rolled around, you handed her a small red envelope.

"Ten salsa lessons," you said. "Beginner level, so we don't die."

Alexia’s eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

You shrugged. “You said you wanted to. You’re impossible to shop for. And, selfishly, I want to see you in dance shoes.”

She leaned in and kissed you. Soft and sure. “Best gift ever. Also, I’m leading.”

You snorted. “Of course you are.”

The first lesson was an exercise in humility.

Mostly yours.

“I didn’t think there would be this much… counting,” Alexia whispered, wide-eyed, as Marina, your instructor with a suspicious amount of cheer, clapped her hands and shouted, “ONE two THREE… FIVE six SEVEN!”

You were still trying to figure out what happened to four and eight when Alexia spun you effortlessly. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to salsa dance.

Meanwhile, you were trying not to trip over your own feet. Or hers. Or thin air.

“How are you already good at this?” you hissed. Exasperated, after the third turn you flubbed.

Alexia shrugged, smug. “Natural talent. Leadership skills. Strong sense of rhythm.”

“You played football, not Dancing with the Stars.”

“And yet here we are.” She winked. Catching your hand again like a pro. “Try to keep up.”

You wanted to throw a shoe at her. But you were still clinging to the hope that Marina would call a water break before you collapsed in shame.

Each week, it got worse. Or at least, you didn’t get better.

Alexia? She was thriving.

By week four, she was casually humming salsa tunes while brushing her teeth.

By week six, she had moved on to practicing spins in the living room. With a broom.

“Okay,” you snapped one evening as she dipped it, dipped it, with alarming grace, “if you give that broom one more longing stare, I’m going to lose it.”

She laughed, flipping imaginary hair over her shoulder. “What can I say? It follows my lead.”

You flopped onto the couch with a groan. “I hope it steps on your foot.”

“You’re just mad it dances better than you.”

She wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t going to give her that satisfaction.

Not yet.

You almost quit during week seven.

Not dramatically. Not with a speech or storming out of the studio. You just kind of… stopped. Halfway through a basic step, your feet froze, your timing went off and you pulled your hand out of Alexia’s before she could twirl you again.

“I can’t,” you muttered. Turning away. “I seriously can’t.”

Alexia, for once, didn’t make a joke. She stepped back. Giving you space and tilted her head just enough to catch your eye. “Hey,” she said gently, “what’s going on?”

You waved a hand at the mirror-lined wall like it could explain everything.

“I look like a broken marionette. My rhythm sucks. I’m offbeat. My brain can’t process the steps fast enough, and you...” You gestured toward her. “You’re out here channeling Shakira meets ballroom royalty. I’m just trying not to elbow you in the nose.”

Alexia stepped closer. Not touching you yet. Just… being there.

“You’re being hard on yourself,” she said. “It’s not a competition.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the hips of a goddess and apparently, salsa blood in your veins.”

That got a laugh. “I absolutely do not. I just… like it.” She looked down. Nudging her foot against yours lightly. “But I didn’t start out good either, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you were born spinning.”

“I’ve been practicing at night,” she admitted sheepishly. “On YouTube. Tutorials. Watching our videos back. Because…” She trailed off and bit her lip.

“Because?”

“Because I wanted to impress you.”

You stared at her. “Are you kidding me?”

She finally took your hand again. Warm and steady. “You’re doing this for me. The least I could do is meet you halfway.”

Something softened in your chest. “I just didn’t want to suck at it,” you said. Quieter now. “I wanted to be good. With you. You’re so confident out there. And I feel like I’m always two beats behind and one misstep away from public humiliation.”

Alexia stepped forward until your foreheads almost touched. “You don’t need to be perfect for me. I didn’t want to learn salsa to become a professional dancer. I wanted to learn it with you.”

Your breath caught a little.

She grinned. “Also, you look very attractive when you’re angry at the music.”

You snorted. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for dating the broom.”

She laughed. “I broke up with it. We weren’t spinning in the same direction.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. And that night, when Marina cued up the music again, you let yourself have fun with it.

You still missed half the steps. Your turns were slow. And your cross-body lead looked more like a traffic accident. But for the first time, you weren’t focused on being good.

You were focused on her.

Week eight was a revelation.

Somehow, you got it. Not perfectly, but enough. You hit a clean eight-count in time with Alexia. You turned and didn’t trip. You even dipped slightly at the end... and when you looked up at her, wide-eyed, she looked just as surprised as you did.

“You did it!” she gasped. “You didn’t maim me!”

“I know!” you shouted. Arms flailing with joy. “We didn’t look like baby giraffes learning to walk!”

“Okay, that’s a stretch,” she teased. “But yes. Much less giraffe-y. You even gave me a flourish at the end.”

You paused. “That was not intentional. I tripped on your shoelace and disguised it as style.”

Alexia grinned and kissed your forehead. “Well, your tripping has flair now. I love it.”

By week nine, you had a routine down. A rhythm. She would stretch while you filled your water bottle. You’d both complain about Marina’s obsession with clapping. She’d help you tie your shoelaces because, in her words, “You’re a liability and I like my toes unbroken.”

And somewhere between missed beats and shaky steps, you started to feel it. Not just the music, but yourself in it. She gave you her hand and instead of apologizing for where you placed your feet, you started looking her in the eyes again. Smiling. Moving.

Dancing.

After the last class, the night air was cool and still buzzing with leftover music.

You and Alexia walked home slowly. Fingers intertwined. Your limbs sore but heart full. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her little dimple kept peeking out like it had a mind of its own.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t fall during that last spin,” you said, limping slightly from your most dramatic dip to date.

“You were basically majestic,” Alexia said. Dead serious. “You should’ve had a wind machine behind you.”

You nudged her hip. “Save the dramatic flair for your broom ex.”

She chuckled, then checked her phone. “Okay,” she murmured. “She’s home.”

“Who?”

“My mom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re going now?”

She nodded. “I told her I wanted to stop by. Didn’t say why.”

Her mother answered the door wearing her reading glasses and a mismatched set of pajamas... floral bottoms and a Barça hoodie that had clearly once belonged to Alexia.

“Hola, cariño,” she said. Smiling tiredly. “Everything okay?”

Alexia leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have a surprise.”

Her mom immediately narrowed her eyes. “Is it a dog? Because you’re still technically not allowed to surprise me with living things after that duck situation.”

Alexia laughed. “It’s not a dog... or duck.”

Her mother tilted her head. “What is it then?”

Alexia reached out her hand. Palm up.

“Dance with me.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Salsa,” she said. Grinning wide now. “I want to salsa with you.”

Her mom blinked. “Are you having a fever?”

“No. I’ve been taking lessons.”

Her mother stared at her for a full ten seconds. Mouth slightly open. “Since when do you dance?”

Alexia turned toward you. Who was standing behind her with your arms folded and the smuggest smile on your face.

“Since she gave it to me for my birthday.”

Her mom’s eyes darted between the two of you. “You’re serious?”

Alexia pulled her phone out. Thumbed through a few videos, and handed it over. You watched as her mother squinted, hit play, and then… went quiet.

It was your freestyle. Shaky camera work. A bit blurry but full of movement and laughter and something real.

When it ended, her mother looked up. Blinking fast.

“Tu padre would’ve loved that,” she said softly. “He used to say, ‘Dancing isn’t about the steps... it’s about who you’re holding.’”

Alexia took her hand again. A little firmer this time. “So come on. Let me hold you.”

Her mom let out a laugh. Half disbelieving. Half tearful. And shook her head. “I’m going to need to change first. If I’m doing this, I’m not dancing in duck pajamas.”

Alexia turned to you, face glowing. “She said yes.”

You smiled. “Told you. No one can resist your strong leadership energy.”

She kissed your cheek and whispered, “I learned from the best.”

They danced in the small living room. Alexia leading. Her mother laughing. Both occasionally forgetting the steps but remembering to smile through every one.

You watched from the couch. A quiet spectator to something bigger than music.

Grief. Joy. And love tangled between their hands like an invisible rhythm. Steady and healing.

At the end, her mom pulled her into a hug and whispered something only Alexia could hear. You saw her eyes close. Saw her swallow hard. Then she nodded.

Later... as you both slipped out and walked home under the city’s sleepy sky... she turned to you and said, “Thank you. For the gift.”

You bumped her shoulder. “I didn’t give you salsa. I just gave you lessons.”

She looked at you. Eyes soft. “Yeah. But I got so much more.”

Then she reached for your hand again. And this time, she didn’t need to lead. You both just walked. Quietly in step.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: writing inspiration is drained. Not sure what to write next but I guess inspiration will come back soon

[levanterhaze]

── spring into summer, bangchan

♡ 󠀬󠀬dad!bangchan x actress!reader: angst (a lot of it) and heartbreak.

♡ synopsis ― You left him behind to chase your dreams, your best friend, your first love. Now you're back, and everything's changed. He's a father. You're a star. But some flames never die. Maybe it waits.

♡ [7,6k] & notes ― I would like to express my gratitude for all the love you have shown for this series. I write it with great affection, hoping that you will truly enjoy every word I write. In this chapter, we will learn a little about the protagonist's and Chan's past and what really happened between them. The part in italics refers to their past.

chapters: CHAPTER O1

CHAPTER O2

You never minded being seen in public, but you still took precautions, sunglasses, a cap, anything that made you feel a little less visible. With your disguise in place, you strolled through the downtown streets, picking up candles, party supplies, and a bouquet of flowers.

The florist, someone you remembered from your childhood, recognized you right away.

“My goodness, you’ve grown so much. I always saw you running around with that boy, Chan... Time really does fly.” She smiled warmly, the lines on her face like gentle reminders of passing years.

Chan used to bring you flowers all the time. Daisies. Roses. Lilies. He had always been that way, romantic, attentive, thoughtful. It was one of the many reasons you fell in love with him. He didn’t just love loudly, he loved kindly. The kind of love that wrapped around you like a blanket, that never asked for anything in return. It was steady, devoted, and brave. He would have thrown himself in front of anything to keep you safe.

Years could pass and no one would come close to what you felt in the brief years you were his.

You didn’t regret chasing your dream. You didn’t regret studying, working late into the night, building a name that could be recognized across screens and streets. What you did regret, deeply, was the lie. The way you chose to end it. The story you invented to make him let go. You told yourself it was to protect him. To give him the life he always wanted, one with stability, peace, a future you couldn’t give back then.

You found yourself stopping at a small coffee shop. The kind with soft jazz playing in the background and the smell of roasted beans hugging the air. You ordered an iced americano and settled into a bench by the window.

Outside, the city moved at its usual pace. Strangers passed by, faces you didn’t know, each caught up in their own little story. Couples holding hands. Children skipping along beside tired parents. Friends laughing over shared secrets. Life was happening everywhere, in quiet, ordinary ways.

You looked down at the bouquet beside you. The scent was sweet, but it tightened your stomach. It was the kind of ache that came from memory. The kind that stayed hidden until something soft and lovely pulled it to the surface.

And there it was again, his ghost, lingering in the colors of the petals and the shape of the past you tried to leave behind.

It was a cold winter night, the sky above painted in deep navy blue, scattered with silent stars. The breeze was gentle but sharp, weaving through your hair and brushing against your cheeks like icy fingertips. You stood frozen beneath it, unable to move, your breath the only thing visible as it curled into the night air. Your heart was already aching, even before a single word had been spoken.

Then he appeared in a gray sweatshirt, his messy light brown hair, the tip of his nose reddened by the chill. Chan sat down next to you on the swing in the empty park. 

“Hi, baby.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, so effortlessly gentle. You tried to smile but it came out broken, just a curve of sorrow he didn’t notice.

“Hi.” The word left your mouth like a breath too heavy to carry.

“You wanted to see me, huh?” He grinned, voice bright, carefree. “I was with Felix, but I came as soon as I saw your message.”

He didn’t know. Not yet. To him, this was just another night. To you, it was the end of everything you knew.

”Chan… we need to talk.”

You couldn’t look at him. Your gaze dropped to your lap, to the chipped light pink nail polish on your fingers, anything to avoid his eyes. He frowned, his smile faltering at the sound of your voice.

“It's okay. You can tell me. What happened?”

You swallowed, your breath hitching. Every second stretched longer than it should. You drew in the cold air and tried to find your voice. “I made a decision,” you said. “I… I want to pursue my dream.”

For a moment, his entire face lit up. That bright, proud smile bloomed instantly, the kind that always made your heart flutter. And it shattered you. Because he still believed you meant together. You could feel your chest squeezing tighter.

“That's amazing, baby. I'm proud of you."

You couldn’t speak. There was a lump in your throat so sharp it hurt. Your mouth felt dry, your hands trembling in your lap. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost drowned out the world. When you finally looked at him, tears were already clinging to your lashes. Chan’s smile faded. He reached out to cup your face, his palm warm and soft against your cold skin.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You blinked, and the tears began to fall. Slowly at first, then freely, painting your cheeks and dripping onto his hand. “Because… I’m leaving.”

His hand didn’t move. Neither did you. Time seemed to pause, every heartbeat echoing like a crack through your chest. You watched his expression change. Confusion. Pain. Realization.

And then silence. Nothing but the sound of winter and everything falling apart.

It hit Chan like a punch to the stomach, the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs before you can even speak. But he tried. He forced a smile, shaky and faint, before rising and kneeling in front of you. His eyes searched yours, already dimming. You saw it, the sadness tucked behind the corners of his mouth. He didn’t say it, but you knew. You had already disappointed him.

“I received an offer,” you said, voice trembling. “A scholarship. In South Korea.” Your next words barely made it past your lips. “And I accepted.”

He drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising with effort as his heart began to race. But he still nodded, still tried to be strong for you. His laugh was weak, more a breath than a sound.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry, okay?” He reached for your hand. “We’ll figure something out. I can visit. Or… I can go with you. Long-distance relationships work. People do it all the time.”

That was the problem. He meant it. Every word. He would leave everything behind if it meant staying by your side. He would give up his university plans, his future here, his family, his dreams of a quiet home and a life built together, just to chase after you. And that kind of love, though beautiful, was too big. Too costly. Too much to ask from someone you loved back.

“You can’t,” you whispered. Your voice broke as you wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Chan’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together in confusion. “What do you mean I can’t? Just tell me when, I’ll talk to my parents. They’ll understand. I’ll figure something out and—”

“Chan,” you interrupted, shaking your head slowly. “No.”

His lips parted slightly, disbelief setting in. “No?”

“I don’t… I don’t want you to come with me.” Your eyes met his, and you saw it happen in real time, the way the light faded. The way hope unraveled behind his gaze.

“I don’t understand,” he said, the words tight in his throat. “Why?”

“I’m doing this alone,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart crumbled. “I want things this place can’t give me.”

He stared at you like you’d just betrayed him with the cruelest lie. Like your words had dug into his chest and carved him open.

“What about me?” he whispered. “Does that mean you don’t want me anymore?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. “It’s not…” you tried, but he cut you off.

“Wait. Are you breaking up with me?” There was a humorless laugh in his voice, one that cracked the moment like glass shattering. He leaned back slightly, recoiling from you, as if your touch might burn him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, your voice raw, your hands shaking. “But I need to be honest.”

“Honest about what?”

Your lips trembled. “Us. It’s over.”

He laughed again. This time it was quieter, broken in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.

“No, it’s not,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not doing this. You’re not.”

“Chan.”

“No. Screw that. Why are you breaking up with me? If it’s because of the trip, I already said I’ll go. I’ll go to freaking Korea, I’ll find work, I’ll study there if I have to. I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything.”

“It’s not the trip.” You lied. He didn’t see through it.

He took a deep breath, feeling weary, defeated.

“Then what is it? Do you like someone else?”

“What? No,” you said quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just…” You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t say the words that would destroy both of you.

He leaned in, both hands cradling your face, holding you as if you were already slipping away. His eyes searched yours, glassy with tears he refused to let fall.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I would go anywhere with you. For you. I need you to know that.”

You broke. The tears came fast and heavy, streaming down your face as your hands gently wrapped around his, pulling them away from your cheeks. Your heart screamed at you to stop. To stay. To tell him the truth. But instead, you looked him in the eye. And you said it.

”I don't love you anymore.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. And in that moment, you didn’t just break his heart. You shattered the part of yourself that would always belong to him. And then you twisted the dagger in his chest, stabbing him in a place only you had the keys to.

Time stopped. Seconds froze in place, just like your words. Chan looked at you like he was in actual pain. His lips parted again and again, but nothing came out. He let go of your hands like they burned him, stepping back as if trying to find any sign that this was a bluff.

"You don't mean that.” His voice was broken. You were to blame.

“I do,” you whispered. “Please… just don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Tell me it's a lie.” A single tear slid down his cheek. You sniffled, doing everything in your power to keep your own tears from falling. “Tell me this is a joke. Right now.”

“I can’t…” you said, your voice barely there. “Because it’s not.”

His breathing became frantic, struggling to inhale and exhale. He ran a hand through his brown hair, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.. He couldn't believe this was happening. He had made so many plans, and they all included you. He couldn't see a future without you in it. And now the person he loves most simply doesn't love him anymore? What are the possibilities?

“I'm sorry.” You rubbed your hands over your face to wipe away the tears and stood up, the creaking sound of the swing echoing between your broken hearts.

He would never know how much it broke you to do this. Never guess that you were lying straight through your teeth to protect him. That this was love, and it was killing you.

“Hey!” His voice cracked as he rushed after you. He grabbed your wrist and turned you to face him again, forcing your eyes to meet his. Tears clung to his lashes. His breathing was heavy. His nose is red. His voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “If you walk away from me right now, if you do this, I’ll never forgive you.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

In that moment, you swore you could hear the sound of glass shattering, your heart and his breaking at once, splintering into pieces too sharp to ever put back together. It echoed in your chest, your head, your ears. Final. Irreversible.

And still… you turned your back and walked away. Leaving him standing there. Alone. In the dark. With tears in his eyes and a heart split in two.

You broke yourself to protect him and dragged him down with you. And that was something you would never forgive yourself for.

He was inside the car, his head leaning against the seat while listening to soft music on the radio. In half an hour, Yuna would be leaving her ballet class, and he would take her home, cook dinner, and spend another night with his daughter, reading stories and watching cartoon shows on TV.

That’s when the sound of rain pulled him from his thoughts. At first, it was just a few fine droplets tapping against the car window. Then, within seconds, they turned into heavy, thick drops that blurred everything outside. Chan sat up and quickly reached to close the window, but something caught his attention. It was you, running for shelter from the rain, two bags clutched in your hands. You looked flustered and out of breath, your clothes already soaked through, clinging to your body. He cursed under his breath. He knew he shouldn’t, but his heart moved before reason could catch up.

He cursed under his breath, knowing he shouldn't, but his heart spoke louder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered to himself.

You stopped beneath a tree, trying to use one of the bags to shield your head. The effort was useless. With a frustrated sigh, you gave up and started walking again, slowly now, careful on the slick sidewalk.

Chan rolled the window down fully and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “Hey, get in the car.”

You froze. Your eyes squinted against the downpour as you tried to make out who had spoken. For a moment, you hesitated. But the rain didn’t. It kept falling harder, soaking you further. He reached over and unlocked the door. You climbed in quickly, tossed the bags to the floor, and shut the door with a sharp exhale. Your teeth clenched as you pushed damp strands of hair away from your face.

Water trickled down your cheeks, your neck, and clung to your skin. Chan stared for a beat too long, his brows furrowed in concern and something else he wasn’t ready to name. Without thinking, he shrugged off the jacket he was wearing and draped it over your shoulders. You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance. He kept his eyes forward, like he hadn’t just crossed a line he swore he wouldn’t.

“Thanks,” you murmured, wiping your face with your palm.

You pushed your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck and collarbone. Chan glanced, and then looked again. He couldn’t help it. The way your skin glistened from the rain, the way the warmth of the car painted your cheeks in that soft flush, it tugged at a memory he hadn’t let himself revisit. He remembered exactly what your skin felt like under his fingertips. He remembered the curve of your jaw, the way your breath hitched when he leaned in just a little too close.

He clenched his jaw and stared out the windshield instead, breathing slowly. He wanted to reach out, to trace that same line down your neck, to brush your hair back again just so he could see more. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Then your eyes caught his, just before he could look away. You frowned.

“What were you looking at?”

He almost let a smirk slip, but buried it beneath a stony expression. “Nothing.”

“You were staring.”

“You’re not that interesting,” he shot back flatly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your lips parted in disbelief, a flush of anger rising through your chest and neck, burning hot under your skin.

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I probably would too, if I were you. But could you just… not be like this? Just for a moment?” Your voice cracked slightly, but you kept going. “Since I got here, you've been treating me like some intruder. Like I’m this awful reminder you wish you could erase.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes fixed on the window, watching the city blur past.

“You’re not making it easy for anyone,” he muttered.

That was it. Cold, final, like a closed door. He wasn’t going to budge. He would never soften, never let you in. He’d just keep shutting you out, making you question everything. Without another word, you reached down and unbuckled your seat belt, fingers trembling with frustration. Maybe walking in the rain would hurt less than sitting there, being torn apart in silence.

“You’re not serious.” He moved before you could open the door, slamming it shut with one hand. Rain drummed hard against the roof above you, wild and relentless.

“Let me out,” you snapped, gripping the handle over his hand. Your skin brushed his, and your whole body tensed. A jolt ran up your arm, and you hated the way it made your breath catch. He felt it too. You saw it in the slight pause of his movement, in the twitch of his jaw.

“You’ll freeze out there.” His voice came low and tight, rough around the edges.

“So what?” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure building inside you. “Do you even care? It doesn’t matter to you anyway.”

Chan didn’t answer. He just stood there, holding the door… and your hand. You tried pulling away, tried opening the door again, but your body betrayed you. You were shaking, your breaths turning uneven. This whole thing felt stupid, desperate and humiliating. Your hand slowly moved up to your face as the burn in your throat rose to meet the sting behind your eyes. Chan flinched, his chest tightening at the sight.

You were crying. His heart sank as he watched your shoulders tremble. You turned away, both hands hiding your face as your sobs filled the small space between you. It was like something inside you had cracked open.

He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t run from it.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out rough, lower than usual, but there was no doubt it was sincere. “That’s not what I meant.”

You shook your head, voice broken between sobs. “Yes, it is. Of course it is. You hate me—and I get it. I deserve it. I’m awful, I left, I said things I can’t take back… and you’re right to hate me, but…”

Chan reached across the space and gently touched your wrist, grounding you with his presence. “I don’t hate you.”

You were a mess, flushed, soaked in tears, but still the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was ridiculous how that had never changed.

“Be serious,” you whispered.

“I am.”

You both stared at each other, suspended in the moment. Neither of you knew what to say next or what that admission really meant. You sniffled, wiping your tears with trembling fingers, questions swelling in your chest. Had he really asked about you all this time? Did he know your address in Seoul? Did any of it still matter to him?

Before either of you could speak, a wave of laughter and excited voices floated through the cracked car window. Your attention shifted as you spotted a group of children across the street under colorful umbrellas. The rain had started to fade into a light drizzle.

And there she was, Yuna, safe and smiling beneath the cover of a teacher’s umbrella.

Chan blinked hard and exhaled as he unbuckled his seat belt. You watched him step into the rain, holding the umbrella low under his arm. He crossed the street, crouched down, and scooped his daughter into his arms. Reality hit like a punch to the chest. He had a life. A routine. A daughter who adored him. A home to go back to. And you? You were just a reminder of something that used to be.

By the time he returned, Yuna’s face lit up when she saw you in the car. She clapped her hands and giggled, calling your name like she’d been waiting for you all day. You barely managed a smile as you turned, watching Chan quietly buckle her into the car seat.

Yuna beamed back at you, her little legs swinging in excitement beneath her ballet outfit. "Daddy, did you bring the princess to see me?"

Chan glanced at you for a split second, then looked away without answering.

You kept your voice soft. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

Yuna bounced in her seat, still glowing. "Daddy, can the princess come over for dinner? I want to show her my dolls!"

You couldn't help but smile at her innocence, at how effortlessly she shared her joy. Her little voice, so full of hope, made something squeeze in your chest. Chan swallowed hard beside you, clearly caught off guard. You could tell he was scrambling for a way to gently decline without breaking his daughter’s heart.

But he said nothing. Just silence. Waiting, maybe, for you to do it instead. He didn't want you in his house. That much was obvious. Not with his daughter. Not with his wife. This moment, even if innocent, wasn’t supposed to happen.

So you smiled and leaned forward slightly. "Hey, cutie. I’d love to, but I can’t make it today. I can’t wait to meet them though."

Yuna’s shoulders dropped a little. She made a soft noise of protest and waved her arms in disappointment. "Promise?"

"I promise," you said, offering her a pinky through the seats. She took it seriously and grinned again.

Chan got into the driver’s seat, checking the rearview mirror where his daughter giggled and squirmed in her seat. Then his eyes met yours again. But the smile you'd worn had already faded as you looked ahead. He didn’t say a word. Just started the car. The ride to your parents’ house was filled with Yuna’s cheerful chatter. She told him all about her ballet class, the music, the snacks, her friend who wore a sparkly tutu. Chan listened intently, asking questions, nodding at her excitement. And something in you twisted. 

It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was envy. Because that could’ve been your life. And no matter how close you were right now, it felt miles away.

When he parked the car, you turned to Yuna and blew her a kiss. She caught it in her hands and pressed it to her cheek with a shy giggle. You glanced at Chan, hoping for a trace of softness, but his focus stayed on the windshield like you weren’t even there. You gathered your bags and opened the door. The rain had stopped and everything was damp but quiet.

“Thanks for the ride.” You mumbled before closing the door.

You were already halfway up the steps when you heard your name. You paused, not sure if you imagined it. Then again, louder this time. You turned. Chan had rolled down the passenger window. His expression was unreadable, his tone flat.

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon?" 

You blinked, surprised. "Um… yes. Why?"

“'Two pm. In the park.” 

That was all he said before driving off. No explanation. No smile. Just a cloud of confusion left in his wake.

At two in the afternoon, you arrived at the park. The day was beautiful, cool and sunny, as if the rain from the night before had never happened. Children filled the playground with laughter, running up the slide, tumbling down, their voices echoing in the open space.

From a distance, the first thing you noticed was a head of long blond hair, neck-length and shining in the sunlight. You narrowed your eyes to be sure, your heart picking up speed. It had to be Felix. And just as you suspected, Chan was standing beside him, arms crossed as they talked about something quietly.

“Felix?” You called out to him.

Both of them turned toward you. As soon as Felix recognized you, his face lit up and he opened his arms wide with that same radiant smile you remembered so well. Without hesitation, you walked into his embrace, laughing softly.

“Look who escaped from the big screen to see us!” he said, holding you tightly and longer than expected.

“It’s so good to see you. My God, it’s been forever.”

He looked just the same, maybe even better. Handsome, almost angelic, his warmth just as infectious as it had always been.

“It’s good to see you too. I almost didn’t believe it when Chan told me you were in town.”

You caught a glimpse of Chan watching silently from the side. He didn’t smile, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

“Well, here I am.” 

Felix’s expression turned hopeful. “And how long are you staying? We’ve got to go out for a drink or something.” He nodded toward Chan, who barely acknowledged it, simply offering the smallest nod of agreement.

”Just two weeks.“ You smiled, feeling the weight of time passing in your words.

“We’ve still got time. I gotta run now, duty calls. But hey, I’ve got the bar now. You’ve got to stop by. I’d love that.”

“Of course, Lix. Let’s make it happen.”

He pulled you into one last hug, squeezing you affectionately before heading off with his usual bright energy, waving as he walked away. Once he disappeared down the street, the quiet between you and Chan wrapped around you like a heavy coat. You slipped your hands into your pockets and drew in a slow breath.

“So… any particular reason you asked me to come here?”

Chan turned to face you, and it took a moment for you to steady your breathing. He looked effortlessly beautiful. His hair had grown longer, curling gently at the ends, especially where it brushed the back of his neck. You tried not to stare.

“There’s someone who wants to see you,” he said.

You blinked, confused. But before you could ask, a small figure came running toward you across the grass. Yuna wore a flowery dress and her face lit up with pure joy when she saw you. She ran straight into your arms and you instinctively knelt down, wrapping her in a warm hug. Her tiny arms went around your neck as she giggled, and you kissed her soft cheek.

Before you could say a word, she took your hand eagerly and began pulling you along. “Come on, princess, let’s build a castle!”

Chan sat on the bench with his arms crossed, watching the two of you for the next forty minutes. He told himself to keep a straight face, to resist the growing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. But the truth was, he couldn’t.

You sat with your ankles buried in the warm sand, Yuna beside you, both of you covered in it from head to toe. Her toys were scattered around, half-buried and forgotten except for one mission: build the biggest sandcastle possible. She had declared it like it was royal law, handing you a tiny pink shovel with full authority. 

“Let’s dig, princess,” she said solemnly, her brow furrowed like a little commander.

“Leave it to me, your highness.” You gave her a theatrical bow, gripping the small shovel and diving into the task with exaggerated commitment, carving a moat around the half-built structure.

Chan ran his hand through the back of his neck, definitely not smiling at the scene before him.

And as quick as the blink of an eye, you were getting up to brush the accumulated sand off your lap, and tragedy struck. You tripped over the sand bucket and fell. Face first into the sand. There was a beat of silence before Yuna let out a shriek of laughter. She kicked her feet and clapped, delighted by the sight of you flopped in the sand.

“I’m okay. I’m fine,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, spitting out a bit of grit.

“You fell!” Yuna gasped between fits of laughter. Then she tilted her head and added gleefully, “You fell like a pancake!”

You stood, brushing sand from your hair, your clothes, even your eyelashes.

“Well, good thing pancakes are awesome,” you said with a grin, joining her in laughter.

Glancing back toward the bench, you caught Chan failing miserably at holding in his amusement.

“Yah!” he called out, grinning now. “You alright over there, or should I call for backup?”

“I’m fine,” you replied, pouting as you rolled your eyes. That was it, he broke. Laughter spilled out of him as he leaned back against the bench, unable to keep it in.

You sat back down beside Yuna, both of you returning to your castle, determined to finish it. By the time it was done, the sun had begun to dip low in the sky, casting golden hues across the park. Yuna had started yawning, blinking slower, and rubbing her eyes with sandy hands no matter how many times you gently stopped her. When the sky turned soft and peach-colored, you scooped her up. Her tiny arms wrapped around your neck and her head rested against your shoulder without a word. You carried her across the sand, like a sleepy little koala, toward where Chan was waiting. And for a brief moment, the three of you felt like something whole. Something that almost could’ve been.

“I think her battery ran out,” you said with a soft laugh, gently brushing your fingers through Yuna’s dark hair, tied back with a fluffy yellow scrunchie.

Chan stood up, instinctively reaching to take her from you, but you looked at him, something hopeful flickering in your eyes.

“Is it okay if I carry her a little longer?”

He paused for a moment. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

And just like that, the two of you found yourselves walking side by side down the quiet, tree-lined streets of your old neighborhood. The air was cool and smelled faintly of grass and rain, and Yuna lay nestled in your arms, still barely awake. She clutched a small stuffed bunny to her chest, letting out a yawn every few steps, her eyelids drooping further each time. Chan didn’t say much, but he kept glancing at her with soft eyes, each look filled with affection. It was the kind of quiet tenderness that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. You noticed the way her tired smile would return whenever she felt his gaze on her.

He didn't say anything, just kept walking with you, his hands in his pockets. Then Yuna's sandal slipped off, and he ran to pick it up, with an incredible reflex that only parents have.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes flicking to yours briefly.

“Yes,” you said with a small breath. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“You sure?” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You gave him a look and smiled. “Are you calling me weak?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, but didn’t answer.

Before long, you reached his front gate. The garden outside was small but clearly well cared for, the kind of place that made a house feel like a home. You stopped there, hesitating for a moment. He looked at you cautiously, then turned his attention to Yuna. He reached out and gently lifted her from your arms, holding her against his chest with practiced ease, making sure not to wake her.

You watched as her cheek pressed against his shoulder, peaceful and safe.

“Well, I...” you began, unsure of what to say next.

He looked at you, eyes searching. “Do you wanna...”

You both spoke at once. Chan let out a quiet breath, like he had been holding it in for longer than he realized. You smiled, a soft, genuine curve of your lips that felt strangely natural, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. “You’re covered in sand.”

You hesitated, shaking your head quickly. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” he replied simply. “I’m inviting you.”

You raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “Won’t her mom be upset if she sees me here?”

There was a short pause. He glanced at the door, then unlocked it.

“No.”

You frowned. His wife must be a saint, then. Because you couldn’t imagine many people welcoming an ex-girlfriend into their home. Still, this was Chan. If he said it was fine, you trusted him.

He entered the house and you followed him. The house was warm. Lived in. A few toys scattered about. A pair of pink socks near the stairs. Chan gently placed Yuna on the couch, tucking her bunny under her chin as she shifted sleepily, her tiny mouth falling open in the most peaceful way.

“She could sleep through a tornado,” he said with a small laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead as he passed you. “Want some coffee?”

You nodded. ‘Sure.’

He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way, if you want to wash up.”

You thanked him and made your way down the hallway, your footsteps quiet against the floor. The bathroom was just as neat as the rest of the house, everything in its place. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and shook your head lightly, sending grains of sand tumbling from your hair. Then you brushed the rest off your clothes and splashed cold water on your face, watching it trickle down into the porcelain sink.

That was when you noticed it. Two toothbrushes. One small, bright, and clearly Yuna’s. The other, plain and adult-sized. Your brows furrowed slightly. Just two. No third.

You weren’t trying to pry, and you certainly didn’t want to overstep but something about that small detail tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You took a quiet breath and stepped back into the hallway. It wasn’t your place to ask. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to know the answer.

You hadn’t noticed it right away, but Chan’s house was surprisingly spacious. It made sense, though. A child like Yuna needed room, space to scatter her toys, space to grow, space to let her happiness echo through the walls. Under the stairs sat a piano, slightly dusty, but clearly used from time to time. You remembered him taking lessons back in high school. He had been so determined for a while, though he never followed through. Life had a way of changing people when you weren’t looking.

The sliding door to the backyard creaked as it opened, and you went outside. The sun was already golden, casting long shadows on the grass. A small plastic slide stood crooked in the yard, and the sound of the coffee machine hummed inside.

A few minutes later, he joined you, two mugs in hand. He handed you one and sat down next to you on the wooden bench. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sipped in silence, breathing in the scent of the afternoon air and roasted beans.

“I didn't expect you to be good with her,” he said finally, his eyes still fixed on the backyard fence.

You looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “You used to trip over your own feet trying to put on your backpack.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I've evolved.”

“Evolved,” he murmured.

Silence again. But it's not awkward. Just... kind.

The quiet returned, but it felt easy now, like an old rhythm neither of you had forgotten. You looked at him more closely. His jaw wasn’t so tight anymore. His shoulders, always tense when you first saw him again, had relaxed. There was something lighter in his expression. Not happiness exactly, but something close. Something like peace.

“I like being around her,” you said softly, playing with the handle of your mug. “She reminds me of you.”

He turned his head slightly. “How so?”

You smiled at the thought. “She's stubborn. Bossy. Ridiculously charming.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds dangerous.”

“But,” you continued, “she’s also sweet. Protective. Brave.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on his coffee, lost in thought, the silence stretching comfortably between you.

The sliding door creaked behind you as a breeze blew through, and for a split second, he leaned a little closer to you. Just a little. But enough for you to feel the change in the air.

“She likes you,” he said at last, his voice low. “Thanks for spending time with her.”

You offered a small shrug, brushing your fingers along the ceramic mug. “You don’t need to thank me. The feeling’s mutual. She’s... impossible not to fall for.”

Chan didn’t reply. But when you glanced at him, you caught the way his eyes had settled on you, not guarded, not distant, just quietly focused. Like he was seeing you for the first time in a long while. Like some memory he’d tried to bury had surfaced despite him.

There was something rare about this moment, something soft and unspoken. Just the two of you, sitting side by side with no weight of the past pressing down, no demands or expectations. You knew it wouldn't last. Moments like this never did. But that only made it more precious.

When the breeze turned cooler, Chan stood to make more coffee, and you followed him into the kitchen. The mugs were refilled, the scent of roasted beans wrapping around the quiet space. Outside, the backyard lights glowed faintly through the glass, casting gentle reflections across the counter. Yuna was still curled on the sofa, her small frame tucked tight, clutching her bunny like a lifeline. A lock of hair clung to her cheek, and she shifted slightly, making a soft sound in her sleep.

You leaned against the counter, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on her with a quiet smile. “I still can’t believe she knocked out like that.”

“She always does,” Chan said, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, one foot touching the floor. “She goes full chaos mode, then crashes like someone flipped a switch.”

You laughed softly. “She’s amazing, Chan.”

He looked down, smiling in that modest way of his. “She’s... everything.”

The words hung in the air between you, warm and honest.

You turned to face him, lifting your mug slightly. “So... how’s life treating you? Besides the whole dad stuff.”

He blinked, as if the question had surprised him. Then he smiled faintly. “Dad stuff takes up a lot.”

“I bet,” you said with a quiet smile, then added more seriously, “But really. What have you been up to?”

Chan ran a hand through his hair, his voice a little rough now, worn down by the long day.

“I teach music,” he said. “At a private school. Guitar and piano, mostly. A bit of theory, some practice. Nothing glamorous.”

Your eyebrows lifted, genuinely surprised. “That actually suits you.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. ‘You think so?’

You nodded. “You always looked the most at ease with a guitar in your hands.”

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s... peaceful,” he said. “Predictable. Safe.” He paused, then added, “That’s where I met Hana. Yuna’s mom. She used to work there.”

“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it. You cleared your throat, adjusting your grip on the mug. “That's nice.”

You never thought you'd be having a casual conversation about the mother of Chan’s child. And yet, here you were. Hana. The name sat oddly in your mind. You wondered what kind of woman she was. Judging by Yuna’s smile, she was probably beautiful, the kind of beauty that stole breath and turned heads. Maybe she was the type of woman people gravitated toward without even realizing. You also wondered if he had loved her the way he once loved you or if it was something steadier. Something built more on trust than passion. Maybe building a life with someone required a different kind of love. Maybe he found happiness in that. The kind you could never have given him.

He said nothing more. He just took a sip of coffee and nodded slowly, the weight of something unsaid passing briefly between you. The way he spoke of her, neutral, factual, without affection, made you curious to know more.

He looked at you then. “And you?”

That simple question softened something in your chest. You let out a breath, a small smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back against the counter, mug still warm between your fingers.

“It’s... intense,” you began. “I work a lot. No fixed schedule. No time to breathe most days.” He was listening, really listening, his coffee forgotten in his hands. “But I love it,” you said, your voice glowing with quiet excitement. “Becoming a different person, even for a little while, and making people feel something real. It’s chaotic, exhausting, terrifying sometimes... but God, Chan. It’s everything I dreamed of. I feel alive.”

He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on you, but not exactly, it was more like he was caught up in the glare of something.

“I finished filming a movie last month,” you said, your voice softer now. “Nothing flashy, but... it meant a lot to me.” Then you caught yourself, lips twitching in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. He leaned forward just a little, as if your words pulled him in without permission. “Don’t stop.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Then you smiled.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, the kitchen changed. Or maybe it was just the light above the sink, casting a warm, golden hue over the tiles and countertops, softening the world around you. Or the fact that he hadn’t blinked once while you were speaking like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he looked away. A current moved through the quiet, slow and heavy like honey. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his fingers began tapping lightly against the side of his mug. And for one insane, fleeting moment, he thought about kissing you. Right there between the hum of the fridge and the quiet breath of his daughter.

He imagined it: your lips, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, tasting of coffee and memories. The way his hand might hover near your jaw before finding the courage to touch. How the ache between you might dissolve into something simpler, something whole. He blinked, and the thought evaporated with the steam curling up between your cups.

He blinked and the thought disappeared, dissipating in the steam between their mugs.

“You really did it,” he said finally, voice hushed, almost reverent. “You went and made it happen.”

You softened at the sound of his voice. “Yes.”

He’d spent so long resenting the version of you that lived behind a screen. The one who smiled in interviews. The one whose face popped up in trailers he refused to watch. That you were easy to turn off. Easy to hate. But this version standing barefoot in his kitchen, mug in hand, heart soft in your chest, this one, he didn’t know how to hate.

It was getting late.

Neither of you said it, but it hung between you like a thin thread pulling taut. You glanced over your shoulder at Yuna, still curled up on the couch like a question mark, bunny pressed to her cheek. Then you set your mug down, slowly.

“I should go.”

Chan slowly got up, placing his mug on the table. “Yeah... I'll walk you out.”

You tiptoed past the little girl, careful not to stir the peace of the room, and slipped your coat from the armchair. When he opened the door, the night greeted you, crisp and scented with pine and something sweet, like honeysuckle trailing from a neighbor’s fence. You passed him on your way out, your arm brushing his. Neither of you moved away.

You stepped out onto the porch together. Everything was quiet. The kind of silence that echoes in your ears.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked at you like he was still back in the kitchen, still somewhere inside that memory that hadn’t even fully formed. Then he blinked, his expression softening like thawing ice.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being with her. For being... here.”

You smiled, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.

Your breath came out in small clouds now, floating like ghosts between you. You didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, or how to say goodbye, so you followed instinct instead. You stepped forward and hugged him. It was brief. Your hand ran lightly across his shoulder. But his body stiffened in surprise, and for a second, just one, his arm twitched toward you, as if fighting muscle memory, as if his chest remembered holding you before his brain could catch up.

When you pulled back, he was looking at you again. But this time, his gaze didn’t stop at your eyes. It fell slowly to your mouth. The distance between you was barely a breath. And in that breath lived every question neither of you had asked. Every kiss you didn’t get to steal. If he leaned in now, if he let the years and guilt and fear dissolve would it break something, or fix it?

He didn’t find out.

You walked toward the garden, the cold nipping at your skin, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Your heart was warm enough. And it was still beating, hard and alive, full of something that almost but not quite, felt like hope.

♡ taglist: @strsforjsb @robinnotgood24 @kannaexe @idiotmaterial @iovecb97 @inejghafawifesblog @hash2013 @skzfangirl143 @gncbnahc @stay3096 @starjely @alisonyus @mangalovesanime-blog @hanniebunch @nikatsuuu @downingmorphine @woopdeedoopdeedoop @tsunderelino @lomllino @lisaskz @sadgvddess @skzswife @hissnoopy @lee-knows-cats @lixies-favorite-cookie @hash2013 @11thenightwemet11 @hanadulsetaad @alondra6011 @skinnyjeans-tanktops @ilovvesleepp @hyunetopia @maddy24207

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

Newlywed Solomon HCs

Solomon x GN! reader

Summary: Things Solomon does now that he's officially married to you.

AN: Hi all! I'm trying to get myself out of a writing funk (my event requesters, I'm so sorry, I'm trying ☹️). Since the new app won't have the side characters until later, I decided to just make some headcanons for Solomon so my brain could un-mushify itself. Nightbringer was but a mere taste of what married life with Solomon could be like and I need more, lol.

Warnings: Reader refers to Solomon as "my love," lengthy (I got carried away), other than that, it's all fluff!

Newlywed Solomon who wakes you up in the morning with soft whispers of love in your ear. “I’m so lucky to wake up next to you. You have no idea how much I love you.” He holds you close, legs tangled, happily sharing his warmth with you as he presses soft kisses around your face, occasionally nuzzling his nose against your neck.

Newlywed Solomon who brings you coffee in bed. He knows how you like it and makes sure every measurement of milk, sugar, or creamer is perfect. It’s bitter… almost sour, despite the effort he puts in, but you’ve learned to hold your grimace as he sips his own beside you peacefully, his off hand thumbing over your knuckles.

Newlywed Solomon who sends little texts throughout the day if you’re apart. He wants to know if you’re thinking about him like he is of you. Expect anything from a meme he found, a gif of a cat, an emoji, or even a photo of himself showing what he’s up to. If you send a photo of yourself back, be prepared to have him spam you with heart reactions and words of love. He’s happy to know you’re safe and having a good day.

Newlywed Solomon who tries to keep up with housecleaning. He’s not particularly good at it, but he’s learning as he goes. You’ll find the bed sheets freshly washed and on the bed, though the fitted sheet is clinging to the corners of the mattress by a prayer. Sometimes one of his shirts ends up folded and tucked away amongst yours (you think this is on purpose so you’d see it and wear it). A lot of it he does with magic, but your kisses of encouragement make him want to do better each time without the added help.

Newlywed Solomon who mentions extending the family… in the form of cats. Easily agreeing, you both end up walking through a shelter with the hopes of rescuing a kitty in need. He stops in front of a cage with a pair of siblings inside, and after reading about how they’ve spent their lives in the shelter, he turns to you with misty eyes and a hopeful smile. That night, you bring home two kitties that are already spoiled by Solomon in the form of a large cat tower, a fluffy bed, and a bag full of toys, treats, and pretty collars.

Newlywed Solomon who loves matching with you. Matching robes hung side by side on the wall, matching mugs sitting patiently in the cabinet to be used, even matching toothbrushes that sit on either side of the bathroom sink. He’s even imbued your wedding rings with magic to connect your hearts so that every time you touch the banding, a soft pulse of the other’s heartbeat can be felt.

Newlywed Solomon who’s only allowed to watch as you prepare meals. He’ll quickly set the table before rushing over to hold you from behind. It’s the only way to keep himself from assisting, and besides, any moment holding you is a good moment. His help in the kitchen is in the form of grocery shopping, though he tends to get a little sidetracked from the list you wrote and you end up with a fully stocked inventory and random ingredients you have no idea what to do with.

Newlywed Solomon who’s devoted to your care when you’re under the weather. If you’re physically sick, he’s constantly checking your temperature, feeding you soup (that you requested he order), as well as offering some spells to cure/comfort whatever ails you. If you’re struggling mentally, he’s doing whatever he can to support you. Whether you need to be held as you cry into his shoulder or ask for a cup of tea and some space as you sort yourself out before confiding in him, consider it done. Your well-being is the most important thing to him.

Newlywed Solomon who loves spending quality time with you. Your legs rest on his lap as you sit opposite of him on the couch, watching something on TV, while he reads a book and strokes your calf mindlessly. He’s easily distracted, studying how you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re invested, the steady rise and fall of your chest, your little reactions to a sudden twist in the show. He loves how expressive you are in these calmer moments. You’re way more interesting than a thousand words on a page.

Newlywed Solomon who watches in awe as you get ready for the day. Laying against the headboard, his eyes trail along your scantly clad body while you sift through outfits. There is no lust in his eyes, just admiration for the person you are. He loves everything about you and he loves that you trust him to see you like this. He’s vocal when you ask for his opinion, but never cruel or hurtful as there’s never anything negative to say. To him, you look wonderful in any style and he hopes you’re able to see yourself the way he sees you.

Newlywed Solomon who lets himself get dragged off to bed when he stays up too late. Even when his eyes sting and neck aches, he finds it difficult to pull away from his work and finish it the next day. So, when the bed feels too big and cold, and you come looking for him, he’s grateful. Cuddled close in the bed after you generously cover him up more than yourself, fingers card through his hair, coaxing him to sleep easily. Through a crack in his droopy lids, the last thing he sees is you, smiling softly as you whisper words of love to him. “Get some sleep, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up, just like always.”

[sevsevteen]

tw: implied harassment (non-graphic)

--

The ride back to the dorm was quiet.

Too quiet for someone who should’ve been excited - new solo lines, progress on the album, another step forward into Seventeen's dream. You clutched your bag tighter in the van’s back seat, headphones on, but nothing playing. Your fingers were trembling slightly.

Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t mean it like that. Maybe you imagined the pause… the way his hand lingered when it 'accidentally' touched your thighs. The way he leaned too close. The way his fingers brushed your ear to tuck a loose strand behind.

Your mind repeated the scene again and again like a glitching loop. Each time you tried to rewrite it. Minimize it. Fix it so it felt less wrong.

He was a senior producer. Respected in the industry. “Famous for mentoring rookies.” The company even called you lucky to get private time with him. And he smiled the whole time - you didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

And yet.

Your stomach had dropped when you saw him reaching for you again, that low voice saying, “You’re tense. You should learn to relax more. You’d be even prettier if you smiled.”

You don’t even remember what you said in response. Just that you left as fast as you could without running right after recording ended.

.

When you entered the dorm, the usual buzz of voices and background music filled your ears - a contrast to the quiet storm inside your chest.

“You’re back,” Dino called from the couch.

“You hungry?” Mingyu offered, walking past with a bowl of ramyeon.

“Recording go okay? Sorry I couldn't be there.” Woozi asked gently, spinning around from the couch.

You nodded, voice too soft. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But the members knew something was off. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Your smile was plastic - the kind the members always spotted fake, no matter how convincing it looked.

Joshua noticed it first, sitting up straighter. Then Seungcheol exchanged a look with Jeonghan, the unspoken message clear between them. Something had happened.

You retreated to your room quickly. Too quickly.

A few minutes passed before a knock sounded softly at the door.

“Can I come in?” It was Cheol.

You hummed.

He stepped in, careful, calm, like approaching a skittish animal - not because you were fragile, but because he respected your silence.

He didn’t ask anything at first. Just sat down beside you on the bed, waiting.

You folded in on yourself slowly, picking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “It was fine. The recording.”

Seungcheol nodded.

“But?” he said gently.

You hesitated. Then your voice cracked - barely audible. “It felt weird.”

His jaw tightened. “Weird, how?”

Your throat worked. “He… touched my hair. Said it was in my face. Then his hand bumped into my thighs, but didn’t really move away. It-" You had to take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m just making it up.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol said instantly.

Your eyes welled. “But what if I misunderstood?”

He shook his head. “Even if it wasn’t intentional - the moment it made you uncomfortable, it mattered.”

Your tears broke free at that. No one had said that to your before. Not the staff, not the manager on the phone, not even yourself. Not until now.

“I didn’t know how to react,” you whispered.

“You don’t need to. Not alone.” Seungcheol looked at you firmly. “We’ll talk to the company. You’re not doing another solo session with him, ever.”

The next thing you knew, you were surrounded - Jun slipping in quietly to sit beside your other side, Seungkwan sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing circles on the back of your hand. Dino leaned on the doorframe, eyes watery but jaw set like steel.

They didn’t bombard you with questions.

They just stayed.

Until the heaviness in your chest started to lift - not because the incident was gone, but because now… you weren’t alone in holding it.

--

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re the biggest husky fan in the world

You were six months old the first time your parents took you to a UConn women’s basketball game.

It was snowing the way it only snows in Connecticut—fat flakes thick and wet and falling like they’re on a mission. The windshield wipers thudded in rhythm, clearing the view of the highway as your mother turned around in the passenger seat to check on you. You were bundled up like a marshmallow, cheeks red and nose runny, a navy blue knit hat barely staying on your head. Your father joked that you looked like a baby blueberry. He said it again to make your mom laugh. You didn't know what a blueberry was.

You don’t remember anything about that day, of course. But your parents tell the story like it’s folklore. The way your eyes stayed wide the whole time. How you flinched at the first buzzer and cried through the first half, but fell asleep in your mom’s arms during the third quarter, lips curled around your pacifier while the arena roared around you. You wore a onesie that said “Husky Baby” in sparkly white letters. It was too big. You drooled on it.

They say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner that night. Your dad still has the program tucked into a shoebox with your birth bracelet and a print-out of your first ultrasound. On the cover, she’s mid-dribble, eyes locked forward like she already knows what the defense is about to do. He says the crowd lost its mind when she let that last shot fly, that your mom stood up and screamed so loud you startled awake, blinking up at the scoreboard like you were trying to understand.

They tell that story every year on your birthday.

Your childhood unspooled in quarters and halves. Seasons marked not just by holidays or school breaks, but by game days and rankings, by conference titles and March. You lived in Hartford, close enough that Gampel Pavilion and the XL Center both felt like second homes. You learned the names of the players before you learned to spell. There was no question who your favorite team was. No debate. No compromise.

You were always in the stands—first as a bundle in your parents’ arms, later in a booster seat with your legs swinging above the concrete floor. When you were two, your mom bought you your first jersey. Number 3. Red, white, and navy. “That’s Diana,” your dad told you. You didn’t know who Diana was, but you liked the way the fabric felt and how the crowd would chant when anyone wearing that jersey touched the ball.

Eventually, you knew them all by heart. Not just Taurasi but Bird and Moore and Charles, names that hung from the rafters like prayers. You could trace the line of greatness with a finger, like a constellation. At night, you’d sit at the kitchen table with your dad and rewatch recorded games on VHS, rewinding big plays over and over. He’d freeze the frame to show you the footwork, the spacing, the cuts. You didn’t play basketball yourself. Not once. But you understood it. You loved it.

When your parents couldn’t take you, you took the bus. That started around age ten. They were hesitant at first, but you convinced them. It was just a few stops. You packed your bag like it was a mission. Portable charger, extra snacks, schedule printout folded neatly in the side pocket. You became a fixture in the student sections, though you were nowhere near college age yet. People started recognizing you. Security guards waved. Some of the ushers called you “Coach.” You wore that like a badge of honor.

Your room at home was a shrine. Posters taped unevenly to the wall. Ticket stubs lined up on your cork board. You made your own stat charts, color-coded by player. Your mom shook her head affectionately every time she caught you annotating a box score like it was sacred text.

“You know this isn’t your homework, right?” she’d tease. “It is,” you’d say without looking up. “It’s just not graded.”

The years passed like quarters on a scoreboard. The names on the jerseys changed. The banners got higher. You grew into your voice—asking questions, reading scouting reports, predicting lineups before the broadcast even caught up. You had favorite broadcasters and hated when the national coverage got it wrong. You screamed at missed calls like you were courtside.

But you stayed in the stands.

You never crossed that line. Never picked up a ball. Never dribbled or practiced a layup or joined your school’s rec league even when they begged you to come. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to play—it just wasn’t you. Watching was enough. Worshipping the game was enough. Being there, living it from the bleachers, was enough.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Freshman year of High School doesn’t begin with a bang. It starts with a 5:45 a.m. alarm, the one you set to make sure you could catch the local bus from your side of Hartford to school on the east side before the sun even clears the tops of the houses. You sit by the window, hoodie up, earbuds in, knees pressed to the seat in front of you. You’re not listening to music. You’re rewatching last night’s UConn game. You know every stat already, but you still want to see it again. The offensive set with the double screen. The baseline jumper off a late inbound. The missed free throw that almost cost the win. You’re already thinking of how to write about it.

You’ve joined the school paper. It's a small operation—two seniors, one overworked English teacher, and a Google Drive that hasn’t been organized since 2009—but you see it as your way in. You're not interested in the lunchroom drama or the debate team blurbs. You pitch a weekly column, “The Husky Report.” Your teacher hesitates—says it's niche and not everyone follows college sports. But you’re already drafting the first one in your notebook before he finishes saying no.

You publish under your initials. You’re not sure why. Maybe because it makes you feel older. Or more professional. Or because it hides the fact that you’re a freshman with braces and a UConn keychain dangling from your backpack like a badge of honor. Still, people start reading it. At first, it’s just your teachers. Then your history class group chat starts circulating your write-ups. One day, a senior stops you in the hallway and says, “Yo, you really watch all the games?” You nod. He fist-bumps you. Keeps walking. That’s it. But it stays with you all day.

At home, your room’s changed a little. Your parents painted it two summers ago—a cool slate blue—and you’ve taken down most of the cartoon posters. But the basketball wall remains. Jerseys hung carefully. Ticket stubs pinned like battle ribbons. Your cork board's filling with clippings now. The front page when UConn won its eleventh title, your own printed columns from the school site, even a grainy photo of you standing courtside at a youth event Geno spoke at. He signed your notepad. It’s in a plastic sleeve like it’s holy.

Your parents still go with you to some games, but they don’t need to anymore. You've memorized the bus schedule, the student discounts, which gates have shorter lines, which hot dog vendors won't overcharge. You keep a little journal in your pocket at all times. Game notes. Quotes. Impressions. Nothing gets past you. Not a missed defensive rotation. Not a ref’s bad angle. You tweet updates too, tagging players and throwing in gifs. Occasionally a like. Once, a retweet from the UConn WBB official account. You ran downstairs to show your mom like it was an Olympic medal.

By sophomore year, your name starts circulating a little.

The UConn student-run paper reposts one of your longer recaps with a short line, “Better coverage than most pros.” You print it. Frame it. Your journalism teacher calls you the “resident UConn oracle.” Your parents joke about building you a press booth in the garage.

Still, there’s something that lingers in your chest. A kind of ache you can’t name yet. It hits when you’re watching warmups from the second row, alone in a sea of fans. When you see the team huddled together, laughing, bumping shoulders, drenched in sweat and confidence. When the lights dim and the intro video plays and your pulse jumps like it’s your name on the Jumbotron. But it never is.

You’re always watching. Always writing. But you’re not in it.

There’s a moment, sometime that winter, when you start wondering what it would feel like to be known by them. Not in a creepy way. Not in an I want to be part of the team type of way. But… something else. To be seen. To be a fixture, not a fan. To have one of them look up after a win and spot you. Smile. Wave.

You tuck that thought away. You don’t write it down. You barely admit it to yourself.

In sophomore year, you get serious.

You start studying tape more deliberately. Not just for recaps, but for yourself. You keep spreadsheets now. Advanced stats. Scouting notes. You teach yourself analytics from online videos and a couple of free courses online. Your teacher offers to help you apply to a summer sports journalism camp in Boston. You get in. You're the youngest person there. Also the only one who never played any sport. But your mock articles get handed around. You make a couple of connections. A woman who used to work at ESPN gives you her card. Says you have an eye for the game. That your writing “moves.”

That night in your dorm room, you pull out your notebook. You scribble one sentence on the cover, They’ll know who I am one day, and underline it.

Not in a cocky way. Not even in a hopeful way. Just a truth you believe with your whole chest.

Junior year begins differently.

It starts not with the usual chill of October or the ritual of printing out the UConn schedule and taping it beside your desk, but with an email.

Subject: The Husky Report Sender: Leah Moore, Assistant Director of Strategic Communications, UConn Athletics.

You read it four times before moving.

At first you think it’s a prank. A scam. Something fake or automated, even though the signature is too specific and the greeting says your full name. You check it on your phone. You check it again on your laptop. You Google her name just to be sure. She’s real. And she works for UConn.

Hi Y/N,

I’ve been following your weekly columns and Twitter threads this season. Your eye for detail and storytelling stands out—especially for someone still in high school. I showed your piece on the Baylor game to our department lead and she said, “Who is this kid?”

Would you ever be interested in shadowing a game day with our media team this season? No pressure. Just thought it might be something you’d enjoy. Let me know.

— Leah Moore.

You sit frozen, the cursor blinking in reply. For two whole minutes, you don’t move. You don’t even breathe right. Your fingers hover over the keys, and something builds inside you—not panic or excitement, but something steadier. Quieter. Like gravity.

The game day you choose is against Notre Dame. It's a non-conference classic, always personal, always dramatic. You’ve written about it the last three years, circling the same themes of legacy and rivalry and bloodlines. You’ve never missed it. But you’ve never seen it from this side.

Leah meets you in front of the loading dock behind Gampel. You’re wearing your cleanest jeans, a tucked-in UConn polo you had to borrow from your dad, and a pair of sneakers you scrubbed the night before. She gives you a lanyard and a smile and walks you through it like you’re a new hire, not a high school junior who still needs a parent signature to leave campus some days.

It feels surreal, like walking into the dream you’ve been watching from the outside for sixteen years.

Inside the media room, people are pacing. Laptops out. Screens open. Everyone’s in motion but not rushed, like they’ve done this dance so often they don’t have to think anymore. Leah walks you around the control desk, the social media monitor, the tunnel access screen. You’re not allowed to post anything live, but she says you can shadow their content guy for pregame media.

When the team walks in, you stand near the corner. Quiet. Out of the way.

And you see them.

Not on a screen. Not through binoculars. But here. Real. So close you could count their braids, see the scuffs on their shoes, hear the rhythm of their jokes. You recognize every face. You mouth their names to yourself like a litany. You remember their high school stats, their redshirt seasons, the injuries they fought through. They’re bigger than life—but now, somehow, smaller too. Real. Human.

You think of the little version of you—knees dangling in the student section, Sharpie tucked behind your ear. What would she say if she saw you here now?

The moment doesn’t feel loud. It feels earned.

You write a recap of the experience for your school blog. It’s not a game recap, not really. It’s about proximity. About what it means to watch the same story unfold a hundred times and finally step onto the same page. You include a paragraph about the pregame prep, the pressure behind the scenes, the weight of doing something perfectly even when no one sees it.

It gets picked up by a couple of local outlets. Nothing huge. But Leah emails again, saying your insight is rare. Says they’d like to keep you in the loop. Maybe consider you for a longer mentorship next fall. She calls you a “natural storyteller.”

You forward it to your parents. You print it, too. Tack it up next to the framed tweet repost. You stare at it when you can’t sleep.

It’s around this time that her name keeps popping up more and more.

Azzi Fudd.

You’d heard it before—clips, rumors, the occasional ranking blurb—but now it’s everywhere. Articles. Interviews. Everyone’s calling her the next big thing. She hasn’t even picked a school yet. But her game footage hits the internet like fire.

The first time you really watch her play, you’re on your bedroom floor, knees curled under you, a bowl of cereal forgotten at your side. It’s just a grainy highlight reel from an AAU game, filmed by some dad in the stands, but it doesn’t matter. What she does on the court—off the dribble, off the screen, without hesitation—it’s different. Smooth, yes. But also sharp. Sharp like scripture. Like a myth. Like someone wrote a story about a perfect shooter and Azzi decided to make it true.

You watch the video three times in a row. First muted. Then with sound.

You don’t know her. You don’t even know if she’s seriously considering UConn.

But something in your chest reacts.

Not just because she’s good. Plenty of players are good. It’s more than that.

It’s the way she carries herself. The calm. The discipline. The sheer gravity of her presence. The way her release looks like poetry and prayer at once.

You scroll through her Instagram that night. She's all over the place—smiling in one post, serious in another. Media day shots. Workout clips. Candid snaps with teammates. You pause on one of them. She’s laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, hand mid-air like she just swatted someone who said something dumb.

You double tap. Move on. But your stomach feels different.

You don’t know what it is. Not yet.

But you will.

You decided to start making videos and not just writing for your school paper and tweeting the occasional tweet. You wanted to what you do to reach more people, to understand your love for the game, for the team, and hopefully help them love it too.

You started with a voiceover.

No face reveal. No professional production. Just you and your phone camera pointed at your laptop while you replay a sequence from Uconn’s last game. The part with one of those suffocating sequence where no one seems to hit anything clean for minutes until someone finally gets hot. You rewind a clip of Napheesa Collier making a spinning fadeaway jump shot with a defender all over her and how she was able to make space, narrating it.

The video is thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. You post it to Twitter. 

i promise you, no one in women’s college basketball is dissecting games like this. let me show you something.

It gets four likes that night. Two retweets. One of them is your cousin. The other is someone you’ve never heard of.

By the end of the week, it has 15,000 views.

It becomes a series before you can talk yourself out of it.

You give it a name. Husky Vision.

White text over a navy background, slapped together in Canva during lunch. You don’t appear on screen. Just your voice, your angles, your highlights. Your knowledge. It’s not flashy, but it’s smart. And fans—especially women’s basketball fans—start to notice.

The first time a former UConn player DMs you, you nearly drop your phone in AP Bio.

“Hey—just wanted to say you really get it. You’ve got a great eye.”

You don’t tell anyone, not even your parents. You just stare at the message, heart thudding, and reread it until you finally let yourself smile.

From there, everything picks up. Slowly, then all at once.

Leah from UConn reposts your breakdown of their win over South Carolina. She doesn’t even tag you—just reposts your video directly with a flame emoji. That same night, one of the assistant coaches likes two of your old tweets.

Your account starts gaining followers—students, women’s basketball super fans, some analysts. You notice a few names you recognize. Even one from The Athletic. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It means something big.

You start doing mid-game threads, too. Live thoughts. Adjustments. What you’d change if you were calling the plays. People begin replying. Debating. Asking questions.

“How do you know so much?” “You’re sixteen???”

You don’t answer those. Not directly.

Instead, you just keep uploading. One post-game breakdown after another. Some long. Some short. Always sharp. Always specific.

Azzi starts showing up more.

Not in your notifications—she’s still a ghost to you—but in the games you’re watching. The national chatter is undeniable now. She’s a senior. Final year of high school. Her team is undefeated. One of the top recruits in the country. Her clips are showing up on all over social media.

You resist, at first. You tell yourself you don’t want to be one of those people—jumping on a name just because it’s trending. But her game… her game is undeniable.

You post your first video about Azzi on a quiet Sunday.

What makes Azzi Fudd different? Not the range. Not the handle. It’s the silence. Watch the way she moves without the ball. No panic. Just purpose.

You upload a 40-second clip. No music. Just your voice.

You wake up the next morning with 78,000 views. By lunch, it’s over 100K.

You don’t even realize she followed you until someone comments.

“omg Azzi just followed you??? do you KNOW what that means?????”

Your heart skips a beat. You check twice. Three times.

She did. No comment. No like. Just the quiet little blue check next to her name now following you back.

You sit in the bathroom stall during 5th period and stare at the screen until your phone dies.

That night, you open her profile again. You scroll slowly. Watch her media day clips. See the selfies with her teammates, the training clips in empty gyms, the one video of her laughing on the bench while her coach throws his clipboard.

You think of reaching out. Just something simple like a ‘thank you.’ You type it. You delete it. You’re not ready yet. But the slow burn has begun. Even if she doesn’t know it.

Yet.

You’re seventeen, standing under the buzzing lights of a high school gym in Springfield, Massachusetts, wearing a press badge with your name misspelled and your heart beating too loud to think straight.

It’s the Gatorade National Girls' High School Showcase, and you're here on a student press pass from Hartford Youth Sports Watch, a local online newsletter that publishes one of your columns every week. You pitched the idea yourself. Wrote the sample copy. Sent a portfolio. Asked—begged, really—to tag along with a couple of regional reporters who didn’t know who you were two months ago but now call you “the kid with the breakdowns.”

You were assigned Court 3. Middle of the bracket. A game between two strong teams from New York and Ohio. Good basketball. Plenty to write about.

But your eyes drift.

You know who’s playing on Court 1.

Team St. John’s College High. D.C. powerhouse. Headlined by none other than Azzi Fudd.

You spotted her twenty minutes ago as you stepped into the gym. Warmups. Black shooting shirt. Hair pulled back tight. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice water. You watched her knock down five threes in a row like she wasn’t even trying. Like her release didn’t need breath to function.

Your hands got clammy. You’d practiced what you’d say—if you saw her. If you got the chance. Something short. Respectful. Cool, but not weird.

Hi, I’m Y/N. I’ve done a few breakdowns on your games. I’d love to ask you a couple quick questions if you have a minute.

You rehearsed it. Memorized the inflection. Smoothed your hoodie three times before walking in.

And now, you're frozen.

You’re sitting on the folding chair behind the scorer’s table on Court 3, but your body is angled toward Court 1. Your eyes flick constantly between the action in front of you and the action across the gym, like you’re pretending to multitask but everyone can tell you’re distracted.

Azzi is on fire.

Her team isn’t blowing out the opponent, but she’s clearly the anchor. Commanding the floor. Talking just loud enough to lead, but quiet enough to make it seem easy. There’s a pace to her. You know it well now. The way she slows her defender down just by being near. The subtle shift of her weight before a screen. The way her shot stays level even when she's falling sideways.

You should be filming Court 3. You know it. You have a job.

Instead, you hold your phone low and record ten seconds of Azzi snatching a rebound, pushing coast to coast, and finishing with a mid-air hesitation so smooth it doesn’t look real. You whisper to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t post it. You just save it to your camera roll.

At halftime, your game ends. There’s a twenty-minute break before the next match, and you're supposed to send a quick summary to the editor of the newsletter.

You don’t.

You get up, walk slow, and circle the far side of the gym—close enough to get to Court 1, but not too close. You still haven’t figured out what you’re doing. You’ve got a reporter’s notebook in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet are moving on instinct.

She’s standing near the water cooler with a towel around her neck, talking with one of her teammates. Laughing. Not fake laughing. Real laughing—the kind that makes her head tilt back a little and her dimples show. You freeze again. You’re five feet away. You could say it. You should say it.

But your throat closes. You pretend to check your notes. Pretend to tie your shoe. Pretend to be invisible. And that’s when it happens. She looks up. Right at you. Not a glance. Not an accident.

She sees you.

And for a second—a full, tangible second—Azzi Fudd stares. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. She just tilts her head a little like she’s trying to place you. Like you might be familiar.

You’re still. Then her eyes flick to your notebook. You panic.

You whip your gaze to the floor, scribble a line you’ll never use, and step back toward the bleachers before she can say anything. Your heart hammers. You don’t breathe until you’re back at Court 3, sitting down hard, hands shaking a little from whatever just passed between you.

You don’t know what that moment meant.

Maybe she recognized you from your videos. Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she just caught a weird kid staring and made a mental note to never do interviews with high schoolers again.

You don’t know. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Not when you leave the gym. Not when you email your write-up. Not when you lie awake that night and replay the look in her eyes over and over like you’re trying to find something in the freeze frame.

You write your article on the showcase the next day. It’s about the team from Ohio. About rebounding margins and high-percentage shots and defensive tempo.

But at the end, in the final paragraph, you add a single line.

“And of course, all eyes kept drifting to Court 1. Azzi Fudd doesn’t just play the game. She redefines how it feels to watch it.”

You don’t tag her.

You don’t even say her name again.

But the view count climbs higher than your usual posts. You get a few more followers. One of her teammates likes the article.

That night, you check your followers list again. She’s still there. Still following you.

You decided to do something different for your application for Uconn. You don’t know if someone before you have done it, but you do it anyway. 

It takes you three weeks to write the first sentence. You scrap it five times.

Every version sounds too polished or too desperate or too… not you. But it matters. It’s everything. Your application to UConn—the school you’ve loved since you were a baby in a blue onesie—has to be perfect.

You have good grades. A clean transcript. Some solid recs. But the personal essay? That’s where you have to bleed a little.

So finally, on a night when the house is quiet and the rain hits soft against your window, you open a blank document and type.

“My earliest memory isn’t of a toy or a birthday or a bedtime story. It’s of sitting on my father’s shoulders in the XL Center, watching Maya Moore hit a three from the corner and not understanding what basketball was—but knowing it meant everything.”

That’s the line that stays.

The rest flows like breath. You write about your first game. The way your mom clapped louder than the student section. The sound of the buzzer. The way Geno’s voice became part of your family’s dinner conversations. How you’ve never played basketball, not once, but the game has shaped you like a second spine. How you don’t want to be on the court. You want to be near it. Recording it. Honoring it. Living beside it.

You cry when you finish. Just a little.

But the writing isn’t what you’re most proud of.

It’s the video.

You’ve been working on it since August. It’s part of your application—an optional supplement. You call it, My UConn Dream.

A ten minute mini-documentary. 

It opens with old footage—your dad’s grainy camcorder shots of toddler-you in a UConn beanie, holding a popcorn bucket bigger than your face. A cut to the upper bowl. A crowd rising to its feet. Taurasi on the jumbotron. You barely blinking.

Then it transitions to your voice.

“This isn’t just about a school. It’s about a lifetime of falling in love with the same thing over and over again.”

You layer in your own vlogs. Clips from games. Interviews you’ve done. Geno calling you Stat Girl with that smirk. Diana throwing you a peace sign after a win. Behind the scenes shots from the media room, from buses, from cold walks through campus before dawn.

You narrate throughout. Honest. Real.

“I want to major in digital media and sports journalism. I want to tell stories. I want to keep honoring women who never get the camera pointed at them first.”

There’s a moment near the end where your voice breaks. Just a little.

“I want to go to the place that raised me.”

You post it publicly on your channel the same night you submit your application.

Your thumbnail, a still of you as a kid in the stands, face painted, holding a sign that says “In Geno We Trust.”

It goes up at midnight.

By morning, it has 40,000 views. Hundreds of comments flood in.

You’re overwhelmed. In the best way.

You don't know, as you scroll through those comments in your kitchen that morning, still in your pajamas and still too stunned to eat breakfast, that your video has already traveled farther than you thought.

You don’t know that a girl two states away watched it alone in her bedroom the night it dropped.

That her best friend sent her the link.

Paige: yo, this the girl coach always talking about

You don’t know that Azzi Fudd clicked it out of curiosity, not expecting much. Just another fan, probably. Some girl with a phone and a ring light and a big voice.

But she watched the whole thing.

Every second.

Watched you in the stands. Watched your hands shake holding a mic. Watched the way your voice softened when you talked about what basketball means to you.

She watched you say, “Some people are born into teams. But I chose this one. Or maybe it chose me.”

And she paused the video. Sat back. Felt something shift. Just a little. She recognized your voice from that one video you made about her. Now she won’t forget it. She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t like. Doesn’t share.

But she sends it to her mom. And later, she watches it again.

She doesn’t know why. She just does.

You, meanwhile, are pacing.

You triple-check your application portal every night before bed. Refresh it. Stare at the little “Submitted” checkmark like it might morph into “Accepted” if you squint hard enough.

You go to every home game you can. Still wearing your lanyard. Still getting quotes. Still uploading breakdowns.

People greet you by name now in the concourse. You start your next video with a laugh.

“So, I did a thing. I applied to UConn. And if you’ve been here long enough, you already know this was coming.”

You hold up a keychain you bought from the campus bookstore.

It just says Soon.

Weeks later, you’re in your bedroom writing another piece when you see the email.

It’s almost anticlimactic—just a vibration on your phone during fifth period that you don’t check until after school. You’re walking up the driveway, backpack digging into one shoulder, when your thumb swipes down and your eyes catch the header.

University of Connecticut – Admissions Decision Available

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t run inside. You try to walk normal. You make it halfway to the kitchen before dropping your bag and unlocking your phone with fingers that suddenly feel too big. Your mom’s in the other room. Your dad’s still at work. You open the email alone, standing in your socks on the hardwood floor.

You click the portal. Your breath skips.

Congratulations!

You don’t read the rest, just yell.

“MOM!”

She’s already running in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What? What happened—”

“I GOT IN!”

“OH MY GOD—” She drops the towel. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

You spin your phone around and she grabs your face and starts crying before you even do.

It’s not a fancy scholarship announcement. There’s no marching band or TV camera crew. Just a shaking screen, your mom squeezing you, your chest cracked wide open because you did it. You got in.

To UConn.

The place you’ve been dreaming of since before you knew how dreams worked.

That night, you make the video.

You’ve never done something like this. Not with you in it.

Your voice has always been there—behind the camera, under the highlights, in captions and threads and box score breakdowns—but never you. Not your face. Not your story.

You set your phone up against a stack of books, right next to the cork board full of game tickets and your “Bleed Blue” sign. You wear your old UConn hoodie—sleeves too short, frayed at the wrist. Your hair’s a mess. You don’t care.

You hit record.

“Okay,” you say, laughing nervously. “Hi. Um. I don’t know how to do this. This isn’t a breakdown or anything. This is just… me.”

You glance off camera. Take a breath.

“I got in. I got into UConn. I got my acceptance email this afternoon, and I still don’t fully believe it. I’ve wanted to go to UConn since I was—what—six months old? No, like actually. My parents took me to my first UConn women’s basketball game when I was a baby. I don’t remember it, but they say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner and I cried through the whole first half.”

You smile.

“This school, this program, it raised me. I wasn’t a basketball player. I didn’t put on a jersey or go to summer camp or play AAU. I was the kid in the stands with a notebook and a pen. I was the one yelling stats at my parents on the drive home. I took the bus to games when they couldn’t take me. I wrote about the team in my school paper.”

Your voice starts to shake, just a little.

“I made videos. I made so many videos. And I didn’t think anyone was watching, at first. But some people did. And now I’m going to the place that made me fall in love with basketball without ever playing a second of it.”

You sniff. Wipe your cheek quickly.

“I guess what I’m saying is… if you’re someone who loves something so hard it feels dumb or small or embarrassing—don’t stop. Don’t shrink it down to make other people comfortable. Just keep loving it. Loudly. Obsessively. Because I did. And it brought me here.”

You pause. Bite your lip. Then grin.

“Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You end the video there.

You post it around 10:30 p.m. You think maybe your friends will see it. Maybe some people from Twitter. You almost don’t tag the UConn WBB account.

But you do.

When you wake up… everything is different.

Your phone is buzzing. Not just a few notifications. Hundreds.

The video has already passed 90,000 views. It’s been reposted by a local news station, quote-tweeted by a beat reporter, and—most terrifyingly—shared by the official UConn WBB account with the caption, This is what Husky Nation is all about! Welcome home, Y/N.

You sit straight up in bed. You scroll down.

One comment catches your eye. You recognize the name immediately.

azzi35: congratulations! 

Your jaw drops. You reread it five times. You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

She saw it.

She saw it.

Your mom comes in a few minutes later, holding a mug of coffee and grinning.

“You’re famous,” she teases, handing it to you. “I just watched it again.”

You stare down at your screen. “Azzi Fudd commented on it.”

She pauses. Blinks.

“Like the Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah.”

Your mom sits on the edge of your bed. “Oh honey,” she laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. “You really might marry a UConn player someday.”

You hide your face in your hands.

And smile.

It’s Thursday. Four days after the video. Three days since UConn reposted it. Two since a local TV station invited you for an interview, to which you politely declined, and exactly zero days since you last reread the part where Azzi Fudd commented on your post.

You’ve read it so many times it’s engraved in your brain.

congratulations!

You didn’t know how one word could impact you like this.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. What were you supposed to say—“thanks, I’ve watched every minute you’ve played since sophomore year and also your jumper is technically a religious experience”?

No.

You let it sit. You breathed. You told yourself it was enough.

And it was.

Until your phone buzzes at 6:47 p.m. while you’re heating up leftovers in the microwave and you glance down to see the words,

azzi35 sent you a message

You stare at it like it’s not real. Like it’s going to vanish if you blink too fast.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and sit at the counter. The microwave beeps. You don’t hear it.

You tap the screen.

That video made my mom cry. Just wanted to say congrats again. Maybe I’ll see you on campus soon? 

You read it once. Twice. A third time, aloud, under your breath.

“Her mom cried?” you whisper. “Her mom.”

You cover your face with one hand and try not to spiral. The message is so simple. So normal. But it’s from Azzi. And it’s kind. And direct. And real. And she remembered. She saw the video days ago and still thought about it long enough to follow up.

You try typing.

Thank you so much, that seriously means the wor—

Delete.

Can’t believe you saw it. Congrats on making my soul leave my—

Delete.

Not me sobbing into my hoodie like an absolute idiot becau—

Delete.

You exhale, hard.

that’s so sweet!! tell her thank you for me?? and thank YOU for even watching it. hope our paths actually cross sometime 

You stare at it.

Or like… casually all the time since we’ll be at the same school?? nbd or anything??

No. Too much. Too desperate.

You delete the second half. Hit send before you can change your mind.

You don’t expect her to reply right away. You actually don’t expect her to reply at all. But two minutes later, ’typing…’, appears.

Your stomach flips like you’re on a rollercoaster that only goes up.

If I see you on campus I’m definitely saying hi. You’re pretty famous now anyway 

You laugh out loud. Alone. In your kitchen. With your mom’s spaghetti steaming behind you, untouched.

don’t do that. i will collapse in public. like full dramatic slow fall to the pavement.

More typing.

I’ll catch you. I got fast reflexes.

You slap your hand over your mouth and make an inhuman sound.

You pace the kitchen. You stare at the message. You take a screenshot, text it to your best friend with seventeen exclamation marks, delete the screenshot, then open your fridge for absolutely no reason other than to put your face inside it and whisper, “Get it together.”

Your phone buzzes again.

also ur videos? literally the best ones out there. i’m not kidding.

You stop breathing. You sit down slowly. Your hands tremble just a little.

ok so if i die tonight it’s fine because azzi fudd said my videos are the best ones out there. tell my mom i love her. bury me in husky blue.

Her reply comes quick.

stop. i’m being serious.

i watch all of them. they’re like… calming, idk? i’ll be nervous pregame and someone shows me one, especially the one you made of me, and it’s just like… “oh. right. i know how to do this.”

You stare at that message for a long time. Not because it’s surreal. But because it’s intimate. She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to say any of this.

You take a breath. You reply honestly.

i can’t even tell you what that means to me. i’ve loved this game my whole life. i never played but it’s always been from the outside looking in. hearing that it helps you? that makes all of it worth it.

She doesn’t type right away. You sit with the silence. Eventually, her message comes through.

maybe not for long though. outside looking in, i mean. you’re gonna be there soon.

You blink. Smile.

And think—not for the first time, not for the last—maybe you're not just going to attend UConn. Maybe you're about to belong there.

The air in Storrs smells like August. Grass, asphalt, hot mulch, sweat, and a little bit of panic.

You’re three trips into moving your whole life from Hartford to your tiny dorm in North Campus. Your back hurts, your shirt is sticking to you, and your mom already cried twice—once when she saw the room, again when she handed you a Ziplock of chocolate chip cookies with a shaky smile.

You’re standing on the curb with your last box. It’s heavy. Your arms are burning. Your RA said the elevator was broken, because of course it is, and there’s no one else around because you told your parents to go grab iced coffee without you, thinking you could carry this one on your own.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself to make the climb when you hear it.

“Need a hand?”

You turn.

She’s standing in front of you. Azzi. In shorts and a loose gray UConn Athletics t-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head, braids pulled back tight. A folded map of campus in one hand, half a smoothie in the other.

You forget how to hold the box for a second. You blink.

“Wait—are you serious right now?” you say.

Her grin widens. “I’m pretty strong,” she says, flexing one arm dramatically, then snorts. “You looked like you were about to just sit down and let the box win.”

“I was,” you say. “It was winning. Completely dominating me. No contest.”

She laughs. Sets her smoothie on the ground. “Here,” she says, and takes the box from your arms like it weighs nothing. “Which floor?”

“Third.”

“No elevator?” she asks, walking beside you now.

“Of course not,” you mutter. “Welcome to college.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. She’s calm. Like this is normal. Like helping someone move into a random dorm is something she just does. Her pace is easy. Her shoulders loose.

You reach the stairwell. She goes first. You trail behind, still slightly disoriented.

“I didn’t know you were in this dorm,” you manage.

“I’m not,” she says. “I just got here early for practice. I was grabbing something from the student center and saw you on the sidewalk. Thought you looked familiar. Thought—‘hey, that’s the breakdown girl who made my mom cry.’”

You groan. “You just had to bring that up.”

“It was cute,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. She’s still talking about it.”

“I’m gonna change my name and live in a hole.”

She laughs again, and you swear it echoes.

By the time you reach the room, your heartbeat isn’t just from the stairs.

She sets the box down and wipes her hands on her shorts. “There we go.”

You try to think of something cool to say. Something not weird. Something that doesn’t scream… I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you step behind a screen and bury a three like it was nothing.

What comes out instead is, “So like… how does it feel?”

She tilts her head. “How does what feel?”

“Being Azzi Fudd,” you say, then wince. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“No, I like that question,” she says, still smiling. She leans against your desk, arms folded now. “It feels… crazy. Like, people say the name like it’s a brand. Or a stat sheet. But I still wake up with my bonnet half-falling off and toothpaste on my shirt, you know?”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

She shrugs. “It’s humbling being here, honestly. UConn’s where all my heroes came from. And now I’m just hoping I don’t trip over my own feet in front of Geno.”

“You won’t,” you say, automatically. “You belong here.”

Azzi pauses and looks at you for a beat.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “You really think that?”

“I mean… yeah. I’ve been watching this program my whole life. I can tell who’s got it. And you? You’ve got it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Not just amusement now. Something warmer.

She nudges your desk chair with her foot. “And what about you? You’re finally here. After all the years in the stands.”

You exhale. “I still don’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” You look at her. “It wasn’t,” she repeats, and her voice is firm now. “You worked for this.”

You sit down on your bed because your legs are suddenly a little wobbly. “I didn’t even play basketball. I always loved it from the outside. Like I was watching through a glass wall. But now I’m here. With an official pass. And a class schedule. And a mini fridge.”

“And a camera that makes players nervous,” she adds, grinning. “Seriously—do you know how many people talk about your videos? Paige loves them.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Paige Bueckers?”

She nods. “She’s my best friend. We played USA ball together. Trained together a ton. I’m hyped to be on her team again.”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. No. Yeah. She’s insane. Her court vision? Unreal.”

Azzi perks up. “Right? You get it. Most people just talk about her scoring.”

You grin. “No, her reads are the most dangerous part. It’s like she sees into the future.”

Azzi points at you. “Exactly!”

You both pause. Smiling. The room quiets.

“So,” she says, nudging her shoe against yours. “Now that we’re both here… what happens next?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You think of ten possible answers. You settle on one.

“I guess we both do what we came here to do,” you say. “You win games. I tell stories.”

She holds your gaze for a second.

“I like that,” she says. “Sounds like a pretty good team.”

Your cheeks burn.

You smile. “Yeah. I think so too.”

You weren’t planning on staying late.

You just needed to print a last-minute syllabus, maybe jot down a few class notes before the chaos of syllabus week turned into real deadlines. The main library was packed, the dorm lobby was loud, so you wandered until you found the tiny study lounge tucked between the chemistry building and the dining hall.

It’s quiet. Almost sacred.

Dim yellow light. One humming vending machine. Two long tables. One outlet that works. You set your laptop down at the far end, earbuds in, hoodie up, world shut out.

Until you hear the soft scrape of sneakers against tile.

You look up.

Azzi stands in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, curls tied up, water bottle in one hand, textbook in the other.

She sees you and smiles like it’s not even surprising.

“Oh hey,” she says. “I knew I’d run into you eventually.”

You blink. “In the library?”

She laughs. “Exactly where I thought you’d be.”

You gesture to the empty seat across from you. “Welcome to the land of procrastination.”

She drops her bag with a soft thud. “My favorite.”

At first, it’s quiet. You’re working on class notes. She’s flipping through a textbook—sports psych, you think. Every so often you hear the soft tick-tick of her highlighter, or the slosh of her water bottle when she takes a sip.

It’s… easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Until she looks up and says softly, “Do you ever think about how weird this is?”

You glance up. “What part?”

“This,” she says, waving vaguely at the room. “Like… you and me. Sitting here. Same school. Same campus. I used to watch UConn highlights on my phone between homework and shooting workouts, and now I’m just… here.”

You nod slowly. “I do think about that a lot.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “I think sometimes people expect me to feel like the version of myself they know from the internet or YouTube or whatever. Like I’m supposed to always be locked in. Always the brand.”

You don’t say anything. You let her keep going.

“But here,” she says, voice lower now, “it’s kinda nice just being Azzi. Not the basketball player. Just me.”

You swallow. And carefully, gently, you say, “What’s just you like?”

She looks at you. Really looks. Like she’s surprised you asked.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m still figuring that out.”

You nod. She shifts a little, lets her leg bump yours under the table. Doesn’t move it.

“I’m quiet,” she says. “At first. I like routines. I don’t like attention off the court, even though I always seem to get it. I like Twizzlers more than I should probably admit. And I can watch the same movie three times in one week if I’m stressed.”

“What movie?”

“Coach Carter,” she says, grinning. “Judge me.”

You shake your head. “I’d only judge you if you said Thunderstruck.”

Her whole face lights up. “Okay wait—objectively one of the worst basketball movies ever made.”

“Thank you!”

She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. “I was worried you were gonna say it’s your favorite.”

“I make videos, Azzi. I have taste.”

She laughs again, leans back in her chair. Her posture’s looser now. Like she’s shedding something.

You watch her for a second. The quiet under the lights. The way her gaze lingers on the ceiling tiles like she’s somewhere else for a moment—maybe in her own head, maybe somewhere she hasn’t told anyone about yet.

“Why UConn?” you ask.

She looks down. Twirls the cap of her highlighter.

“Because I wanted to play for Geno,” she says. “Because I wanted to wear the jersey I grew up watching. Because Paige is here. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger than just my name.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

She glances at you. “What about you? Why here?”

You pause. Think. Not about the rehearsed answers you gave in essays or to your guidance counselor. You think about the answer you’ve never really said out loud.

“Because it’s always felt like home,” you say. “Even when I was just a face in the stands. It felt like where I was supposed to be.”

She tilts her head. “Even though you never played?”

You smile. “Especially because I never played. Watching was playing. In my head. In my notebooks. It’s how I learned to love the game.”

Azzi stares at you for a long second.

“I think that’s beautiful,” she says softly.

Your throat goes a little tight. You look back at your screen. “Don’t say stuff like that or I’ll start writing a poem about you and post it on Twitter.”

She laughs again. “Do it. I dare you.” You open a Word doc. Start typing. She leans across the table. “No you won’t.”

You keep typing. She squints at the screen.

Roses are red Huskies are blue Azzi Fudd walked in And I forgot how to function like a normal person who knows how to make eye contact—

She snorts. “You’re such a weirdo.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

By the time you check the clock, it’s past 1 a.m. The building is silent. Just the hum of the vending machine and the click of your keys as you pack up. She stands at the same time you do. Your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away.

She looks at you under the soft yellow light. “Wanna walk back together?”

You nod. You both walk out into the night. The air’s cooler now. Softer.

She nudges your arm gently. “Hey.” You glance over. “Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”

“For carrying your half of the friendship so far?”

“For letting me be Azzi,” she says.

You smile. “Anytime.”

You mean it.

It’s your second week working student media and your first real UConn Women’s Basketball practice.

You’ve got the press vest, the clunky video camera, checked out of the digital lab, a spare battery in your back pocket, and a nervous buzz running all the way through your limbs like static. You’re supposed to be filming highlights for a pre-season hype reel, which means getting clean, tight shots of drills, scrimmages, Geno being Geno, and—if you’re lucky—some personality.

You try to stay out of the way. Hug the wall, step behind the scorer’s table, film from above when the angle works. You know this gym. You’ve grown up in this gym. But today, it feels like walking through a dream that keeps touching you back.

The team moves like music—chaotic, precise, loud. Shoes squeaking, balls slamming into hardwood, whistles sharp. Azzi is everywhere. She’s vocal. Focused. Cutting sharp and fast like her legs are on springs. You track her without even meaning to.

You’re filming from midcourt when it happens.

She glances over during a break, wipes sweat from her brow, and smirks.

“Yo, Y/N—you getting my good side or what?”

You fumble the focus.

“Uh,” you say, stupidly. “You… have more than one.”

She raises an eyebrow. Grins like she just scored.

“Nice save,” she says, turning back toward the drill line.

From down the court, Aaliyah lets out a loud “OHHHhhh she’s FLIRTIN’ again!”

Everyone laughs.

Dorka claps. “That’s like the third time this week.”

Azzi doesn’t flinch. “I’m just making sure the videographer stays focused.”

Paige leans over to you. “She only says that to people she likes.”

You choke on your spit.

Later, you're crouched on the baseline, capturing close-ups during a half-court scrimmage. Azzi drives hard to the right, fakes a pass, pulls back, and buries a three so smooth it could’ve been filmed at half-speed.

As she jogs backward, she turns slightly toward you, throws two fingers up at her temple, and mouths, “Get that?”

You nod, too stunned to speak.

Behind her, Paige—who’s just arrived and is watching from the sideline with a Gatorade—calls out, “If you make a mixtape just for her, I swear to God.”

Azzi calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s for her personal archives.”

Everyone oohs. You just bury your face in your hands, camera shaking.

After practice, you’re transferring footage onto your laptop in the media room when you hear sneakers on linoleum. You look up.

Azzi leans in the doorway, fresh out of the locker room. Hair damp. Hoodie slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, a little softer now.

“Hey.”

“You got the shot, right? That step-back?”

You nod. “In high definition. It’s practically a religious experience.”

She grins. “Good. I wanna send it to my mom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna send your mom a clip from my camera?”

She walks in, shrugs. “You shoot me better than the actual team page does.”

Your cheeks burn.

She eyes your screen. “Wanna sit in the stands sometime? Like… not for work. Just as friends. Watch the men’s practice with me?”

“Friends watch practices together?”

She shrugs again. “They do if they’re secretly scouting each other.”

You laugh, shake your head. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re blushing.”

You are. Fully.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Yeah, well. You are my favorite player.”

She pauses. Smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good. Because you’re kinda becoming one of mine.” Your breath stutters. You say nothing. And she just smiles wider. “See you around, camera girl.”

She disappears back down the hall.

You sit frozen for a beat before whispering into the empty room, “Oh my God.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the gym lights flicker on overhead and the thump of basketballs begins to echo like a heartbeat. You’re back again, perched behind the camera at the scorer’s table, watching the team warm up. Same camera. Same assignment. Same angle.

But everything feels a little different now.

Because this time, Azzi keeps looking at you.

Not subtle glances. Not maybe she’s checking the clock kind of looks. No—this is head up, eyes locked, tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she sinks a shot. She doesn’t break her stride. Doesn’t call attention to it. But it’s there. Like she’s playing with the gym but performing for you.

You try to stay focused. Try to pan smoothly. Try to track the drills without letting your hands shake. But every time she glances over, you feel it in your spine.

And when scrimmage starts, it only gets worse.

It’s a loose five-on-five, full-court with a few new sets they’re testing. Paige’s running point. Dorka’s working on her inside presence. Azzi starts slow—light on her feet, reading the floor, not forcing anything.

But midway through the second possession, Paige kicks it out to her beyond the arc.

One dribble. Step back.

Three.

Swish.

You instinctively follow the shot through your lens and catch her turning—eyes to you. She lifts her eyebrows once, like you get that?

You give a barely-there nod.

Next play, Azzi curls off a screen from Nika, gets the handoff, barely sets her feet.

Second three.

Net again.

This time, when she turns to jog back on defense, she says just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m telling you—Y/N’s my lucky charm.”

You freeze behind the camera.

Paige, mid-transition, snorts. “Oh my god.”

Aaliyah yells, “Here she goes!”

You catch Dorka dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.

On the next trip down, Paige feeds her again. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

Third three.

This one rattles in. Still counts.

The gym erupts in the usual “Woooo” from the sideline, sneakers squealing as players shuffle back into place.

But this time, it’s Geno who steps in from the wing with his whistle in his hand and that familiar, half-exhausted, half-amused look on his face—the one you’ve seen a thousand times on television but never this close. He points at Azzi, then points directly at you, sitting behind the camera.

“You two dating yet? Do I need to start charging her rent for attention?”

The gym explodes with laughter. It’s immediate, loud, relentless. Nika claps like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Paige almost falls to the floor. Aaliyah shouts, “Coach, please!!” and covers her face with a towel. Dorka gasps like she’s scandalized.

And you? You short-circuit. Fully. You duck your head behind the camera, ears burning, heart punching holes in your chest.

Azzi grins. “Don’t worry, Coach,” she says, still breathing a little heavy from the play, “if we were dating, I wouldn’t be missing any shots.”

Geno just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “god help me.”

You don’t say a word. You keep filming. But your mouth won’t stop smiling.

After practice, you stay behind to upload footage. Azzi wanders over slowly, towel around her neck, sweat still glistening across her brow. She doesn’t sit. Just leans on the table beside your laptop and glances at the playback.

“That third one was ugly,” she murmurs. “But it went in.”

You click back and replay it. “Your arc was a little flat. You were leaning.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

You play it again. She watches the ball drop clean through the net, the gym behind her erupting in sound, and smirks.

“And I noticed you,” she says.

You look up. She’s watching you now, not the screen.

“I meant it, by the way,” she adds. “You really are my lucky charm.”

You try to laugh it off. “I think your jump shot deserves most of the credit.”

“Maybe,” she says, standing straighter, slinging the towel around her shoulders. “But it’s more fun thinking it’s you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to. She takes a step back, but her eyes linger.

“Text me the clips?” she says. “I wanna post the second one.”

You nod.

“Cool. And…” she bites her bottom lip, hesitates for a second. “You free tomorrow?”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I can be.”

“Great,” she says. “Let’s grab dinner. My treat.”

You blink. “Like… just us?”

She nods. “You know—lucky charm privileges.”

You laugh quietly. “I’ll bring the magic.”

She smiles. “I’m counting on it.”

And she walks away, leaving you in the quiet echo of the gym, sitting behind a camera that finally stopped rolling.

You’ve checked your shirt twice in the mirror and fixed your collar three times before you even leave your room. Not because you’re trying to impress her—well, okay, yes, because you’re trying to impress her—but not in the way people expect. It’s not flowers and cologne and rehearsed lines. It’s… subtler than that. Tucked shirts, pressed pants, a clean watch and your best calm voice.

You open doors. You walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You ask if she’s warm enough before you even think of your own coat.

You’re a little shy about it. You don’t broadcast who you are. You just show it.

And somehow—Azzi sees it all anyway.

She picked a little place off campus. Not too far, just past the edge of the college town strip, a small family-owned spot with warm lighting and quiet booths. She’s already waiting when you get there, tucked into the corner table with a water glass sweating beside her and her phone face down.

She sees you and smiles slow, soft, like she’s glad you’re real and standing in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, standing up before you can pull her chair out for her. “You clean up nice.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Was aiming for something between ‘student media’ and ‘my mom raised me right.’”

She laughs and gestures for you to sit. “Well, you nailed it.”

You take the seat across from her, hands resting loosely in your lap. The menu’s already waiting, but you don’t open it right away.

She watches you for a second before saying, “It’s weird seeing you without a camera.”

You smile. “It’s weird not having one.”

“Do you ever turn it off?” she asks.

You blink. “The camera?”

“No,” she says gently. “You. The part of you that’s always… watching.”

You sit with that.

“No one’s asked me that before,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, leaning in a little, “tonight I want you to not be working. Just be you.”

You glance down, then back at her. “And who’s that, exactly?”

Azzi tilts her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Dinner is easy.

Conversation flows like it’s been waiting to happen—never forced, never performative. You talk about your childhood in Hartford, about taking the bus to games alone when your parents were working, about the first time you saw Diana Taurasi play and how you didn’t blink the entire fourth quarter.

Azzi tells you about her first time meeting Geno. How nervous she was. How Paige teased her about her handshake being “too polite.” She mimics it—stiff, formal, laughably awkward—and you laugh harder than you expect.

She talks about Paige a lot, but not in the way that threatens you. It’s soft. Familiar. Like a big sister figure she admires and still wants to impress. There’s affection in every mention, but it’s different from the attention she’s been giving you.

And she gives you a lot of it.

Her eyes don’t wander. She leans closer when you speak. And when your fingers brush lightly while reaching for your water, she doesn’t pull away. Not even a little.

“You really love this school,” she says at one point, after you’ve told her about your acceptance video, your old journals, the posters that still hang on your childhood bedroom wall.

“I do,” you admit. “It raised me. Even when I didn’t know it.”

Azzi looks at you for a long time after that. Not just watching, but seeing.

“You’re different,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly in your seat, brows tugging together. “How do you mean?”

She’s still looking at you, expression unreadable. But not cold. Just open. Bare.

“You don’t look at me like the rest of them do.”

You pause. Swallow. “How do the rest of them look at you?”

“Like I’m a story they already wrote,” she murmurs. “Like I exist on highlight reels and shoe deals and media day quotes.” You don’t speak. She lifts her gaze. “But you… you watch me like you’re still figuring me out. Like you’re not trying to own any part of me. Just… witness me.”

You feel the words in your chest before they reach your brain.

“I think you deserve that,” you say. “To just be.”

Azzi’s lips part like she wants to say something back but decides against it. Instead, she just exhales and leans back in the booth, letting the silence sit between you—warm, unhurried.

After dinner, you offer to walk her back. Of course you do. It’s late, and the air has gone from cool to crisp. You take her empty smoothie cup and toss it into the trash can outside before she even has to ask. She thanks you without looking, like it’s natural now.

Halfway back to her dorm, she stops.

You turn with her.

She’s smiling. Just a little.

“Can I say something weird?” she asks.

You nod. “Always.”

“I wasn’t planning on liking you this much.”

You blink. “I wasn’t planning on being liked this much.”

Azzi laughs. It’s soft. She tucks a curl behind her ear. “That makes two of us.”

There’s a quiet moment where she’s just looking at you again. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just… soaking you in.

She steps forward, and you think for a second she might kiss you. She doesn’t. Just bumps her shoulder into yours and says, “Same time next week?”

You smile. “Same table?”

“Only if you wear the same shirt.”

You pretend to groan. “I have three shirts, Fudd. Don’t make me waste all my charm too fast.”

She laughs again and steps into the lobby of her building. You stay on the sidewalk a minute longer, watching the door slowly close. And you swear, just before it shuts, she turns and smiles at you one more time.

You and Azzi don’t make an announcement. There’s no sit-down conversation, no hard lines drawn or expectations set. It just… happens. You start showing up for each other in the smallest, quietest ways. Ways no one really notices until they suddenly do.

She texts you when she’s leaving the gym late and asks if you’re still up. You are. You always are. So you meet halfway between your dorms and split a bag of vending machine pretzels under flickering lights while the rest of campus sleeps.

You start bringing her iced coffee to morning classes on Wednesdays. She doesn’t ask for it, but she starts texting you her order anyway.

You study together on Tuesdays in the tiny music library with the bad Wi-Fi and the good sunlight. She wears glasses she never wears anywhere else. You never tell her how unfairly good she looks in them. But she catches you staring one day and says, “Stop that,” with a smile so soft it curls your ribs.

Your playlists start to blur. Your snacks. Your hours. She starts calling your hoodie hers without really asking, and you never take it back.

People don’t really ask questions at first. They just assume you’re close. Until it’s clear you’re not just teammates or classmates or campus acquaintances.

You’re something.

And that’s when Paige corners you.

You’re filming light drills during a morning practice. Most of the team is stretching, quiet murmurs floating around the gym. You’re crouched at midcourt, fixing your focus, when a shadow steps into your peripheral vision.

You glance up.

Paige Bueckers stands there with a smirk and a half-empty Gatorade bottle. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s already got a sweatband tied loose around one wrist.

She squints at you like she’s inspecting an exhibit.

“So,” she says slowly, “what are you two, exactly?”

You blink. “Huh?”

She points her Gatorade bottle in your direction. “You. Azzi. The subtle stares. The hallway walks. The hoodie swaps. The fact that she basically glares at anyone who gets within six feet of you.”

You lower the camera. “I don’t… I mean, we’re just…”

“Don’t say friends,” Paige cuts in. “I have friends. I don’t look at them like I want to memorize how they laugh.” Your mouth opens. Closes. She steps closer. “I’m her best friend. I’ve seen her with a million people. I’ve seen her pretend. But with you?” She shakes her head. “She’s not pretending.”

You swallow. “She hasn’t said anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige mutters, “she’s Azzi. She doesn’t always say things. She does them.”

You look down at your hands. They’re shaking a little.

“I don’t want to rush her,” you say softly. “I just… like being around her. I’m happy to wait. Or not wait. Or just—exist next to her.”

Paige watches you for a long beat. Then she softens.

“She trusts you,” she says. “That’s rare. Just don’t let her down, okay?”

You nod.

And she smirks. “Also, if you hurt her, I will dunk on you emotionally.”

You laugh. “I think I could survive that.”

“You couldn’t,” Paige says, and walks away.

Later that night, you and Azzi are sitting on a bench outside the student union. You’ve got fries between you and the cold air biting at your hands. She’s wearing your hoodie—oversized on her, sleeves swallowed up—and she’s scrolling through her phone while your knee bumps hers, back and forth, like a slow rhythm.

Out of nowhere, she says, “Paige talked to you, didn’t she?”

You glance over. “Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you glare at people who get too close to me.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, she’s so dramatic.”

“Is it true?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. “Only a little.”

You smirk. “Possessive much?”

She bumps her shoulder into you. “No. Just careful. I don’t like sharing what feels good.”

You glance down at your hands. She’s not holding yours. But she’s close enough. And when she exhales and leans into your side, you let her stay there.

And the feeling that this—whatever it is—is something you’re both building brick by brick.

It’s nearly 1:30 a.m. when you hear the knock.

Three soft taps. No urgency. But enough to pull you from your reading.

You glance toward the door, confused—because no one comes to your room at this hour. Not without texting first. Not without a reason.

When you crack the door open, Azzi’s standing there in sleep shorts and an oversized UConn t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair’s loosely braided, face bare, a faint crease in her cheek from where she must’ve been lying down earlier.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts from foot to foot like she’s working up the courage to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, eyes tired but steady. “And I… didn’t want to be alone.”

You open the door wider without hesitation. “Come in.”

She steps past you quietly, her hand brushing yours just for a second.

Your room is dim. Only the lamp on your desk is still on. The bed is small—UConn twin bed small—but you shift over instinctively, pushing your laptop and pillow aside, making space that doesn’t exist but somehow still feels enough for her.

She climbs in slowly, careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to let her guard down here.

But when she finally settles, she curls up beside you—tucks herself into the space between your body and the wall. Her knees brush yours. Her shoulder rests against your bicep. She lets out a breath you swear she’s been holding all day.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

She nods, but it’s small.

“I’ve just been… in my head,” she says. “It gets loud in there sometimes.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t press.

Instead, you turn just enough so your body faces hers. “You want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?”

She shakes her head, eyes closed. “No talking.” Then, barely above a whisper, she adds, “You calm me down.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and lightly place your hand on the curve of her waist—gentle, grounding. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She exhales again. And this time it sounds like relief.

You don’t fall asleep right away, but you stay still. Let her breathe against you. Let your body mold around the shape of hers, careful and quiet and steady. You memorize the weight of her knee over yours, the rise and fall of her chest against your side, the slow soft shift of her hand under your arm as she finally, finally relaxes.

At some point, you do fall asleep. And when you wake up—she’s still there.

Fully tucked into you, head resting right over your heart, one arm draped across your ribs, the other curled tight between you like she’s trying to stay anchored. Your hoodie—which she must’ve pulled over in the middle of the night—covers half her face.

And she’s still asleep.

Peaceful.

Like the noise is gone now.

Your first instinct is not to move. Not even to breathe too loud. You look down at her, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.

You shift only enough to tighten your arm around her. Pull her closer.

She hums softly at the motion—barely awake, maybe not at all—but leans in like her body already knows it belongs there.

And you lie there in the quiet morning light with her tucked into your chest, her breath warm on your skin, and all you can think is…

This… this is home.

The room is soaked in that soft gray-blue that only happens just before the sun fully breaks over campus. You’re still beneath the thin dorm blanket, your arm wrapped gently around Azzi, her body pressed close—like she molded herself into the curve of your chest overnight.

You haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Not because you’re asleep. But because this is the stillest you’ve ever felt.

And then she shifts. Just a little. A quiet inhale. A slight roll of her shoulders. Her head nestles deeper against your chest. You glance down. Her eyes are open now—barely. Still hazy. Still blinking off sleep.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Just… breathes. Lets her hand flex against your ribs, lets her fingers move slightly against the fabric of your shirt like she’s checking if you’re still real.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard her use, she whispers, “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Your chest tightens.

You could answer a million ways. Could make a joke. Could nod. Could say nothing and just kiss the crown of her head. But you turn your head slightly and speak gently, as soft as she is.

“Do you want to stay?”

Azzi lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak—just looks at you like she’s never been allowed to look at anyone this long.

Then she nods. A small, certain nod.

You shift just slightly, enough to tuck your other arm under her, enough to cradle her properly. She sighs, one hand sliding up to rest lightly over your collarbone. Her forehead presses against your throat, and she lets her whole body relax into yours like gravity doesn’t exist outside this bed.

You hold her like she’s something delicate but sure. Something you’ve always known how to protect. Neither of you says anything else. There’s no need.

Outside, the campus starts to wake up—faraway doors opening, a soft burst of laughter down the hall, sneakers squeaking in the stairwell. But in this tiny corner of the dorm building, in your twin bed barely built for one, it’s just you and her.

And she’s still. Still in your arms. Still letting you hold her like this isn’t new.

You don’t think about the team. You don’t think about Paige, or Geno, or the next practice or the classes you’re missing. You don’t even think about what this is.

You just hold her. Because she asked to stay. And you want her to. So you stay like that for another hour. Until the sun finally reaches your window. And even then, neither of you moves. Not yet.

It didn’t happen with fireworks or a kiss under stadium lights.

It happened slowly and then all at once.

One night, she stayed over without asking. The next, she came back with her pillow. Then her toothbrush. Her hoodie. Her charger. One morning, she was brushing her teeth in your mirror, hair tied up, wearing your sweats and her socks and you looked up from your side of the bed and just—knew.

You were already hers.

And she’d already been yours.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t do you want to be together?

It was, we are. We just are.

Azzi touches you like you’re something safe. Holds your hand under tables. Rest her head on your shoulder during film nights. She lets you fix her braid when it comes undone in your room, even though you're not very good at it.

You bring her iced coffee before morning lifts and wrap your arm around her waist when she’s got a towel over her head after practice, sweat still clinging to her neck. She mutters, “gross,” but doesn’t pull away. Never pulls away.

She calls you “babe” now, but only when she’s sleepy. Or really happy. Or trying to get you to give her the last of the sour gummy worms.

One night after a win, Paige stops you in the tunnel, eyebrow raised.

“So it’s official now, huh?” You don’t answer. Just nod once, calm and easy. Paige grins. “Good. She deserves someone who sees her the way you do.”

Later that night, Azzi kisses you in your kitchen. Long. Sure. With her hands tucked under your shirt and her forehead resting against yours when she pulls back.

“You’re the first thing that feels… still,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter.

Now?

You’re on the couch in your apartment just off campus, her legs draped across yours, both of you pretending to study. The TV’s on mute. There’s a plate of shared fries on the coffee table, and her sock-covered foot keeps nudging your thigh every few minutes like she wants you to look at her.

You do. She smiles. You lean forward. Press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, just because you can.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“You’re wearing that smug face again,” she shoots back.

“I don’t have a smug face.”

“You do,” she says. “You get it when I call you mine.”

You smirk. “Say it again.”

She shifts, climbs into your lap, arms loose around your neck, forehead against yours.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs, quiet and warm.

And you smile the way you always do when you hear it. Because she’s yours, too. No question. No hesitation.

The game wasn’t perfect.

UConn had trailed in the first half. Turnovers were sloppy. The defense looked a step slow. But it was one of those classic second-half comebacks—the kind that made you fall in love with the program in the first place. Gritty. Relentless. Blue-blood basketball that didn’t panic when the rhythm broke, just reshaped itself until the song made sense again.

And Azzi? Azzi was the pulse that pulled it all back together. You don’t say her name in the video. Not out loud. But it’s all about her.

You set up your phone against a stack of books on your desk, flip your hoodie inside out to hide the logo, student media rules, and hit record just past 11 p.m., your voice calm but low, steady in that familiar tone that says, You’re watching something that mattered.

“Tonight’s game wasn’t about dominance,” you begin. “It was about control. The kind of control that looks quiet from the outside, but is doing all the heavy lifting behind the scenes.”

You play the first clip. A curl off a down screen. The ball never touches the floor—just one clean catch-and-release, a perfect arc, the net singing as it snaps.

“This is a shot you don’t attempt unless you trust yourself,” you say. “You don’t take it unless you’ve put in the hours when no one’s watching. You don’t make it unless your feet know what to do before your brain tells them.”

The next clip rolls. She’s off-ball now. Moving without drawing attention. Setting an off-screen that forces a mismatch. Two passes later, someone else scores.

“She won’t show up on the stat sheet for this one,” you say. “But she broke that play open with her movement. With her patience. That’s what makes the difference.”

You show a transition possession. A swing pass. A stop-and-pop jumper.

“She doesn’t shout with her game,” you continue. “She whispers. She hums. And by the end of the night, you realize she’s been the melody the whole time.”

You pause the tape. Just your face now. Calm. Still.

“This team doesn’t just need shot-makers. It needs tone-setters. Players who make the floor feel settled. Balanced. Trusted.”

You breathe out slowly.

“There’s one player on this roster who does that every time she’s out there.”

You don’t say her name. But everyone knows.

You post the video with a caption that just says, Game recap—the quiet ones always carry the weight.

You close the app. Put your phone down.

Fifteen minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth, it buzzes on the counter.

azzi: just watched it. i don’t need you to say my name. i heard every word.

You stare at the screen.

good. because every word that i said? i meant it.

azzi: come over? i want to fall asleep hearing your voice, not just watching it.

And you don’t even hesitate.

It’s strange being the oldest now.

Not in life—just in this world. The UConn world. The practice jersey, locker room, Gampel at dawn world. You’re still in your early twenties, but somehow, senior year settles in your chest like the last page of a chapter you’re not quite ready to close.

You wear the same media badge, now faded at the edges, and carry the same camera you’ve had since freshman year. But your presence isn’t tentative anymore. Coaches nod when they pass you in the tunnel. Freshmen ask if they can “maybe be in the next clip.” The film room plays your edits before games. They say your name when they talk about the program now.

And Azzi?

Azzi is everything you knew she’d become.

She’s the co-captain. The shooter. The calming force. She’s the one they look to in timeouts, the one the little girls in the stands scream for, the one ESPN mics during pregame because her voice means something now.

She’s also still the one who texts you during film study from across the room, your girl just cooked that closeout. admit it.

You look up. She doesn’t even glance your way. Just smirks into her Gatorade.

You send back, you’re lucky i love you.

You’ve been together for three years now.

It’s not new anymore. But somehow, it never feels old.

You still get the same warm chill when she knocks on your door and slips inside without speaking. When she wears your shirt to bed. When she sits between your legs on the floor during game replays, her back against your chest, your fingers tracing light shapes over her ribs as the room glows blue with the paused footage.

Azzi still doesn’t talk a lot about her emotions. But she shows them. In how she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. In how she adjusts your hoodie drawstrings without saying a word. In the way she always asks if you’ve eaten before she lets you start editing film. In the way she asks—quietly, but directly—if you’ll stay the night, even though she never has to.

You’ve been with her through everything. Through the rehab stint after her knee scare sophomore year. Through the championship loss in junior year that kept both of you up in silence. Through every early-morning workout, every late night edit, every moment where the pressure started to make her forget she was more than what she could score.

You never let her forget. And she never stops choosing you.

Now, it’s senior year.

And you’re both carrying the weight of lasts.

Last home opener. Last conference road trip. Last Midnight Madness.

There’s talk about what comes after—draft declarations, sports media job offers, maybe even that apartment in New York you bookmarked but never showed her. You don’t say it out loud yet. But you feel the shape of it behind everything.

Still, tonight’s not about what’s next.

Tonight is about the now.

The two of you walk into Gampel together for a game against South Carolina, the final non-conference home game of the season. You’re filming as always. Azzi’s in uniform, headphones in, locked in. She slows near the tunnel just enough to let your shoulder brush hers.

You catch her eye.

She mouths, “Watch this.”

And you do.

She drops 27 points. 6-for-7 from beyond the arc. Four assists. Two steals. One dagger of a three with a minute left that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

And when she walks off the court, towel around her neck, teammates bumping her shoulder, she doesn’t look for the ESPN cameras or the press row.

She looks for you.

And when she finds you—camera down, hands shaking just a little from trying not to scream during that final shot—she smiles like she already knows what you’ll say.

But you say it anyway. “Jesus Christ, Fudd.”

She laughs.

Then steps in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Right there. Right in front of everyone. The crowd still buzzing, the team still cooling down, the band still playing. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just her lips against your skin and her hand resting at your side like it’s home.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. She’s yours. And she always has been.

The confetti’s still falling when she finds you.

She should be somewhere else. On the stage. On the podium. With the cameras. Holding the Most Outstanding Player trophy in one hand and the net she cut down in the other. But instead, she’s weaving through the chaos like she’s been looking for you the whole time.

Your camera’s still rolling, half-raised, the screen shaking slightly from adrenaline. You’ve been filming through tears—yours, theirs, everyone’s. Geno’s last timeout. Paige’s final assist. Azzi’s ice-cold three with 1:13 left that sealed it. You haven’t moved from the baseline since the buzzer sounded.

And suddenly she’s there. In front of you.

Grinning like her whole body is full of light. Hair matted to her forehead, jersey drenched, eyes glassy and shining beneath the overhead lights. She’s not crying. Not yet. But she looks like if you said one thing too soft, she would.

So you don’t say anything. You drop the camera. And open your arms. She crashes into you. Hard. Not careful. Not composed. Just Azzi, all of her, colliding into you like you’re the only solid thing left in the universe. You catch her.

Wrap your arms around her and feel her fists clench behind your back as she buries her face into your shoulder. She shakes once—just once—like the win finally hit her in your arms, not when the clock hit zero.

“I did it,” she whispers. “We did it.”

“You did it,” you say, pulling her tighter. “You were unreal tonight.”

“I was scared,” she breathes, muffled against your neck. “I didn’t know if I could—”

“You did,” you cut in. “And you didn’t just play, Azzi. You led. You carried. You earned every second of this.”

She pulls back, just enough to look at you.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, laughing a little.

“So are you,” you reply.

Her hand finds yours. Palm rough with resin, trembling slightly. You squeeze three times.

Five minutes later, she’s called back to the main stage. Reporters. Flashbulbs. A camera crew trying to wedge into your space, asking her for comments. She’s too polite to ignore them but too distracted to fully focus.

Before she turns to go, she tugs your wrist. You lean close. She kisses your cheek. Quick. Sure. Public. Everyone sees it. And she doesn’t care.

“They’re gonna ask me how I stayed calm all tournament,” she says. “I’m gonna want to tell them it was you.”

You smile. “You can’t. I’ll get fired.”

Azzi shrugs, already walking backward into the media swarm. “Fine. I’ll just say I had a secret weapon.”

You call after her, “Tell them your lucky charm came through.”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder. “Always.”

Later—much later—the arena’s mostly empty. Security’s doing a final sweep. You’re sitting on the court again, knees bent, her championship hat askew on your head and your camera shut off for once. Azzi’s beside you, her legs stretched out, her shoes untied.

The net’s tied around her neck like a necklace. Her trophy rests in her lap, her fingers brushing over the engraved plate like it still doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t say anything. So you do.

“Did you hear the crowd when you hit that three?”

Azzi exhales. “Felt like everything got quiet.”

You nudge her thigh with your knee. “That’s because you silenced the world.”

She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to look for you until I was sure we’d won,” she says. “I told myself I’d run to you if the buzzer went and we were still standing.”

You nod. “You found me.”

“I always will.”

You turn. Kiss the top of her head. Smell the salt, the resin, the weight of four years coming to rest all at once.

She glances down at the trophy. Then up at you.

“This is ours,” she says.

And you believe her.

Because for four years, you’ve watched her become this. Not a headline. Not a name on a graphic. Not a logo on a sneaker deal.

But Azzi. Fully. Wholly. Yours.

She didn’t declare.

Azzi Fudd, consensus top-ten pick, Most Outstanding Player, national champion, walking bucket—stayed.

Everyone thought she’d leave. Follow Paige, The mock drafts said she was gone. The WNBA teams practically started designing her jerseys. But when the time came, when the lights dimmed and the confetti settled and the press release was ready to drop, she looked across the kitchen table at you in a hoodie and sweats and said, “I’m not done here.”

And she stayed. One more year. One more season at UConn. One more chance to wear that jersey with the same grace and grit she always had. One more year of being the leader, the big sister, the captain.

You didn’t try to talk her out of it. You just said, “Then we go all in.”

Because this time, you weren’t filming from the student section. You weren’t hiding behind a school media vest. You weren’t the wide-eyed kid from Hartford anymore.

You were you now.

It happened fast after graduation. The videos you’d built over four years at UConn had long outgrown the platform. Coaches shared them. Players reposted them. Parents sent them to their kids. And when networks started knocking, you told them no.

Because you didn’t need a desk job in a studio. You were already building something better. You went independent.

Self branded. Self scheduled. Self funded. You called it Court Vision—a solo platform for women’s basketball storytelling. You didn’t just cover stats. You covered rhythm. Identity. Psychology. You saw what others missed. That same calm voice you used in dorm rooms was now playing in thousands of ears across the country.

Everywhere you went, players greeted you like family. Coaches asked if you could send your breakdowns. Parents told you their daughters learned the game watching your videos. You had press credentials at every arena. Interviews on every court.

You weren’t just in the room anymore. You were the room.

And yet—even with all the traveling, all the acclaim—when UConn’s schedule dropped, the first date you circled was Storrs.

Because Azzi stayed. And she was yours.

You fly back on a Thursday. The gym smells the same—pine and sweat and polish and history. You show your credential at the tunnel and get waved through with a nod. No questions. Everyone knows you by now.

Geno’s mid-practice, yelling about tempo. KK is courtside talking to her phone sipping a smoothie. But you don’t look at anyone else.

She’s there.

Number 35. Ponytail flying. Eyes locked in.

Still Azzi.

She hits a three off a staggered screen, doesn’t even glance toward the bench—but she sees you. Feels you. After the whistle, she jogs over like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just come from a courtside interview in Atlanta the night before. Like you don’t have a flight to L.A. in three days. She stops short of touching you. Still sweat-soaked. Still in game mode. But her eyes burn like fire under soft lashes.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” she says.

You smirk. “Had to see the return of the queen in person.”

“Is that what your analysis is gonna say?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you make it worth it.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “You want a quote?”

“I want a win,” you say.

She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m still your girl.”

You raise an eyebrow. “UConn’s princess, technically.”

Azzi steps a little closer, low and quiet.

“But only yours after the buzzer.”

After practice, you sit in the bleachers while she finishes her lift. Geno walks past you muttering, “If she plays the way she smiles at you, we’ll win by 40.”

You shout back, “She usually does.”

When Azzi joins you, towel around her neck, hair damp, you hand her the protein bar you brought from a gas station in Chicago.

“Romantic,” she says, unwrapping it anyway.

You kiss her cheek. “You still owe me that postgame.”

She nods. “I’ll give you the best quote of your career.”

“You promise?”

She grins.

“Only if you stay the night.”

You didn’t think it could top the first one.

The chaos, the confetti, the hugging, the laughing, the relief. The night she hoisted the trophy with sweat-slicked hands and kissed your cheek in front of thousands like there wasn’t anything left to hide.

But this year? This year, it was different. Because it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about finishing everything right.

Azzi Fudd. Fifth-year senior. Leader. Anchor. The face of UConn’s redemption arc. Back-to-back championships. Back-to-back Most Outstanding Player. Twenty-nine points. Seven rebounds. Five assists. No missed free throws. And a quiet dominance that wove the whole game into something sacred.

You stood behind the press row, camera at your side, heart pounding harder than it ever had. Not from nerves. But from knowing.

Because you’d already decided. Tonight was the night.

You let the postgame chaos swirl without you.

You held your camera when she smiled for photos, laughed when KK fake-posed with her and said “This is your last chance to change your mind,” and nodded quietly when Geno found you afterward and muttered, “She’ll always be ours, but she was yours first.”

But you didn’t ask for a moment yet. Not until later.

After the crowd filtered out. After the media cleared. After the net was around her neck again and the trophy sat cradled in her arms like it had always belonged there.

You found her in the tunnel. Still in her jersey. She lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “Did you see that pass in the third—”

You kissed her. Right there. One hand on her cheek, the other in her hair. And she melted into it, into you, the arena dim and echoing around you.

You pulled back only far enough to whisper, “Get dressed.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Right now.”

You don’t go far.

A quiet rooftop. Soft lights strung along the railing. The city buzzing far below. A table set with takeout containers of her favorite pasta because you knew she’d be starving, and a chilled bottle of sparkling cider because she doesn’t drink and you remember everything she ever said in passing.

She raises an eyebrow when she sees the setup.

“What is this?” she asks, smiling.

You shrug. “Just a little postgame celebration.”

She walks closer. “You did all this today?”

You nod. “I knew you’d win.”

Azzi stares at you. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately.”

You sit. Eat. Talk about everything but the game. You remind her of the first time you saw her live, back in that dusty high school gym. She reminds you that you couldn’t make eye contact with her until October of sophomore year.

And then, after she’s scraped up the last bit of marinara sauce with a crust of bread and leaned back in her chair, happy and full and tired in the best way—

You stand. Reach for your jacket pocket. Her brow furrows. You step in front of her. She freezes. And the world disappears.

Your hand is shaking. You can’t even help it.

She’s already gasped, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet before you’ve said a single word. And your voice—your voice cracks before it can carry the first line.

“Sorry,” you breathe, blinking up at her. “I had a whole speech. I practiced. I swear I did.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s holding her breath.

“I’ve loved you since before I could say it. Since before I knew what it was. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t just another fan, or another lens, or another voice trying to tell your story.”

Your throat catches again. You pause. Try to keep it steady.

“You’ve made me better. Kinder. Quieter. Stronger. You’ve taught me how to lead without shouting. How to stand still and still be powerful. You’ve taught me what it means to stay. To love even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when the whole world is loud.”

She’s crying now. Quietly. Openly.

“I don’t care where you play next. I don’t care what city, what team, what coast. I just want to be there. In the front row. Behind the scenes. Next to you. Always.”

You open the ring box and kneel. Her hands fly to her mouth again.

“Azzi Fudd,” you say, voice breaking, “will you marry me?”

She doesn’t say yes right away. Because she’s already on her knees. Already wrapping her arms around your neck. 

Already crying into your shoulder, whispering— “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

The city spins beneath you. But you don’t feel it. Just her. Just this. Just forever starting now.

The sun pours into your room like it's in on the secret.

It catches the edge of the champagne colored blanket half-tangled around your legs, brushes over the takeout containers you were too love-struck to clean up last night, and settles—gently, reverently—on the girl curled up on your chest.

Azzi.

Still in your hoodie. Her bare feet tucked beneath the blanket. One hand draped over your stomach, the other curled near her face. And on that hand, a glimmer.

The ring. She hasn’t taken it off. Not even to sleep. You stare at it for a long time. The way it fits. The way it already belongs there. Like it always has. You don’t want to move. But your heart is too full. Your chest feels swollen with words, with memories, with every version of you that never thought this could happen. So you ease out from under her, careful, reverent, like you’re slipping out of a church pew mid-hymn.

You grab your phone. Sit by the window. Open your camera app. And press record.

The video starts with the sun on your face. You’re in a hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes red in the soft way that comes from crying for the right reasons. Your voice is low. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” you say. “I don’t really know where to begin. So I’ll start where I always do. With a game.”

You pause. Glance out the window. Then look back at the lens.

“Last night, UConn won its thirteenth national championship. And if you know me—if you’ve followed me, or watched anything I’ve ever posted—you know what this team means to me.”

You take a breath. A real one.

“But last night was more than that. Last night was the end of a promise I made to myself a long time ago.”

You tap your screen. The footage cuts.

To your UConn acceptance video.

You, five years younger, sitting in your childhood bedroom. Hartford skyline through your window. A UConn pennant behind you. You’re holding your laptop with your acceptance letter on the screen, eyes wide and shimmering.

“I’ve been going to games since I was a baby. I’ve watched legends on that court. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I do know this—UConn women's basketball raised me. Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You, now, smile faintly in the corner of the screen as it cuts back to you in present day.

“That was a joke at the time. Kind of.”

You glance over your shoulder. Off screen. Your voice softens.

“But some dreams… they’re quiet. They live in your chest. They follow you until you’re ready to meet them.” You call out, “Z?”

There’s rustling. A sleepy groan. And then—her. Azzi steps into frame, barefoot, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess, ring glinting on her left hand. She blinks at the camera.

“Wait—are we filming?” You nod. She groans, laughing. “You couldn’t wait?”

You smile. “I didn’t want to forget this part.”

She slips into your lap. Tucks her face under your chin. Her hand rests on your chest, just over your heart. The ring sparkles. It’s not the centerpiece—but it doesn’t have to be. She is.

You speak again. Voice thicker now.

“She said yes.” A pause. “I asked Azzi to marry me last night.” Another beat. “And she said yes.”

Azzi leans up, kisses your cheek, and whispers, “Of course I did.”

You laugh, blinking fast.

“She’s the one I made videos about when I didn’t even know I was writing love letters. She’s the one who saw me before the rest of the world did. She’s been my constant. My compass. My favorite player—and my favorite person.”

Azzi nudges your chin. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Too late,” you mumble.

You let the silence sit for a moment. Let the footage breathe. And then you say, “I started this journey with a camera and a dream. And now I get to spend the rest of my life beside the person who turned both into something real.”

Azzi squeezes your hand. You look into the camera one last time.

“I loved UConn before I knew what love was. And somewhere between the student section and the court, I found the person I’ll love forever.”

Azzi rests her head against your shoulder again, smiling.

You whisper to her, not to the camera, “You’re the best story I’ve ever told.”

And then you reach out.

And end the recording.

You don’t even check your notifications at first.

You post the video, drop your phone face-down on the kitchen counter, and walk back to the bedroom, where Azzi is wrapped up in a hoodie and blanket like a sleepy human burrito. She smiles as you crawl into bed next to her and whisper something about needing more hours in the day.

You fall asleep with her tucked under your arm, her ring glinting in the soft morning light like it’s always belonged there.

By the time you wake up, the world has changed.

You fumble for your phone, half-asleep, and finally open TikTok.

The video’s at 3.1 million views. You blink. Refresh. 4.2 million. The comments are… unhinged. Emotional. Beautiful.

Azzi watches it all happen from next to you. She’s curled into your side, watching you scroll through your mentions, her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t think it’d blow up like this, huh?” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought a few people might smile. Cry a little, maybe. I didn’t think it would turn into… this.”

Azzi hums. “Think the whole world’s been waiting for us.”

You glance at her. “Are you okay with it? With it being this public?”

She holds your hand, looks at the ring on her finger, then at you.

“I’m not hiding you,” she says. “Not ever. If the whole world sees it? That’s just proof I got it right.”

You lean in and kiss her. Soft. Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like a full circle closing.

[finniestoncrane]

You know what I'll bite first(?)

I want reader to convince Hector to let them care for him instead in the bedroom tonight and it's basically a mix of body worship and general praise while jerking him off

Hector x GN!Reader, word count: 1.4k ooooooooh ok i had to write this, he was living in my brain and skittering around in my pipes up there!! i've not finished his storyline yet, so no spoilers for me please!! but i know regardless of what happens next, he deserves a bit of praise and pleasure >:3c request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: a lot of praise for this boy, body worshipping, masturbation/handjobs, tiny bit of hair pulling, pre-ejac, little bit of yandere dialogue because it's hector...

"You told me you couldn't relax for yourself, so please, please let me help you. You need to learn to embrace your body. That way, I can embrace it too."

Hector's heart skipped a beat at the emphasis on your pleading, and he found himself unable to catch his breath in enough time to respond. Instead, he let himself be pushed back towards the bed in your room, sinking down into it as the back of his legs hit the edge.

"Good boy, Hector. This is the first step to changing how you see yourself. Let me show you how I see you."

The bed shifted as you sat down next to him, hand on his chest as you gently pushed him backwards, waiting until he was laying down, his dark curls resting on the pillows, before you began to stroke your fingers through his hair, twirling the locks around your fingers and hoping to soothe him. But he was still nervous, enough that he began to tug at your sheets, trying to hide himself with them out of his instinctual urge to conceal the things that he disliked so much.

"No, no. Don't cover yourself up. I want to see all of you."

"Are you sure? I still find it so hard to believe that someone as magnificent as yourself would be interested in any aspect of me."

"Really? When you're so handsome, and so sexy. I'm almost angry that you'd hide yourself away for so long, Hector. Seems wrong to keep this a secret."

It was all he could do to keep his smile from widening, but he'd warmed up to you so quickly that it was impossible to hide himself from you. And you were determined to keep things moving in that direction, so positive reinforcement was required. Luckily, you knew now how he worked, and you were able to pull the sheets away, uncovering his body and noting the slight tenting of his cock underneath his clothes. It was distracting, but not more so than his satisfied grin.

"Such a sweet smile, it makes your eyes light up. Your cheeks are so warm, so cute. And your lips, so soft... so welcoming."

"Only for you..."

Each milimetre of the tiny distance between you was tension filled and wrought with a dire need that was immediately turned to passionate satisfaction once the kiss begun. Hector was content to lay back and let you take over, offering no resistance as you deepend the kiss, and even less when your hands began to travel down his front and to the stirring below his waist. Your fingers teased below the material, skimming over the skin above his erection, feeling the contrasted texture of his thick, black pubic hair. And as the kiss broke off, Hector struggling to catch his breath, you let your lips follow his soft jaw line to his neck, your pecks and the gentle nips of your teeth interspersed with words that amounted to yet more compliments.

"I know you've felt so comfortable behind the security of the grate, but I need you, Hector. More than you could imagine, more than I think you're willing to accept. But I can show you. Let me heat you up for a change, I want to see your skin flushing, that sparkle in your eyes."

His cock was freed now, and it protruded into the air as you wrapped your fingers around the length. Average, but thick, and just a few shades darker than his perfectly clear skin. You leaned your head against him, angling your view to watch the way your hand fit so perfectly around his length. Hector shuddered, stuttering out something, but you assuaged whatever concerns he was fabricating.

"You've given me so much, all of those years, unappreciated. Now I want to pay you back, it's only right."

Your gentle strokes firmed up, quicker movements as your determination took over. You wanted him to be happy, to see him satisfied, relieved, and to at least offer him something physical in the way of evidence of your attraction to him. With your tempo set, you kept up the motions, noting that Hector's hips began to shift, pushing his cock upwards into your fist as his body squirmed slightly against the mattress.

"I'm... This is... Wow..."

With a giggle, you whispered against his skin, still loud enough that he could hear you past his own hushed whimpers.

"That sense of contentment? Of pure joy? you deserve that. You work so hard to make me happy, and I think you deserve the same back ten-fold."

"I live to please you. I ask for nothing in return. Your pleasure is just as ah... ah..."

Your other hand reached for his balls, cupping them before gently squeezing.

"All of that time you spent watching me, I think it's fair that I get to see you as you reach complete ecstacy, too, no?"

As Hector let out a sigh of relief, his body giving in finally to the looming and certain orgasm that was beginning to wash over him. A little coaxing was all it would take to get him to finally let go of the last of his tensions.

"All that stress, the nerves, your worries and concerns about how I'll perceive you? I'm going to make them all... go... away."

It sounded like a stifled groan, a strangled sound that he was trying to cover up. And you weren't having that.

"I want to hear your sweet voice, Hector. Your moans, your sighs, your screams."

Hector's stomach was tensing, the slight hint of muscles below the softness of his stomach as he clenched in response to his quickening climax. Each stroke of your fist down the shaft of his cock had him quivering, and you relished in the view of his body that you had from this perfect position. One of his hands rested in your hair, occasionally gripping at the root as he became overwhelmed with arousal. Even without the firm placement of his palm against you, there was no way you would have lifted your head from his chest. From there you could see your own hand working, pumping at his twitching cock, his precum leaking, dribbling from his head down to the visible frenulum as you pulled back his foreskin with your movements. And as you watched his body react to your stimulation, you could hear his heart beat thudding in his chest against your ear.

You were worried for a moment when his gentle whining turned into a sharp shriek, concerned that in your distractions you might have become to firm or too quick. But as you felt the warm, yet quickly cooling, liquid begin to drip over your fingers, you understood.

"Ah... I, I've ruined it. A moment so perfect, so pure. I'm so sorry. Faced with your charitable gesture, the idea that you would be so willing to help me seek the same satisfaction as I've helped you with so many times... Well, my excitement got the better of me. Yet another reason that you could do far better in-"

"Did it feel good?"

He paused his nerve driven rambling, all desire to self-flagellate superceded by his need to offer you an answer when one was asked of him.

"Of course! It was marvellous. For all that I've dreamt of how your hands might feel on my body, it was better than I ever could have guessed."

When it seemed as though he might start apologising again for something that in truth you found flattering, quite endearing to his adorably desperate nature, you placed a finger on his lips and hushed him.

"Then there's nothing to apologise for, Hector. We both got what we wanted."

You lay your head next to his on your pillow, watching his eyes scan the room, as if he were looking for the final bit of confidence to say what he said next.

"In that case... perhaps it wouldn't be too much to ask if I could lay here a while longer. I could warm you in a more manual manner than either of us are accustomed to."

Hector lifted his arm, offering you the space between that and his chest, and you willingly dove into it, wrapping your arms around his body and settling in with a sigh.

[indecisive-gm]

Jaren awoke with a start. Sitting up, they quickly looked around. The room looked like some kind of study, with scrolls and books filling the shelves along the walls. The paper walls seemed week enough; maybe they could escape from--whatever this place was--before their captors noticed.

Captors. They must be fairies, right? The last thing Jaren could remember before waking up here was going out into the forest to gather herbs and hearing a muffled voice as the forest around them faded to black. It wasn't a drug--that would have been recognizable with Jaren's experience as a healer. The darkness had been some kind of illusion magic like that which the fair folk use. They must have chosen Jaren as their next victim, having seen them come to the forest so regularly. If Jaren had been kidnapped by fairies, they would need to keep their wits about them to avoid falling further into their traps.

Tearing through the wall, Jaren was ready to make a run for it, but had to quickly stop themself from falling off a cliff. This couldn't be right, the fair folk never stray far from the forests. If her captors had taken her up into the mountains, then they couldn't be fairies. But then, who--

"It would be rather rude to run off so soon."

Jaren turned around. The building was farther back than it should have been, and a robed figure now stood only a few paces behind them. This was the person who had kidnapped them? Jaren readied a spell, hoping the old man wouldn't recognize it for the harmless show that it was. "Stay back! I've studied the magical arts well. I don't want either of us to get hurt, so don't move, and don't try to follow me."

The figure shrugged. "Alright. I'll stay right here. Though I would appreciate if you would stay and talk over coffee."

The man's words meant nothing. Even if he actually had such a rare plant as coffee, it seemed like too convenient an excuse to drug Jaren into being an easy captive to be ransomed off to the nearest magic university or to be sold to some warlord who was looking for a new mage. They backed their way to the cliffside, then jumped. They had never really wanted to go adventuring or fight in wars, so they never actually studied any flight spells or spells to soften a landing, but hopefully strenthening their bones would hold them together well enough after hitting the ground to mend the damage from the fall.

Thud. Fortunately, the pain of the fall was somewhat masked by having all the wind knocked out of them. The plan had worked, but as Jaren looked up, they saw that they were in the same place as before, with the man and the tower standing before them as if to mock them.

The man shook his head. "That was a rather clever use of your healing magic, though if I may ask, why didn't you simply fly away?"

"None of your business." New strategy. This time, Jaren strengthened the muscles in their legs before jumping as far as they could. Being lost in the forest wouldn't be ideal, but it would be better than being someone's prisoner to be used for money or as a weapon. As they were about to hit the ground, Jaren closed their eyes and braced for impact.

Again, they had landed back next to the tower in the mountains. "As impressive as your skills are," the old man said, "you're just going to tire yourself out like this."

Jaren was learning to hate this guy. "Let me leave, or I'll kill you!", they shouted.

The man simply stepped forward towards them. "I think we both know you won't." Jaren was stunned. "I've been looking for an apprentice for some time. Coffee does it's wonders, but eternal youth isn't one of them. And you." The man pointed a finger at Jaren's chest. "I've been very satisfied with the care you show in your magic."

"Apprentice? Who do you think you--"

"The world needs witchknights, after all." Witchknights. Jaren had taken them to just be stories for children. Masters of the magical and martial arts, some of whom had supposedly conquered vast lands or worked as advisors to powerful rulers, while others had fought against the powerful to give back to those with nothing or even abandoned the world altogether.

The man sighed. "Fine. I see you need proof." Suddenly, there was a sword stuck through Jaren's leg. The bone was still strong enough from their spell before to not be cut through, but the pain was horrible. Before they even had time to scream, a portal opened beneath them, and they fell through what must have been a layer of the underworld before landing in the open top room of the tower with various animated suits of armor pointing swords and pikes at them.

The suits of armor walked to their displays by the stairs, and the witchknight came to Jaren to help them up. Jaren was about to cast a spell to heal their leg, but felt the familiar feeling of a healing spell already taking effect on it. "You know," said the old man, "dispite the stories I'm sure you know, violence is actually a small part of being a witchknight. Now, about that coffee."

--

Finishing the mug of coffee, Jaren spoke. "So to make sure I'm understanding this, witchknights exist, and you've basically kidnapped me to get me to preserve your ancient form of the magical and martial arts?"

"That sounds about right," the man responded. "Though I would like to say, I didn't have much choice in the matter. If I were to try to teach some other mage, how do you think that would go? So many of them nowadays are too absorbed by power and where that can take them. It would be next to impossible for me to teach them, and there would be a serious risk of having a new story like those about witchknight conquerers abusing their power and ignoring the world around them."

Jaren still felt wronged by the whole situation, but this old witchknight was right about that much: A lot of Jaren's former classmates probably would have learned what they could and run off to use their abilities for power for themselves. Still, there were always calmer ones. Jaren didn't know any others who were completely pacifist, but surely the witchhunter wasn't that strained of options.

At that moment, there was a flash of light from down the stairs and the sound of someone approaching. Jaren started to get up, but the witchknight just gestured for them to remain seated. "Mjorgan! Mjorgan you bastard, where are you!", a voice called as footsteps came up the wooden steps. A tall, slender man in a suit and cape reached the top of the stairs and turned to the witchknight. "Mjorgan! There you are! I-- who is this?"

"Excellent question, Archsage!" The witchnight--Mjorgan, apparently--glanced towards Jaren. "My friend, would you like to introduce yourself?"

First a mythical witchnight, now the archsage was here? "I'm Jaren, sir... I'm Mjorgan's new apprentice." The room was silent for a moment. Moreso than when Jaren and Mjorgan had been drinking their coffee.

After a few seconds, the archsage spoke. "Well, I suppose it's about time you picked an apprentice, but why now? I've come here several times before to try to convince you to take any of the brightest mages our universities have to offer, but you choose now of all times?"

"I believe I chose the right time to do so, Alfred," Mjorgan responded. "Now, what business did you have with me? I'd like to get to lessons for my student sometime today."

"Ah, yes." The archsage gave a curt nod, showing some annoyance at his treatment by Mjorgan. "I came here to ask if you would join my advisory council for..." A glance in Jaren's direction told them not to get involved. "...necessary audience."

"It must be serious if you're coming to bother me."

"It's about her."

Mjorgan suddenly looked incredibly serious. "...Alright. I'll meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss this further." He waved his hand, and the Archsage disappeared in a puff of smoke.

With how the archsage spoke and Mjorgan's response, Jaren could tell that this was probably something very bad. "Should I know what that was about?"

The witchknight looked up at them. "No. Maybe some other time, but for the time being, it's best that you not get involved in this. Besides," he stood up and headed towards the stairs, "we need to start your training."

OK,

I didn't realize I was going to be writing so much (good prompt), but I'm probably going to need to stop here for now and hope that I can get myself to continue this story later.

witchknights are unmatched in magical and martial arts. Unlike the rest of your peers you wanted to study healing magic and medicine not war and violence. So when the witchknight chose you everyone was confused, Even the archsage himself.

[idyllwave]

what you lack is a future

yandere!phainon x reader , angst , loss , death , 30 million cycles , etc.

Out of thirty million cycles, you only existed in one.

You were like a blip. A tiny scratch mark of erasable pencil lead on a large canvas. Someone, somehow, somewhere accidentally written you into existence. How that was possible, Phainon wasn’t sure. But you existed. He knew because he remembered.

It was the 3141592nd cycle. And when he was just about to be at his lowest point, you had walked up to him. He expected you to ask for his help like many others had, but instead you had sat with him silently and rested a gentle hand onto his shoulder. He didn’t know how long he sat with you, but it was long enough that it waned to late evening.

“Thank you,” he hated how weak his voice sounded, how tired he seemed.

“Anytime.”

He looked at you then, memorized your features, noted the way your smile curved. He didn’t know that he was asking your name before the words left his lips.

You laughed and gave him your name. Your eyes crinkling at the corners as you let your hand fall from his shoulder.

He learned a lot about you after that. It wasn’t until night had fallen that you two parted ways. Though, you did get him to promise to come to you if he ever had that terrible feeling well up inside him again.

However, like clockwork, no matter how many days and weeks he spent with you laughing and having fun – the cycle had went on and you had died in his arms. He didn’t know if your death was peaceful, or quiet, or if you had called out to him. All that he did know was that you were already dead by the time he pulled you into his arms and pressed you close to his chest.

He promised to find you in the next cycle.

But even as the cycles marched on you were no where in sight. You didn’t exist anywhere or to anyone. The moment your name would fall from his lips no one would know who he was talking about. Not even Aglaea or Tribbie could place your name.

Thirty million cycles and you only existed in one. Were you a saving grace to make sure he stayed sane and didn’t lose hope? A mistake? An accident? Was he doing something differently that was stopping you from coming to existence?

“Stop pushing Stelle! I know we landed in different places, but I’m here now, aren’t I?”

He sighed and plastered on a smile. Both Dan Heng and Stelle had mentioned that they were missing a third.

“Phainon,” Stelle called out, “we found them!”

When he turned, he was fully prepared to introduce himself, shake their hand, give soft pleasantries, but … the moment he saw you – everything just sort of stopped.

“Hello… Phainon, right? I’m sorry we couldn’t meet earlier, the train car we came in broke apart and I ended up landing elsewhere… Though, I do want to thank you for looking after Stelle and Dan Heng. I wouldn’t know what to do if they got into even more trouble.”

You laughed to yourself as you held out your hand for him to take, and it was starting to get silent and awkward fast when Phainon didn’t make a move to take your hand. Instead, he was eerily quiet. His eyes widened and his lips parted in a smile.

“Phainon?”

“Sorry,” he breathed out, “I got lost in thought,” he took your hand with both of his. His palms pressing hard and his grip a little too tight, “it’s wonderful to meet you. And since you just got here, why don’t I show you around?”

You looked to your friends and neither seemed to mind (well, except for Dan Heng who still seemed weary).

“Sure! Sounds like fun.”

Phainon couldn’t wait to get to know you all over again, and this time, he will make sure you don’t disappear even if another cycle were to begin.

[httpknjoon]

the princess and the rockstar | jjk [1]

plot | Once upon a time, there was a crowd-favorite crown princess who found herself romantically involved with a famous rockstar. See how they will try to navigate the world and maybe live happily ever after.

w.c | 3.3k

genres | angst, fluff, modern royalty!au, celebrity!au, established relationship!au

pairing | rockstar!jungkook x princess!reader

note | oh my god, finally. i'm here, it's here. almost took me years to finally write the chapters. this is the first chapter, I just broadened the spotted drabble. but I hope you'll enjoy reading it :)

main masterlist | series masterlist | spotify playlist

[AN EXCERPT FROM THE INTERVIEW]

Growing up in a palace may seem like a fairy tale for most people, but for Queen YN, the Sapphire Palace is home. Born a year after her father was crowned as the king, Queen YN of Zafiro was introduced to the royal lifestyle before she could even learn how to talk.

“I think I learned the royalty’s etiquette first before saying my first words,” she quipped with a small smile. “This might come off as unexpected, but my mother is much stricter than my dad when it comes to our behavior. She was my first teacher in everything and made sure that we followed every rule in the book.”

With her mother’s strict upbringing, Queen YN was already aware from a very young age that she was not just like any other kids in her old preparatory school. She shared how her mother will teach her about royal traditions and responsibility, while her father will balance everything out by organizing a weekly family event like a movie marathon night, where they would just watch films Queen YN and Princess Astrid chose until they fall asleep on their unusually large couch.

“Maybe it was because they grew up in different status of life. Mom always wanted me to be a great example and do no wrong since I am the model for young Zafiroans… But now that I’m older, I thought of it as a result of the scrutiny she got as a young commoner who suddenly got everyone’s attention after marrying one of the world’s most eligible bachelors back then.”

“Isn’t this whole outfit a little too inappropriate?”

Looking up from your sketchpad, you see Astrid standing before you, rocking a themed outfit with her favorite platform boots. She looked amazing and prepared for tonight’s concert, the one she begged you to chaperone her in. But based on your mother’s tone through the video call, your sister might have to change her clothes later. She always does outfit checks whenever someone in the family has somewhere to be, wanting to make sure everyone is well-dressed.

“Sweetheart, I think it’s very much appropriate. They are going to a rock concert for Pete’s sake, everyone who’s coming will be sporting that style.” 

Your father comes on the screen, saving his princesses as usual. You and Astrid shared a knowing glance as you knew what your father was doing. Even though they are a million miles away from their royal duties, you two can still sense the awkward air between your parents’ differences.

“But not everyone is a royal princess, sweetie,” your mother replied, not wanting to back down from her initial opinion.

Now this is where you step in, “Hi, Papa!”

“Hello, my princess.” Your dad waved. “And what are you wearing tonight?”

You stood up from Astrid’s bed, the one you have been lying on ever since the call started, and distanced yourself from the camera to show them the Prada dress you have on. In your mother’s standards, it’s perfectly appropriate. Covered shoulders? Check! Almost knee-length? Check! Classy and graceful? Check! 

Although the dress fits your mother’s standards, you did not wear it specifically because of that. It’s just that you wouldn’t know what to wear to a rock concert, you've never been to one. Your closet lacks the style of clothes Astrid has, and even though your sister is wonderful in what she’s wearing, you don’t think you can wear something like that comfortably. It’s something new, and new is always uncomfortable to you. And the Prada dress is something familiar to you. It’s better.

“See! That’s how I want you to dress up as a princess, Astrid. Very elegant,” your mother told your sister, who’s standing next to you.

Knowing how the comment might make your little sister feel, you gave her a side hug, “Mooom, this is my style, and I think Astrid looks exceptional with her outfit. She’s so much more stylish than I am. I’m sure Vogue will write her an article as soon as they see her outfit later.”

Your mom hummed for a few seconds, “Okay. But don’t take the jacket off when you’re out of the venue.”

You felt your sister perk up beside you, “How about during the concert?”

“Fine, but no taking pictures with the leather jacket off,” she said sternly, but you and Astrid were already smiling from ear to ear.

“Thank you, Mom!”

“Okay, my loves. We have to go now, and I think you two should too. Don’t make your Uncle Eddie wait, you should be ready before 7,” your father reminded you.

No matter how high his position is in Zafiro, he makes sure that his family doesn’t cause any unnecessary inconvenience to his staff members, including his courtier, whom you and Astrid always called Uncle Eddie. He has been your father’s best friend ever since middle school, where they met. They were so close that you and Astrid, the royal princesses, attended his wedding as flower girls, which was the first time that considered to be a commoner’s wedding was considered.

“We’re just going to touch up our hair and makeup. Then, we’re good,” you smiled. “Please take care there.”

“And please get me one of their wool scarves, Papa!” your younger sister exclaimed.

“We will keep that in mind, Dee-dee.” Your father smiled, calling Astrid by her childhood nickname. “Enjoy your night, okay? Listen to Eddie’s instructions—”

Your mother cuts him off, “And Astrid, listen to YN. Okay?”

“Yes, Mommy,” she nods.

After some goodbyes and ending the call, you and Astrid found yourself finishing your looks in her room. Loud music, which you assumed to be by the band you’re about to see tonight, played in Astrid’s speakers while you looked through her closet to find something that could make you fit in even a little.

“Does this go with this?” You turned around, holding her black knee-high boots next to your dress.

Astrid looked back, holding her eyeliner just above her right eye, “Yes.” She grinned, “But this isn’t a country concert, YN.”

You sighed, “Come on, I’m trying. I don’t want to look like a sore thumb in the crowd.” 

“As if being the crown princess of this country is not enough for you to stand out,” she teased, making you roll your eyes. “Wear it! It goes with your dress, and I swear no one will bat an eyelash at your outfit. Everyone there will focus on the sweaty guys playing on stage.”

Sweaty guys playing on stage. The thought somehow made you cringe. What does this band do on stage anyway? You barely have any idea about Sweet September, even though they fill Astrid’s playlist in almost a hundred percent. You only read their name before in a news article about their work with the UN against cyberbullying. But other than that, nothing. Boy bands (Astrid claims they are a man-band, like, based on her words, they play real rock music.) rarely interest you. Starting when you were younger up to now, the only type of concerts you’ve been to were orchestral and jazz concerts, which are more tranquil than a rock concert.

“Do you think it will piss Mom off if I go with a black lipstick?” Astrid breaks out of your stream of thoughts.

“Definitely.”

“Perfect,” she laughed before swiping the jet-black lipstick over her lips.

You chuckled, shaking your head, as you sat on the edge of her bed to zip up the boots, “Can you, like, give me a quick briefing about this band before we go there?”

“Hmm, okay.” Astrid remained focused on the mirror. “So, Sweet September is a four-member pop-rock band that was formed two years ago. Carter is their drummer and the oldest member of the band. He’s usually the more chill and caring one, like an old grandpa,” she laughed. “Then, we have Woosung, who’s the sarcastic one. He plays the bass guitar and also produces and writes most of their songs. There’s Mingyu, their lead guitarist. He’s the funniest one and like the co-founder of the group. His sister was dating Carter, who’s now like his brother-in-law.”

“And who’s the other founder? Carter?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

Astrid shook her head, “No. That would be Jungkook.”

“And what about him?” you asked after the sparkles in her eyes got brighter.

She had to pause and look at you. “He’s the lead vocalist. Also, their frontman. Really, really talented, but one of his main skills is like pulling new fans into the group. So be careful out there.”

You chuckled, figuring that she was probably just exaggerating over the guy, “Is he that good?”

“Oh my god, YN. You have no idea. He’s the face and the voice of the band! I personally love Mingyu, but man, Jungkook can easily make me switch lanes if he wants me to. That face? With that voice?! He’s God’s favorite.” Astrid went on before squinting her eyes at you. “I swear, if you see him perform tonight, you’ll get me. You might even fall in love tonight.”

“Yeah, right.” You stood up with her heavy boots and checked yourself out in her full-length mirror. 

The boots feel different, but you’ll get used to them. Hopefully.  You don’t have a pair since you usually opt for shoes and sandals that complement your dresses and other formal wear. For tonight, for the sake of fitting in, you wanted to mix Astrid’s fashion style with yours. Even a little.

“Your Royal Highnesses, Sir Edward asked me to tell you that your ride’s waiting outside,” a royal servant knocked on the door.

Astrid picked up her leather jacket while you reached for your purse. Smiling at her,  you asked, “Let’s go?”

A thin sheet of smoke almost veiled the ‘No Smoking’ sign in the green room as Jungkook took a hit from the freshly lit cigarette stick between his fingers. He exhaled slowly, hoping that every drag would calm down his nerves. 

“Hey, that’s not allowed here,” Carter comes in with his drumsticks in his hands. “Tara will kill you if she knew you’re doing that.”

Jungkook shrugged nonchalantly, “Just one.” 

Carter, being the big brother he is, picked up something in their youngest’s behavior. He knew Jungkook did not smoke regularly. The last time he saw him smoke was earlier this year during the launch of their second album. Twirling his drumstick between his fingers, Carter sat back on the sofa.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook shook his head. “It’s just it’s a first show for this tour, and my heart’s already exploding.”

“Alright, that’s okay. But the moment you hit the stage, whatever you’re feeling will be gone anyway,” the older smiled, tapping his shoulder.

Jungkook smiled, but his shoulders remained tensed. When the door swung open, he immediately soaked the cigarette in the soda can on the table. He quietly hoped the air diffuser in the room would clear out the cigarette smell to avoid their manager’s reprimands. But it was Mingyu who came in, unaware. He has his eyes glued to his phone.

“Do you think they’re coming?” he suddenly asked, looking up at Jungkook as he sat next to him.

Jungkook raised a brow, “Who?”

“Zafiro’s royal family.”

That made the lead vocalist and the drummer chuckle, which offended Mingyu, who got defensive, “Okay, I am not being delusional here. But I think we all know that the younger princess is a big fan.”

“Doesn’t mean she’ll drag the whole family here,” Carter laughs, shaking his head.

“You never know… And you,” Mingyu points his finger at his best friend, “Don’t act like you will not be delighted if Princess YN shows up here tonight.”

The name is not new in Jungkook’s ears. Hell, even in his head, Princess YN is not a new visitor. He knew a few facts about her than a normal person would, but he can justify that by saying that she was (or is) basically his recent fascination. Is four years ago still considered recent?

He knew you were the same age as him. You have been in the limelight so much longer than him, and probably handle the attention much better than he does. He is aware of the royal protocols. Or that one Vogue article you wrote to raise awareness about Zafiro’s rising jewelry exports. You have your advocacy, just like any other royal family member, but something about you stuck with him the first time he saw you in a magazine interview clip years ago.

He remembered replaying that short six-minute interview over and over again, where you talk about things that Jungkook usually finds boring. But the smile that glows on your face as you tell stories pulled him in.

“She won’t,” Jungkook mumbled confidently, but he could feel his fingers itching for another stick of cigarette.

“You two will have your own entrance and exit spots. Ronnie and Ben would accompany you two to the entrance and would meet you at the same gate after the concert.”

Your father’s trusty courtier, Eddie, guided you and your sister on what you’re supposed to do. There were rules you had to remember, so you listened carefully to make sure you won’t forget a thing. Especially since Astrid practically begged your parents not to have bodyguards with her for tonight, wanting to feel that sense of normalcy for once.

“Is that all, Uncle?”

Astrid already had her arms crossed as she asked that. It’s been fifteen minutes since your car arrived in front of this secret entrance to the concert. But because of the King’s instructions, you two were held up.

Eddie smiled, noticing your sister’s tone, “I know you are excited about this concert, Your Royal Highness. But His Majesty still has one last message… and this is a very important one, so listen.” Your sister sighed, you leaned forward to hear whatever his about to say, “Please remind my lovely girls to enjoy the night amidst my tiring instructions. Take pictures and sing along. I would love to hear stories from them about this very important concert, based on what my Astrid said, when my queen and I get back from our short trip to Scotland. Follow what your Uncle Eddie says.”

A small smile formed on your lips with that. Finally, Eddie lets you two go with your bodyguards until the gate. Then, a nice concert staff welcomed you into the venue and led you and your sister to your seats.

“Oh, my god. I cannot believe Papa let us come here alone,” your sister said as she slipped the Xyloband into her wrist.

“I know…” Your voice trailed off when you heard the people singing along to the song playing not too far away. You turned to the staff,  “Excuse me, is the concert starting already?”

“No, Ma’am. We’re just playing the band’s music videos before they perform on stage. But they will be performing in a few minutes.”

You nodded with that. It didn’t take long for you to get into your seats. The seats are not that close or far from the main stage, and it’s in the center. For safety purposes, your father and the security team agreed not to put you two in the floor area where you can see the band better and closer. Nonetheless, you knew Astrid would love any seat she would get in this place.

Since you heard from Astrid that the tickets were sold out as soon as it’s started selling, you assumed your father pulled some strings to make this possible. It made you wonder even more what’s good in Sweet September. Other than Astrid's introduction earlier, you made an effort to read a couple of articles about them, and you later learned that tonight is the start of their world tour. You learned that they have a huge following in your country, and fans petitioned for them to visit Zafiro, which resulted in tonight.

“Oh, look at that! Look at those signs!”

Your sister was laughing while she pointed her finger all over the crowded arena. The joy on her face was enough for you to smile. But still, your eyes followed where she was pointing. Each sign has big, bold, easily noticeable letters and words. They were aggressive and funny, with one of them asking to put oil on the lead vocalist’s body. 

What was that supposed to mean? 

You wanted to ask Astrid, but she was already talking to another fan who was sitting beside her. The fan seemed surprised and delighted at the same time when she locked eyes with you for a second. You just smiled. As a highly-regarded crown princess, you know that they least expect you to show up at a rock concert next to them. You then turned to your other side, where you immediately locked eyes with a lady who seemed a bit older than you. She instantly looked away and slowly looked back after a few seconds, thinking that you were not looking at her anymore. But you are. And you can tell who she is by her awkward aura and stiff movements.

As part of showing respect to a royal, a commoner cannot talk to you unless you speak to them first. So you decided to say something in a mumble, “Did the King hire you?”

You don’t want your sister to hear it. You want her to focus on the fact that she is free from your parents’ overprotectiveness tonight. You can read the hesitation on the woman’s face, but you can already tell that she is a secret security agent Eddie hired.

“It’s fine. I understand,” you gave her a reassuring smile. “Please, enjoy the concert too.”

The woman nods and bows subtly. Turning away, you see, Astrid had already made new friends. They were taking pictures and talking about their excitement for tonight until one of the girls told her,

“It’s a surprise to see you in here, Your Royal Highness.”

“Please, just call me Astrid, or you can add that princess title if you’re uncomfortable with calling me by name,” she quipped, and they laughed. “Actually, the King only let me come here when Princess YN agreed to accompany me.”

Her friends’ mouths all formed into a small o. You waved at them, and they bowed their heads. Suddenly, the lights slowly dimmed down, and everyone began screaming– including Astrid. To say that your sister is excited was an understatement. It’s like she slept with a hanger in her mouth with how wide she’s smiling. Your cheeks hurt for her. But you’re happy to see her happy.

Taps on the microphone can be heard before someone clears their throat, building up everyone’s excitement. You stood there, just listening to them and observing.

“Everyone, welcome to the denim jungle!”

Someone began playing a good riff on a bass guitar. The band’s silhouette is recognizable on stage over the thick, white smoke. In the first beat of the drum, the lights snapped open. There, your eyes spotted the lead vocalist. His hair is damp for some reason, yet it goes perfectly with his mostly dark outfit.

“Zafiro, let me hear you scream!” he growled into the microphone.

A fucking growl. A growl that basically popped everyone’s balloon, releasing a thousand screams and cheers from everyone in the Crystalline Stadium. Everything is so loud. You’re finding it hard to breathe. You can’t breathe, but you are enjoying it. It’s confusing. The screams. The instruments are playing. Your heartbeats thumping. 

“I swear, if you see him perform tonight, you’ll get me.” You clutched your chest as you heard Astrid’s statement from earlier in your head. “You might even fall in love tonight.”

Oh, no.

additional note: i understand if some of y'all want to be removed from the taglist, it has been so long! feel free to reach out if u want to be removed <3

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[kingkaisen]

Prompt idea: Royal knight Kento or Suguru that falls for the princess they’re protecting

VULCANIA — Kento N.

♛ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: the king has given kento nanami one very important task and no say in the matter: protect you, the beloved princess, with his life. however, the knight can’t help but wonder . . . if you ever found yourself in danger, could he protect you? Would he protect you?

♛ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: spicy kissing scene but overall sfw, feral nanami, angst, fluff, major violence, mentions of war, minor character deaths, slight enemies to lovers, brief mention of arranged marriages, geto, gojo, & sukuna make an appearance. this takes place in a mythical world! oh, and animals adore you.

♛ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 10k (sorry, I was having a blast)

♛ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: dividers by @uzmacchiato!

Kento Nanami wanted to hate you.

Truly, he did. He tried.

After all, his bloodline’s only purpose was to shed blood; to die in service of whomever sat on the throne, as well as their spoiled spouse and privileged offspring. 

An unstable, overemotional king would often start a war over a bruised ego and an insatiable thirst for power. And every time — every single time — a king declared war on another nation, be it near or far, members of Kento’s family would die a pointless death on a battlefield.

More land and subjects for the king. Another funeral to attend for Kento.

The Nanamis were widely known as one of the most loyal families within the kingdom of Umarith, born and bred to serve the royals through knighthood.

Therefore, he was prepared for the day he kneeled before the king and received the title of a knight, as he had practically learned how to hold a tiny wooden sword and swing it before he learned his ABCs.

However, what he wasn’t prepared for, was to be less of a new knight — an honorable warrior who maintained order within the villages while protecting the weak until called into battle — and more of a personal bodyguard, one who would be responsible for protecting you, the princess.

“Your Majesty,” Kento Nanami glanced up from the polished ground he kneeled on, locking eyes with the king himself. “With all due respect, protecting the princess sounds like a task that should belong to a knight of a higher ranking than myself. I’m just a newbie.”

“You officially became a knight only a month ago, yes, however, your ancestors served the throne as knights! Your descendants will too! I cannot think of a knight more worthy of protecting my beloved daughter than a Nanami.” The erratic king paused, stepped away from the kneeling warrior, and headed for his gold-lined throne. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat down. “Your father was the first knight to throw himself in front of me when an enemy drew his sword during the Cursed War. I trust that, should the princess ever find herself in danger, you will do the same for her. That is how you were raised! Raised!”

Kento lowered his head. If it wouldn’t send him straight to the dungeons, he would have slammed his gauntlet-covered fist against the king’s jaw.

His father’s death was pointless. Unnecessary. He took a sword to the heart to protect a man who wanted wealth. And here Kento was, kneeling to said man. Kneeling to the man who expected him to do the same thing. Expected. It was expected.

But if the palace was overrun by murderous thieves, or the kingdom found itself in war yet again, or a massive fire-breathing dragon released scorching flames throughout the palace, would Kento save you?

The daughter of the man who was responsible for his father’s demise?

And his uncle’s?

And his suffering mother’s misery?

He didn’t know if he could truly be so selfless. 

Even with a cloud of angered confusion hanging above his head and the burden of being responsible for a royal’s life resting upon his shoulders, he simply stared down at the marble floor, parted his lips, and mumbled, “understood, Your Majesty. I will protect her with my life.”

— ♛ —

The stranger he promised to protect with his life was waiting for him at the other end of the palace.

What an exhausting walk. Kento grew to despise you more and more with every step he took. The servants that lingered behind him had undoubtedly climbed the never-ending grand staircases multiple times a day, but even their faces had grown red, their chests heaving as they waited on you hand and foot.

The endless torment that was knight training — was this all it would amount to? Had he unknowingly been preparing to just climb stairs, nothing more? At least he wasn’t sweating or breathless like the servants who darted back and forth around the castle.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He was sweating a bit. He could feel the warm droplets accumulating on his forehead, making his loose blonde strands stick to his skin, but it wasn’t from exhaustion.

He was nervous.

When Kento was four and the royals celebrated your birth — which would become an official holiday honored with festivities and balls — it began then. The kingdom-wide worship.

His own mother would tuck him into the straw-filled bed he shared with his siblings.

“Goodnight, my loves,” she’d whisper, kissing their foreheads. “May the Vulcania Princess bring us warmth and bless us all.”

While your father ruled Umarith officially, it was you who mattered most. The Vulcania Princess. The precious gem of the kingdom. Everyone, from the privileged to the peasants, praised your nickname during their prayers before mealtime or before their slumber.

Those with the right amount of gold and the right amount of time traveled for days to fall to their knees before you, begging for you to bless their children or their crops. 

As Kento aged, the curriculum surrounding his education primarily focused on knighthood and the royals. He sat criss-crossed on the floor of his raggedy one-room school that smelt of old wood, and listened to his elderly teacher ramble on, on, and on about you, you, you, her eyes glistening with admiration behind her round glasses. 

The people of Umarith originally attached the name Vulcania to your princess title following your birth, as during that cherished year, the brutalizing cold seasons came to an end, and the warm seasons were the hottest they had ever been in centuries. Sleeping volcanoes were once again active. Creatures of all kinds who sought warmth — even those thought to be extinct due to the prolonged cold weather — would sneak their way into your palace. Flowers bloomed. The hungry were able to grow food once again. The sun shone brighter than ever. 

Before your mother, the queen, passed away, she claimed that your skin was always warm to the touch, as if your soul was aflame. 

Therefore, the people wanted to give you a title that represented a connection to fire, warmth, and passion. 

Kento tried to recall any and all facts he was forcibly taught about you as he approached the double doors of your bedchamber. He had only come to know your appearance through the statues and famous paintings spread throughout the villages, but never before had he sat his eyes on you.

Well, that was all about to change.

Kento raised his fist. As his knuckles tapped three times against the door, he thought about The Statue of the Vulcania Princess — an enormous, intimidating sculpture in the center of his village that touched the sky. 

All at once, as Kento thought about the endless worship be it from humans or animals that followed you everywhere — and as a red-haired servant opened the door and let him inside — it hit Kento that he wasn’t protecting a mere princess.

He was protecting a goddess.

Shit.

The Goddess of Fire was sitting on a lavish sofa in front of a fireplace, that much he could tell from where he stood. It was rather difficult to make out your mysterious features, your extensive bedroom was dark aside from the flickering flames illuminating your face just a bit, and you hadn’t yet turned your head to look at whomever was entering your bedchamber, but even so, Kento ignored the thumping of his heart, cleared his throat, and bowed.

“Your Royal Highness, I-”

“Stop bowing.” 

Kento raised his head slowly. He was careful not to let his face reflect his confusion, offering a blank expression instead.

“We are going to be spending plenty of time together whether we like it or not, so we can do without the formalities. It tends to get annoying.” You paused, as if waiting for him to speak, but it was as if Kento’s mind decided to forgo any prior knowledge of how to formulate words. 

He turned his head to face one of the servants standing against the wall, as if seeking confirmation from the quiet, redheaded young girl that you had, in fact, told him to stop bowing.

“You are my personal knight, yes?” 

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“You’re not very good at following directions, are you?”

“Forgive me. This is the first time I’ve ever been told to act informal with a royal.”

You sighed, leaning back on your sofa, which put more distance between yourself and the flames of your fireplace — It was quite identical to how your father would sigh and lean back in his throne. As if doing nothing and being a pampered royal was oh so hard. Like father, like daughter — and your new position rid Kento of the small details of your features he could see. Now, you were nothing more than a dark figure. 

Just why was your bedroom so dark?

“Come here.”

Metal clanked against metal, filling the silence, as Kento made his way around your sofa and in front of your line of sight, blocking part of your fireplace. The flames that were able to dance around him illuminated him well, and your eyes darted across every feature of the knight standing before you.

“Blonde hair, brown eyes, well-built . . . you’re a Nanami, aren’t you?”

Kento met your question with silence. 

Truth be told, he hadn’t heard your question, because from this short distance, he finally got a somewhat decent look at your face; your mesmerizing, undeniably gorgeous face. 

It all made sense now, why the Vulcania Princess was the one everyone, rich and poor, fell to their knees and prayed to during both their darkest hours and happier times. Why the Vulcania Princess was the one who could end devastating, catastrophic world wars with a couple of mere words. Why the Vulcania Princess had princes and kings from kingdoms near and far eager to start said devastating, catastrophic world wars to wipe out their enemies just for the mere chance of dancing with you at a ball. 

Never before had he seen someone so devastatingly beautiful.

The paintings and statues he had seen of you throughout his entire life failed to capture the glistening stars within your bright eyes, or the smooth, though plump appearance of your skin. Your soft, tempting lips were as enchanting as a love spell all on their own.

“Tell me the truth. Do you hate me?”

Your soft voice snapped Kento out of his daze-like state. His eyes widened for a moment before he regained his composure.

“No. I don’t hate you.”

“You do. I can see it in your eyes. I’d love to know why.” You tilted your head a bit. “Were you hoping for a different career path within knighthood? One more exciting than being a guard dog to a princess? Did you want to be on the front lines during a war, perhaps?”

Kento gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching a bit. Despite the way his body showcased his true feelings, his words tried to convey the opposite. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong first impression, but I-”

“What’s your name? Your first name?”

“Kento.” 

“Kento.” You gave him a gentle smile. It ignited a new flame of infuriation within him. “Be honest with me, Kento. No formalities, no lies. Why do you hate me? Tell me the truth.”

Kento frowned with uncertainty. Answering your question honestly went against every bit of his training, every lesson forced into his body and mind, but could he truly pass up the chance to say his peace? Could he?

“How do I know the truth won’t get me hung?” He asked.

“Rest assured knowing my father chose decapitation as a form of execution.” Your words were met with silence. This, in turn, led you to speak again. “See? You didn’t laugh at my awful joke. People who admire me would have faked a little chuckle, at the very least. So, why do you hate me?”

Kento shifted his feet. “Why do you want to know so badly?”

“I think my curiosity is only natural. I’m sure if someone hated you, you would like to know why.”

“Not if it was a complete stranger.”

“What if it were a stranger who was responsible for your safety? A stranger who was supposed to die for you without hesitation?” You crossed one leg over the other, the silk gown covering your body shifting slightly. “Do you see why I’m desperate to know?”

“That’s why.”

“Hm?”

“That’s why I . . . dislike you. I’m supposed to die for you. Becoming a knight is the fate of all Nanami whether we like it or not. My father was a knight. His father was a knight. My cousins are knights. I am a knight. If I have a son, he’ll become a knight, and he’ll have to watch as I kill and die protecting you royals, because it’s the only way to put food on the table. My father died protecting yours, and I’m sure I’ll die protecting you. I could refuse. I could pick a different career path, but then my mother and my siblings would starve, all because I’d be a disgrace, blacklisted out of every other potential career. Nanamis are expected to become knights, or to rot and die.” Kento glanced down at his heavy hand, covered with armor. “And the pay is quite low.”

“I see.” 

When Kento glanced up at you yet again, he could see the gears in your head turning, your mind taking in every word. But, even so, all you managed to say were those two, simple, meaningless words.

That was the first and last time you and Kento spoke to one another that day.

— ♛ —

TWO WEEKS LATER

One would think that protecting a dear princess who often did nothing more than sit by a fireplace would be an easy task.

One would think.

Over fourteen days in counting had passed since this aggravating honor was bestowed upon him, and one thing he learned was that your presence was indeed enchanting, and all living creatures wanted to enjoy your warmth. More often than not, the knight was pushing starstruck — or, rather, godstruck — subjects away from you that managed to break free from knight-patrolled crowds whenever you left your palace. 

Animals, however, were okay. 

And he learned that the hard way.

“A heads up next time would be nice,” Kento once said, rather breathless, releasing the handle of his sword and letting it fall back into its scabbard. His heart rate hadn’t yet returned to normal.

There you were, sitting on the floor of your private library, stroking the mane of an enormous lion that rested its head in your lap.

As massive as it was, as dangerous as it was, the lion rubbed its head against your gown as if it were pouting. Both it, and you, rolled your eyes at Kento.

“Surely you were told that animals sometimes inhabit the palace to seek out my warmth.”

“I was, but . . .” he paused, blinking in bewilderment. “A lion?”

Your lips pointed downward into a small pout as you stroked the creature, as if to comfort it and say: “It’s okay, I’ll protect you from the big bad knight, it’s okay.”

“This isn’t just any lion. This is my lion. He wandered far from his home when he was only a cub. The poor thing was cold and was hiding in my garden. I found him, raised him, and he comes and goes whenever he pleases. You should apologize to him.”

“Apologize? To a lion?”

“Yes,” your frown deepened, and your eyes found Kento’s. “Can’t you see you hurt his feelings? You pulled your sword out on him.”

“I was trying to do my job and protect you. I didn’t know it-” 

“He.”

Kento released a heavy sigh. Just what sort of nonsense had he gotten himself into? “I didn’t know he was a pet. Are there any other animals I should be aware of? I should consider making a list.”

You scoffed, knowing quite well he was hinting at the sudden appearance of bunnies sitting on his chest when he awakened one morning, just last week.

Three days ago, butterflies were swirling around your head. Four? Three birds — two small, one big — fluttered around you, landing on your hands and shoulders as they pleased.

“May I ask what a lion is doing in the library specifically?” Kento questioned.

Folding your arms across your chest, staring at him as if the answer was rather obvious, you said, “I was reading to him, clearly. Animals enjoy tales just as much as humans and faes.”

Just then, Kento’s eyes flickered over to the open book resting on the floor beside your thigh. He shook his head in disbelief. 

“Right, of course, well,” he awkwardly scratched the side of his head, fingers messing up his blonde strands. “I’m sorry to you, and to the lion.”

Your hand raised; you were motioning him over.

He was hesitant, but Kento kneeled. He couldn’t help but widen his eyes in surprise when you removed one of his armored gloves and grabbed ahold of his hand with your own.

His cheeks burned. Your eyes; they darted up briefly at his reddening cheeks, but you didn’t make a verbal comment. He was rather grateful.

His apparent blushing wasn’t due to the sudden skin-to-skin contact — at least, that’s what he convinced himself — but rather, he viewed you as fragile. Soft. Like the glass of a valuable mirror. And his hands? Well, swinging swords and perfecting the art of combat during years of knight training had left him with scars and calloused fingertips. He viewed himself as rough. Hard. Like sandpaper scratching against uneven metal. 

Your soft hand warmed his rough one as you guided it towards the lion’s mane. Gently, you rested his hand against its thick hair and released it, and Kento found himself missing your warmth.

How odd.

“Apologize properly,” you demanded. You nodded your head down to his hand. Spending all of his time with you had gifted him with the ability to understand your every intention, and with a sigh, Kento stroked the lion’s mane.

“I’m sorry.”

“Reo.”

He looked at you. There was no hint of amusement in your eyes. You were quite serious.

He returned his gaze to the big, pouting lion, and said, “I’m sorry, Reo.”

And with that, Kento left the library — only to stand outside the doors as a guard, of course. As he shut the heavy library doors behind him, he heard you mumble to the lion, “Try to forgive him, Reo. He means well.”

The creature groaned in response.

Kento ran his bare hand across his face. “Did that really just happen?” He thought.

But, a more pressing thought — one more shocking than apologizing to and petting a lion — presented itself within his mind like an intruder. 

“I miss her warmth already.”

— ♛ —

TWO MONTHS LATER

“Greetings to all! Welcome to the Vulcania Princess’s Birthday Ball!” 

Esteemed guests dressed in stunning ballgowns and extravagant tuxedos let their applause fill the enormous ballroom. Oh, was it enormous, with golden and white accents decorating the walls and pillars, and marvelous chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. On the other side of the ballroom, there was an entire orchestra performing on a balcony, only stopping their classical music to hear the king speak.

The king stood beside your throne as he prattled on with greetings and thanks. Kento himself was like a guard dog, standing a little ways behind your throne, eyeing the crowd.

He toned out most of the king’s speech. Most of his guests did as well, but their eyes glowed with admiration — not for him, but for you. After all, it was you, and this evening, you were wearing a puffy, lilac ballgown adorned with flowers, and a bright tiara sat perfectly on your head — every strand of your hair was styled to your liking.

At some point, the king finally stopped talking, and guests continued to mingle and dance. Kento stood back and watched as three well-dressed men approached your throne. Their attire was more sophisticated than that of a standard — albeit wealthy in name or fortune — guest, and Kento gathered that they were princes from other kingdoms.

“Kneel before my daughter!” The king shouted.

It wasn’t customary for princes to kneel to someone of an equal rank, but the three men took a knee in front of your throne with no hesitation.

The king, now satisfied, looked down at you.

“I’ll leave you to it, my dear,” he said before walking off, eager to partake in the refreshments.

“Your Royal Highness,” a man with long, black hair began to speak. “I am Prince Suguru of Ravane, your closest partner in trade. We met briefly during the Fae’s Flower Festival last year. Please, allow me the honor of gifting you three necklaces made with the rarest and finest gemstones that can only be harvested by faes alone, all in exchange for your first dance this evening.”

“Pardon the interruption Your Royal Highness, but,” the man beside him, one with white hair and a boyish grin, suddenly interrupted. “As someone wise enough not to gift you something you own a thousand of, I think I should be the one to have your first dance. And you’re probably wondering why, right? Well . . .”

The man rose to his feet, wrapping his fingers around the handle on top of a tiny crate he had sat beside him. He started to approach the throne. As his feet moved, so did Kento’s. Though he was careful not to interrupt, he was close enough to your throne to make his presence known; a silent warning to the white-haired man: don’t try anything foolish.

The man opened the tiny crate. Suddenly, a small, red creature unsteadily flew out of the open door.

You held out your hands, and it landed there, as if it knew — it knew — that was where it belonged.

“A baby dragon! Oh my goodness,” you grinned down at the animal.

“Prince Satoru of Soulan, my love,” the man winked.

“Home of the dragons. Of course.” The incredibly tiny dragon spun around in two circles before settling down, resting its head on your palm. “And what kind have you gifted to me?”

“Well, in my kingdom, rumor has it that you spend most of your free time sitting in front of your fireplace. I figured there must be some truth to it, considering you’re called the Vulcania Princess and the Goddess of Fire for a reason. Because of that, I think it’s only right for you to own a Flame Dragon. Whaddya think?”

“Damn, giving her the most common type of dragon in your kingdom, huh? Sounds to me like you don’t think she’s worth the effort.”

The interjection came from the third prince, a buff man with pink hair and an unfriendly gaze.

Satoru turned to face him, stepping away from your throne. “Oh my god, get lost, Sukuna. Didn’t your kingdom try to burn hers to the ground, what, two or three years ago? Why are you here to begin with?”

“Something about makin’ peace with your enemies,” the buff prince smirked.

“You’re both being awfully informal in front of the princess. Watch your mouths,” Suguru, now joining in, rose to his feet.

Satoru rolled his blue eyes, mumbling, “I heard that your little kingdom is surviving off of tomatoes or something. Is that why you . . .”

The three bickering princes continued on and on, but you paid them no mind, too preoccupied with the tiny creature in your hands.

Kento leaned down a little ways across your throne.

“Perhaps I should hold on to the dragon for you. It could be dangerous,” he said.

“No way! He’s already bonding with me. Look!” The dragon alternated between crawling on its four legs and fluttering its way up your arm with its tiny, dark red wings. “What should I name him? What should I feed him? I know nothing of raising a dragon. Do you?”

“Afraid not.” He watched the dragon make a bed out of your shoulder, resting against the crook of your neck. “They only taught us how to slay one.”

That statement made you glare up at Kento.

“I won’t hurt him, I promise,” he said defensively, yet gently. “Once he grows, I might be out of a job. He and that lion of yours could protect you better than I ever could.” 

“I have a feeling you could protect me very well, you just refuse to do so.”

Your words caught him by surprise. His disdain for his career was no foreign topic between the two of you, but even so, he hadn’t expected you to bring it up. Not right now. Not like this.

Especially considering that, well, he instinctively found himself doing just that in one way or another. Protecting you.

“I-”

“I understand, Kento. I don’t like the idea of anyone dying for me just as much as you don’t like the idea of dying for someone.” You paused, looking away from him and back at the three, arguing princes. “Let's go for a stroll. I have a feeling these men are about to start fighting one another. I’m not looking forward to picking one to dance with.”

— ♛ —

There was only one place you deemed perfect enough for a stroll: the vast gardens surrounding the palace. Hedge mazes, luscious trees, and colorful, blossoming flowers of all kinds were illuminated by the bright moonlight. Together, you and Kento walked in a comfortable silence.

A little while after passing one of the greenhouses, Kento spoke.

“When I was younger, learning about you royals was just as important as learning how to read or put on armor. I remember what they taught us about you.” “Oh?” You mumbled, though you didn’t give him a look of surprise. “What kind of things did they teach you? Can you recall any of it?”

“Well, for starters, they told us how much you adored spending time in the garden, especially during the warmer months.”

“I don’t see how that knowledge benefits any of you.”

“It doesn’t, but now, I enjoy figuring out what might have been true or false. Clearly, that part was true.” 

A soft smile as gentle as the moonlight appeared on your face.

“What else is there to know about you?” Kento asked. 

Internally, his curiosity puzzled him. Just why did he care? 

He couldn’t explain it, but his heart and soul felt like it was caught in a game of tug-of-war, and the rope was a very thin line between love and hate. Love.

No.

No . . . that couldn’t have been it.

Not for the woman who sat by her fireplace all day. Not for the woman who never had to work a day in her life. Not for the woman whose biggest obstacle in life was deciding which ballgown to wear or which animal to cuddle with.

Not for the woman who was the daughter of the asshole of a king who got his father killed.

Kento tried to grimace at the thought, but that thought brought him no trouble. 

Oh, how he wished it did.

A small, baby fox with large ears dashed out of the shrubbery surrounding the walking path, darting across his foot. 

“Hmm, well,” you paused in thought, paying no mind to the sandy-colored creature that decided to follow you, hopping along with every step you took. The sudden sound of your soft voice snapped Kento out of his pleasant — though he wished they were unpleasant — thoughts. “My tiara makes my head itch. I’ve been told that my taste in music is . . . unique. I secretly add extra spices to my food when the chef isn’t looking. I’m a very sensitive person, believe it or not. It took everything in me not to cry after finding out you, a complete stranger at the time, hated me. Lastly, I have saved and nurtured twenty-seven creatures, and that only includes the ones I claim as pets, not ones I’ve simply befriended on a journey.”

“Were any of them as humongous as that dragon will turn out to be?” Kento asked, pointing to the dragon fast asleep on your shoulder. 

“Can’t say. I’m struggling to wrap my mind around the fact that this tiny creature will grow into a gigantic, fire-breathing being. I’m excited.” You halted your footsteps. The small fox trailing you took the opportunity to climb up the back of your dress, claws digging into the puffy, lilac fabric that adorned your body until it sprawled across your other, free shoulder, but you didn’t seem to mind. It was a tad bit bigger than the dragon, and Kento figured that having two small animals resting on your shoulders couldn’t have been comfortable, but you simply smiled, and greeted the baby fox with, “Hello, sweetheart,” before turning your attention back to Kento. “Anyway, I’m sure my father will oppose the idea of me keeping a dragon. He thinks I’ll be responsible for my own demise.”

“We have our differences, but I might have to agree with the king on that one.”

“Be that as it may, I refuse to let him take little Blaze away from me.”

“Blaze?” Kento raised his eyebrows, stifling the urge to laugh. “I wanted something related to fire in any sort of way. Is it too uncreative? Silly? Should I keep brainstorming? I want to name him something he’ll like.” You gazed off at the stars above, biting your lip, puzzled.

After a moment, you glanced back at Kento, and a small pout grazed your moonlit face. “What? You’re being very unhelpful.”

“Blaze is a perfect-”

“You’re trying to flatter my dear dragon so he won’t set you ablaze when he’s older.” You smiled gently. Kento blinked. You then sighed and continued to stroll through the garden. “We talked about this, Kento. You’re supposed to laugh at my terrible jokes to boost my self-esteem.” 

“What?” Kento cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m pretending that I couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh,” you shook your head. “Just you wait until I teach Blaze how to . . . bite your ankles.”

A genuine, heartfelt laugh escaped Kento. God, how long has it been since he managed to do something like that? It wasn’t anything drastic, nothing more than a somewhat small chuckle, but it occurred to him that, perhaps, he couldn’t remember the last time he was blessed with the chance to truly laugh.

His laugh made your smile brighten — not a gentle, polite smile that he had gotten used to seeing, but a real, full grin that made Kento wonder why the world’s most gifted artists never painted you with such a facial expression.

It was breathtaking.

The stroll resumed for another six minutes. During that time, you and Kento discussed everything from his mother’s favorite meals to make to the new hit play that premiered last week. However, the closer you both ventured towards the entrance to the ballroom, the more your precious smile started to fade.

Kento glanced down at your hands, which fiddled with the necklace around your neck.  

“What troubles you?” He asked.

“You’re wise, so I’m sure you’ve already put the pieces together, you’re great at that I’ve noticed, but . . . this evening, I am not just picking a dance partner, but someone to marry.” You spoke softly. Kento could tell from your tone that this was a bothersome topic for you. “I get to choose, but my choices are limited to those three men. I know how it feels to be born into a role you didn’t ask for. I understand what you’re going through, Kento.”

The knight stopped walking.

As soon as that last sentence slipped from between your glossy lips, Kento’s heart and soul once again felt like it was playing a game of tug-of-war. Love and Hate. And right now, as a wave of anger washed over him, the latter was winning.

“With all due respect,” Kento released a shaky breath. He wouldn’t lose his composure so easily, but he had to speak his mind. He had to. “You don’t know what it’s like. You live a pampered life. Your hands are free from scratches or burns or anything that signifies hard work, and you have never known hunger and loss like I have — hunger and loss that is a direct result of the actions you royals take. I’m sorry you have to pick between three rich, attractive princes who are ready to go to war for you and you find yourself incapable of doing anything more difficult than sitting on a sofa all day, but that in no way compares to . . .” 

He felt his composure slip. His tone was getting dark. Voice was getting harsh. Taking a deep breath, avoiding your gaze all the while, Kento parted his lips, preparing to let an apology slip from between them, then suddenly, you said, “You should take a break. Stay out here a little longer to get some fresh air by yourself. I’ll be fine.” You gave him a sad smile. Pulling the dragon, Blaze, off your shoulder, you held the sleepy creature against your chest, as if seeking its comfort. Though you tried to hide it, your smile couldn’t disguise the glistening hurt within your eyes. You were sensitive. That’s right.

“I should head back inside,” you mumbled. “Everyone will be looking for me.”

“Your Royal Highness, please forgive me. I’m sorry. Not having a say in who you want to spend the rest of your life with is terrible. I don’t know why I . . . please forgive me.” Kento called out, his words sincere, face twisted in anguish, but you continued walking. 

Then suddenly, you paused. He thought that, perhaps, you were reconsidering parting ways with him, that you were going to smile and tell him to drop the formalities, but your momentary falter was just to let the small fox descend your body before you reentered the palace.

The tiny creature ran across the gardens, and you were gone.

— ♛ —

Kento sat on an outdoor bench made of stone. The garden that stretched before him represented you in every way. After all, it was you who brought the very warmth that made the variety of flowers in this garden bloom. Your existence, the flame within you, brought an end to a Cold World; saved the shivering animals and children on the brink of death, blossomed plants that fed the poor and starved, and ended the days of endless freezing. 

Kento was only four when you were born, but, as he sat on the soft cream-colored bench that you undoubtedly picked out yourself, he thought about the faint memory of that day. The day of your birth.

The terrifying blankets of snow and ice melted. Animals thought to be dead and extinct were running, jumping, and hopping about. Fleeting citizens from the western villages crowded the cobblestone streets as a sleeping volcano suddenly awakened. Flowers and plants sprawled spontaneously — his mother, who was pale and shivering as she held on to her children moments before, stepped outside and plucked a fresh grape off a grapevine that had appeared outside of their raggedy cottage.

Suddenly, the rope involved in the game of tug-of-war between his heart and soul had snapped, and it hit him all at once.

Your father was responsible for his father’s death, yes, but you . . . you saved him. You saved his mother.

A bittersweet smile graced Kento’s face. His stomach churned; was it butterflies? Knots? He didn’t know. Perhaps, he’d never come to understand the feelings you evoked within him.

But he knew one thing for certain.

The idea of your beautiful face frowning as tears threatened to fall from your eyes — on your birthday, nevertheless — from the words he spoke made his heart ache.

Kento rose from the bench. Just as he took a step towards the entrance of the ballroom, a sudden force of energy made the ballroom windows shatter. Heat and light filled the sky. The world itself shook as an ear-shattering boom blasted from one side of the palace. 

The knight found himself falling to his knees, as the impact was strong enough to send a shockwave through the garden. His wide eyes witnessed the enormous puff of flames, and part of the palace started to cave in.

Rubble filled the ballroom.

“No. God, no.”

Kento’s legs were numb, but they carried him out of the garden — where frightened animals screeched and ran — and he forced his way inside the ballroom through a broken window. Dark smoke, dust, flames, and never-ending screams of terror filled the air. He coughed, his brown eyes burned which created tears that slipped down his ash-covered face, but he hoisted himself over fallen rubble until he made it to where your throne used to be. 

Now, it was nothing but . . . it was nothing.

His eyes couldn’t make out the mess of debris and flame. The smoke made it difficult to distinguish bodies from stone, but he knew well that before him was that familiar gigantic beast, clawing at the rubble, whimpering. Your beloved lion was searching for you, digging for you. The sight of it gave Kento the devastating confirmation he needed that you were there.

Underneath smoldering embers, a destroyed throne, and pieces of a collapsed ceiling, Kento saw the scraps of a torn lilac ballgown. He ran for it.

Armored hands pulled and pushed away at fallen wreckage so heavy, Kento gritted his teeth due to the pure strain on his body. But, damn it all, he used every bit of his solid muscle to lift, pull, and push, until he saw a bruised, ash-covered leg and heard a weak cry.

Then, all of the debris felt weightless. 

“I’m right here,” Kento called out, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. “I’m coming, just hold on.”

Slowly, your injured, trembling body revealed itself to Kento after he shoved shattered pieces of one of the massive chandeliers. You were face down. As if you were made of glass, fragile, he carefully flipped you over, only to see a scared, but otherwise okay, tiny dragon cradled in your arms.

Your position, and thus, your wounds, told him that you must have shielded it. 

He gritted his teeth. Seeing you like this . . . it was unbearable. Who could have done this?

Kento pulled you into his arms, holding on tightly to your smaller frame.

You whimpered. Blood spewed from your lips, decorating your chin, and Kento pulled you close.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here-”

The ballroom shook again. There was another deafening boom, followed by a wave of piercing screams. Another explosion within the palace. Kento could hear the crackling walls and ceilings, and he knew what that meant.

He folded your body underneath his. Reo, your lion, too placed his body over yours. Kento shielded you with his bigger, armor-covered frame, and more rubble started to collapse. Feeling it fall against his protected backside — god, did it hurt. It hurt like hell. But it wasn’t enough to kill or bury him, so he hooked his arm underneath your knees, his other arm cradling your upper half, and he rose to his feet.

“Stay with me,” he glanced down at you as best as he could through his blurred vision. “I promise I’ll protect you. Just stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open. Suddenly, they widened, and you began to turn your head frantically every which way as Kento carried you. He parted his lips to tell you to lie still, assuming that you were falling into a state of panic, but before he could utter a single word, you started to squirm around. You wriggled yourself out of his grasp.

You landed on your feet and started running — or rather, limping — in the opposite direction, breathing erratically with every twist and turn of your head.

“Where are you going? We need to leave, now!” Kento shouted.

In your condition, you couldn’t make it far. All he had to do was reach forward, wrap his arm around your waist, and pull you backwards until your back hit his chest.

“Blaze,” you cried. “ . . . Must’ve dropped him! I can’t . . . can’t find him! And there are people still in here, a-and my animals . . . Reo . . . just let me go!”

He tried to ignore your cries. Saving you was his only priority. It had to be. But, as he went to lift you yet again, another explosion, further away this time, sent a violent vibration throughout the ballroom, and he lost a bit of his balance.

That was enough for you to wiggle free. 

Kento shouted your name, but you paid him no mind. The fires scattered throughout the ballroom wouldn’t hurt you, but the collapsing rubble? It could.

You ran across rubble and shoved your way through panicked, running guests, but alas, through the smoke and ash clouding the air, you made out the tiny red creature amidst the debris, fluttering and shrieking. Your dear, frightened baby dragon was searching for you, calling for your help.

You extended your arms, reaching for him. 

That was when you heard it; it, being an unfamiliar voice, one that shouted, “There’s the princess, fucking take her already, dead or alive!”

Someone was charging at you. The nearby burning fires gave you enough light to make out a masked figure, dressed in black, who clenched a knife between his fists, so ready and eager to drive it into the side of your stomach.

Just as the knife nearly grazed your corset, a sword suddenly pierced through the attacker’s stomach, blood and sharp silver steel poking out of him as the light left his murderous eyes.

The sword was then yanked out of him. 

Kento watched the man he murdered fall to the rubble-covered ground with a thump, then his eyes were on you, quickly scanning your body for any new injuries.

But there was no time for you to thank him. No time for him to grab you and run. 

More masked men with knives and swords drawn started to charge at you both.

“Run,” Kento commanded. 

But it amounted to nothing. The masked men circled you both. There was no escape.

Kento turned slowly, counting them. There were five. Five men he would have to kill.

He sighed, deflecting an oncoming attack with ease, driving his own sword into the guts of yet another man. Though he was actively taking someone’s life, his eyes were on you, watching as two men charged at you without weapons: clearly, their preference was to take you alive.

“Shit,” Kento thought, pulling his sword out of the man. 

Your tiny dragon rapidly flapped its wings, fluttering high enough to latch its small mouth to the ankle of one of your attackers. The victim of the little attack winced, reaching down to his ankle in an attempt to pull him off, but you tried to reach for your baby dragon first.

The other masked man took that opportunity to grab a fistful of your hair. He yanked you. Hard. Your head was already bruised and battered from the initial explosion, and this forced a pained cry out of you. 

Kento heard it. He was in the process of stabbing two other masked men when he heard it. 

He clenched his jaw. He gripped the handle of his sword with such force, he could hear his own knuckles crack.

When the masked man who held you by your hair felt the presence of someone behind him, he turned around. His eyes widened at the sight of that massive knight looming over him, one who was already quite big to begin with, but seemed twice as big now. More like a beast than a human. 

“Get your hands off of her,” Kento warned. 

The man was going to reach for his knife, hold it against your neck, and prattle on with some ultimatum, but Kento didn’t give the man a chance to even gasp at the sight of him before he strategically placed his hands around his head and snapped his neck with an unpleasant crack.

As for the final masked man, between dealing with a pesky little dragon who was biting at him and spitting tiny little bouts of flame at his flesh and that pissed-off giant of a knight making his way towards him, he shouted, “Damn it, to hell with all this!” and tried to run away.

He made it four steps before Kento threw his blood-covered sword like a javelin, and it was launched through the masked man’s chest. 

“Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” Kento leaned down. He gazed at you with the softest, worry-filled brown eyes. His thumb grazed your cheek with an utterly surprising gentleness, considering how brutally he had just murdered several men moments before.

You shrugged. “I’m . . . alive. Thank you, Kento.”

He smiled. 

But as the sound of stomping footsteps approached, Kento rose to his feet. This wasn’t over. Whoever was attacking your kingdom, so desperate to capture you, they weren’t planning on giving up just yet.

Kento walked over to the man he had killed last and pulled his sword from his chest as more masked men charged at him, and he found himself in another battle.

You scooped up your dragon and limped towards a broken window, crawling over a mix of fallen debris and corpses. 

“Go,” you mumbled to Blaze, extending your hands to release the small creature. “Return to me when it’s safe, sweetheart.”

Though he was hesitant, the baby dragon groaned with understanding and fluttered away.

You didn’t have the strength of a knight, nor a hard-working subject. But you didn’t let that stop you from grabbing hold of the collar of a random person  — the first living person you could get your hands on. You dragged the whimpering, injured person towards the window, tripping over your ripped lilac ballgown as you gasped and strained, breathless, but you hoisted the person over the window’s ledge and out of the smokey, collapsing, fire and rubble-filled ballroom.

Thank goodness it was on the first floor of the palace.

You fell to your knees. Your breathing was loud. Strained. Every bone in your body ached. New spouts of fresh blood seeped from your wounds, mixing with the ash and dried blood coating your body, but, even though your heart pounded as if it wanted to give out, you rose to your feet. You moved your hands throughout the rubble, and they landed on a torso. One that was rising and falling with shallow breaths. 

One that was small.

“You’ll be alright, my love. Help will come,” you whispered, though your voice was shaking with uncertainty. 

You cautiously put the child out of the window. Then another person. Then another.

You hoisted one woman over your shoulders. She was a tiny thing, but with your exhausted and bruised body, you were certain you’d struggle to carry a small bag of potatoes. But you recognized this woman’s uniform. Though her youthful face was covered with soot, she was one of your servants — the redheaded one who was always in your bedchamber, tending to your needs. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to check whether or not her chest was rising or falling. You only carried her to another broken window, your knees threatening to buckle, and you pushed her out, hearing a little gentle thud as she hit the shrubbery.

“Please let help come. Please let it come,” you whispered.

There was another vibrating explosion in the distance. Orange flames that could be seen from the windows brightened the ballroom. It knocked you off your feet for a moment, but you regained your footing and grabbed the arm of someone on the ground. You strained as you attempted to pull the person free from the fallen pillar they were stuck under, but there was no use. You collapsed in defeat. 

Their visible body was hard to make out, but you ran your hand across their face until you found their nose. No puff of air hit your finger.

With a defeated sigh, you rose to your feet. It was then that you noticed those lifeless, open eyes. And you recognized that shade of blue.

A shocked gasp escaped you. Reaching down, you closed the eyes of Prince Satoru with trembling, bloodied fingers. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I’m sorry.”

The next several minutes were a blur. 

There you were, using the last of your strength to drag the unconscious, heavily injured body of Prince Suguru across the wreckage, when heavy hands gripped your waist. One second, you were lifted into the air, and in the next, you were being thrown against a fallen, sharp stone. The impact resulted in an explosion of searing pain that was too much for your mind and body to tolerate. You could taste blood.

You were screaming, but you couldn’t hear it. You couldn’t hear anything. You could barely see anything — the last thing you caught a glimpse of before slipping into a realm of unconsciousness were the black boots of a masked man walking towards you, and Kento . . . Kento dashing in front of the man’s raised sword, and getting stabbed through a gap in his ruined armor nearest his lower abdomen.

Your surroundings became nothing more than a black abyss, and there was one, final explosion.

— ♛ —

TWO DAYS LATER

He was staring at a familiar ceiling. 

It was brown. Wooden. Raggedy.

As Kento Nanami blinked, blinked, and blinked, it hit him.

He was home.

He sat up in bed, fighting the burst of pain that surged through him from the bandaged wound on his shirtless lower body. When he looked down, there was a familiar, tiny red dragon resting on his thigh.

“You’re awake. That’s great.” The soft voice startled him. Only then, turning his head to the side, did he realize that you were sitting at his bedside. A brown cloak was draped across your head, a choice clearly made to conceal your identity while walking among your subjects.

Or, given the recent events that were coming back to Kento’s memory, bit by bit, it was, perhaps, a choice made to conceal your identity for your own safety.

“How is it that you’re awake and I wasn’t ‘til now?” Kento’s voice was hoarse, and he coughed. “Last I remember, I was the one carrying your unconscious body out of-”

He coughed yet again.

You walked away for a moment and returned with a cup of water.

“Drink this,” you said.

He took it with thanks. As he gulped it down, he recalled the last of what he could remember. 

He took a sword to the stomach to protect you. There was another explosion. The biggest of them all. Part of the ceiling collapsed on the man who stabbed him. The entire ballroom was becoming a sea of falling rubble and flames on a greater scale than before. Kento scooped up your unconscious body and ran, jumped; did whatever he had to do to get across the debris. He used all of his remaining strength to toss you out of the window first. With the ballroom falling apart second by second, he wasn’t certain if he’d have enough time to crawl out of the window and save his own life, but that didn’t matter. 

Your safety came first.

You came first.

He didn’t remember anything after getting you out of that ballroom. He was alive still, but-

“After our medics found you and patched you up, I decided to bring you home. Your mother and I spent the last two days taking care of you. I actually just finished washing your face and brushing your teeth.” You suddenly spoke, as if reading his thoughts. “It wasn’t out of kindness, really. Our hospitals are . . . it’s a nightmare. Thank you for saving me, Kento.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, holding on to the empty cup of water. His thumb tapped rapidly against the side of it, and he frowned. “That attack was a long time coming, wasn’t it?”

Your teary eyes locked with his. You gave him a sad, knowing smile. “Like I said, you’re great at putting the pieces together.”

It all made sense. 

After all, why now did the king insist on you having a personal knight? 

The king must have known that there was a group from another kingdom who wanted to get their hands on the Vulcania Princess, dead or alive. 

Kento rubbed his face out of pure exhaustion.

“Why host a ball when your life is in danger?” Kento questioned. “Greed. That’s it, right? The king couldn’t pass up the chance to receive praise and gifts and kick-start your engagement, even if it meant putting you at risk. What is he thinking?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”

Kento allowed the silence to fester. During which, he grabbed ahold of your hand, stroking your soft skin with his rough thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t lie to me.” You mumbled, but despite your cold tone, you didn’t pull your hand away from him. “There’s no time to mourn. The kingdom is in shambles. We’re vulnerable. Weak. People are dead, from our kingdom and others. And now? Now I’m queen. How am I supposed to . . .”

There it was, the mourning you tried to swear off.

Tears fell from your eyes. Kento didn’t waste a second before gently moving the sleepy dragon to an empty spot on the bed before swinging his legs off the side, and ignoring the pain as he leaned up and pulled your chair closer to him. He wrapped his arms around you gently — aware of your potential wounds though he couldn’t see them right now — and he pulled you against his bare chest.

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t cry in front of anyone.” You pulled away from him, wiping the tears that fell from your right eye, and he stroked away the ones that fell from the left with his thumb.

As he did so, he couldn’t help but let his thumb hover over a deep, healing scratch on your cheek. 

“It’s okay to cry. You’re just a person.” 

“Am I?”

“Of course you are,” his brown eyes gazed into your sad eyes. “You like warm things. Warm drinks, warm weather, warm blankets, fireplaces, fire-breathing dragons . . . you take a walk through your garden when you need to clear your head. Though you’ve never held a sword or a shield, you don’t hesitate to protect others, and not just people who are important to you, but strangers as well, and all kinds of creatures. Your jokes are so awful, they’re funny. You bite your bottom lip when you are lost in thought, and if those thoughts are worrisome, you play with your necklace. You cut people off when they’re speaking, but you don’t do it out of malice, you’re just brilliant, and you already know what someone is going to say. You’re unintentionally ignorant. Quite ignorant. But you try your hardest to overcome it once something is brought to your attention. It was you who ended wars with a simple speech. Recently, you argued for an increase in pay for knights of all ranks, I’m certain of it. And yet, you didn’t tell me, because you don’t feel the need to brag about your good deeds either.” Kento’s thumb hovered over your bottom lip. He whispered, “Hm, maybe . . . maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you aren’t just a person, because I’m certain I’ve never met anyone else like you.”

Amidst the sadness, there was a shimmer of something else within your eyes. A little spark of hope.

“Is that really how you see me? I think . . . this is the first time someone has given me a compliment that has nothing to do with beauty. At least, most of that was a compliment, I think.” You gave a soft smile that stretched the scratch on your cheek. “Wait, did you fail to compliment my beauty because you no longer find me attractive? I couldn’t exactly blame you if that’s the reason.”

“You’re mesmerizing. Inside and out. Your wounds don’t change that. But don’t worry. I’m sure they’re mixing up the strongest healing elixir known to all just for you. Your wounds will exist only as a memory, just you wait.” 

That shimmer of hope within your eyes brightened. Kento wanted nothing more than for it to stay that way, but it couldn’t. Not when your life was still in danger. Not when there were people out there who wanted to hurt you.

Kento placed his hands on either side of his legs and started to push off his bed, but suddenly, your hands shot out, pushing against his thighs and seizing his movements.

“What are you doing?” You asked urgently.

“Trying to leave my bed, if you’ll let me.”

“Have you gone mad? You were stabbed. I won’t let you leave this bed until you’ve recovered fully. Try to leave again and I’ll . . . tell your mother . . . when she returns.”

Kento frowned. “Your life is in danger. I can’t just-”

“It’s not your duty to protect me anymore.”

That frown deepened, his brows furrowed in utter confusion. “What are you saying?” He asked.

You were silent for a moment, but when you spoke yet again, you couldn’t look him in the eye. You didn’t have the nerve. “I'm the ruling monarch now. I call the shots. I’ll pass a law to make it illegal for employers to discriminate against members of certain bloodlines that have decided to stray from the career path chosen by their people.” Your eyes fell on his bandaged abdomen. “In other words, you no longer have to serve as a knight. Go on and enjoy a different career of your choice. In the meantime, I’ll make sure your family is well fed. It’s the least I can do.” 

“No.”

You looked at him, eyebrows shooting up in pure shock. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m not leaving you. Not now,” Kento said.

“Kento, there’s no need. There are plenty of other knights who actually want to be knights. They can protect me just fine.”

“I don’t care. I’m not leaving your side.  I don’t mind dying for you-” 

“Damn it all, Kento, I said no. Look at your condition! Look!”

Your sudden shouting stunned him. Based on the way your tears fell, and your hand clenched and unclenched around nothing, it surprised you too. “That wound of yours is all my fault. I should have left when you told me to. I won’t allow something like this to happen again. I won’t have it.”

“Look at me.” His hand was once again on your face, but not stroking your cheek. This time, his long fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to stare into his eyes. “I won’t have you dying a preventable death because of incompetent knights while I waltz around my village baking bread or sharpening knives.”

“Is this an ego thing?” Do you think you’re the only knight strong enough to protect me?”

Though your question was a serious one, Kento couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “I understand everything about you down to which foot you step with first, but you don’t understand me at all.”

“What do you-”

It was sudden, but Kento was fed up with your lack of understanding. He released your chin, but only to snake his hand around your head and pull you close, closing the gap between you by crashing your lips together. The kiss was warm. Your lips were soft — so damn soft — and he couldn’t help but hold on to you even tighter, melting into the kiss because he needed more. Though his tongue rubbed against yours, though he was breathless, and though it hurt his injured stomach to do so, he still wanted more; one large hand hooked around your thigh, the other against your back, and he pulled you onto his lap.

Your hand pressed against his muscular, broad chest. He swallowed a soft moan that escaped your lips. 

“Kento,” you gave a little whimper.

“I know,” he whispered against your wet lips, the words barely leaving his own lips before he reconnected his mouth to yours. He pulled you against his mouth even harder, made you straddle his lap even tighter, and kissed you with lips and tongue even deeper.

When the kiss ended, Kento looked at your face, your skin softly illuminated by the flickering light from the candles scattered throughout his house. 

“Do you understand now?” He asked softly.

You nodded, then smiled. “I didn’t know that was coming, but I'm glad I brushed your teeth for you.” 

Kento couldn’t help but shake his head and laugh, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

Your fingers played with the blonde hair at the nape of his neck, and he pressed yet another kiss against your jaw, then your neck, all before pulling away.

“Tell me the truth. Do you love me?” He asked, his breath patting against the skin of your collarbone.

“I do, but if you have to ask, then you might not understand me as well as you think you do.” 

Kento pulled away from your neck, but when his eyes met yours, all he saw within your gaze was pure sadness. 

“But, Kento, Umarith finds itself in yet another war, and our enemies won’t give up until they have me-”

“Then let me kill them all for you.”

“Kento,” you frowned.

“Your Majesty,” he gave your chin a quick kiss, his large hand rubbing your thigh. “I mean it. I will save you. I just need you to let me.”

You bit your lip in thought. “Fine, but on one condition. No, two conditions.”

You leaned in; you were so close, he could feel your breath pat against his ear.

“I refuse to be a kindhearted damsel in distress once again. They want to capture or kill me, the Vulcania Princess- or I guess, queen now, because they think it’ll put an end to the brutal snowstorms killing their crops and their people, so I’ve been thinking, since they crave my warmth so badly . . . I should burn their kingdom to the ground. Allow me to fight by your side and do so.”

“And what’s your second condition, Your Majesty?” Kento whispered.

You pulled away from him, staring into his brown eyes. Your warm hands cupped the knight’s face.

“You drop the formalities like I’ve been asking you to,” you paused. “Unless, in due time, you allow me to call you my king.”

Kento couldn’t help but gaze at you with pure astonishment. It was the same look he had in his eyes when he first saw the enormous statue of you in his village. He should have put the pieces together then — that he was nothing more than someone else who worshipped you.

Kento’s lips found yours, once again letting his kisses speak for him. And this kiss told you several things: 

Kento Nanami wanted to hate you.

Truly, he did. He tried.

But in the end, he couldn’t stray from his bloodline’s only purpose to shed blood; to die in service of whomever sat on the throne, but this time around? A Nanami would survive, and Kento would become your cherished spouse and, when the time came, protect your offspring. 

Kento Nanami wanted to hate you, but now, the knight’s soul wanted nothing more than to love you, and kill for you.

♛ — What did you think? Please let me know! Reblogs & comments are appreciated!

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[barleyo]

Acceptable in the 80's.

Bodhi Windbreaker X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: i know bodhi isn't the most popular dateable, but he is one of my absolute favorites. even if this is totally self-indulgent, i hope somebody else enjoys it too.

Tags: mentions of porn, fingering, handjobs, making out/kissing

Wordcount: ~0.8k

Learning about the modern era was interesting, sure, but Bodhi definitely had a preference for his time. This new, strange world made him feel behind, like he was being left out on a joke, and he was, in a way. Everything moved so quickly, despite how long he had been in his time capsule.  Things were just so different now. Not for the better. 

He told you about it all the time, ranting and raving about the 80s and how much he missed it. 

Movies, he claimed, were so much more entertaining. The actors were talented, the actresses were bombshells, and the special effects were "radical." 

Music was hip and catchy. He didn't mind newer tunes, he could admit that there was definitely more diversity now, but it just didn't hit the same. 

He thought today's fashion was clunky and cheap, that the food was overly processed and strange, and that technology was too advanced for his tastes. Social media? God, it hurt his head. Why did everything have to have an algorithm? And what the hell was A.I.? Living robots—like Johnny Five, right?

When he discovered the less wholesome side of modern internet, he found that he preferred the older alternative to it as well.

Bodhi brought you into the living room, carrying a large box of tapes and magazines. 

"I know, I tell you this all the time, babe, but the 80s was something special," he said, beaming down at you as he dropped the box on the floor. "You just had to be there. Or, in your case, you didn't have to be, because I'm gonna catch you up."

You watched him dig through the box and explain the decade's pop culture. It was interesting, but you mainly just stared at his adorably excited face the whole time. 

Bodhi bounced from topic to topic, clueing you in on his unique world of retro nostalgia. It was sweet, seeing him trip down memory lane.

"Right, and nobody knew George Michael was gay?" you asked, listening to him as he moved onto music of the 80s. 

He shook his head, giving a shrug. "I guess we were all too caught up with Hands Across America to notice." 

He dug at the bottom of the box, scooping up a final VHS. 

"What's that?"

"Last thing for today," he answered, blowing the dust out of the cartridge. "Films."

As he loaded the tape into the VHS player he had managed to find, you raised an eyebrow. 

"Didn't we already watch old movies?"

"Yeah, but this isn't a movie," Bodhi smirked, turning to face you as his finger traced over the play button. "It's a film. You know," he shrugged, "an adult film."

"Oh."

He clicked play and took a seat next to you on the floor. "Pornos were much better in the 80s too," he said, tossing an arm over your shoulders. 

You didn't realize how the video was making you feel until your hand was slowly pumping at Bodhi's cock, eyes flicking back and forth from the screen to him to make sure your movements matched. 

You kissed him softly, your arm crossing his as you both went to work on each other. The position wasn't nearly as awkward as you thought it might have been. Really, sitting so close to him while his needy hands trailed over you, going exactly where you needed him, was heaven. 

You slipped your tongue into his mouth and explored for a bit, nipping his lips when his thumb ran over your clit.

"Careful," he warned through gritted teeth, sucking in a breath, "it's still got five minutes left. Don't wanna cum before that."

You hummed and slowed your pace. It killed you to do so, but the idea of cumming with the actors was too hot to pass up. If Bodhi kept curling his fingers into you the way he was, you'd be on track to do just that. 

You mumbled a bit, making meaningless observations about the video, trying to distract yourself from how close you were. 

"The music in the back is nice," you said, face flushed.

"Yeah, porn doesn't set the mood with background music anymore."

You felt his hand grip onto your hip impatiently. You were sucking his fingers into your cunt deeper and deeper—how could he not get hasty? 

His cock kicked in your hand before it spurted thin, milky cum, but with your own orgasm crashing over you, you could hardly focus on that. 

The porno faded to black shortly after you both finished, the tape ejecting with a click. Sex with Bodhi was always fun, but this time was especially interesting. You wiped his cum off of your palm and shot him a devious smile.

"The guy had a cute mustache."

Bodhi chuckled softly. "Y'like 'staches?" He ran his fingers over his top lip. "Maybe I'll grow one for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That is, if you grow your bush out for me," he said, eyeing your mound, "in true 80s fashion."