#oc: Nobody

[ceremorph0sis]

We've Made It, My Dear

Pairing: Gale x Drow!Dark Urge (Named)

WC: 1.9k words

Tags+Warnings: Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Post-Canon, Happily Ever After, Hurt+Comfort, Nightmares, Mentions Of Gore, References To Death, Dark Urge Storyline Spoilers, Epilogue Spoilers

Author's Note: First time in a WHILEEEEE I've actually written something, and I'm pretty proud of it! Even while on the Dragon Age: The Veilguard hype train, I'm still enamored with BG3 and the Forgotten Realms haha. Didn't edit this brute, but I did look at it and nod approvingly before finally posting. Please let me know if I missed any tags or warnings. Enjoy!

It wasn’t the weight of the tressym on his chest nor the gentle breeze whispering through the open window that awoke Gale. It was the absence of a warm, familiar body by his side.

The milky moonlight spilling into the bedroom framed his belongings -their belongings- a cool silver hue, sharply contrasting the blots of darkness Gale’s eyes hadn’t yet attuned to. A deep sleeper, Gale wasn’t prone to waking in the night, but when he did, it always amused him to see how Nobody passed her time while waiting for him to stir. Some nights, she would read by his side, her pitch-black gaze flitting across every word with more ease than it would in daylight. Other times, she’d patter about the room as stealthily as a drow could manage, inspecting the manner of trinkets and artefacts he had collected over the years. Tonight, she was nowhere to be seen.

Gale carefully shifted Tara off his front and pushed back his blanket, affording himself a quiet congratulations for managing not to wake his fussy companion. Carefully setting his feet on the cold hardwood floor, he navigated the cluttered pathway from his bed to the door, each footfall as silent as the last. He reached for his housecoat, which typically hung from the doorknob, only to find it missing.

He frowned slightly as he turned the knob and made his quiet exit. Down the hallway and to the right, the glow of a gratuitous amount of candles emanated from downstairs. A somewhat concerning sight, knowing that Nobody was as at home in the darkness as she was in light.

The journey to the first floor was a mite more hurried than his escape from the bedroom had been. As he descended the last few steps of stairs, Gale examined the living room. Fully lit. Not a soul to be seen.

“Straj… Sorry, love. Get back to bed. I won’t be far behind you.”

Gale whipped his head towards the kitchen entrance. His startled heart calmed slightly when he saw that it was only Nobody, her grayish-white hair still mussed from sleep, as his must have been. She leaned against the doorway with a guilty smile and his own housecoat wrapped snugly around her frame, yet her eyes told a different story than what her casual demeanor sought to imply.

Nonetheless, Gale sighed in fond annoyance, crossing his arms. “Well, bully for my students, I suppose. They’ll ask me tomorrow, ‘Professor Dekarios, did you get even a wink of sleep last night? You look positively dreadful!’ And I’ll have no choice but to tell them the truth.”

“Oh?” Nobody purred, amused. “What would that truth be, sweetmeat?”

Wandering carelessly to the sofa before the hearth, Gale sat himself down, leaning back on its arm and lifting his legs onto the cushions, spreading them just enough for a lithe drow to slither between and rest her head on his waiting chest.

“That Mrs. Professor Dekarios cruelly abandoned her husband in the cold,” Gale answered simply, eliciting a snort from Nobody. “Don’t you try and tell me that Tara would gladly be my blanket on your behalf. We both know that she’s only a cuddling type at the most inconvenient of times.”

Just as expected, Nobody quickly caught onto her opportunity. She sauntered over with eagerness and slid into her rightful place, a territory she often playfully bickered with Tara over. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she basked in his warmth, the harried expression she worked to hide beginning to melt.

With one hand, Gale lavished her back with slow, languid strokes, the curves and dips of her body flowing familiarly beneath his touch. His other cradled her head with the tender care of a man who had seen her at her worst; who had seen her slick with the blood of innocents, watched as she writhed and thrashed against the bindings he himself tied to keep her from slaughtering him where he stood and cried wordlessly at her corpse after her last stand against her unholy father, the God of Murder. He held her as if after everything she did in the past, in another life, she still deserved comfort. Care. Love.

To Gale Dekarios, formerly known as Gale of Waterdeep among his peers, she truly did. The Dark Urge and Chosen of Bhaal, in his humble opinion, had died at the hands of Orin the Red years ago, back before their adventure had even brought them together. The woman he had met who lay in his arms was his wife, Nobody Dekarios, who had yet to come up with a proper name for herself, always promising him with a cheeky grin that she’d ‘get to it eventually.’

And he’d be damned to the Nine Hells before he let any matter trouble his incorrigibly mischievous, indescribably wonderful wife, no matter how inconsequential.

Or how early in the morning. Or late in the night. Gale hadn’t a single clue what time it was, and frankly, he was hesitant to find out.

“My love,” he said delicately.

“Mhm?”

“Is something bothering you?”

Nobody’s eyes flicked open, her steady breathing hitching. The slight furrow in her brows from earlier returned to her face. The smile on her lips became that much more strained and her eyes refused to meet his, as far as he could tell.

“I’d rather not keep you from your beauty sleep, sweetmeat,” she chuckled uncomfortably.

“Hm… I see. If it’s something we can’t solve with a fireball, you can tell me,” he chided her, gentle yet clear. Nobody rarely took her own issues seriously. Gale learned early on that she often needed a little time to come to terms with what she faced before talking her emotions out.

The corners of Nobody’s eyes crinkled as she exhaled a little laugh at his joke. “Gods, now that I’m awake, it seems rather stupid.”

“My love, the stupidity of your troubles matters not to me.” Gale gave her hair a gentle tug, prompting her to look at him. “I’m here. You’re here. If it’s something we can solve right here and now, we’ll do it together.”

Nobody went silent for a while. She absentmindedly rested her cheek back to his chest, her brow knitting together in a different manner, thinking on how to word her problems out. All the while, Gale held her close, still stroking her back and toying with her hair as patient as could be. Her breathing grew even and her eyes closed, and Gale had almost thought that she had fallen asleep when she finally spoke.

“I- ugh. I had a nightmare.”

Gale’s hand paused its leisurely stroll down the planes of her back. Nobody seldom fell into true slumber, instead opting to go into reverie. As a drow, however, the sleep of ordinary folk was not unknown to her. It seemed that one of her off nights wasn’t as restful as she needed.

“It was… uncanny,” she continued quietly, looking to him once again. “Remember the first party Withers threw for us? We were there. Everyone was the same as they were at the time, happy and smiling and drinking. Except you.”

Gale tilted his head with curiosity. “Is this where the dream goes south?”

“I was- you were- it was sad,” though she laughed through her words, she was distant, trying to talk without thinking about what she was saying. “We did it- we finished off the Absolute, the Chosen, everything. But the crown… you wanted the crown. You wanted to challenge Mystra, so you did. You failed.”

“Your mirror image told me everything in your place: how you got the Crown of Karsus, how you fought Mystra for her domain and how she obliterated you. You gave me a letter I couldn’t bring myself to read. I tried to kiss you, and… nothing. I guess I forgot that it wasn’t you- just a projection. It told me before it disappeared, ‘I can see why I loved you.’ And then it was gone. You were gone.”

Nobody’s voice cracked on the last of her words. Despite his best efforts, Gale recalled the day that Nobody died. His heart shattered on the floor of that wretched temple when Nobody fell to the ground. He felt as if he was drowning, overwhelmed by everything in that moment. The smell of blood permeating his senses. The blank stares of the surrounding cultists, witness to the fall of two leaders in one day. The thoughts in his head, asking over and over why? Why now? Why, when we’ve finally come this far? Why so soon after I’ve only just found her?

“No Waterdeep, no Mrs. Professor Dekarios, no homemade hundur sauce,” Nobody laughed humorlessly. “And look at me, on the verge of tears because of a bad dream. You’re a patient one, sweets.”

“I love you.”

The words came out of Gale’s mouth without a single thought, as they tended to. Loving her was as easy as breathing and to say it was as natural as any spell. Still, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

With a soothing smile on his lips, he pulled Nobody into a kiss, taking in every facet of her being. From the way her long hair tickled his cheeks to the natural scent of her, all petrichor and night-blooming flowers, and even the small noise of surprise she made at his affection, she was breathtaking. Resilient, but most importantly, she was here. Home, in his arms.

They’d made it. The worst of their days were over. Perhaps not forever, but they could breathe easy and live and love each other while they waited for life to take them on their next adventure, whether it be the next Dekarios family reunion or another cult to battle against for the fate of the world.

Gale Dekarios was nothing if not profusely verbose. Even if his kiss had told her all she needed to hear and feel, he refused to let a single doubt plague Nobody’s mind. When she pulled away, he cupped her cheek, reveling in the sweet smile she spared just for him.

“Whatever the Gale in your dreams said and did, give him a good clip ‘round the ear for me next time you see him,” he said firmly, making her giggle. “If he starts sulking on about ambition and godhood again, let him sulk. If he believes that the mere chance of godhood is worth more than the most wonderful woman in this plane and beyond, then I consider that excellent news- more of that aforementioned woman for me to enjoy, I’d say. If I give you even a fraction of a fraction of the happiness you give me every day, then I can confidently say that we don’t need to worry about either what happened before or what could’ve been. Safe to say, the less you think about that prat, the better.”

“You’re not getting jealous of Dream-Gale, are you, sweets?” Nobody teased.

“Jealous? Hah! Hardly,” Gale sniffed. “Disappointed? Definitely. Furious at him for making you distraught? Absolutely, if you’ll pardon my pun. But I refuse to be jealous of a man who’s already fallen after flying too close to the sun. Who needs the sun, when I’m already able to hold the world in my arms?”

Nobody buried her face in his chest, hiding her expression. His love was always too modest for her own good.

“You… ugh. I love you too, but stop that.”

Gale grinned, kissing the crown of her head.

He didn’t plan to.

~Fin <3~

[trucbiduleschouettes]

Actually have another Nobody's Business doodle because I love her a lot-

[Do not use/repost]

[llamasandcat]

oc doodle dump! guy guy guy freak guy

as per usual (just made this up): click for better quality, and ask box is always open for questions ab these guys (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE TALK TO ME AB MY OCS)

[wanologic]

sorry danny, sam will never think you’re cool

[nessa007]

#they are so cute 😭 Adam Brody and Leighton Meester being interviewed by Access Hollywood at the 2025 Golden Globe Awards

[kettle-bird]

Don’t be Fran-tic… If you're Jones-ing for a good time... Remember to Bea... Joyful!

(This update was so good it finally got me to do fanart for this project I LOVE these guys)

[gildui]

“Be careful who you trust, Sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most.”

[yanderedrabbles]

What would Yandere be like! Boyfriend with a girlfriend who is distant from him, but he finds out it's because she's planning a surprise party for him?

Oh this is such a great prompt!!

Yandere Boyfriend - Surprise Party

Yandere! Boyfriend immediately notices something is off. You tilt your phone screen away from him whenever you get a message. You go out shopping when he's away at the gym and when he gets back you've already hidden your parcels away. You whisper with your friends and grow quiet or change the subject when he gets close.

Yandere! Boyfriend hates it. But he tries very hard to be rational about it.

Yandere! Boyfriend who tries to get you to spill your secret. He'll pin you under him and pepper your neck with ticklish kisses, keeping you in place even as you squirm. His words are muffled by your skin but you can still hear the whine in his voice when he says, "Come on baby, you can tell me."

Yandere! Boyfriend who gets more and more pushy when you won't give in. His kisses turn to sharp little nips, his hands roam under your skirt and drag up your thighs. His voice drops dangerously low when he asks, "Why are you keeping secrets from me?"

Yandere! Boyfriend who has to fight himself to even let you up when you tell him to stop, that you're not hiding anything.

Yandere! Boyfriend who goes through your phone the second you're asleep. But you know what your boyfriend is like and you've covered your tracks well. He stares at the screen, his hand clenched so tightly around the device the frame almost bends. He has take several deep, slow breaths before he can make his fingers unclench.

Yandere! Boyfriend who starts following you. The errands you're on seem harmless on the surface. Buying a cake, ribbon, balloons... But his mind is an awfully paranoid place and all he can think about is some guy spreading chocolate frosting on your thighs and licking it off. Tying your legs together with ribbons and pulling them apart with his teeth. All he can think about is some bastard enjoying a gift that isn't his.

He goes to the gym after that and pounds at the punching bag until his knuckles are raw and bleeding inside his gloves.

Yandere! Boyfriend who tracks down every single one of your friends. Sometimes banging at their doors long after sundown. There's only one thing he wants to know from them.

Why is she keeping secrets from me?

Yandere! Boyfriend who hates the vague answers they give him - just wait and see, I can't tell you, it's a surprise. He has to bite his tongue to keep himself grounded or else he might start shaking them until the truth rattles out of their scrambled skulls.

Yandere! Boyfriend who honestly terrifies your friends with his intensity. They desperately want to tell you about it, the way his eyes go dull and dangerous, the way his massive fists stay clenched at his side like he's always on the verge of swinging, the blood that coats his teeth like he's been biting himself to ribbons. But they see the way you look at him, so hopelessly in love, and can't find the words to tell you.

Yandere! Boyfriend who won't let you out of your apartment. He'll cuddle you and pretend to be asleep so you can't even untangle yourself from his massive bulk. He'll "lose" the keys and help you turn the whole place upside down looking for it, teasing you for being so absent minded. He'll turn back all the clocks and hide your phone, just so he can steal a few more hours. Who only relents when you start considering the dangerously rusty fire escape.

Yandere! Boyfriend who is on the verge of tying you up in his basement. Who unlocks his door with the intention of taking a look down there and maybe making it comfortable.

"Surprise!"

Yandere! Boyfriend who stands frozen, taking in the ribbons, the balloons, the cake, the crowd of people. And at the forefront, you. In a pretty, new dress wearing those heels that make your legs look a mile long.

Yandere! Boyfriend who scoops you up in a hug and won't let you go. Who keeps a hand on you all night - around your waist, on your thigh, intertwined with yours.

Yandere! Boyfriend who practically kicks the stragglers out the door at the end of the night. He turn around to an empty house with you out of sight and his mind starts to doubt itself again.

Yandere! Boyfriend who finally finds you in the bedroom, ribbons tied all around you and a pretty red bow holding your legs together.

"Surprise."

Yandere! Boyfriend who thinks that might be his new favourite word. Who feels his throat go dry and for a second all he can do is drink you in. His pretty little girlfriend who played with fire planning this.

Yandere! Boyfriend who carefully unties each and every ribbon, planting soft kisses on your skin all the while. For now, the doubts have dissappeared and all that matters is you and him. Skin to skin and the only thought in his head is how he adores you.

[shaykai]

Sceleritas Fel Disapproves (of any significant others Durge decides to have)

[kokii-omii]

can we please have a sneak peak of the king oc like are they just a random kid luci's brother picked up? will kings heritage (being a titian) play a role in this oc's story?

he's just a baby

His name is Rex and he was literally a kid Edwin found at some ruins, and decided to take in cuz he literally just found him when he was probably fresh off the egg, but he was missing a piece of his horn

nobody knows what he is or what those ruins originally were because the place is lost to time that not even the fae remember

but he now lives with the Thornhills and Ed treats him like a little brother

anyway heres the full thing

[demaparbat-hp]

Besties being besties

[impalafullofbees]

Inspired by this post-

https://www.tumblr.com/archerdepartures116/773706889003401216/lmao-it-would-be-funny-if-in-the-mass

This is the Transmigrator AU, the brainchild of @archerdepartures116, which I have so much love for!!

We have kind of similar art styles, although they are WAY more talented, so I decided to contribute!

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ━━ All-Consuming

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.8K

❀ ━ warnings: minor injury, smut (oral, fingering)

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: so sorry for the long ass wait i hope it’s worth it

PAIGE SITS at the edge of the bench, her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, watching warmups like she always does. Except today, something feels… different. Heavier. Shittier. She’s got her legs tucked up close, arms wrapped tight around them like it might somehow make her smaller, invisible. Which, obviously, it won’t. Especially not here. Especially not in fucking Knoxville.

The arena is loud. Like, obnoxiously loud. Tennessee fans are built different with their petty signs and cowbells and perfectly orchestrated chants. They’ve got nothing but time and resentment for UConn. Paige usually feeds off that. Normally, she lives for it. The noise, the hate, the pressure. It lights her up. Brings out that twisted little competitive streak in her that wants to drop thirty just to silence them. But she’s not lighting anything up today. She’s just sitting here. On the bench. Like she has been for what feels like her whole damn life now.

She’s in her warmup gear. Got the game day braids in. The slick, tight ones that Jo helped her do this morning, even though they both knew Paige wasn’t playing. It’s stupid, really. But the braids make her feel like she might be. Like if she looks the part, maybe she’ll feel the part. She doesn’t.

She hasn’t played in a Tennessee game since her freshman year. She sprained her ankle that night. Her sophomore year—busted knee. Now, junior year—busted ACL. It’s like the basketball gods personally circle this date on the calendar every season and go, not you, girl. And maybe that shouldn’t bother her as much as it does, because the players don’t really care about this rivalry like they used to—none of them were around for the Pat vs Geno era. They’re just here to hoop, not carry the burden of the past. But it does bother her. Because there’s still something about this game that stings extra when she’s on the sideline instead of the floor.

She swallows hard. Tries to blink fast enough to chase away the burn in her eyes, but the tears push their way through anyway.

Her knee feels like it’s mocking her, even when it’s behaving. Her fingers twitch with phantom plays—passes she’ll never throw, shots she won’t take. Her teammates are out there running drills, laughing, locking in. And Paige is just… not. She’s on the outside of her own life, watching someone else live it. It fucking sucks.

She sniffs quietly, looking down at the floor like that’ll hide the way her eyes are glassy and red. She wipes at her cheek with the sleeve of her shooting shirt, hating how it comes away wet. She’s sure some ESPN camera’s trained on her right now, too. She can already imagine Holly Rose narrating it: “Paige Bueckers, emotional on the sideline today. The UConn star still working her way back from injury.”

She rubs at her eyes harder, hoping maybe if she scrubs hard enough, the ache will go away too. It doesn’t.

Then—quietly, gently—Jo drops down on the chair beside her.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans in close, knee bumping Paige’s. It only makes Paige’s throat tighten even more. Because Jo’s supposed to be warming up. She’s playing today. She shouldn’t be over here. But she is.

Jo’s pinky finds Paige’s without making it obvious, just a light brush where no cameras can see. Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. She can’t yet. But her heart softens immediately. She squeezes Jo’s pinky lightly with her own, quick and small, like she’s sorry for making her come over. Jo doesn’t let go.

“You okay?” Jo murmurs, barely audible under the roar of the arena. Her voice is low and sweet and careful in that way she always uses when Paige is pretending everything is fine.

Paige nods, a pathetic little dip of her chin, and then—just to betray herself—another tear slips out. She catches it with the back of her hand and lets out the tiniest laugh, all self-deprecating and bitter. “I’m just bein’ dramatic,” she mutters.

Jo’s already shaking her head. “No, you’re not,” she says, like it’s fact, not up for debate.

“I’m crying on the bench, Jo.”

“You’re crying because you love the game,” Jo says simply. “That’s not dramatic. That’s just… being human.”

Paige finally looks at her then, eyes stinging, throat thick. And Jo’s not teasing or smirking or trying to make her laugh, not yet. She’s just looking back at her like she sees everything Paige is trying to hide and she’s not scared of it. Paige swallows again, and it catches in her throat. She hates how raw she feels right now. Hates how easy Jo makes it for her to fall apart.

Jo bumps her knee again, softer this time. “You know,” she says, glancing casually toward the court, “I heard this team has a really cute assistant coach. Blonde. Kind of annoying. Always got her hair braided in a way that might make her go bald one day.”

Paige snorts, even though the wetness still clings to her lashes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Real menace. Probably got a wicked crossover if she’d ever show it.”

Paige swipes at her cheek again, this time with a ghost of a smile. “I’ll look out for her.”

Jo grins. “You better. She’s hot. I’m trying to impress.”

Paige laughs and it feels like something breaks loose in her chest. Something heavy, something sharp. She exhales long and slow, the way Jo’s presence always makes her do. Jo gives her pinky one last squeeze before she stands back up to rejoin warmups.

By the time the game begins, Paige’s chest doesn’t feel quite so hollow. It starts off hot, fast-paced, high-scoring, kind of chippy. She’s leaned forward on the bench now, elbows digging into her thighs. Her knee bounces involuntarily every few seconds—nerves, adrenaline, phantom muscle memory. She can’t stop tracking every movement on the court like she’s still part of it. Still running, still cutting, still calling plays. Her brain is sprinting at full speed even if her body isn’t allowed to.

Jo’s hooping. Like, really hooping. Which isn’t surprising, since she’s been doing that all season.

She’s shooting lights out from three, and every made basket has the Tennessee fans shutting up a little more. Which Paige finds deeply satisfying. Every time Jo hits, steals, assists, Paige lets herself cheer a little louder, lets herself grin a little wider, even if her chest still aches some from earlier. Jo’s got that look tonight—laser-focused, completely locked in. That stupid wrist flick of hers is crisp, and every time the ball leaves her hands, Paige already knows it’s money.

Aaliyah’s dominating the paint, as per usual. Lou’s curling off screens and hitting daggers. Nika’s orchestrating it all, finding every pocket, every backdoor cutter, every mismatch. It’s beautiful basketball. And it’s theirs.

And Paige wants to be out there so bad it physically hurts.

But she’s happy, at least, that they’re winning. They’ve been leading basically the whole time—not by a massive margin, but enough that the pressure hasn’t really shifted back in Tennessee’s favor. The game’s exciting, but not panic-inducing. The kind where if they just keep doing their jobs, they’ll be fine. It’s that rare sweet spot between competition and control.

It’s the beginning of the fourth, and UConn’s up by ten. Jo comes flying off a pin-down, catches the ball on the wing, rises up, and—bang. Fifth three of the night. Paige whistles through her teeth, claps hard, smacks the padded bench emphatically. She’s about to turn to Ice to say something cocky when—

She sees it.

It’s small. Barely anything, really. Jo comes down and her right foot hits kind of… funky. Paige can’t tell at first if it’s a slip or a twist or just one of those weird stutters. But Jo’s face—only for a second—tightens. She winces a little, and she kind of hops out of it awkwardly before jogging back on defense.

And Paige can see it. It’s not dramatic—Jo doesn’t limp or fall or cry out. She wouldn’t anyways. Jo’s built out of grit and stubbornness and whatever else makes people keep going when they probably shouldn’t. She’s still moving. She’s in position, she’s talking on defense, playing through it. But she’s also shaking out her foot every couple seconds. She’s flexing her ankle just slightly when the ball isn’t near her, just enough for someone who’s really watching to notice.

And Paige is watching.

She sits up straighter. “Yo,” she mutters to no one in particular, eyes still glued onto the brunette. “She landed weird.”

Ice glances over at her. “Huh?”

“Jo. That last three. Her foot twisted or sum. She’s not moving the same.”

Geno glances over at Paige, having heard her observation. He gives her a look and she just nods toward Jo on the court. His gaze shifts back to the game, and Paige watches him squint. The blonde watches Jo again. She can tell it’s nothing major. Not a full-blown injury, probably not even a bad sprain. But Paige knows this girl. She knows her tells. And she knows that if someone doesn’t make her come out, she’s gonna push it until it does get bad.

When Aaliyah picks up a foul on Rickea Jackson, sending her to the line, Geno turns to the bench and waves at Ines. Ines stands, heads to the table, checks in.

Jo comes out.

Paige tracks the girl as she jogs toward the bench, and it’s—yeah. It’s more than clear now. That little limp in her gait, the slight hitch with every step. It’s not dramatic or anything, not a collapse-to-the-floor situation, but it’s there. Definitely there. She wears a half-smile as she walks, slapping palms with the girls down the bench. When she high fives Paige, the blonde wants to grab her and stop her, asking what exactly’s wrong. But she doesn’t. She lets her go to the end of the bench, where she reaches Janelle.

Paige watches as Jo leans in, says something low that Paige can’t hear from this far down the bench. But she sees Jo’s face. The way she scrunches her nose, nods slightly, like she’s trying to downplay it but also knows it’s enough of a thing to need attention. Janelle nods, wrapping an arm lightly around Jo’s back, guiding her behind the bench and toward the tunnel.

Paige lets out a long sigh, biting at the inside of her cheek. It’s not that she didn’t think Jo was hurting. She knew that. But there’s something so much worse about seeing her go back there. It’s probably the trauma—because this has been the story the whole season. Like a sick little cycle of setbacks. Injury after injury. Some minor. Some not. Aubrey’s back. Azzi’s knee. Caroline’s head. Dorka’s thumb. Nika’s concussion. Ice’s knee. And then there’s Paige, the original disaster from the summer with the torn ACL. It’s like the basketball gods are allergic to this team being fully healthy.

A few minutes pass. Paige tries to watch the game, but she finds herself glancing back at the tunnel more often than not. Thankfully, it’s not long before Jo and Janelle are coming back out. The aforementioned is walking slower than usual, but she’s walking. Her step isn’t as light as normal, and there’s still that noticeable limp as she makes her way toward the bench. The ankle’s wrapped now, a large bag of ice securely fastened to it.

Jo approaches the seat next to Paige, where Ines was sitting before checking in. As soon as the freshman is sat, Paige is already leaning in. Not too much—she’s trying not to look all dramatic and clingy about it, especially not with Holly Rowe lurking somewhere behind them and probably reporting every breath she takes—but just enough that their knees touch, and Paige can catch her expression.

Jo isn’t wincing, doesn’t really look all that uncomfortable, and Paige stares at her profile for a second longer than necessary, trying to scan her for signs. Pain. Frustration. Panic. But Jo just looks… fine.

“Hey,” Paige says softly, nudging her shoulder. “You good?”

Jo turns her head and smiles a little, like she already knew Paige would ask that the second her ass hit the bench. There’s something about her smile—lazy and a bit crooked, like she’s tired but trying to reassure her anyway—that actually works. Paige breathes out without realizing she was holding it in.

“Yeah,” Jo replies. “She thinks it’s just a minor sprain.”

Paige nods slowly, eyes dropping to Jo’s ankle, the wrap snug around it, tight but not panic-inducing. That’s ironic, she thinks. She sprained her ankle here her freshman year, too. Tennessee’s cursed for her personally, and now maybe for Jo, too. This court just has bad vibes, Paige decides.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, a little quieter this time, like if she lowers her voice enough, the answer might change.

Jo shrugs, the ice rustling against its wrap. “I’m okay, P,” she says.

And Paige wants to believe her. She really does. The logical part of her brain—the part that’s spent more time in trainers’ rooms and rehab facilities than on the court the past two years—tells her that if it were worse, Jo wouldn’t be out here. Janelle wouldn’t let her. She wouldn’t be smiling, or sitting next to Paige looking more at ease than not.

Paige leans back a little, rests her forearms on her thighs, and watches the game continue in front of them. Lou’s still hot, draining another corner three like she’s trying to set the arena on fire. Aaliyah’s muscling her way through the paint like a freight train. The bench goes wild. The fans boo. Paige doesn’t flinch. She’s still half in the game, sure, but she’s half in her head now too, hyper-aware of Jo next to her, the way her foot bounces slightly even with the ice on it, the way her fingers keep tugging at the hem of her jersey like she’s trying to shake off leftover adrenaline.

Paige wants to teach over. Grab her hand. Touch her knee. Something. Anything. But the cameras are always around, and so are the coaches, and their teammates. They’re not supposed to know about anything between the two of them, so Paige has to pretend like her entire world doesn’t shift when Jo’s hurt or limping or even just vaguely not okay.

“You sure?” Paige whispers, not looking at her this time. “You’re not, like… bullshitting me?”

Jo snorts. “When do I ever bullshit you?”

“Literally every time you say you’re fine,” Paige shoots back, side-eyeing her.

Jo laughs again, a breathy little thing that makes Paige’s stomach ease just slightly. “It’s just sore,” she says. “Janelle said I probably tweaked it when I landed weird, but there’s no real swelling. I’ll be alright.”

Paige nods again. Jo sounds sincere right now. She looks it, too.

The buzzer blares for a timeout and the team on the court jogs to the bench. Jo sits forward a bit, yelling out something at Lou, clapping hard with her free hand. Paige watches her carefully, the way she grits her teeth when she claps too hard and how she subtly tucks her foot under the chair, out of view.

Paige wants to drag her back to the locker room and wrap her in bubble wrap and make her sit still. She wants to ask Janelle again herself. She wants to ask Geno. She wants to do something because she’s feeling kind of helpless, and she’s really tired of that particular feeling lately. Watching games. Watching her girl—Jo limp. Watching, always watching. Never doing.

But Jo’s here, and she’s beside her. And Paige doesn’t miss the way Jo leans into her a little now, their shoulders pressed together, their knees already touching.

So Paige doesn’t say anything else. Just lets herself sit here, heart still uneasy, but warmed slightly by Jo’s closeness. It’s not ideal. None of this ever is. But it’s enough for now.

“IT DOESNT EVEN HURT. Chill, please,” Jo says, chuckling lightly, trying to brush off the overprotectiveness in Paige’s eyes. She shifts her ankle a bit, feeling the wrapped bandage around it. Yes, it’s sore. But she’s dealt with much worse. It’s just a minor tweak, nothing that’s going to stop her from playing or hurt her in the long run.

Paige has been acting like she broke it, though. Since the moment they got to the hotel—where Paige immediately switched key cards with Dorka, Jo’s real roommate who’s unfazed at this point—her eyes have been wide, her hands hovering nervously, like she’s about to jump up at any moment to get more ice or do something else to “help” that she thinks might make a difference. It’s cute, and Jo finds it endearing. But it’s gotten to a point.

Paige’s face softens, the concern still there but less sharp now. She takes a slow breath and finally shifts, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Jo can see the indecision in her eyes. Paige’s always been the type to jump into action, always thinking of ways to fix things, but sometimes, all Jo needs is space to just be for a second. So she waits.

Finally, though, Paige lets out a little sigh, the kind that says fine, whatever, and slowly lays down beside her. She curls up next to Jo, her head finding its way to Jo’s neck, nuzzling into her warmth. For a moment, it’s like everything in the room fades out. It’s just them, in this quiet little bubble that’s theirs, and Jo finally feels herself exhale fully.

“I am chill,” Paige mutters into Jo’s neck, her voice barely above a whisper but still so Paige—a little stubborn, a little sweet, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Jo. Jo can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she teases softly, the words slipping easily from her lips. Her fingers reach up to gently brush through Paige’s ponytail, not in a hurry, just slowly tracing the strands as they settle in. Paige huffs out a small laugh, her breath warm against Jo’s skin.

“Shut up,” the blonde murmurs, though there’s not an ounce of bite to it. She’s relaxed, melting into Jo’s side, and Jo feels contentment wash over her. This—this is what she’s been wanting. Not for Paige to keep hovering and fussing, but for them to just be close. To just be together, even in silence.

Jo lets out a slow breath, the weight of the day finally starting to lift. The game, the ankle, the worry over whether she’ll be able to play Villanova on Sunday—it all fades when Paige’s hand drapes over her stomach. That small, steady pressure from Paige’s fingertips is enough to remind Jo that everything’s fine. It’ll all be fine.

And then the older girl shifts again, her body rearranging itself to settle against Jo more comfortably. A second later, Paige’s chin is resting on Jo’s chest, and she looks up at her, their faces mere inches apart. Jo’s breath hitches a little, caught between amusement and something deeper, something softer. Paige’s eyes are playful now, and then she grins—stupidly, the kind that always makes Jo blush.

“You’re pretty,” Paige says, the words simple but wrapped in so much warmth.

The way she says it, with that lazy smile and the softness in her voice, it feels like everything Jo wants to hear but still never quite expects. Jo feels heat crawl up her neck, a flush that spreads quickly, like wildfire. She almost doesn’t know how to react, so she does what feels natural—she pushes Paige’s face away lightly, but the movement is gentle, like she’s holding onto something delicate. “Shut up,” Jo mumbles, the words more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Paige, of course, isn’t fazed. She just shakes her head, her hair brushing against Jo’s skin as she does.

“Uh-uh,” she replies softly, almost a challenge, like she’s determined to get Jo to give in to whatever it is she’s thinking, whatever little game she’s playing right now. Before Jo can say anything else, Paige reaches for her head, grabbing it gently but insistently. She brings it up to her lips, pressing a light kiss to Jo’s knuckles. The feeling and the way the blue of Paige’s eyes roam Jo’s face sends something through the younger girl’s chest, something that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

Jo’s mouth goes dry. It’s stupid how much Paige affects her, how easy it is for her to forget about everything else when the blonde looks at her like this.

And then Paige is leaning up, her lips finding Jo’s. Jo exhales softly into it, a slow sigh escaping her lungs like relief. Her hands slide around Paige’s neck almost instinctively, fingers curing in the fabric of her t-shirt like she needs something to hold onto—like if she lets go, it might all vanish.

Paige’s weight settles more fully on top of her, slow and careful. She’s still being cautious, keeping her right side angled away so she doesn’t press against Jo’s ankle. One of Paige’s hands lifts up to cradle Jo’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone. She leans in further, nose nudging Jo’s, slipping her tongue between the brunette’s lips. Jo’s heart is loud in her ears, thumping like it’s trying to break through her chest, and her lungs are full of Paige’s breath and her mouth is close as it can possibly get, and Jo sorta forgets how to function.

Then Paige makes a soft sound—a little sigh, a little hum—and Jo feels her stomach flip. She tightens her grip around Paige’s neck, pulling her in closer. A shared breath of want curls hotter between their mouths. Jo’s fingers thread into Paige’s ponytail, the soft strands sliding between them like water. Paige’s hands slide down her sides, fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie, thumbs brushing skin.

Jo gasps, barely audible, and Paige kisses her again like she’s chasing that sound.

And Jo doesn’t really know how it turns into this—messier, hotter, hungrier. When it stopped being soft and started being the kind of thing that makes her pulse trip in her neck and her stomach tighten. She doesn’t even care, honestly. Paige is on her, pressed flush against her like she’s trying to crawl into her skin, and Jo would let her. Would unzip her whole body and say here, take it if that’s what Paige wanted. Her brain is continuously short-circuiting and her mouth is the only thing truly working right now, still chasing Paige’s like she can’t get enough. Because she can’t. Not even close.

It’s sloppy. All teeth and tongue and misaligned breathing. Paige tastes like toothpaste and something sharp that might be need, might be want. Her hands are everywhere. Raking up under Jo’s sweatshirt, dragging across her stomach like she owns it, fingers digging into Jo’s ribs. The younger girl doesn’t even try to keep still. She tugs at Paige’s ponytail with one hand, not hard, just enough to make tilt her head the way she likes. Paige groans into her mouth and Jo swears she feels it in her spine.

The heat crawls up Jo’s neck, under her ears, blooming like wildfire in her chest. She wants. She wants. More than she ever has. It’s like something broke open in her, some seal that’s been holding back the rawness of it. It’s not like this is new. They kiss. They sleep in the same bed. They’ve been toeing every line for months now, orbiting each other like idiots, letting their bodies say what they won’t let their mouths admit.

But they’d had limits. Unspoken, invisible boundaries they don’t cross. Like, for example, sex—and anything that comes close it. Because they’re best friends. Or more than best friends. Or something tangled in the middle that’s never made sense when Jo’s really let herself think about it.

But right now? Jo doesn’t want those limits. She wants to shatter them. Burn them down and pretend they never existed. Because Paige’s fingers are curling against her ribs and her mouth is warm and perfect and Jo feels like she’s going to lose it.

It’s then that Paige’s hand reaches for her hoodie, tugging just slightly—not enough to remove it, but enough to ask. Enough to test. Jo stills for half a second, kiss faltering, breath catching in her throat. Her heart’s thudding so loud it’s embarrassing.

Jo pulls away from Paige’s mouth, lips swollen and chest heaving. Her voice is so wrecked it barely sounds like her own when she says, almost in a whimper, “Fuck, take it off.”

There’s a beat. Just one. Paige blinks, and Jo can see the way it hits her—how her eyes flash and her mouth parts like she wasn’t expecting to hear it, like maybe she thought Jo would stop her. But Jo doesn’t backpedal. She just looks at her, breathless, and waits.

Paige doesn’t hesitate again.

Her hands are on the hem of Jo’s sweatshirt immediately, slipping back underneath, palms warm and steady as she pushes the fabric up and over. Jo lifts her arms, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere off the side of the bed, forgotten. Paige sits up a little, hovering above her, eyes scanning slowly—not with hunger exactly, but with something closer to awe. Like Jo’s some sort of painting she’s never been allowed to stare at this long.

Jo swallows. Her skin prickles. She’s not wearing a bra. She feels exposed.

“Joey,” Paige breathes, like she forgot how her lungs work.

Jo exhales a laugh. Shaky. Nervous around the edges. “Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles, grabbing at Paige’s shirt now too, tugging it. Paige just grins, and then takes the liberty of lifting her own arms and taking the shirt off, leaving her in just her sports bra. Jo exhales another shaky breath.

Paige leans back down, slotting her lips against Jo’s again. Her skin is warmer than Jo’s and the brunette shivers a little.

Maybe she’s a little nervous. Not like scared-scared, not in a bad way. But there’s a fluttery sort of tightness low in her stomach, like something big’s about to happen and she doesn’t really know how to brace for it. Like her whole body is buzzing with something like readiness.

And, yeah, it’s kind of scary. Because she’s done this before. Not this. Not with a girl. And not with Paige. Jo’s had sex before, of course. With Asher, who was always so familiar and known. And Paige is familiar, too—in every way except this one. But, Jo supposes, it’s about time.

And Paige is everywhere now. Not all at once, but in that slow, agonizing way that seems almost like she’s memorizing every inch of her, one kiss at a time. Her mouth moves from Jo’s lips to her jaw, trailing heat as she goes. Jo tilts her head back automatically, a soft sigh slipping past her lips. Paige’s tongue flicks out, ghosting along the edge of her skin like she’s tasting, not just kissing.

She continues down Jo’s throat, just under her jaw, then lower, letting her lips drag. She’s so deliberate about it, so unhurried, like she’s not trying to get anywhere quite yet. Like this is the destination.

And Jo just… lets her. Arms loose around Paige’s shoulders, her ankle forgotten, her brain melted. For once, she’s not overthinking. The only thing her mind can conjure up is now. The warmth of Paige’s breath. The gentle scrape of her teeth. How safe Jo feels under her.

When Paige mouths at her collarbone, Jo has to bite her lip to keep from gasping. It’s not even that’s intense—just a kiss, just lips, just Paige—but it still makes her hips shift, her core tighten. Paige feels it. Of course she does. She hums against Jo’s skin like she’s proud of herself.

“Okay?” Paige murmurs, lips brushing against the top of Jo’s chest now, hand sliding up Jo’s torso.

Jo’s voice comes out breathy and more higher-pitched than normal. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘M good.”

And it’s true. She is. She’s good. She’s more than good.

Because Paige is cupping her tit now, her thumb brushing across the skin like she’s trying to soothe Jo’s heartbeat, not rile it up. But it’s not working—Jo’s heart is slamming. And then Paige kisses over it, warm and open-mouthed, and Jo’s done.

She makes this tiny sound—somewhere between a breath and a moan—and she feels Paige smirk against her chest, the smug little shit. But Jo can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. She just cards her fingers back through Paige’s ponytail, breathing through her mouth now.

The blonde’s mouth closes around one of Jo’s nipples, her tongue swirling. She palms at the other one slowly, rolling the bud between her fingers. Jo lets her eyes flutter shut, just feeling.

Paige keeps going, and Jo’s getting dizzy in that warm, liquidy way, like she’s not even in her body anymore, like her bones are soft and her skin is buzzing and her brain is just static and Paige. Paige, Paige, Paige.

Paige shifts a little. She kisses Jo’s sternum before ducking further. She trails her mouth down Jo’s ribs, across her stomach, slow, like she’s trying to dial everything down to just sweet and careful. And Jo knows it’s on purpose. She knows Paige is setting that pace for her. Because she gets like this sometimes—amped up, nervous, overthinking even when she’s dying to just feel something. And Paige knows that. She knows her. So, instead of rushing, she’s soft. She’s steady. She’s Paige.

Jo feels the bed shift under her as Paige scoots down, her hands dragging gently along Jo’s sides, not trying anything—yet—just touching, holding. Comforting. Her lips brush lower, ghosting the line of Jo’s hip, her breath warm and maddening right at the waistband of Jo’s pajama shorts.

Paige pauses. “D’you want—?” she starts, voice low and quiet and curious.

But Jo’s already nodding, already lifting her hips a little, like yes, God, yes, just do it. The words don’t come out, but she doesn’t have to say anything—Paige reads her face like it’s nothing. She lets out a soft laugh, not mocking, just amused, like okay, okay, I got you, and then she presses another kiss right above the shorts before hooking her fingers into the elastic.

Paige pulls them down slowly, like she’s unwrapping something delicate. Jo’s underwear comes with it, and—surprisingly—she doesn’t even really care about being fully naked. Not when it’s Paige. Not when Paige is being so fucking gentle about it, like every single part of Jo matters.

She tries to keep her breathing even, tries not to fidget or think too hard. Her ankle twinges a little when Paige moves the fabric past it, but Paige’s hands are immediately there, holding her calf, guiding her foot carefully out of the shirts. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t forget. And once they’re off—tossed somewhere onto the floor—Paige leans down and presses the lightest kiss to Jo’s ankle.

Jo swallows hard. Her throat feels tight.

Paige continues kissing up her leg, slow again, lazy, like she’s got nowhere else to be—which, she doesn’t. Her lips are warm and soft and just a little wet. No feels them drag across her knee, specifically across the scar from her own ACL surgery, then the inside of her thigh, and her whole body shuddered. She bites her lip and grips the hotel sheets, just barely keeping herself grounded.

Paige’s mouth trails over the soft skin of Jo’s inner thigh, her hand resting on Jo’s other leg. The brunette can feel how careful she’s being—like she’s trying to make sure Jo never once feels unsafe or uncomfortable. And that matters—to Jo, it really, really does.

Jo breathes out, unsteady, one hand still tangled in the sheets, the other reaching down to run through Paige’s hair. She can feel the blonde’s breath on her aching and waiting pussy.

“P,” she whispers.

She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say with it Just hi. You. Me I’m here. I want this. I want you. All of it, unspoken, right there in her voice.

Paige looks up at her, her eyes so soft and blue and perfect that it makes Jo’s stomach clench. “Still okay?” she asks, quiet. It’s different—she’s always so loud.

Jo nods. Too fast, probably. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Yeah, I just—” She trails off, because she doesn’t really know what she’s trying to say. She’s not scared. She’s just… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like her body is still catching up to what her heart already decided forever ago: this is safe. This is right.

Paige just smiles. A little smug, but mostly sweet. She kisses the inside of Jo’s thigh again, before trailing her mouth once more—to the final destination. Paige leans in and blows very lightly on Jo’s clit. A shaky breath escapes Jo’s nose as she bites the inside of her cheek. And then finally—finally—Paige’s lips make contact.

The blonde presses a kiss there before her tongue peeks out, sliding along Jo’s slit, between her folds. Jo’s fingers dig into the mattress and her thighs try to shut involuntarily but Paige just holds them open, getting into her rhythm. She hums a little against Jo, as if satisfied, her tongue moving up and down slowly, swirling around her clit and then flicking.

And Jo thinks she’s maybe going to actually lose her mind. Like, fully. Brain melting, spine liquefying, soul leaving the building. All because of Paige.

Because Paige is there, and she’s not being even remotely shy about it, all confidence and experience and Jo’s never felt anything like this. Not even close.

Sure, she’s had it done before. By Asher. Who… tried. Sort of. On good days. But it never felt like this. It never made her toes curl or her vision blue or her body tense the way it is right now. There was always this weird pressure with Asher, like she was supposed to be reacting more than she was. Or that she was reacting wrong. She never told him that. Didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness, because things were always supposed to be so perfect between them. But there were plenty of times where she just stared at the ceiling while he ate her out or fingered her or even fucked her and she would just think about her math homework or the her latest in-game turnover.

But this?

This is not that.

This is Paige knowing—despite never having done it with Jo—exactly where to touch her. Exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly what pace to go. Exactly when she should lean down and slip her tongue inside and thrust a couple times before pulling it back out and sliding the juices along Jo’s clit. It’s unfair, honestly, how good Paige is at this. Jo wants to laugh about it, but she can’t even breathe properly, so instead she just digs her fingers deeper into the sheets and lets her head fall back into the pillow.

The way Paige is holding her thighs, steady and secure and strong, like she’s not going anywhere—that alone is doing something feral to Jo’s brain. But the way she’s using her mouth, her tongue, her lips? Like she’s actually wants to be here? Like Jo tastes good and Paige can’t get enough of her?

It sends a jolt through Jo’s chest. Because it’s not just the physical part—it’s the feeling of it. The way Paige hums softly like she’s content. Like this isn’t a favor or a performance or a box to check off. It’s Paige being Paige. Careful. Patient. Stupidly hot in that way that makes Jo want to scream into a pillow and then, like, marry her or something, God.

She closes her eyes and tries not to think too hard. Which is difficult because she always thinks too hard. About everything. Especially this. Especially now.

Because it’s not just that Paige is eating her out like she’s her last meal, making her feel fucking incredible—it’s that she’s letting her feel that way. Letting her fall apart and not feel stupid or self-conscious or like she needs to perform in return. And Jo can just lie here, all shaking limbs and flushed skin and half-whispered gasps, and Paige is content to be the one in control. To be the one taking care of her.

And Jo—Jo loves being taken care of. She never says it out loud, but she does. She really does.

Especially by her.

She risks a glance down, her vision a little blurry from how hard she’s breathing, and she sees Paige looking up at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth glistening with her slick, hands still steady on her hips.

Jo thinks she could cry. Or cum. Or both.

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles, barely able to get the words out. Her voice is so wrecked she almost laughs at herself. “You’re… mhm, stupid good at this.”

Paige doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch. But she does smile a little, and Jo feels the smirk against her cunt. It’s dumb and cocky and the exact kind of Paige she always pretends to roll her eyes at but secretly adores.

When Paige takes Jo’s clit into her mouth and sucks hard, Jo’s hand flies up on instinct, finding Paige’s hair again and tugging. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

Paige definitely gets the message. Because she sucks harder and then, all of a sudden, two of her long fingers are sliding inside Jo, stretching her out. Jo hips jerk upwards in response—sharp and uncoordinated, her breath catching in her throat like it’s trying to make up its mind between a loan and a full-body sigh.

Paige’s fingers pump in and out of Jo’s cunt, her tongue still messily sliding through Jo’s folds. Jo lolls her head to the side, eyes squeezing shut, and lets herself feel. The tension curling low in her stomach. The heat building between her thighs. The way her fingers twitch like they’re searching for something to hold onto that isn’t Paige’s hair or the sheets or her own sanity.

Paige pulls her mouth away, still thrusting her fingers, leaning her cheek against Jo’s thigh to watch. Jo watches as the blonde’s eyes flit between the way Jo’s cunt sucks up her fingers and up to Jo’s face.

“Hey,” Paige murmurs, voice low, warm. “You’re good, ‘kay? I gotchu.”

Jo nods, or at least she thinks she does. Her head twitches anyway. She’s not sure her body is even hers anymore. Everything feels hot and electric and floaty, and the pressure in her gut when Paige curls her fingers inside before slowly pulling them out and then thrusting them back in hard has Jo choking out the blonde’s name. She’s never felt like this before. It’s so different and so much better and she doesn’t know how she ever went without it.

“That’s it,” Paige says gently, encouraging. She presses a sloppy kiss to Jo’s thigh, lips still sticky and leaving a residue behind. “Doin’ so good for me. So pretty. C’mon, baby.”

And that—the word, the tone, the way Paige has never said that before but it still slips out like it’s the most natural thing in the world—unlocks something.

Jo lets out another whimper, thighs clenching tighter, hips bucking before she can stop them. Her entire body jolts in time with the pace of Paige’s fingers, and she feels the rush come crashing in, fast and unstoppable.

“Shit—Paige—fuck—” she gasps out.

Paige keeps going, faster, harder. She keeps missing the inside of Jo’s thigh, whispering something that Jo can’t even make out over the roaring in her ears. Paige curls her fingers one last time—and then it all snaps.

When it’s over—when her body finally goes lax, her arms flopping back into the bed like she’s just run a marathon—Jo lies there in stunned silence. Staring up at the ceiling, her chest still rising and falling too fast, her thighs feeling sticky, her cunt throbbing, her mouth parted but empty of words.

Paige rests her chin gently on Jo’s hip and looks up at her, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips shining, eyes so soft and full of something Jo’s learning not to be so scared of.

“You okay?” she asks, lips curling up.

And Jo, still panting, still trying to make sense of everything, doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have words yet. Doesn’t even really have thoughts yet, not anything coherent. So instead of answering, she just reaches down and grabs at Paige.

The blonde, of course, goes with it. No hesitation. She crawls up the bed until they’re face to face, her body draped over Jo’s. Their lips meet again, slow for a second, just a soft press. Jo can taste herself on Paige, and it’s weird and good and makes her heart pound even faster. There’s something about it that flips a switch in her, ignites this new kind of fire in her chest that she didn’t even know she had the energy for.

And then she’s moving—fast. One sharp inhale and she’s flipping Paige onto her back, catching the surprised squeak out of her mouth mid-kiss. Jo ends up on top, straddling her with still-shaky limbs and adrenaline pumping through her blood. When she pulls back to look down at her, Paige is grinning.

That fully, gummy smile—the one she only does when she’s really happy. The one Jo adores.

Paige is staring up at her like she’s the best surprise she’s ever gotten.

Jo looks down at her, breath catching again, but this time for a totally different reason. Her body’s still trembling a little, but not really from her orgasm anymore, just from want.

“Why the fuck was I ever dating a boy?” she asks, genuinely baffled, blinking down at Paige. The thought of Asher now, who she’d been so obsessed with her entire life, seems just incredulous now. So dim compared to Paige.

Paige snorts, eyes crinkling, shaking er head. “Beats me.”

Jo lets out a laugh—one that might be a little too giddy—but then she’s already leaning down again, kissing Paige. This time, it’s not slow. Not careful. It’s fast and messy and full of new urgency.

Paige responds immediately—gripping Jo’s waist, then lower, hands landing firmly on Jo’s ass, squeezing. Jo grins against the older girl’s mouth, biting at her lower lip. Her hands roam across Paige’s stomach, feeling the firmness of her abs, before reaching up.

The brunette pulls back just enough to tug at the hem of Paige’s sports bra. “God,” she mutters, “take this off—”

Her hands are there, fumbling a little because she’s still shaky and a little overwhelmed, but Paige doesn’t laugh or tease. She just sits up a bit, helps her out, eyes never leaving Jo’s.

And when the bra’s finally off and Jo sees her—really sees her—she stares. And then leans down to reattach their lips again, telling Paige, “You’re so pretty.”

That seems to do something to her, and she pulls Jo against her harder, so their bare chests are flush against each other. Her tongue tangles with Jo’s and the brunette moans a little into her mouth.

At this point, Jo isn’t even really thinking anymore. Not in the way that counts. Her brain’s gone nicely quiet, like someone hit mute on all the noise she usually lives with. Right now, there’s only this: Paige, flushed and beautiful and real beneath her. Paige, who just made her feel fucking perfect. And Jo wants to make her feel that, too.

She wants to return the favor. Not because she feels like she has to. Not because it’s expected. Just because she wants to.

So, she reaches down, her fingers brushing along Paige’s lower stomach. Paige doesn’t even say anything, just meets Jo’s eyes and lifts her hips. She helps Jo slide her sweatpants and boxers off in one smooth motion. She doesn’t make it a big thing, doesn’t look nervous or self-conscious—just kicks them off with that stupid confidence that she somehow always has.

Once they’re off, Jo leans back down and kisses Paige hard. Their mouths crash together, open and desperate, all lips and tongue and shaky exhalations. It’s sloppy.

They kiss until Jo feels dizzy again. Until Paige is clutching at her back like she doesn’t want her to go anywhere, ever. Until Jo’s lungs feel like they’re caving in from how badly she wants to be closer.

Jo’s hand moves again, slower this time. Down Paige’s side. Over her ribs. Across her stomach, which is warm and tense and fluttering under her palm. And down. Just enough.

She pauses against Paige’s lips, heart pounding in her throat, and asks in a whisper, “Can I?”

Paige breaths hard against Jo’s mouth. She nods once, then says, completely breathlessly, “Only if you want to.”

And Jo does. She really fucking does.

So, she kisses Paige again and slowly slips her fingers between her thighs.

And she kind of has no idea what she’s doing.

Okay, that’s not totally true—she sort of knows. In theory. Like, she’s not walking in completely blind here. She’s fingered herself before. But this is different. This is Paige. This is the first time she’s ever done this with a girl. All she really has to rely on is instincts and the wild, overwhelming need to make Paige feel as good as she made her feel.

Jo keeps her hand steady, even though her brain is no longer quiet, back to doing backflips. Her fingertips are already slick, and the heat radiating off Paige’s body is unreal, almost feverish. Every tiny sound Paige makes—the hitched breath, the muffed moan, the soft, whispered “fuck” when Jo does something right—sends a jolt down Jo’s spine.

“Right there,” Paige says, breath ragged, voice cracking, when Jo presses her fingers deeper, hitting that gummy spot inside. “Just—yeah, like that.”

Jo nods, kissing the side of Paige’s throat. She shifts her hand slightly, curling her fingers the way Paige guided her, and—

That gets a reaction. Paige arches, hips twitching, and her hands scramble for something to hold onto—Jo’s shoulder, the sheets, whatever. Her fingers dig in.

Jo almost forgets how to breathe. Her heart is hammering in her chest. Not just because Paige is clearly into it—which, thank God—but because of how natural it feels. Not easy, necessarily, because she’s still very much learning, still kind of terrified of doing it wrong—but right. Right in that deeply weird way where something you’ve never done before just clicks into place.

It’s strange. Not in a bad way. Just… strange, realizing how different this is from anything she’s done before. With Asher, everything always felt so scripted. Rushed. Weirdly, kind of detached, too. Like she was there but not really there, going through the motions, wondering if it was supposed to feel better, if she should have enjoyed getting him off more than she did.

But Paige? Here, right now?

It’s all-consuming.

Jo stares—watches the way her sharp jaw clenches, the way her bare chest rises and falls unevenly, the little crease between her brows when Jo hits the right spot again. Paige is so in it, so present. Jo isn’t used to how much Paige is giving her right now—how vulnerable she looks, and how safe Jo feels holding her like this.

“You’re doin’ good,” Paige mumbles, breathless, her arm sliding around Jo’s back again, pulling her closer. Her short nails dig into Jo’s spine. “So good.”

Jo’s stomach flips. It’s stupid how much that means. How warm it makes her feel. She pumps her fingers, a little faster.

“Yeah?” she asks. She leans down, kisses along Paige’s collarbone because she needs something to do with her mouth.

Paige nods, palm pressing harder against Jo, head tilting back. “Mhm. Like, real good.”

Jo grins against her skin, a little proud and a lot relieved. Her fingers keep thrusting, falling into a rhythm that matched the stutter of Paige’s breath. It’s a little bit trial and error, but she’s getting the hang of it. And Paige is being so patient, so kind. Still giving her those little instructions when she needs them—a whispered “softer” here, a breathy “deeper” there. Not demanding, not condescending, just guiding.

And she’s so pretty like this. Skin flushed, lips parted, ponytail all messed up. Jo leans down and kisses her again and Paige kisses her back like she needs it, like kissing Jo is the only thing keeping her here. Her cunt tightens around Jo’s fingers, and Jo feels a thrill shoot through her when Paige moans into her mouth.

She can feel Paige getting close—the way her hips jerk, how her pussy pulses, her breath getting shallower. And Jo wants to see it. She pulls back just enough to look down at her, to take it all in.

Paige’s eyes flutter open. She looks up at Jo with blown pupils and eyes full of need. “Joey—fuck, don’t stop,” she groans, almost begging.

Jo doesn’t. Of course not.

She keeps her pace steady, watches every second of it—the way Paige’s back arches, the way her cunt swallows Jo’s fingers, the way her mouth falls open and the soft, broken sounds she makes as she gushes against Jo’s hand. It’s by far the most attractive thing Jo’s seen in her entire life.

Paige goes still for a moment, then slumps back against the mattress, blinking like she’s trying to remember how breathing works.

Jo pulls her fingers out gently. She wipes them on the edge of the blanket, not bothering to care about the mess. She just wants to look at her. At Paige. At her best friend, who’s actually a lot more than that.

Paige finally turns her head to look at her. She’s still catching her breath, cheeks red, lips kiss-bitten. “Shit,” she says, voice hoarse.

Jo lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah.”

Paige shakes her head before tightening her grip on Jo’s back, saying, “C’mere.”

Jo goes, meeting Paige halfway, kissing her. It’s slow, lazy, lips dragging against each other like neither of them is in a rush to come back to reality. Jo’s hand rests on Paige’s side, fingers moving without thought, tracing the soft, warm dip of her waist. Paige’s skin is damp and flushed beneath her.

Jo feels really good. Like her whole body’s buzzing from the inside out. Like something just cracked open inside her and let in fresh air for the first time in a long time.

Paige’s mouth is at her jaw now, a quick nip of teeth before she kisses her way back to Jo’s lips. Jo smiles against her, dazed and stupidly content. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want anything to change.

But then Paige is suddenly pulling back, jerking upright like she just remembered something extremely important. Jo blinks, caught off guard.

“What?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

Paige’s eyes go wide. “Your ankle, bro!”

Jo stares at her, confused for half a second before it hits her—right. Her ankle. Her sprained ankle.

She rolls it, and yeah, it definitely twinges in a way that reminds her maybe throwing herself around the bed wasn’t the smartest decision she’s ever made.

“Oh,” she mutters, pressing her lips together. “Ow.”

Paige is already moving, gently pushing at Jo’s shoulder so she’ll lie back flat. “Joey,” she says, and her voice has this exasperated fondness in it that makes Jo want to grin and roll her eyes at the same time.

“I forgot!” Jo says, both defensive and sheepish. “You were—we were—I forgot!”

Paige shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She’s not mad. Not even really worried, just Paige-level concerned, which usually means she’s about to fuss over Jo like someone’s grandma. “You’re so stupid,” she says, laughing under her breath.

Jo hits lightly at her arm, but doesn’t actually argue.

Paige leans down, pressing her lips to Jo’s forehead with this stupidly gentle kiss that makes Jo’s heart go inside inside her chest.

“I’mma go get more ice,” the blonde says, already halfway off the bed.

But just as her feet hit the ground, she stops like she forgot something, turning back around. She crawls back over and kisses Jo again, quick and sweet. Like a reflex. Like she needed to. And Jo’s not expecting it, so her breath catches for the smallest second—and then Paige is already up, grabbing at her clothes so she can go out in the hall.

Jo lies there for a second, dazed and blinking at the ceiling. Her whole body feels warm and worn-out and achy in a good way. The bed still smells like both of them, sweat and perfume and arousal.

She exhales slowly.

Yeah, she’s in so deep.

[andorsdoll]

Like A Vow || Cassian Andor x Reader

Summary: You’re reckless. He pretends not to be. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But Cassian Andor notices everything—especially you.

Word Count: 2.8k || Warnings: coworkers to lovers, super soft angst, smut at the very end, cassian is so tired but so in love, rough sex, oral(f recieving), p-in-v(unprotected), creampie, etc.,

Author's Note: First ever smut in my 20 something years of living and of course I choose Cassian for this. Are there any Cass stans out there? 🥲 Feel like nobody ever talks about him but he's so important to me. After this fic, I'll probably take a breather as I don't really have much else planned besides a few messy drafts. Anyways, if there's a single Cassian lover out there who reads this and enjoys it, it'd make my heart absolutely soar. Thx 4 reading, everybody!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　

You weren’t expecting a warm welcome.

The Rebellion didn’t deal in courtesies. Every outpost, every mission—it was about efficiency, survival, and who was still standing at the end of the day. But still, you were expecting something more than this.

Cassian Andor doesn’t even look at you when you step into the command tent, at first. He finishes reading whatever’s on the datapad in his hand, brows furrowed, jaw set tight. You wonder if this is just how he always looks—on edge and bracing for impact. When he does look up, it hits you like a punch to the stomach. He looks at you like you’re a problem. Like you’ve already made a mistake by being here.

It’s the first thing you notice. Not his sharp jawline, not the rough stubble shadowing his face, not even the way he stands—feet planted, arms crossed, every muscle taut with something unreadable.

No, the first thing you notice is the weight of his gaze. Suspicion. Guarded. Calculating.

They had sent you here with little explanation—assist Captain Andor, integrate into the missions, follow his orders—but no one warned you that he’d look at you like this. Like he’s waiting for you to prove him right. You press your lips together. You were clearly not the ally he was hoping for. Tightening your grip on the strap of your bag, you speak for the first time, "You think I'm a liability."

Cassian’s steady gaze stays on you. “I think I don’t know you.” His eyes sweep over you, assessing. “But you’re not easy to trust.”

You've heard that before, from officers who kept one hand on their blaster and the other one ready to push you out of the way. From commanders who never let you forget what you used to be before the Rebellion.

You take a step closer, letting the fire in you flare just a little. “Guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me then.”

Cassian’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t step back. Though he doesn’t say anything after that.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

Weeks later on a mission, your boots are soaked through and the wind cuts sharper than it has any right to. You’ve been through worse—nights sleeping under damp tarps, mornings where frost settled into your boots before you could even lace them. But something about tonight’s cold sinks straight to your bones.

Now you’re standing in the cold pretending it doesn’t bother you. And Cassian notices. Of course he does.

He shrugs off his coat and tosses it at you with a flick of his wrist. You blink down at it, then back up at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m—”

“Put it on.”

His voice is firm, but not unkind. Like he’s made a decision and arguing won’t change it. Annoyingly, that tone of his sends heat straight to your core, even as your breath fogs in the freezing air.

You stare at him a beat longer, breath puffing out white clouds, before exhaling sharply and sliding the coat over your shoulders. It smells like blaster oil and heat and the weight of him—sharp, worn, unmistakably Cassian.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

It takes a few days to make it to the next fallback point. The terrain is rough, the weather brutal, and morale is low. But it’s Cassian you’re watching. He’s quieter. He won’t look at you for long. He barely speaks unless it’s to give an order. And somehow that grates on you more than all the orders he’s ever given.

The fourth night, after yet another bare-bones meal for dinner, you slip away from the firepit and follow the faint sound of water. You find him standing knee-deep in the river, arms tense, shoulders bare under the moonlight. Cassian turns when he hears you. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says.

“So are you.”

He doesn’t argue. You glance at the bruises across his ribs. The streaks of ash on his jaw and the ripple of tension he always wears on it like armor. “You’re hurt,” you say softly.

His gaze flicks to your arm, still bandaged. “So are you.”

You step into the river without thinking. The water is cold, biting at your skin, but you keep going until you’re close enough to reach for him. Your fingers skim over his shoulder, across a bruise forming high on his chest.

Cassian exhales, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Then—soft, almost careful—“Don’t move.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t have to. His skin is warm under your palms, your gaze observes his face when he drags you a little closer. Your thumb traces a cut along his jaw. But, he catches your wrist. And then his lips brush the inside of your wrist, so lightly you could lie to yourself and say it was nothing.

“Cassian…” you whisper.

He stays quiet. He doesn't kiss you, even though deep down you want him to. Just presses in—closer than before—close enough to catch your breath, and stays there. And in the silence, only the night answers back.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The next mission isn’t long, but it’s long enough for you to notice the way Cassian's eyes feel on you when you’re not looking. Enough for you to realize what’s been holding him back isn’t doubt but worry. Not about you. For you.

You’re crouched behind a low ridge one night, surveying a mining compound, and you can feel the air between you charged and tight.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur.

“I’m thinking,” Cassian says.

“About?”

“Extraction routes.”

You glance at him. “Liar.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just says, “You’re not easy to ignore.”

You blink, then look back toward the compound. You don’t answer—just let the corner of your mouth lift, and hope he catches it.

“You’re reckless,” he says after a moment.

You huff a quiet breath. “So are you.”

“Yeah, but you’re new.”

“Yeah, but I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’re not.”

You watch him from the side. “Are you always like this with new people?”

“I usually don’t care about new people.”

You go still. Cassian’s eyes flick toward you. “I notice everything. You should know that by now.”He stands up, lingering just a little bit closer.

That night, you patch up a graze on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush skin. He watches you with his jaw tense like always.

When you’re done, he says, “Thank you,” and your chest aches with the effort of pretending it means nothing. But you’re both pretending. And the cracks are starting to show.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission’s gone sideways in too many directions, and you're running out of clean shots and clean exits. But what gets under your skin isn’t the enemy fire, it’s the way Cassian keeps pushing ahead like you’re not right there beside him.

You cover him. Twice. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Just reloads and barks for you to move faster.

By the time you reach the rendezvous point, your heart’s hammering, your thigh’s bleeding, and your patience is gone. “I had that angle,” you snap as you duck behind a crate.

“No, you didn’t,” he fires back, checking the charge on his blaster. “You hesitated.”

“I was covering you.”

“I didn’t need covering.”

The tension crackles as loud as the blaster fire behind you. You don’t look at each other, you don’t have to. The frustration between you is too sharp, too close to something else.

Later, back at the safehouse, frustration follows you both in. He slams the door harder than necessary. You drop the intel onto the table harder than you should.

You don’t speak. But it’s all sitting there, tight in your chest, waiting to blow and the silence between the two of you gets heavier by the second.

━━━━⊱︎⊰━━━━

The mission went to hell. Again.

Cassian’s bleeding from his lip, your boots are caked in dust, and the intel package you weren’t supposed to have is now sitting in your bag—because you grabbed it first. He didn’t.

“I had it handled,” he snaps as you storm into the safehouse. “You didn’t have to blow our cover.”

You rip off your gloves. “You were pinned with a blaster at your neck. Forgive me for improvising.”

“You didn’t listen,” Cassian growls, flinging his arm out like he’s one second from losing it. “I told you to wait for my signal!”

You toss your gloves to the floor, scoffing. “You would’ve been dead if I had, Captain.” Your voice cuts—sharp and aimed to hit.

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

You step in, a bit closer, voice steady. "No. I know I am.”

And then he breaks, finally. One second of silence and he’s on you, mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to shut you up, like it’s the only way left to speak or reason with you. It's everything that’s been coiled tight between you two breaking loose all at once.

His hand grabs the back of your neck, anchoring you just before you’re slammed against the wall, breath knocked from your lungs, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s done pretending. Fingers in your hair, body pressed tight to yours, his lips trailing fire down your jaw and neck, every inch of space, gone.

“You don’t think. You act," He reprimands while he keeps trailing down, suckling, "Like you’re not mine to worry about,” he mutters against your skin.

“I’m not yours—” A moan from your lips cuts you off before you can finish when his mouth finds the curve of your neck and lingers there, sucking slow and deep until the skin heats beneath his tongue and you know it’s going to mark.

“You’re just pissed,” you breathe, thinking maybe this is fury, maybe it’s impulse, maybe it’s everything all at once.

“I’m in love with you,” he bites out. “It’s the same thing.”

Cassian’s chest rises fast against yours. He doesn’t pull back. You try to say something. Anything. But your voice falters again, and all that comes out is breath.

He reads that like a signal. One second you’re standing, the next he grips your thighs and lifts you, carrying you across the room with staggering purpose. You barely register the room spinning around you before your back hits the cot, frame creaking beneath the weight of your bodies.

He’s hovering over you, the heat radiating off of him. His breath, hands, mouth, are all over you like he’s making up for every second he had to wait.

His hands are rough where they want to be, but loving where they linger. He shoves your shirt up, palms your breasts, thumbs working slow circles until you arch into him. He strips you down fast, dragging your pants off with a growl, and you can barely think while you undress him too.

His mouth trails along your stomach, down your thighs, and when you whimper, when your hips lift instantly for him—he presses you down with both hands.

Steady. In control. Maddening.

His eyes drop—and for a moment, he just stares. Like the sight alone took the breath from him. His mouth parts, jaw slack, eyes glazed with something close to awe. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost like it wasn’t meant to come out. “Look at you…”

He lowers himself again, breath warm against your thigh, lips ghosting over your skin as he settles between your legs. His tongue starts slow and focused. You gasp as his tongue begins to lap up every bit of your slick. And when you moan this time, it's his name. But it sounds like a plead and it only makes him hungrier.

He devours you like he’s starving. Like he hasn’t tasted anything real since the war started. Like you’re the first thing that’s made him feel full in a long time.

His tongue moves slow at first with long, deliberate strokes from bottom to top, savoring every drop like it’s keeping him alive. Then faster, more focused, the flat of his tongue dragging over your clit with maddening precision, again and again, until your hips jerk under his mouth. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks through your spine.

And when you're gasping, legs trembling, everything unraveling, you fist your hand in his hair and yank. His head lifts fast at that. He's looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, his lips glistening, chin wet. He’s drenched in you, mouth parted like he’s still tasting you. The look in his eyes is wrecked and ravished, like if you gave him one more second down there, he’d never come back up.

But you don’t give him the chance. You tug him higher, guide him with shaking hands. He groans when your fingers wrap around his length as you angle your hips and drag him toward where you need him most.

And then, he sinks in slow and deep.

When he finally bottoms out, his eyes are searching your face like he’s afraid he imagined it. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes glazing over with pleasure—you look like everything he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

“Feels like..” he whispers, voice shaking. “Feels like you were made for me"

He pulls out slow—torturously slow—and then thrusts back in hard, with a sharp snap of his hips and you break open beneath him, undone and unfiltered.

Your breath’s caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, but you still manage to say his name—barely audible, but a tantric prayer. He says yours in return, like a vow, like it's the only thing grounding him.

The cot rocks beneath you with every thrust, steady and relentless. Cassian's hands stay locked onto your waist while he fucks into you like he’s making up for every second he had to pretend this wasn’t real. Every thrust gets rougher, deeper, like he wants to live inside you.

You’re already close, the pressure building fast. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath catching on every thrust. “Cassian—”

He groans when you say his name like that, desperate and broken. His hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit without hesitation, firm and focused. “I’ve got you,” he rasps. “Come for me.”

And this time, when he gives a command, it’s not like the others. Not barked out in the field, not clipped and tactical. This one’s just for you, just for now.

And you obey. It hits hard—your whole body arching, clenching around him, mouth open in a moan you can’t even bite back. He watches you fall apart like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. Like he’d die to make it happen again.

“Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight" he mutters, voice unraveling. You grab his face and make him look at you. “Finish inside me.”

His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to hold it together. “You want me to?” He asks, looking down at you, so fucking beautiful, afraid that wanting it this much might break him.

You nod, eyes never leaving his. And that's all it takes for Cassian to let out a low, guttural groan while his rhythm falters. His hips snap forward once, twice, then he buries himself deep, gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

He stays there, buried deep, breathing like he doesn’t want to leave this version of himself. One of your legs is still wrapped around his waist, trembling but holding him in place, like neither of you are ready to let go.

You can feel him still inside you—thick, spent, warm. His release already starting to leak out of you and around him, sticky and slow between your thighs.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters. Though it sounds like affection when he says it this time.

You hum against his skin. “So are you."

And still, he doesn’t move.

The room is quiet but the soft sounds of the cold night outside echo. The wind, the faint hum of crickets, and the distant rustle of leaves. It all feels far away. Like nothing exists outside this cot, this breath, this moment.

Afterward, when you’re trembling and tucked into his chest, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. He feels solid, quiet, and safer than anywhere you’ve been in a long time.

Your voice is barely above a whisper, almost shy. “I didn’t mean that thing I said earlier… about not being yours.”

He kisses your temple. “I know.”

[hustlebonezzz]

A flash of confidence followed by the immediate fear of ruining something dear. On the other hand, the ready reciprocation and the disillusion of a deeper meaning.

Continued

[alanide-arts]

good ole dinner