#there's not supposed to be a clear answer >:)))))

[deliwrites]

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x

// DATE // 29th of June 2025 → 30th of June 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // Angst-ish?, I'm bad at writing award shows but I had to make it difficult for myself and make one anyways. // WORDS // 2.5k+ / / SUMMARY // When a nervous solo artist unexpectedly finds herself seated between two of the biggest idol groups at an award show, she expects to be ignored - only to be met with warmth, curiosity, and a spark of something deeper. As the night unfolds and her past resurfaces, what began as a whirlwind of insecurity slowly transforms into unexpected support, and a silent promise from the people who were never supposed to notice her.

// Part One // Part Two //

If I could explain it, I would. But I can’t.

I have just been hyped up on social media, by none other than Huntr/x and the Saja Boys. And I only just met them at an award show. I was obviously my clumsy self and literally stumbled into Zoey. I felt so embarrassed. I looked up to them, still do, and just went and made a fool of myself in front of them. Later that night I was assigned a seat between the two groups.

I don’t know how I got so lucky… and so unlucky at the same time. It was so hard not to freak out. What I expected was to be ignored by both groups. I was a nobody and yet I got to sit with them.

I didn’t deserve this. Not the seat, nor the proximity to them. Hell, they didn’t deserve to be seated with someone as low as me.

But they actually talked to me. At first I wasn’t sure if they were even talking to me, but when I didn’t respond Rumi placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. It startled me.

“I’m sorry, w-were you talking t-to me,” smooth y/n. I scold myself. She only smiled sweetly, like she understood.

“Is this your first award show?” she asked again.

“I- yeah,” I stuttered, grimacing as I awkwardly pulled my shoulders up. “Is it, obvious?” she nodded, chuckling softly. Probably because of the wide eyed expression on my face. Simply because this goddess of an idol was talking to me.

“Just a little,” she says, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “We’ve all been there, but don’t worry. You’re safe. We got you. Any questions you have about events like this, we can answer them,” she gestures to herself, then the girls who were now focused on my too. “Including them, right boys?” she asks the Saja boys on my other side pointedly. My cheeks heated in embarrassment, as I turn to my left where they sat.

They’re all watching me. Relaxed, effortless, like they were born to be idols. There was a shared look between them, no words spoken. A smirk here and a smugly raised brow there.

“Sure,” Jinu replys casually, shoulders lifting in an easy shrug. Smile tugged at the corner of his mouth like he knew something I didn’t.

I returned my gaze to the front, but theres a new feeling that I couldn’t shake. Like I was being watched, though if I peeked in the corner of my eyes it wasn’t them. Or was it?

“Don’t mind them,” Zoey says, waving her hand dismissively. “Relax, I know it’s nerve-wracking to be here. But it will be okay,” she lifts her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, then lets them drop, signaling me to do the same. Then she leans back into her seat. I nod, taking a deep breath and lowering my shoulders before sinking into the seat completely. The tension finally loosening just a little.

“By the way, who are you?” It’s Baby, the maknae of the Saja Boys. Normally the silent type, but I’d heard he can be blunt. This is apparently one of those moments.

“That alone proves to me, that I should in fact not be here,” I mutter under my breath, not knowing they heard me loud and clear. Doubt settling in my throat like it did when I first walked in. I sigh and shake my head, trying to push it down. “I’m Y/n.”

Little does she know that both bands exchanged glances, stunned for a brief moment. They couldn’t understanding why she spoke so little of herself. Sure they didn’t know who she was, but they were sure there had to be a good reason for her being here. They most certainly wanted to find out more about her.

Before any of them could say anything one of the hosts entered the stage.

“Annyeonghaseyo, everyone! Welcome to this years K-pop Rising Stars Awards!” the host spread his arm wide as he spoke. Grand gestures to capture the audiences attention. “The night where we celebrate the freshest talents, the most unforgettable songs, and the idols who’ve taken this year by storm,” the moment he stops talking his co host enters the stage enthusiastically. Joining to stand beside the first host.

“Hello, hello! I’m Seyeon and alongside Minjun,” she introduces the both of them. “I’m thrilled to guide you through an incredible evening packed with excitement, anticipation and of course amazing performances,” cheers fill the venue.

“Tonight, we’ll be honoring a whopping fifteen idols and groups with well deserved awards!” Minjun exclaims, throwing an excited gesture toward the massive screen behind him as the list of categories light up in bold glittering text. I knew the Saja Boys and Huntr/x were nominated for multiple of these categories, which they absolutely deserved.

You would think that I would be nominated for ‘Rookie of the year - Solo’, or maybe ‘Hidden gem award’. Even the ‘Fan’s choice award’ would have made more sense. But no, I was nominated for the ‘Heartfelt Voice Award’. How? I still didn’t understand. It was as much of a shock for me as it was for my manager.

“So, sit back, enjoy the show, and let’s celebrate the incredible journey of our beloved idols - both those just beginning and those shining brighter than ever!” Seyeon brings the energy down gently, her voice calm and methodical as the crowd begins to settle. Turning to her co-host with a smile. “So, Minjun… what category shall we start with?”

“Let’s start with a bang!” Minjun replies with excitement. “How about we start with ‘Album of the year’,” music starts playing as the nominated albums show on the screen. Out of the corner of my eye - bottom right, just barely - I see him. My ex, Seo Jaewon. He’s looking straight at me with that smug look on his face that might as well be a middle finger in a tux, but I ignore it. I have to. I knew his group, NOIR7, was nominated for multiple awards too, including this one.

“Why is he looking this way,” Mira mumbles, just loud enough to make my stomach twist. The stiffness returns to my shoulders like a reflex. Of course she had to notice him.

I decide to just keep quiet. They don’t need my drama in their lives. Focusing my attention back to the hosts. They are both glancing at the screen.

“Wow,” Seyeon breathes. “So many incredible albums. How could we possibly decide on a winner?”

“Luckily, we don’t have to!” Minjun replies with a grin. He pulls an envelope from behind his back, Seyeon joinin ghis as he slowly, deliverately peels it open. Stretching the tension across the room. “The winner of ‘Album of the year’ is…”

“Huntr/x!”

Zoey squeals with excitement. The three hugging while the audience including myself clap. Someone even whistles. A smile graces my face with genuine happiness for the group. They pass me and the Saja boys to get to the stairs that led to the stage.

Wow, Mystery things, she looks kinda cute when she’s this happy. But it’s more than that. It’s the way her eyes light up - not just for the win. It’s adoration, an adoration she holds highly for Huntr/x.

He watches her a moment longer than necessary, feeling a pull he can’t explain. He’s so distracted by her that he doesn’t even clap for his friends win.

Rumi steps up to the microphone, Zoey holding the award, visibly excited for the win. Even though this is far from their first win. “Thank you so much for this incredible honor,” Rumi starts sincerity clear in her voice. “We’re truly grateful to our fans, who inspire us every day, and to everyone who believes in our music and message,” my heart swells warmly at her words a content sigh leaving my lips which does not go unnoticed by the boys. “This award means the world to us, and we promise to keep working hard and growing together. Thank you!”

Soon they return to their seat, placing their award on one of the three small coffee tables arranged in front of our large couch. For a while the smile doesn’t leave my lips as the categories continue. Saja Boys win two awards before NIOR7 wins one.

Jaewon smirks at me deliberately. Clapping the rest of the members on the back as they make their way to the front. Smug and cocky.

“What is up with him?” this time it’s Romance who notices. My gaze drops, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of my dress, bunching it at my thighs.

“It’s me,” I mutter. No use pretending anymore - Jaewon’s public hatred is impossible to ignore it seems. Even for them.

“What does that mean?” Mira asks, I can feel her eyes on me as I sigh in defeat. Shaking my head, I wanna scold myself for sharing this with the people that shouldn’t have to deal with my shit.

“Jaewon is my ex,” I tell them, visibly shaking with the anxiety crawling up my spine. “He’s just trying-” I take a shaky breath. “Trying to shove it down my throat that he’s better than me. Which… he is,” I hate to admit it but I’m going on a ramble now and there’s no stopping me. “We’ve been doing this the same amount of time but my music never took off-” a bitter laugh escapes me. “Meanwhile, he’s out here winning awards, selling out arenas… and I’m just a nobody,” I lift my gaze carefully, fighting back the tears pooling at the edges of my eyes. “It’s like no matter what I do, I’m always one step behind. And he… he makes sure I never forget it.”

Their faces are soft, no judgement, just understanding. My hands loosen their grip on the fabric. Taking a shaky inhale, I glance over at Jaewon who’s still holding his acceptance speech like he is the center of attention.

“Why would he do that?” Zoey’s voice is soft and gentle, reaching across Rumi to take my hand. I shrug my shoulders, an awkward near tears smile on my lips.

“I don’t know,” it’s barely a whisper as it leaves my lips. “I guess he just wants to break me down so I don’t tell-” I stop myself from finishing. Missing the look of curiosity mixed with anger from the eight around me.

“And now, with this nomination, it’s like he’s laughing at me in front of everyone,” I swallow hard, the sting of tears threatening. “I should not be nominated-”

A protective urge flares within them. They are not just interested anymore. Now they want to make sure she gets votes. Recognition, the win.

“What are you nominated for?” Jinu cuts in, his voice serious. It confuses me but I answer anyway. Telling them know the category like it made zero sense and the song I was nominated with. Their eyes flicker with a sudden recognition. Without a word, a silent agreement passes between them.

I want to ask ‘Why?’ but before I can, Jinu takes his phone out. One by one, the others do the same. Confused I turn to Rumi, Zoey and Mira. They too have their phones out. Not wanting to be rude I don’t peek but I can’t hold in my curiosity. Tears pretty much drying up instantly with the need for answers.

“What are you guys doing?”

“Getting you more votes,” Abby says like it’s obvious.

“Wh-what?” my eyes widen, completely stunned. “But- why? How?”

“When you said the song,” Romance starts while still typing on his phone. “I realised I do know the song.”

“It is a heartfelt song,” Mira adds which surprises me. They know my song. “And your voice fits it extremely well.”

“Wait, you know my song?”

“Of course,” they all say in unison. But they don’t know me..?

“How?”

“We got it sent as an offer for our album,” Rumi says. “But we declined it because we thought it should belong to the original artist.”

“But it was always my song…,” I trail off, unsure what to believe anymore. “It was never meant for others…? I never-” realization dawns on me as my eyes search for Jaewon. “He stole it. Oh my god, it makes so much sense now.”

Silence falls over the group, heavy. There is a shift in the air that brushes over my skin, but I can’t put my finger on. Zoey’s mouth parts in disbelief. Rumi’s expression darkens, jaw tight, eyes fixed on Jaewon across the room like she could burn a hole through him with her stare alone.

“He submitted it… as his,” Baby says quietly, like he’s piecing it together in real time.

That’s bastard, Romance thinks, clutching his phone tight. Composing himself quickly before his patterns show. His fingers move fast. One post goes out. Then another. Then another. Until every account he has, on every platform has a post, pushing her song. His screen glowing with the need to fix this.

“But how do you guys even know of my song?” I ask Jinu, confused cause the song wouldn’t fit their group. In my opinion.

“We got to listen to it as well because we are signed with the same label,” Jinu replies calmly, exhaling slowly, sharp and controlled, but there is fury in the stillness of his body. He keeps to himself that he still has the demo saved. That when he feels down, he listens to it on repeat.

“You wrote that song?” Mira asks, her voice almost softer now. “Every word?” I nod, taking my own phone out to show them pictures of my physical note book.

“Look, these are the lyrics,” I show them a page with crossed out lyrics, rewritten and changed again until I thought they were perfect. They all lean in. A little too close.

“Then you’re not just meant to be nominated,” Zoey says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument, stunning me. “You’re meant to win.”

“What- no, it’s not that-” I try to protest, stumbling over my own disbelief. I don’t deserve this. Not their support. Not their attention. Not this.

But Abby speaks before I can finish. “We’re going to make damn sure you do,” his voice low and final. The others nod in agreement.

This isn’t about the award anymore. It’s about her. About what was taken from her. About giving back what belonged to her in the first place.

I sit there, stunned and overwhelmed, for the first time that night, I don’t feel so alone.

But she has no idea just how far they’re willing to go, to make sure she never feels this way again. They know not nearly enough about her yet. But they will. The song already tells them more than she realizes. Little glimpses into her heart, her fears, the way she views the world. It’s raw, honest, painful. The can’t unhear it. Can’t unsee her. She thinks they are just being kind. That it ends with some extra votes and sympathy. Doesn’t know it’s something bigger, deeper. Quiet for now, pulsing beneath the surface.

// Part One // Part Two //

[syn4k]

"Okay." The king turned back to his desk and resumed writing.

The priest was baffled. "But- Your Majesty-"

"It's gonna happen anyways." The king dipped the feathered pen in the inkwell. "There ain't no use wasting energy fighting it. The real questions were never if it was gonna happen, but when and how."

The priest blinked and bit back a frown. Ever since His Majesty King Gillian the Third had ascended to the throne, he had ran his kingdom with a surprisingly lax fist compared to his predecessors. His council constantly made fun of him for it, but King Gillian (nicknamed Lord Nil by his opponents and most of his advisors) did not flinch. Many muttered that his madness had no method. Gillian himself did not comment on his actions.

As one of the King's most trusted advisors, the Priest tried his best to stay on his good side, accepting most of his eccentric decisions without question or complaint, but this... this made no sense.

"My lord," he said carefully, "do you not worry for the security of your office?"

The King did not look up. "No."

"With all due respect, sire, I beseech you to remember that your reputation amongst your council is..." he chose his words carefully "...debatable, at best." He bit back the incredulity creeping into his voice. "If they hear of this, I cannot promise that their reactions will be favorable." He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "They may move to depose you."

The King finally looked up at that. "Come here," he said, standing up from his desk.

The Priest advanced hesitantly, sure that he was about to be reprimanded or fired or executed or at the very least backhanded, but the King simply gestured out of the window that sat in front of his desk. "Tell me, dear Priest, what those sharp eyes of yours see."

The Priest wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond, or if this was a trap. He squinted at the window and eventually decided to go with the most obvious answer. "...Your kingdom, sir?"

"Correct. And in this kingdom, all living things die and nourish others in death and are replaced by other living things of their kind as part of the court of the kingdom of Nature, do they not?"

"They do, sir."

The King turned to him. "Now tell me, Priest, are we humans, as simple animals in the Kingdom of Nature, excluded from death in any form, fashion, or manner?"

The priest swallowed and did not turn his gaze from the window. "Not except in memory, sire."

Gillian nodded. "In this way, it is wiser to let the river of Fate take its course and shift it in little ways here and there than attempt to block it off entirely." He sat back down. "When the child comes, we will know. I will raise it as my own and teach it the ways of grace and strength the best that I can. In this way, when the time comes for it to take my place, it will not do so in anger, but remember my grace and give it back to me."

The Priest sincerely doubted this, but he said nothing.

The king waved a hand. "You are dismissed."

---

The next spring, during an assembly, the Priest walked into the throne room and knelt. "My lord."

Gillian waved him up. "You may speak."

The priest looked him in the eye. "We have found the child."

A murmur rose throughout the courtesans assembled in the room. The King glowered at them and slammed his fist three times on the arm of his throne for quiet. "Where?"

"In a small hovel on the edge of the village."

The room was silent. Gillian nodded. "And how fares the mother?"

The priest cleared his throat. "Dead in childbirth, m'lord."

A shocked murmur rose through the room again, louder this time. The King frowned to himself, but made no move to quiet them.

"If this is the child fated to dethrone you, my lord, then we should kill it," said a noble loudly.

The King's eyebrows furrowed in disgust. "No."

"But Sire-"

"I said no!" the King snapped, and the room went silent. Gillian was a man of lax and easy temper, reasonable even in the most inane situations, and he almost never raised his voice. "I will not condone the murder of an innocent child, prophecy or no. We shall bring it here and raise it."

The Queen Marie, who up until this point had sat quietly in her own throne with the merest raising of eyebrows in sympathy at the news of the mother's death, flicked her eyes towards her husband in question. It had long been rumored that she was infertile, and many had sneered at the King for keeping her despite this, but he held fast.

He noticed her gaze and turned towards her. "Unless, that is," he said quietly but clearly, "my Lady protests."

One or two people mumbled in shock. The Priest had to stop his own mouth from dropping open. A king asking his wife's permission for anything was unheard of, especially for something like this.

The Queen froze for a half second, then sat up a little straighter in her throne. "If you are sure," she replied.

Gillian nodded. "I am."

"Then it shall be."

The king nodded decisively and turned back to the room again. "It has been decided! The child will be brought here and raised as our own."

An explosion of enraged voices echoed throughout the room. The priest bowed, although he had not been addressed, and the King's eyes landed on him. "Fetch the child and bring it here so that I may see it," he said, and the priest nodded and scuttled out of the room, grateful to let the heavy doors shut on the now chaotic room behind him.

The king, after hearing the prophecy about a child fated to depose them, decided to just let the events play out without interfering.

[amalia-eveline-verstappen]

Oh Amelia... the queen she is. How was everyone's reaction on the first day that she was seen walking along side with Max?

Meeting for the first time

The engine purred beneath them as the sleek black car rolled to a stop just outside the paddock. Amalia stared out the tinted window, watching the blur of people and equipment dance around in a strange choreography. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her designer purse, knuckles pale with nerves.

"You okay?" came Max's voice from the driver seat, calm but firm in the way only an older brother could manage.

Amalia turned to look at him. He had already taken off his sunglasses, revealing those familiar eyes that she had trusted since she could remember.

"I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone knows who you are, Max. They don’t know me."

He smiled softly, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "They know about you, Lia. Maybe they haven’t seen you before, but they know who you are. And trust me, the moment they meet you, they’ll never forget you. Just stay close to me, yeah? I’ll be right there."

She nodded, exhaling slowly. Then, with a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out.

The sun hit her skin instantly, warm and golden, and for a moment everything felt surreal. The buzz of cameras, journalists, mechanics, team members—the living heart of a Grand Prix weekend—filled the air. Max walked in front, tall and confident, his usual swagger on full display.

Amalia walked just a step behind, keeping her head high despite the butterflies in her stomach. Her long hair cascaded down her back, sunglasses perched on her nose, a fitted cream blazer over a matching crop top and trousers. She looked like she belonged in a Vogue editorial, not the pit lane.

And yet, somehow, she was right where she was meant to be.

The first to spot them was Oscar.

He had been chatting casually with a member of his team, hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform, when he turned his head and froze mid-sentence. His jaw slackened slightly, eyes locked on the vision walking beside Max. Max's sister. The mythical sister.

"Oh my god," he muttered.

His teammate raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Oscar didn’t answer. He was already walking.

"Hi," he said, reaching them just as they passed the hospitality area. His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat with embarrassment. "Uh. Hi."

Amalia stopped and looked at him. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, revealing soft, curious eyes. Oscar nearly forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," she said with a smile, soft and warm. "You must be Oscar, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you… you’re… wow, you’re Amalia. It’s really nice to meet you. I… You look… you look really beautiful. I mean, not just beautiful, you look… like, breathtaking. Sorry. I’m rambling."

She laughed gently, and Oscar felt like he was melting on the spot.

"That’s sweet of you," she said. "But just call me Malia. Please."

"Malia," he echoed like a prayer.

Before either could say anything else, a familiar voice cut in.

"Ooooh, what do we have here?"

Lando came striding over, a grin stretched across his face and his curls bouncing slightly under his cap. His eyes flicked between Oscar and Malia before landing fully on her.

"So the rumors were true," he said, stepping between them dramatically. "You do exist."

Amalia arched an eyebrow, amused. "Rumors?"

"You’re like a myth," Lando declared, hand over his heart. "Max never lets anyone see you. We thought you were a ghost. Or a hologram. But you…" He gave her an exaggerated once-over. "You're very much real. And very much stunning."

She giggled, and Lando looked like he had just won pole position.

"I like your energy," she said. "Chaotic. But in a good way."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," he said, placing a hand on his chest as if wounded. "Truly."

Oscar crossed his arms, frowning. "Some of us were having a conversation."

"Some of us," Lando said, smirking, "need to learn how to flirt properly."

Before the teasing could escalate, Charles appeared, suave and smiling as ever.

"Bonjour, Malia," he said smoothly, stepping forward and placing a kiss on each of her cheeks. "Enchanté."

She blushed, surprised by the soft Monegasque affection. "Nice to meet you too."

"I’ve heard so much about you," Charles said, hands still gently on her arms. "But none of it prepared me for how beautiful you are."

"Is that a line you use often?" she teased.

"Only when I mean it," he replied with a smile that could kill.

Then came Lewis, striding over with practiced ease and effortless confidence.

"Well damn," he muttered with a grin as he looked her up and down. "Max didn’t tell us you were going to break hearts today."

"I’m not trying to," she said shyly.

"You don’t have to try," he said, winking. "You just walk and it happens. Absolutely stunning."

She laughed, already feeling overwhelmed, when Carlos arrived with his usual mix of charm and flair.

"Mi amor," he said, taking her hand and kissing it delicately. "Finally, we meet. I was beginning to think Max had you hidden in a tower."

"Maybe I was," she said with a playful smirk.

Carlos grinned and, with zero hesitation, threw his arm around her shoulders. "Well, you’re free now. Come, walk with me. I have many things to tell you."

He began steering her away from the group, speaking rapidly in accented English, throwing in flirtatious Spanish that made her laugh despite not understanding half of it.

"Carlos!" Lando called. "You can't just steal her."

"Share, man!" Oscar added.

"She hasn’t even gotten to know the rest of us!" Lewis chimed in.

Carlos waved them off. "She likes me best. It’s obvious."

As they strolled, George casually joined on her other side, falling into step with a charming smile.

"So," he said, "do you always make entrances like that? Or is today special?"

"I was nervous," she admitted. "Still am."

"You hide it well," George said. "You look like you own the place."

"Thank you," she said sincerely.

"I’m George, by the way. Not that you didn’t already know."

"Nice to meet you, George," she said, offering her hand. He took it and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, not letting go right away.

Max, who had been chatting with his engineer and pretending not to watch, turned around and froze.

There was his sister, sandwiched between Carlos and George, laughing, flirting, glowing.

In the middle of his paddock.

Max blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then said, loudly, firmly, "Nope."

He stalked over, muttering under his breath, face a thundercloud.

"Absolutely not," he grumbled. "What the hell is this? A fan meet-and-greet? A dating show? What am I watching?"

He stopped in front of them, looked down at Malia, and without asking, placed his hands firmly on her shoulders.

"We're going," he announced. "Now."

Malia blinked up at him, confused. "What? Why?"

"Garage. Now. Come on. Let’s go."

She looked over her shoulder and offered the boys an apologetic smile and a sweet little wave. "It was nice meeting you all!"

"Don’t let him brainwash you!" Lando called after her.

"Text me!" Carlos added.

"I love you!" Oscar shouted.

"What?!" Lewis laughed.

Back in the garage, Max was still fuming.

"Stupid drivers. Idiots. All of them. The audacity. In front of me! Am I invisible now?"

Malia sat on a stool, legs crossed, head tilted. "Max. What just happened?"

He turned and stared at her, jaw clenched. Then he sighed.

"They’re all flirting with you. Every single one of them. And you don’t even realize it."

She tilted her head, confused. "They were just being nice."

He groaned. "God, you're worse than I thought."

She smiled, reached out, and patted his arm. "Relax, big brother. I only have eyes for your team today."

He snorted. "Yeah? That better include not texting Carlos."

She shrugged with a grin. "No promises."

He groaned again.

And outside, the paddock was already abuzz.

Amalia had arrived.

And nothing would ever be the same.

🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙🏎💙

Authors Note:

Hello everyone! My requests are open and will all be based on the same concept!

[fuddaroundandgetbueckets]

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings: Sexual content, swearing probably

WC: ~5K

A/N: I suck at updating so whoever is reading and liking this series is a real one 😊 kisses love you all. I am ovulating clearly lmao. Song is unrelated I just have it on loop this week cause Brandy has always been that girl. Jealous P confirmed in pt 13 🤞🙂‍↕️

A Long Time Coming Part 12 – DTR? No.

Fall – 2022

“What do you –”

Swoosh.

“Mean –”

Swoosh.

“Amari and Aaliyah –”

Clunk.

“Caught you and Azzi –”

Swoosh.

“Making out –”

Clunk.

“And I wasn’t there?” Nika asked incredulously, turning her body towards Paige with her hands on her hips.

The pair stood in the practice gym alone, Paige passing balls to Nika as she practiced her mid-range.

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’re being weird.” She let out an amused chuckle at Nika’s offended face.

“And you’re in love with your best friend.”

Paige blinked at her, mouth agape. “Dude.”

Nika raised a brow. “What? I thought we were stating facts.”

Paige gave her a flat look and chucked her next ball. “You can talk crap when you can make three shots in a row.”

Nika twirled the ball in her hand, turning back to the rim. “It’s not talking crap if it’s the truth.”

Swoosh.

Nika turned her head to face Paige, catching her next ball easily before pausing. “Cause it’s true, right?”

Paige sighed, “Nika.”

They locked eyes. The air of teasing had left, and a look of understanding remained. Nika placed the ball under her arm, tilting her head. “You love her, don’t you?”

Paige pursed her lips, kicking invisible dust on the ground. The weight of Nika’s question was too heavy, the silence that followed was too loud.

What was she supposed to say?

The simple answer was that yes, she loved Azzi.

Was she supposed to admit out loud that her time spent without Azzi was just her quietly waiting to be with her again? That even now, helping Nika practice, a small part of her brain was acutely aware of Azzi lifting in the weight room nearby. That she already had an extra water bottle filled with Azzi’s favorite electrolyte flavor to hand her when she drove them both home later, where she would pretend like she hadn’t thought to do so since she woke up this morning.

Was she supposed to talk about how she had thought about her hands tracing Azzi’s underwear every delightful time her brain remembered? The noises she had made making imprints on her mind, her fast breaths branding the skin of her neck. How if she could properly put weight on her knee she would have already been on the floor, taking her in her mouth to show her how much she wanted her.

No – she couldn’t admit any of that. Because the way she felt about Azzi wasn’t just love.

She wanted to care for her, adore her, worship her.

She was so deep, so foregone, so in love with Azzi Fudd it was borderline sickening.

Nika let out an exasperated sigh at Paige’s prolonged silence. Turning back to the rim, she asked, “So, what happened after they caught you?”

Swoosh.

Paige thought back to two weeks ago, remembering Amari and Aalyiah’s high-pitched squeals and eardrum-breaking, inquisitive yelling.

“When did this happen?”

“HOW did this happen?”

“Are you guys dating?”

“Can I officiate the wedding?”

“No, I want to.”

“We both can.”

“Fine.”

Paige and Azzi stared at the pair, still keeping an arms-length of distance between each other. Paige cleared her throat, feeling her heart pulsing in her ears. “Can you guys just…not tell anyone?”

Azzi snapped her to face to her then, wide-eyed. Paige didn’t break her eye contact with Azzi as she spoke to the girls on the couch. “We’re still…figuring things out. Just us.”

A hush fell over Amari and Aalyiah as they watched Paige and Azzi give each other soft smiles.

“This is so adorable, it’s disgusting,” Amari whispered. Aalyiah simply hummed.

“They were chill about it,” Paige told Nika. “I asked them not to say anything ‘cause we’re still figuring it out.”

Nika grabbed the ball out of Paige’s hand, beginning to dribble in circles around her.

“And what exactly are you ‘figuring out’?”

Paige paused again, crossing her arms. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“This me, helping you process your emotions like an adult so you can finally date the girl you’ve been wanting for years.”

Paige grimaced to herself at the honesty in Nika's words.

Obviously if she could, she would’ve claimed Azzi to be her girl, like, yesterday. But everything happening with Azzi was uncharted territory, and Paige would be damned if she crossed a line on accident. She needed to make sure Azzi was comfortable, she needed her clearance. Plus, who was Paige to complain? She was routinely hooking up with the most beautiful girl in the world who was seemingly into her as well. Life could be substationonally worse.

Paige shifted on her feet, feeling slightly uncomfortable in expressing herself. “Az and I are good right now. I’m happy, she’s happy. We’ll have ‘the talk’ when it feels right, that’s all.”

Nika hummed. “And the next time she gets asked out or hit on, what then?”

Paige scoffed, “Now, why would you say some dumb shit like that?”

Nika chuckled to herself, dribbling the ball down the court, and away from Paige. “Look at you, all jealous over a hypothetical. Green isn’t your color, P!”

Paige watched her make a layup at the basket, her jaw unintentionally tense. She rubbed at it, feeling a bit ridiculous at how easily she became jealous over the concept of someone approaching Azzi.

Whatever.

Paige and Nika turned their heads as they heard the loud echo of the exit doors opening. Aubrey and Azzi stood in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up to their shoulders and curls slightly matted to their foreheads from the heavy lift they just had.

Paige, respectfully, wanted to jump Azzi.

Azzi beamed at Paige as they locked eyes. “We’re getting Chipotle, you guys want to come?”

Paige, her feet unconsciously already making their way towards Azzi, grinned and removed her car keys from her pocket. “I’ll drive.”

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

The four girls sat at the campus Chipotle, their conversation gone silent as they scarfed down their burrito bowls. Prior to this, Paige had rushed to the register and slammed her credit card down to pay for everyone (primarily Azzi) and had elicited groans from Aubrey and Nika. The small, grateful smile from Azzi was worth it.

The pair sat close as usual, Paige’s hand finding itself on Azzi’s thigh under the table in between bites, unbeknownst to Nika and Aubrey across from them.

(It was completely obvious).

(At first sitting down, Paige dragged Azzi’s chair by the leg so that their thighs could touch even though they were a completely respectable space apart. Nika had rolled her eyes and Aubrey and raised her brows into her diet coke, while Azzi blushed with a mouthful of tortilla chips).

“Dance team is hosting a little darty. Think we should stop by,” Aubrey said, breaking the silence. Her face turned red as three pairs of eyes turned to her.

“Dance team?” Paige asked, a mischievous smile playing on her face. Aubrey had talked to her about a girl she was interested in on the team, Rachel or something.

Aubrey gave her a pointed look, as in, shut up Bueckers, and continued, “Yeah, they’re cool. We should show face, I dunno.”

Azzi shrugged, the silent exchange between Paige and Aubrey going unnoticed by her. “Hm, I don’t know. I have some homework to do, and I feel so gross from lift.”

Paige gave her a sidelong glance before turning to Aubrey. “Yeah, we should go. Dance team girls are chill.”

Nika shrugged, uncaring. “I’m down but let me finish my bowl first.”

Azzi scrunched her brows at Paige, whom she had plans to “study” with after lift. As much as Paige wanted to immediately lay in bed and cuddle with Azzi after a long day of classes and practice, she had to pull out her wing woman card for Aubrey. Aubrey never disclosed liking anyone, and her showing not only interest but also initiative in getting to know someone was monumental.

She nudged her shoulder with Azzi’s, giving her a small smile as their friends turned back to their food. “We’ll go for a little and then study, okay?” she said quietly. Azzi pursed her lips before nodding slowly.

Had their friends not been there, she would have given her a soft peck on the lips and cheek to reward her for going with the flow and looking so pretty under the Chipotle fluorescent lights. Instead, she squeezed the top of Azzi’s knee and patted her on the back.

“Finish up your food, princess. You take forever to eat.”

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

Azzi did not finish her food, so she made Paige carry her to-go bag as they stepped foot onto the Dance Team house lawn.

Two speakers were blearing some rap song Azzi vaguely recognized was trending on Tik Tok, and the lawn was littered with red solo cups and girls in crop tops, jeans, and AF1s. Azzi felt miserably out of place in her UConn lift uniform that was semi-matte from her dried sweat, and her haphazard bun with hair that had lost its curl pattern hours ago. To her side, Nika looked unimpressed and unbothered as she chewed gum and eyed everyone suspiciously with a hand at her hip.

To her other side, Paige and Aubrey were whispering to each other conspiratorially. She scrunched her face in confusion.

Paige and Azzi had been hooking up for two weeks now, keeping their secret rendezvous to themselves. Most nights, Paige found herself in Azzi’s bed or vice versa, and Azzi had never felt closer or more infatuated with her best friend. To her benefit, when Amari and Aalyiah had caught them making out, at least she had people to talk to about it. By talk about it, that meant mostly being grilled on when they would be defining whatever they were doing.

Bits of her last conversation regarding Paige with Amari and Aalyiah flooded her mind.

“Are you going to have ‘the talk’?”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

“Do you want to date her?”

“Guys, we’re just having fun right now. Relax.”

"Ah yes, Azzi Fudd. Notorious for going with the flow."

Azzi threw a pillow at both of them.

“But you like her?”

Azzi blushed. “Obviously.”

“Do you want to be exclusive?”

“You’re both annoying."

A pause.

"But yes.”

Now, sitting on a fence ledge on the side of the lawn with Nika as Paige and Aubrey laughed with a gaggle of Dance Team girls, Azzi felt slightly nauseous. Paige stood there, looking tall and confident as ever, holding tightly onto her Chipotle bag as she gave a brunette a relaxed smile.

The Chipotle bag was her only claim on her.

Great.

The brunette was pretty in a feminine way, with glossy hair, glossy lips, and eyelashes that reached the base of her eyebrows. Azzi felt like an insect with her bare face, sweaty pits, and Chipotle breath.

“You’re staring,” Nika murmured, her eyes unmoving from her phone as she scrolled, bored.

Azzi snapped her neck to her, feigning confusion. “What? Staring at what? No, I’m not.”

Nika hummed before meeting her gaze, pouting. “This is boring and there’s no guys for me to talk to.”

Azzi looked over her shoulder at Paige and Aubrey who were sharing a laugh with the brunette, who was throwing her head back dramatically. She only reached their mid-chest. Annoying.

“She’s trying realllyyyy hard,” Nika said, catching where Azzi’s eyes lingered.

“Agreed,” Azzi muttered, unable to hide her irritation.

Nika eyed her then, reaching to grip her shoulder. “Let’s let them know we’re leaving, and we can watch Love Island at my place.”

Azzi faced her again and gave her a small smile. “Sounds good.”

Heaving themselves up, they trapezed through the crowd of drunk girls, carefully avoiding the red solo cups and various vapes that littered the ground. Paige caught Azzi approaching immediately and gave her a lopsided grin.

“Az,” she greeted, wrapping an arm around her shoulder briefly. She turned back to the short brunette next to Aubrey. “This is Rachel, she’s a sophomore on dance.”

Rachel gave her a friendly, wide smile and wave. “Hey! I’ve seen you play. You’re amazing.”

Azzi gave her a tight-lipped smile, nodding. “Thanks, appreciate that,” she responded, completely horrified at her rude curtness but she physically couldn’t stop herself. How was she expected to pretend to be friendly with a girl she had been watching semi-flirt with her situationship best friend while she felt like she looked and smelled like the equivalent of day-old manure?

She turned to Paige, grabbing her to-go bag out of her hands. At Paige’s confusion, she said, “Me and Nik are gonna go. We’ll see you guys later.” Paige looked ready to protest, but her and Nika were already waving goodbye and heading towards their apartments.

Half-turned with Nika in tow, she called back to Rachel, “It was nice meeting you.”

She didn’t look behind her at Paige again, although she felt the burn of her stare on her back.

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

Showered, face washed, and with her leave-in treatment in her hair, Azzi was trying very hard to doom scroll in peace and not think about Paige.

(She was not succeeding).

Her fingers double tapped absently on Instagram, but her mind wandered to Paige’s smile as she talked to the girl at the darty tonight. Was she just being friendly? Did she think she was cute?

God, why did it even matter.

It wasn’t like they were dating.

And Azzi didn’t care that they weren’t. Nope.

She was being adequately territorial of watching the girl she had daydreams of going down on a daily basis smile at another girl, and that was that. Surely.

It wasn’t like Paige and this girl were friends, right?

Right?

Something in Azzi’s brain tingled. It had her fingers moving on their own accord and tapping to Paige’s Instagram profile. Somehow, some way, she ended up at her following list. It was entirely due to her finger’s volition, and not because she wanted to be there. Obviously.

She tapped in the search bar before she could stop.

R-A-C was all she needed, and there she was.

Brown hair. Brown eyes.

UConn Dance Team ‘25.

Azzi’s stomach dropped, and she felt herself scrunching her face in a distorted way.

She felt clinically insane. Like omission-to-the-psych-ward-via-Instagram-following insane. Rubber sole socks waited her.

Her fingers slid over Paige’s profile again, and without a second thought, she blocked her.

Blocked. Paige.

Azzi stared in horror at what she had just done, her fingers somehow shaking and frozen at the same time. Why did she do that? Her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest.

She threw her phone out of her hands, and it landed facing up on her comforter next to her. Staring up at her ceiling with her hands clasped together, she forced her mind to calm down. She decided she would justify the block as a way to get herself to stop thinking about some silly, hypothetical acquaintanceship between Paige and this girl and that it didn’t even matter because they weren’t dating, and that Paige is allowed to talk to other people if she wants to, but also why would she want to–

Buzz. Buzz.

Azzi peered down slowly at her phone, to which she was greeted with her photo for Paige’s contact: Paige at the State Fair wearing a balloon hat in the shape of a wiener dog.

Buzz. Buzz.

Paige was calling her.

Is this a sick joke, she thought.

She picked up her phone like it was dynamite and pressed the green answer button like it would truly blow up. Holding the phone up to her ear, she said wearily, “Hello.”

There was a brief silence on the other end before she heard Paige ask, “Did you block me?”

Azzi stared blankly at the wall ahead of her, blanching. Briefly, she wondered if someone could die from embarrassment. Slowly, to avoid the sound of rustling from her comforter, she moved her phone so she could throw it on speaker. “No,” she replied monotonously as she made her way to her blocked accounts on Instagram.

She could hear Paige’s disbelieving tone through the screen. “Huh,” she said, “That’s weird. Was tryna send you something and your profile couldn’t be found.”

Azzi pursed her lips as she hit ‘unblock’ on Paige’s profile. “Oh, that’s really strange. Not sure.”

“Right.”

“Yup.”

Azzi heard a record scratch in her brain. She would have to refollow Paige.

Could she pay her funeral charge in advance?

Azzi stared at Paige’s profile for a split second before hitting ‘follow’. She laid her phone on her chest and closed her eyes, her face scrunching to a grimace as she waited for Paige’s next words.

“Az.”

“Yup.”

“I just got a follow request from you.”

“Yup.”

Silence.

“Why’s that?”

“Dunno.”

A pause.

“You mad at me?”

Another pause.

“No, why would I be?”

A third pause.

“Give me ten minutes.”

Click.

Azzi didn’t move an inch as she heard the call end. She laid there, staring at the wall ahead, wishing she could crawl into the nearest pothole. She had resolutely accepted her embarrassing fate in having to admit to Paige that she blocked her in the heat of the moment for no good reason. She quietly relished in her solidarity before she heard a muffled greeting by the front door through her wall.

The Jaws theme playing in her mind felt appropriate.

Paige shuffled through Azzi’s bedroom door with a sheepish look, gently shutting it behind her. Her hair was damp from a shower, and her glasses adorned the bridge of her nose.

Azzi caught herself pouting, so she quickly took her bottom lip by her teeth. Paige clicked the roof of her mouth, inching closer as she adjusted the waistband of her sweatpants. “Why you lookin’ at me like that, ma,” she mumbled softly.

Paige flopped down on top of Azzi, her nose connecting with the crook of her neck. Azzi took a deep inhale, not caring if it was probably weird of her to essential sniff her best friend. She smelled like her Dove soap and lavender shampoo, and Azzi’s arms reflexively found themselves wrapping around her crewneck-covered middle. “’M not lookin’ at you any type of way,” she muttered into Paige’s shoulder.

She felt Paige give her neck a soft kiss, her stomach fluttering. “Mm, and you ain’t mad at me?” Paige’s lips brushed Azzi’s skin with every word.

“Not mad.”

Paige lifted to give her a kiss on the cheek. Then another. “You promise?”

Azzi nodded into her neck. “Mhm.”

Silence momentarily fell between the two as they held each other. The mutual feeling of calm, and home, and all was well coursed through them in an unspoken understanding.

Paige propped herself on her elbows on both sides of Azzi’s head, staring down at her and caressing her cheek with her thumb. “Why did you block me, Az?”

Azzi pulled her bottom lip in her teeth again. “Didn’t.”

Paige took her lip out from under her teeth with a slow drag of her thumb. She leaned down and gave it a quick kiss that had Azzi’s eyes fluttering shut. “C’mon, ma.”

Azzi sighed through her nose, eyes remaining shut as she knew Paige was staring down at her. “It’s stupid,” she said in an irritated whisper.

She could hear Paige’s lopsided smile in her reply, “Don’t think anything about you is stupid.” Her thumb went back to dragging across Azzi’s cheekbone, comforting.

Azzi threw her forearm over her eyes, feeling her eyebrows scrunch together. “I got jealous over you talking to some other girl today.”

A beat ticked by before Azzi felt one of Paige’s hands slip under her t-shirt and caress her hip bone, and the other slowly lifting her forearm off her face. Azzi peeked one eye open, the other remaining scrunched closed. Paige was looking down at her fondly, almost amused.

No – definitely amused.

“Is that funny to you?” Azzi snapped.

Paige leaned down and kissed her cheek with a lopsided smile planted on her lips. “A little, yeah.”

Azzi scoffed, shoving Paige away with a hand at her chest. “Glad I could entertain you. Now, go home.”

Paige shook her head, still smiling as she sat back against Azzi’s headboard next to her. In a swift motion, Paige scooped her up until she was sat in her lap, knees on either side of her hips. Azzi was quickly learning she had no resolve when it came to being this close to Paige.

Paige let her hands slide up Azzi’s thighs slowly, resting lazily at her hips, fingers pressing lightly into the top of her ass. She dragged her forward until their chests touched and Azzi’s arms wrapped behind her head.

Kissing across the bicep that rested near her head, Paige mumbled softly against skin, “I only got eyes for you, Az.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, her lower stomach doing backflips. Paige dragged Azzi’s hand that rested behind her head to her lips and kissed each finger. “I know who you probably saw me talkin’ to – that’s Aubrey’s girl. Was just tryna help her out.”

“Really?” Azzi breathed, feeling slightly lightheaded as Paige grabbed her other hand.

“Really,” Paige said, kissing across her knuckles. Azzi closed her eyes, letting her forehead fall to Paige’s.

“I feel stupid,” she whispered. Paige dragged her closer, sliding her hand up and down her back.

Azzi sighed, continuing, “I guess it’s ‘cause I just don’t know what we are.”

Paige paused at that, the pads of her fingertips putting pressure on Azzi’s spine. She heard Paige swallow and take a shallow breath.

“What do you want us to be?”

Azzi blinked her eyes open, finding Paige already staring at her. She searched her blue eyes, hoping to find the answer she was looking for. She traced the gold flecks of her irises, illuminated by the single nightside lamp to her side. Her mind momentarily blanked as she was overwhelmed with thoughts of, you’re so beautiful and I want to be yours.

“I don’t know,” Azzi whispered. But she did know. She was just scared to say it.

She felt Paige deflate slightly underneath her. A breath passed between them.

“We’ll figure it out,” the blonde told her quietly, reaching up to caress her cheek once more. “You scared?”

Azzi nodded, leaning forward to give her a quick kiss. Before she could pull away, Paige held her there for another.

“Me too,” she whispered against her lips.

They held each other in comfortable silence for a few moments, sharing small kisses here and there. It wasn’t until a few minutes later when Paige was dragging her lips across Azzi’s jaw that she spoke again.

“You know how bad I want you all the time?”

Azzi closed her eyes, letting a coy smile play on her lips as her hands rested on Paige’s chest. The feeling of her lips dragging across her skin was borderline euphoric, and every cell on her body felt alive.

“No, but you can tell me.”

Paige let out a breath of a laugh. “I’m sure you’d like that.” She pressed soft kisses below Azzi’s ear, talking her earlobe in her mouth for a quick nibble before continuing down the slope of her neck. “If you could live in my mind, you’d know how ridiculous it is to think I was thinkin’ of anyone else like that.”

Azzi turned her head to press a kiss below Paige’s ear, still smiling as she felt her hands slide over her ass. “Your mind sounds like a scary place.”

Paige clicked, the pads of her fingers pressing further into Azzi’s exposed skin that had ridden up from her shorts. “Nah,” she muttered low, “You’re the star in there. You’d love it.”

Azzi let out a breath through her nose. Paige speaking to her like this…low, sounding infatuated with her, and with her hands on her lower body had heat pulling to the base of her core. If she didn’t get off Paige soon, she’d start to understand how she felt as she sat atop her thigh.

“Yeah?” Azzi wanted to sound confident, but her voice came out slightly croaky. She hated the overly smug smile she caught spreading across Paige’s face.

Wordlessly, Paige pushed Azzi’s hips harder onto her thigh. “You want me to show you what I think about?” she asked huskily, dragging her hips forward and backward. Azzi gasped, feeling her throat and cheeks start to grow red at the friction.

They locked eyes, Azzi nodding with fervor. Paige shook her head, dragging Azzi’s hips once more. “Words,” she told her, commanding.

Azzi swallowed, praying for moisture to enter back in her mouth. “Yes.”

Paige dragged Azzi’s hips once more, this time tortuously slow. “Yes, what?”

Azzi rolled her eyes in a mix of annoyance and pleasure but let out an involuntary soft moan regardless. “Yes, please show me.”

Paige hummed. “Good.”

Azzi shivered at the praise.

Paige’s had one hand slip under the back of Azzi’s shorts, fully cupping her right ass cheek. The other slide lazily under her t-shirt, gliding over her abs, thumb dragging over her belly ring, and landing on her sternum. She splayed her fingers, delicately ghosting over Azzi’s bare chest as she had gone braless before bed. Azzi released a quivering breath she didn’t realize she was holding as the pad of Paige’s thumb brushed over her nipple.

“Oh.”

Paige kissed her then, dragging her lower body up and down her thigh. Their tongues met quickly, but their pace was slow as Azzi grinded her hips down. She felt the wetness pooling in between her thighs, a gasp escaping her as Paige took her bottom lip in her mouth.

Paige was hiking up the bottom of Azzi’s shirt now, lifting it over her head in a swift motion. With no warning, she cupped both of her breasts, taking one in her mouth and taking in a nipple slowly as Azzi’s grinding continued.

“Oh, wow,” Azzi whispered, staring at the blonde in awe as she devoured her chest like she was her last supper. She felt Paige’s pleasured hum around her breast, and the combination with the friction in between her legs had her throwing her head back in a sigh. She leaned her hands back, watching as Paige moved onto the other breast and her hips quickened their pace. Her shorts had completely ridden up around her waist, but she didn’t have an ounce within her to care.

She noticed the growing wet spot on Paige’s sweatpants-covered thigh, and blanched. “Oh, god,” she muttered, feeling embarrassed. She stopped moving, and Paige looked up at her from her chest with swollen lips.

Slightly dazed, she asked, “What?”

Azzi grimaced, nodding at the fact that Paige’s right thigh was more or less a completely different color than her left. Paige looked down before catching her eyes again, seemingly unphased. She dragged Azzi across her thigh again by a palm to her ass (which she was unaware Paige could cover with her entire hand until this very experience), and elicited a soft, high-pitched groan from Azzi. The pulsing in her lower half returned with a force.

Paige kissed her way up Azzi’s throat, guiding her hips again. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” she breathed. Then, she paused.

Nose to nose and breathing heavily, Paige grabbed Azzi’s hand that was resting at her chest. She dragged it down slowly, giving Azzi enough time to pull it away if she wanted to. She turned Azzi’s hand, sliding it under her sweatpants until she felt the pool of wetness from her boxers. Azzi’s mouth fell open.

Paige watched her, looking half-dazed and half in pain. Wordlessly, Azzi slid her hand on her own accord under Paige’s boxers, coming into contact with her slick heat. Paige’s mouth was hanging open now, and they stared at one another like it would be detrimental to look away. Azzi’s center throbbed with the speed of her heartbeat.

Azzi slid two fingers down her center, letting them get fully immersed in her wetness. Paige widened her legs apart, breathing like she just played a forty-minute game with no breaks. When Azzi delicately rubbed her thumb over her clit, Paige nearly choked. It had Azzi smiling like she won the lottery.

“Fuck,” Paige grunted into her mouth, kissing her harshly. She palmed Azzi’s ass again, dragging her roughly against her thigh once more and cupping the back of her head as Azzi continued circling her fingers against her center.

“Fuck,” She repeated, deeper this time. “Right there, baby. So fucking good.”

Azzi’s eyes were damn near rolling into the back of her head at the feeling, the praise, all of it. She slipped a finger into Paige then, as she sped up her grinding, watching with a lazy smile as Paige threw her head back against the headboard. She was palming her ass like she was melding their skin together, and it made Azzi’s breath hitch.

Azzi was close. So close, her vision was going in and out. She gasped as her sensitive nipples brushed against Paige’s shirt, her mouth remaining open as Paige’s fingers brushed the underside of her ass to feel her wetness on her own fingers. She was rubbing at Paige’s clit haphazardly now, mildly aware of Paige bucking her hips to meet her hand and it adding to the friction her thigh was giving her.

“Mine,” Paige mumbled roughly against her ear, “If I could, I would get on my knees for you and fuck you with my mouth. All. Night. Long.”

Azzi threw her head back with a silent cry, Paige’s words and her last thrust sending her over the edge. “I’m –” she croaked. Paige kissed her then, swallowing the moan that would inevitably leave her lips.

Paige continued gripping her, dragging her on her thigh to ride out her orgasm. Azzi felt the white heat take over her entire body, her fingers trying their best to continue rubbing Paige’s clit as she saw stars. “Paige,” she whispered, over and over.

She felt Paige twitch under her, and then she was gasping in her mouth. Had she –

“Oh my god,” Paige’s head fell back against the headboard once more, only the whites of her eyes showing as she twitched her Azzi’s hand. Paige was gripping her hard enough to bruise, and all she could think was good.

Slipping her hand out from Paige’s boxers, she rested her forehead against her shoulder, slumping her body forward. They both breathed heavily, Paige giving a tender kiss to the side of Azzi’s head.

Sitting up Azzi let her hands drag up and down Paige’s chest as she took in a breath. “I think you might actually be stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

Paige’s grin could probably be seen from space. “That’s fine with me.”

[sweetlyspiraling]

Hypnosis as a teaching tool.

Use it to develop new habits. Convince your brain that it does, in fact, want to focus on your studies. Find some psychological stumbling block and clear that away to streamline your study process.

Have fun with it! Make little hypnotic games. Find a way to associate triggers with flash cards so that every time you get an answer wrong, you have to stop and repeat the right answer a few times. Every time you get an answer right, you get a little pulse of pleasure. Don't you deserve a reward, after all, for knowing what you're supposed to know?

And maybe, over time, those flash cards seem a little less related to your classes. Maybe you're not entirely sure where some of them came from. That's all right; you don't have to know everything. You just have to know what you're supposed to remember. You just have to trust the system.

You might forget some things, too. You shouldn't worry about those either. If they're not on the cards, how important can they be?

[r66dusthewriter]

Hello! Could you write something about a reader from Rio Grande do Sul and Daryl? He calls her a cowgirl because she wears a traditionalist hat and boots.

thanks!

Lessons in riding.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader.

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Did some research, i hope it lives up to your expectationc love!

Genre: suggestive fluff

Warnings: suggestive word play

Era: Season 2

Word count: 0.8k

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the Greene farm. You leaned against the fence near the barn, one boot propped up, hands tucked into your belt as you watched the horses graze lazily. Your bombacha pants were dusty from walking the fields, and your lenço was tied tight around your neck, but it was the chapeu tradicionalista, wide-brimmed, worn and proudly yours that drew attention more than anything else.

"Thought we had enough cowboys 'round here," a low voice drawled from behind you. You turned, unsurprised to find Daryl standing there, crossbow slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking from your boots to your hat. "Didn't know we were recruitin' from Brazil."

You smirked, already used to his half-teasing, half-curious tone. "I'm not a cowgirl, Dixon. I’m a gaúcha…different things.”

"Uh huh." He stepped closer, peering at the hat with an amused squint. "So wha's tha’ make ya? Pampas princess?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like a princess to you?"

He gave a half-shrug. “Definitely ain’t seen none carry knives like tha’.”

You tilted your head. "Don’t forget I shoot, too."

His lip twitched and for Daryl, that was practically a full grin. “I noticed.” He leaned against the fence beside you, shoulder brushing yours briefly. “Ya ever ride?”

“I was ridin’ before I could walk,” you said proudly, eyes flicking to the horse pen. “My grandfather had a farm… taught me how to lasso cattle and dance chula before I learned long division.”

Daryl let out a rare, quiet chuckle you loved. “Dance wha’ now?”

“Chula. You jump over sticks to the beat. It’s a southern Brazil thing.”

“Mmm…fancy footwork ’n dangerous weapons, sounds just like ya.”

You turned to face him fully, hand on your hip. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’ bad.” His eyes held yours for a moment too long. “Just sayin’ ya handle yerself. Ain’t many ‘round here tha’ do.”

There was a soft moment of silence between you filled by the distant sound of Carl laughing by the house, accompanied by a breeze lifting the corner of your shirt. Daryl cleared his throat, looking back out over the fields.

"Still don’t get the hat, though," he muttered. "Ain’t it hot wearin’ tha’ all day?"

You took the hat off and twirled it in your hand. “It’s tradition. Back home, if you wear boots and a hat, people know you’re proud of where you come from.”

Daryl was quiet for a second and then, softly… “Ya miss it?”

You blinked. He rarely asked questions like that. “Every day,” you admitted. “The food, the music, the way we’d sit around the fire and drink chimarrão…even the rain.”

“I miss the woods,” he said. “Back home. Me and Merle used to hunt squirrels with slingshots. Dumb stuff. But it's home.”

You gave him a knowing look. “This place starting to feel like home to you?”

He didn’t answer right away. “When’s quiet. When people ain’t screamin’ or fightin’….’n when I get t’ sit next t’ you and talk ‘bout nothin’.” He nodded to himself “Yeah. Kinda does.”

Your heart skipped just a little. Daryl looked away, ears a touch pink. You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face.

“Well then,” you said, gently bumping his arm, “guess we’ll both just have to bring a little piece of home with us.”

He glanced back at you. “Guess that explains them cowgirl boots.”

You laughed. “Gaúcha boots, Daryl.”

“Righ’. Gaúcha.” He nodded, dead serious now. “Gotta get my words right. Can’t be insultin’ no Brazilian cowgirl.”

You leaned in just enough to tease. “Mhm, you’d be smart not to.”

He leaned back, eyes crinkling slightly. “Ain’t tha’ smart.”

“Noticed,” you shot back, playful.

“Watch it” He crossed his arms, mock affronted.

You tipped your hat back on and started toward the house with a sly smile. “C’mon, Dixon. I’ll show you how to clean a saddle the right way. Might even let you sit in it if you promise not to fall off again”

He followed close, the crunch of his boots in the dirt steady behind you. “Pfff I don’t fall easy,” he muttered.

You threw a wink over your shoulder. “Good. You’re gonna need stamina if you ever wanna get a ride from a real cowgirl.”

Daryl stumbled for half a second before catching himself, his ears immediately turning red. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath but he couldn’t stop the crooked grin spreading across his face.

You just kept walking, hips swaying with casual confidence, calling back over your shoulder: “Don’t worry, Dixon. I’ll go easy on you… the first time.”

Behind you, he groaned, muttering under his breath. “Damn crazy South Americans.”

But he followed and the smile on his face didn’t leave even after the sun dipped below the horizon.

[coriihanniee]

RIDICULOUSLY YOURS ‧₊ ᵎᵎ ⋅ ˚✮

۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : Woonhak's Crash Course on Loving You !!

۶ৎ PAIRING : class clown!woonhak x academic burnout!reader ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : fluff, comfort ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : academic stress, mentions of low self esteem ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 4.9k words

۶ৎ A/N : wrote this in class bcs why can't the men in my class be like the ones I write in my fics? 😒

 Step 1 :

The fluorescent lights in Chemistry class are doing that annoying flicker thing again, and you're pretty sure the migraine building behind your eyes is less about the lights and more about the fact that you've been running on three hours of sleep and spite for the past week.

Your notebook is open to a page that's supposed to contain notes about molecular bonds, but instead it's just a series of increasingly illegible scribbles that look like your sanity slowly deteriorating in real time. You're staring at the equations with the same energy as someone watching paint dry, except paint drying would probably be more engaging at this point.

"You look like you need a personality reboot."

The voice comes from your right, and you don't even have to look to know it's Woonhak. Kim Woonhak, who somehow ended up as your seatmate in Chemistry, Biology, and Math this semester, a cruel joke from the universe, considering he's basically the human embodiment of a golden retriever while you're currently channelling the energy of a dying houseplant.

You turn to look at him, and he's got that concerned-but-trying-to-be-casual expression that people get when they're not sure if you're going to laugh or cry.

"Excuse me?" you deadpan.

"I'm just saying," he continues, completely unfazed by your tone, "you've been looking like you're planning the demise of that textbook for the past twenty minutes. It's giving very 'final boss' energy."

"Maybe I am."

"See, this is what I'm talking about." He leans back in his chair, studying you with those annoyingly perceptive eyes. "When's the last time you smiled? And I don't mean that polite customer service smile you do when teachers ask if you understand the material by the way."

You open your mouth to answer, then close it. Because honestly? You can't remember.

"That's what I thought," Woonhak says gently. "Don't worry, though. I'm gonna fix this."

"Fix what?"

"Your whole..." he waves his hand vaguely in your direction, "...situation."

"I don't have a situation."

"Everyone has a situation. Yours is just particularly tragic."

Before you can respond with something appropriately sarcastic, your teacher clears her throat at the front of the class, and Woonhak turns his attention back to the lesson with a satisfied little smile that makes you want to throw your eraser at his head.

You have no idea what you've just gotten yourself into.

Step 2 : 

The first sticky note appears on your desk the next morning, stuck to your water bottle in handwriting that's somehow both messy and oddly neat.

"Don't die today 💗"

You stare at it for a full thirty seconds, then look around the classroom. Woonhak is already at his desk, chin propped on his hand, watching you with barely contained glee.

"Seriously?" you mouth at him.

He just grins and gives you a thumbs up.

The second note shows up during lunch, somehow tucked into your locker despite the fact that you're pretty sure you didn't give him your combination.

"You're hotter than midterms"

This one makes you snort despite yourself, which is apparently exactly the reaction Woonhak was hoping for, because when you turn around, he's standing three lockers down with the most smug expression you've ever seen.

"How did you even—"

"I have my ways," he says mysteriously, then pulls a bag of your favorite chips from his backpack. "Want some?"

You freeze. You've never told anyone what your favorite chips are. Hell, you're not even sure you've eaten them at school before.

"How do you know these are my favourite?"

"Lucky guess?" he offers, but he's doing that thing where he's trying not to smile, which means he's absolutely lying.

"Woonhak."

"Fine, fine. I asked Sungho what you usually buy from the vending machine. He said you always get the same thing."

"You asked Sungho about my snacking habits?"

"I asked Sungho about your preferences. There's a difference."

You want to be annoyed, but the chips are already open and they smell heavenly, and you haven't eaten anything since your sad breakfast of coffee and a toast with jam.

"This is weird," you tell him, but you take the bag anyway.

"Weird how?"

"Weird like... why do you care?"

Woonhak is quiet for a moment, and you notice a slight shift in his expression. "Because you look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, and I don't think anyone's bothered enough to ask if you need help."

The chips suddenly taste like cardboard.

"I'm fine," you say automatically.

"Yeah," Woonhak says softly, "that's what I figured you'd say."

Step 3 :

"For When You Wanna Punch a Textbook" shows up in your Spotify notifications at 11:29pm on a Tuesday, right when you're in the middle of having a breakdown over calculus homework.

You almost don't click on it, the last thing you need is Woonhak's chaotic energy in musical form when you're already barely holding it together. However, your curiosity wins, and you tap the notification.

The first song is something you've never heard before, but it's got this driving beat that somehow perfectly matches the frustration you're feeling. The second is a song you forgot you loved. The third makes you stop writing entirely and just listen.

By the time you reach the end of the playlist, it's past midnight and your calculus homework is still unfinished, but something in your chest feels a little lighter.

You screenshot the playlist and send it to Woonhak with a simple "Thanks."

His response comes back immediately, despite the late hour : "Told you it was good 😌"

"How did you know?" you type back.

"Know what?”

"What music I'd like, we've never talked about music."

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times before his response finally comes through : "You hum sometimes when you're concentrating, figured out your vibe from there."

You stare at your phone screen, a warm and uncomfortable feeling settling in your stomach. You hum when you concentrate? You didn't even know you did that. But somehow Woonhak noticed, and not only noticed but cared enough to remember.

"That's creepy" you send back, because you don't know how else to respond.

"That's friendship, omg just like My Little Pony! 🦄🤩 " he replies, and then immediately after : "Anyways, get some sleep. you have bags under your eyes the size of my future."

"Your future is probably pretty small then"

"Ouch, and here I am trying to save your academic career."

Despite all the weight you’ve been carrying, you smile, for the first time in weeks.

"Goodnight woonhak"

"Goodnight!! Sweet dreams of not punching textbooks 💗"

Step 4 : 

"What's the square root of you plus me?" Woonhak asks on a Thursday morning, sliding into his seat next to you just as the bell rings.

"Shut up," you reply automatically, not looking up from your notes.

"Incorrect. The answer is destiny."

This time you do look up, fixing him with your most deadpan stare. "That doesn't even make mathematical sense."

"Love rarely does."

"Who said anything about love?"

"I did. Just now. Keep up."

You want to be annoyed, but with the way he’s looking at you, like he can see through all the walls you’ve built, every crack you've plastered over, makes it impossible to stay irritated.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him.

"Ridiculously charming?"

"Ridiculously loud."

"I'll take it." He pulls out his notebook, then glances at you sideways. "You know, for someone who claims to hate my company, you sure do smile a lot when I'm around."

"I do not—"

"You're smiling right now."

You immediately try to school your expression into something more neutral, but it's too late. Woonhak's grin is so wide it looks like it might split his face in half.

"I knew it," he says triumphantly. "You like me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not."

"Agree to disagree." He leans back in his chair, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "So, what's the plan for lunch today? More sad vending machine food, or are you finally going to let me introduce you to the cafeteria's surprisingly decent pizza?"

"I don't eat cafeteria food."

"Why not?"

"Because it's..." you pause, trying to find the right words. "It's loud and crowded in there. Plus, everyone's always staring."

"Staring at what?"

"At... I don't know. Everything… everyone."

Woonhak's expression softens slightly. "What if I told you that most people are too busy worrying about their own stuff to pay attention to anyone else?"

"I'd say you're being optimistic."

"What if I told you that even if they were staring, they'd probably just be thinking about how cool your hair looks today?"

"I'd say you're being ridiculous."

"What if I told you that I'd sit with you and make stupid jokes until you forgot to be nervous?"

Your pen paused and hovered over the pages at his words, and there's a softness in his eyes that makes your chest feel tight. "I'd say... maybe that would be okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but if you make any more math puns, I'm leaving."

"Deal, but I'm not promising anything about chemistry puns."

"Woonhak."

"Fine, fine. No science puns. You're really limiting my material here."

"Good."

Step 5 : 

The midterm grade stares back at you from your phone screen like a personal attack :

67%.

In Biology, which is supposed to be your good subject.

You've been staring at the email for ten minutes now, sitting in your car in the school parking lot, and you still can't quite process it. You studied for this test. You studied for weeks. You gave up sleep, meals, social interaction, what little you had to begin with, and somehow it still wasn't enough.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your mom: "How did your test go? Dad's making your favourite dinner tonight!"

The favourite dinner you won't be able to enjoy because you'll have to tell them about this grade. The disappointment in their voices when they realize their kid isn't as smart as they thought. The way they'll try to hide their concern while asking if you need a tutor, if you're struggling, if there's something wrong.

Your phone buzzes again. This time it's Woonhak: "Hey!! Saw you in the parking lot, you okay?”

You don't respond. You can't respond. You're too busy trying to figure out where you went wrong, or how everything went wrong so fast.

Another text: "Heading over"

You want to tell him not to, want to drive away before he reaches your car, but you can't seem to make your body move. You just sit there, staring at that stupid number on your screen, until there's a gentle tap on your passenger window.

Woonhak's face appears, upside down, as he bends to peer through the glass. His expression immediately shifts when he sees you.

You hesitantly unlock the door for him. 

"Hey," he says softly, sliding into the passenger seat. "What's wrong?"

You hold up your phone without a word.

Woonhak looks at the screen, then back at you. "Okay. That sucks. But it's not the end of the world."

"It feels like it."

"I know." He's quiet for a moment. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. You want to sit here and be miserable for a while?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. I'm good at that too."

And he… surprisingly is. He sits there, not trying to fix anything or make you feel better, just being present while you fall apart. It's more comforting than it should be.

"I studied so hard," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I know you did."

"I gave up everything. Sleep, food, time with my friends, not that I have many to begin with."

"I know."

"And it still wasn't enough." Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate how pathetic you sound.

"Hey." Woonhak's voice is gentle. "Look at me."

You don't want to, but you force yourself to look into his eyes.

"One grade doesn't define you," he says. "I know it feels like it does right now, but it doesn't. You're smart, and you're dedicated, and you work harder than anyone I know. This is just one test."

"It's not just one test, though. It's everything. I'm tired all the time, I can't focus, I feel like I'm drowning and everyone else is just... swimming."

"Then maybe it's time to learn how to float."

"What?"

"You don't have to be swimming all the time. Sometimes you can just float. Let the current carry you for a while."

You stare at him. "That's surprisingly deep for someone who makes puns about molecular bonds."

"I contain multitudes."

Despite everything, you laugh. It's a small, broken sound, but it's enough to make Woonhak fondly smile back at the sound. 

"There she is," Woonhak says softly, and the way he's looking at you makes your chest ache in a completely different way in ways you can't explain. 

"I should go home," you say eventually. "Face the music."

"Want me to come with you?"

"What?"

"Not inside," he clarifies quickly. "Just... moral support. I can wait in the car, make sure you don't drive into a tree on the way home."

"I'm not going to drive into a tree."

"Humour me."

You consider it. The idea of going home alone, of sitting through dinner with your parents while trying to pretend everything's fine, feels overwhelming. But the idea of Woonhak being there, even just in the driveway, feels like something you could handle.

"Okay," you say finally. "But you're not allowed to make any jokes about my house."

"Deal. But if your parents invite me in for dinner, I'm not saying no."

"They won't."

"We'll see."

Step 6 : 

You don't show up to school the next day, or the day after that.

By the third day, Woonhak is starting to worry. Your desk sits empty in all three classes you share, and none of your friends, the few you have, seem to know where you are. He asks Sungho, who just shrugs and says you're probably sick. He asks Jaehyun, who says he thinks he saw your car in your driveway yesterday but isn't sure.

On the fourth day, Woonhak decides he's had enough.

He's never been to your house before, but he's got your address from when you exchanged contact info for a group project last month. It's a fifteen minute walk from school, through a neighbourhood that's nicer than his but not fancy.

Your house is blue with white trim, and there's a car in the driveway that he assumes is yours. The curtains are drawn, but he can see light coming from what he thinks might be your bedroom window.

He stands on your front porch for a full minute, trying to figure out what to say. 

Hey, I know we're not that close but I was worried about you? I brought snacks and emotional support? I miss making fun of your math skills?

In the end, he just knocks.

The door opens after a long moment, and you're standing there in pajamas that look like you've been wearing them for days, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed.

"Woonhak?" Your voice is hoarse, like you haven't used it in a while.

"Hey," he says softly. "Can I come in?"

You stare at him for a moment, then step aside.

Your house is quiet, so quiet that he could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of a clock somewhere, but no voices, no TV, no signs of life.

"Where are your parents?" he asks.

"Work. They think I have the flu."

"Do you?"

"No."

You lead him to your room, which is somehow exactly what he expected and nothing like he imagined at the same time. It's neat but lived-in, with fairy lights strung around the ceiling and books stacked everywhere. Your desk is covered in papers and highlighters, evidence of study sessions that went nowhere.

"I brought supplies," Woonhak says, holding up a bag he's been carrying. "Snacks, tissues, that face mask thing you mentioned liking once, and—" He pulls out a small stuffed animal, a ridiculous-looking cat with a grumpy expression. "Emotional support."

You stare at the cat, then at him, then back at the cat.

"You brought me a stuffed animal?"

"His name is Professor Dubu. He's here to judge your life choices in a supportive way."

"That's..." You take the cat, holding it against your chest. "That's really weird."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

Woonhak sits on the edge of your bed, careful to maintain some distance. "You want to talk about what's going on?"

"Not really."

"Okay. You want me to talk about random stuff until you get annoyed and tell me to leave?"

"Maybe."

"Cool. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? And that they're technically aliens because their DNA is so different from everything else on Earth? Also, I'm pretty sure Jaehyun has been trying to ask out the girl from our History class for three weeks now, but every time he sees her, he just starts talking about the French Revolution instead."

Despite yourself, you smile a little. "That sounds like Jaehyun."

"Right? It's painful to watch. Anyways, Taesan thinks we should just lock them in a closet together until one of them breaks, but I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"Probably."

"Definitely." He pauses. "You know, everyone's been asking about you. Teachers, classmates, even some people I didn't know you knew."

"Really?"

"Really. Turns out you're more popular than you think."

You're quiet for a moment, holding Professor Dubu and staring at your hands. "I don't feel popular. I feel... invisible."

"You're not invisible to me."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning you're not sure either of you is ready to examine.

"I know," you say finally. "And I don't understand why."

"Why what?"

"Why you..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "Why you care. Why you notice me. Why you're here."

Woonhak is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it.

"You know how some people are like... background music? Like, they're nice, and they're fine, but they don't really stick with you?"

You nod.

"You're not background music. You're like... the song that gets stuck in your head. The one you find yourself humming without realizing it. The one that you play on repeat and never get bored or tired of."

Your chest feels tight again, but in a different way than before.

"I don't know what to do with that," you admit.

"You don't have to do anything with it. Just... don't disappear, okay? Don't make yourself invisible just because things get hard."

"What if I can't help it?"

"Then I'll keep showing up until you remember how to be seen."

You stopped cold at his confession and stare directly at him. For once, you see past the carefully maintained cheerfulness you've known him for. Behind the exterior, you see someone who's genuinely worried about you, someone who cares enough to skip school and show up at your door with snacks and… emotional support cat plushies.

"Woonhak?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For... caring. For seeing me when I can't see myself."

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"I know, but I want to."

He smiles, different from his usual grins. This time, it’s smaller, softer, sincere. 

"Come back tomorrow?" he asks.

"I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking for."

Step 7 : 

You do come back the next day, although you're not sure why. Maybe it's because of what Woonhak said, or maybe it's because Professor Dubu spent the night judging you from your nightstand, or maybe it's just because staying home feels more exhausting than facing the world.

Woonhak lights up when he sees you walk into Chemistry, and the genuine relief on his face makes your heart flutter.

"You came back," he says as you slide into your seat.

"I said I'd try."

"Yeah, but you actually did it."

"Don't make a big deal out of it."

"Too late. I'm already planning the celebration."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling a little. "Please don't."

"Fine, fine. But I'm at least buying you lunch."

"You don't need to—"

"I want to."

You catch the tone in his voice that makes you look at him more carefully. He's doing that thing again where he's trying not to smile, but this time, his composure seems… nervous?

"Okay," you say, because you don't know what else to say.

"Okay?"

"Okay, you can buy me lunch."

"Cool. Great. Perfect." He's definitely nervous now, fidgeting with his pen and avoiding eye contact.

"Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Because you're acting weird."

"I'm not acting weird. This is how I always act."

"No, this is how you act when you're planning something."

"I'm not planning anything."

"Woonhak."

"Okay, fine. Maybe I'm planning something. But it's not a big something. It's like... a medium something."

"What kind of medium something?"

"The kind you'll find out about at lunch."

You spend the rest of Chemistry trying to figure out what he's up to, but he's remarkably good at deflecting your questions. By the time lunch rolls around, you're more curious than worried.

He leads you to a spot you've never been before, a small courtyard behind the library that's somehow managed to stay hidden from most of the student body. There's a picnic table under a tree, and he's already spread out what looks like an entire convenience store's worth of snacks.

"This is your medium something?" you ask.

"Part of it." He's definitely nervous now, running his hands through his hair and avoiding eye contact. "The other part is... um..."

"Woonhak, you're scaring me."

"I don't want to scare you. That's literally the opposite of what I want."

"Then just tell me what's going on."

He takes a deep breath, then looks at you directly for the first time all day. "I like you."

"I know. We're friends."

"No, I mean... I like you like you."

The words hang in the air between you, and you feel like you've been hit by a truck. Not in a bad way, exactly, but in a way that makes everything suddenly make sense and no sense at all.

"Oh," you say.

"Oh?"

"I... oh."

"That's not exactly the response I was hoping for."

You stare at him, trying to process what he just said. "You like me?"

"Yeah."

"Like... romantically?"

"Yeah."

"Since when?"

"Since..." He thinks for a moment. "Since you fell asleep in Biology and started drooling on your notes. You looked so peaceful, and I realized I wanted to be the person who made sure you got enough sleep so you wouldn't have to sleep in class."

"That's... specific."

"I'm a specific person."

"You are." You're quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how you feel about this revelation. "Why are you telling me now?"

"Because you disappeared for four days and I realized that the thought of you not being in my life anymore was actually terrifying."

"I wasn't going to disappear forever."

"But you could have. And I didn't want you to disappear without knowing that someone thinks you're amazing."

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. "I'm not amazing."

"You are, though. You're smart, funny and you care about things more deeply than anyone I know. You hum when you concentrate and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're thinking hard about something. You remember people's birthdays and you always have extra pens and you make these little jokes that are so dry I'm never sure if you're being serious or not."

"Those aren't amazing things. Those are just... things."

"They're amazing to me."

He's looking at you in the way that makes your chest feel tight again, but it's not uncomfortable this time. It's like something warm and bright is expanding inside you, filling spaces you didn't know were empty.

"I don't know what to say," you admit.

"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know."

"But what if I want to say something?"

"I'm all ears."

You take a deep breath, trying to organize your thoughts. "I think... I think I like you too. I'm just scared…"

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that I'm not good at this, that I'll mess it up, that you'll figure out I'm not as amazing as you think I am."

"What if I told you I'm scared too?"

"You? Scared of what?"

"Scared that you'll realize you can do better than the class clown who makes too many puns and cares too much about whether you're eating enough."

"You don't make too many puns."

"I absolutely make too many puns."

"Okay, yeah, you do. But I kind of like them."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. They're... endearing."

"Endearing enough to maybe give this a shot?"

You look at him, sitting there surrounded by an absurd amount of snacks, looking nervous, hopeful and completely sincere, and you realize that maybe you've been approaching this whole thing wrong. Perhaps instead of trying to figure out if you're good enough or ready enough or brave enough, you should just... try.

"Yeah," you say. "I think I'd like that."

The smile that spreads across Woonhak's face is brighter than the sun.

Step 8 : 

Few weeks later, you're standing in the hallway after school, shoving books into your locker, when Woonhak appears beside you like he always does.

"How was your day?" he asks, leaning against the lockers.

"Better," you say. "I got my Biology test back."

"And?"

"B+."

"That's amazing!" He looks genuinely proud, and a familiar warmth settles in your chest.

"It's not amazing, but it's better."

"It's progress. Progress is amazing."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously proud of you."

"You can't just add 'ridiculously' to everything I say."

"Ridiculously yes I can."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Ridiculously doesn't have to."

You slam your locker shut and turn to face him fully. "You're the worst."

"Ridiculously the worst."

"I'm going to hit you."

"Ridiculously hit me."

"Woonhak."

"Ridiculously Woonhak."

Instead of hitting him, you do something that surprises both of you, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder.

He freezes for a moment, then his arms come up around you, holding you close.

"What's this for?" he asks softly.

"For being ridiculous," you say into his shoulder. "For being annoying. For not giving up on me when I gave up on myself."

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"I know, but I want to."

You pull back slightly to look at him. He's got that soft expression again, the same one that makes your chest feel tight in the best way.

"I'm really glad you decided to fix my personality," you tell him.

"I didn't fix anything. I just helped you remember who you already were."

"Same thing."

"Ridiculously not the same thing."

You laugh, and Woonhak's expression shifts.

"There she is," he says quietly.

"There who is?"

"The girl I fell for. The one who was always hidden underneath all that nonchalant exterior, just buried under all the stress and exhaustion."

Before you can respond, someone shouts from down the hallway.

 "FINALLY!"

You both turn to see Jaehyun and Taesan standing by the water fountain, grinning like idiots.

"Seriously?" Jaehyun calls out. "We've been waiting for this for months."

"Pay up," Taesan says, holding out his hand.

Jaehyun grumbles but pulls out his wallet. "I thought it would take at least another week."

"You bet on us?" you ask, incredulous.

"Of course we bet on you," Taesan says. "It was painful watching you two dance around each other."

"We weren't dancing around each other," Woonhak protests.

"You made her a playlist," Jaehyun points out.

"So?"

"You learned her favorite snacks."

"That's just being observant."

"You skipped school to check on her."

"That's just being a good friend."

"You bought her a stuffed animal."

Woonhak opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, that one might have been a little obvious."

"A little?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine. Very obvious. Ridiculously obvious."

"There you go again with the ridiculously."

"It's my thing now."

"It's ridiculous."

"Ridiculously ridiculous."

Jaehyun and Taesan are still standing there, watching this exchange with matching grins.

"You two are disgusting," Taesan says, but he sounds fond.

"Ridiculously disgusting," Woonhak agrees cheerfully.

You look around at your friends, somehow, somewhere along the way, that's what they became. 

You lay your eyes on Woonhak, who's still got his arms around you and is looking at you like he couldn't believe someone like you could ever exist in his life.

"You know what?" you say.

"What?"

"I think I'm okay with ridiculous."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. As long as it's your ridiculous."

The smile that spreads across Woonhak's face is ridiculously bright, and before you could even process it, he kisses you right there in the hallway, and your chest feels like it would explode with happiness that you forgot you were capable of feeling.

From somewhere behind you, you hear Jaehyun mutter, "I should have bet on the kiss too."

You ignore it, who cares? 

You're too busy being ridiculously, impossibly, completely happy in love. 

Ridiculously Woonhak’s.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist: @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @beomev

[hereghostslive]

for the love of cinema part 3

part 1, part 2

—

Tommy can’t seem to stop tapping his finger against the counter as he waits for the phone to connect. His impatience grows with every second though he supposes that’s unfair. He already knows what kind of greeting awaits him when—

“Hello?”

Hmm. Perhaps he’s safe then.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you, I know you’re probably really busy—“

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

Tommy rolls his eyes. Not off the hook then.

“C’mon, you know who it is.”

“I know what my caller id said, but I thought, that couldn’t be right. Tommy’s phone got destroyed in a fire or thrown over a bridge or stomped on by angry cats—“

“Jesus, this is a little dramatic—“

“—Because why else would he not answer any of my calls or Hen’s calls or Karen’s calls? Surely he’s not ignoring us after promising he would keep in touch. No, see,” Howie says, and Tommy can tell he’s gearing up for a big finish. “That would be dramatic.”

There’s a moment of silence while they sit in the drama of it all. Howie’s not exactly wrong. He remembers some vague exchanges at Bobby’s celebration of life about keeping in touch. He’s not sure about all the missed calls though — he turned notifications off for everything in the days following his suspension, so if they did call, he missed it. But this isn’t really about him right now.

“Are you done?”

“Not at all, but I’m saving the rest.”

Tommy sighs. “Can’t wait.”

“Me either,” Howie says, and Tommy can hear the smirk in his words.

A baby cries on the other end of the line, followed by soft “shhs” that can only be Maddie.

“I heard,” Tommy says. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Tommy.” The pride in Howie’s voice is so clear, and Tommy offers a smile of his own, even though Howie can’t see it. “Now, c’mon, spill. What’s up? What made you decide to break the no contact rule you threw yourself into?”

Tommy rolls his eyes again. “It wasn’t intentional — ya know what, never mind. Do you still have your She’s the Man DVD?”

“My She’s the Man dvd?”

“Correct.” Tommy starts tapping his fingers against the counter again.

“That’s what made you finally decide to pick up a phone? Trashy early 2000s rom-com Shakespeare remakes?”

“Hey, it’s not trashy, it’s classic.”

“And you know I love it,” Howie says. There’s a crash in the background, followed by full blown cries. “Shit, hang on.”

Howie must have put his phone down on the counter because now everything’s muffled on the other end. A few minutes go by and Tommy’s tapping gets louder.

As he’s waiting, his phone buzzes. Tommy pulls his phone away from his ear and swipes over to his messages.

—

(from Evan)

lol did you know there’s a film called sharknado

—

Tommy laughs, shaking his head.

—

(to Evan)

we are not watching that

—

(from Evan)

they should make one about bees 🐝🌪️. 💰.

—

(to Evan)

what does the money bag mean?

—

(from Evan)

it would kill at the box office 🔪

—

"Hey, you there?"

Tommy brings his phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm still here."

"Sorry about that. We're setting up, uh — um, a room for Buck. Had a little mishap with moving some furniture around."

“Oh, right. He mentioned that,” Tommy says without really thinking.

“He mentioned that?”

“Uh, well, yes.” Shit, shit, shit. Shit. Tommy grimaces and starts biting his thumbnail. He's not sure if Evan wants his family to know they're hanging out again, or at least, they hung out that one time earlier in the week. But Tommy's sure as shit not ready to hear about it from the others, especially after he apparently ghosted all of them.

“Huh,” Howie says. Before Tommy can respond again to deny any of what Howie could be thinking, he continues. “You know what, I’ve just remembered. My She’s the Man DVD is stuck in the DVD player.”

Tommy stops tapping. “Is it.”

“Yeah, unfortunately. It’s still totally operational, so you and Buck can still watch it. You’ll just have to come over here to use it.”

“Howie —“

“Sorry, Tommy, I got to go. Buck moves in tomorrow, so anytime you want to come over for She’s the Man, coordinate with Buck. Bye!”

Howie hangs up before Tommy can protest. He sighs, setting his phone down on the counter and glaring at it, like it’s at fault for Howie’s meddling. He’s not even sure why he called. She’s the Man is probably on streaming somewhere.

His phone buzzes again. He picks it up and swipes his messages open. It’s a photo from Evan. In it is one of the moving boxes, but it’s open, the top of Evan’s coffee maker peaking out the top of it. And just barely visible behind one of the flaps of the box is the word “coffee maker,” written in sharpie.

—

(from Evan)

last thing packed. all ready to go! 🚚

—

Tommy smiles. Remembers the soft light shining through the windows of Evan’s kitchen that morning, the sound of the coffee pot low and comforting in the background. He pulled it from that very box.

He hearts the photo, and then sends a response.

—

(to Evan)

need help unpacking?

[dozybeez]

Spin For Me (Pt. Twelve)

She's the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He's the campus heartthrob who's used to getting what he wants— except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part one → part two → part three → part four → part five → part six → part seven → part eight → part nine → part ten → part eleven

→ part thirteen coming soon

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 9.0k

content warnings: slowish burn, smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size, possession, and innocence kink. drugs & alcohol. MDNI, you will be blocked.

songs for this chapter:

tba

tba

The silence after yes is the kind that hums inside your ribs.

Not hollow. Not awkward. Just… full. Like the quiet that settles when a storm finally passes, when the wind dies down and the trees are left shivering in the aftermath, stripped but still standing.

You stay wrapped up in him. Breathing in tandem. Letting yourself sink into the safety of his arms like you’ve never been allowed to before. And Mingyu doesn’t let go—not even a little. His hands stay firm on your back, fingertips curled in the fabric of your outfit like he’s afraid if he lets go now, he’ll never get the chance to hold you again.

It’s warm where he touches. Too warm for this cold night.

You don’t know how long you stand there, nestled in the alley behind the club, your bare legs goosebumped, your body half exposed to the dark. But it doesn’t feel cold. Not with him pressed so close, his heartbeat thudding through your cheek, uneven and tired and real.

Eventually, your fingers loosen their grip on his hoodie, but not entirely.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

His eyes are already on you—soft and dark and wide with something too big to name. His busted lip is split, a little puffy, still bleeding faintly at the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Mingyu blinks. “For what?”

“For tonight. For the club. The video. The mess.” You hesitate, words trembling like they’re walking barefoot over glass. “For ruining your reputation.”

His face twists like the idea itself physically hurts him. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You lift a shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. “You’re supposed to be the guy everyone wants. You’re not supposed to be seen with the stripper who gives lap dances in stilettos and glitter oil.”

He exhales slowly, but there’s a weight to it—something cracking under pressure. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you right now?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him.

“I see the girl who stayed up late studying for her midterms, who got that one tiny wrinkle between her brows whenever she concentrated too hard. I see the girl who cried when that rabbit in that TikTok animation got hit by a car. The one who eats cereal at midnight and falls asleep at the library with her mouth open.”

Your lips part, your heart thudding unevenly.

“I see the girl who gave me her last piece of gum on a rainy Tuesday. Who dances like she was born to fly but still thinks she needs to prove herself to people who don’t matter. And yeah…” His hand lifts to your cheek, knuckles brushing your skin so softly it makes your chest ache. “I see the girl who strips. Who danced for me like it meant something. Because it did.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says, voice quiet but clear. “I’ve never been.”

You don’t mean to cry again, but the tears are there—tired and hot and stubborn. You blink fast, trying to shove them back where they came from, but one slips free anyway.

He catches it with the pad of his thumb.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

A breath shudders out of him. He leans forward until your foreheads press together. His nose brushes yours.

“And I’m yours,” he murmurs back. “Every part.”

You close your eyes for one second. Just one. And when you open them again, the night is still here. The alley still reeks of beer and smoke and spilled perfume. You’re still standing in heels with glitter smudged on your collarbone.

But he’s here too.

And somehow, that makes it bearable.

"Let’s get out of here," he murmurs.

You shift against him and speak quietly but clearly. “I need to go back in.”

He stiffens. “What?”

You tilt your chin toward the club’s back door. “Just to grab my stuff—bag, clothes, phone. I’m not going back for another dance with a stranger, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

A small grin tugs at your mouth when you catch the way his jaw tightens. “Unless you were hoping to add to the busted lip.”

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, something like exasperated affection flickers across his face. “Yeah, well. Not sure it’d be the worst way to earn another one.”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying you’d fight someone again?”

His jaw ticks. “If they even look at you wrong.”

Your grin softens into something smaller, more real.

He exhales, steadying himself. “I’ll come with you.”

“You really don’t—”

“I want to.” His hand slips down to take yours, fingers weaving through like muscle memory. “Let me come.”

You nod.

The hallway inside the club is warmer, but it feels suffocating after the quiet outside. Your heels click dully against the floor as you lead him down the corridor past the bar and toward the dressing room.

A few heads turn. A few people whisper. You don’t care.

Mingyu walks behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that you feel his presence like a shield.

The security guard stationed outside the dressing room immediately narrows his eyes at Mingyu. “You again?” he says, voice sharp and unfriendly. “Back to cause more problems?”

You step forward quickly before Mingyu can respond. “Relax. I’m just grabbing my stuff, and then we’re leaving.”

The guard doesn’t look at you—he’s still watching Mingyu like he’s one wrong breath away from being dragged out again.

You squeeze Mingyu’s hand, then turn to the guard with a saccharine smile. “Just give me two minutes, okay? No need to glare holes into my boyfriend’s head.”

The man scoffs but steps aside with a grunt. “Two minutes.”

You turn to Mingyu, lowering your voice. “Wait here. Please don’t move. I’ll be quick.”

His eyes flicker down your body—still in your tiny stage outfit, glitter catching the hallway light—and he hesitates. “You’re not gonna change?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to risk leaving you alone with him that long.” You nod toward the guard. “He looks like he wants to throw you through a wall.”

Mingyu huffs a breath but nods. “Fine.”

You dart into the dressing room, fast and focused. You grab your duffel bag, shove your phone and clothes inside, and swipe a makeup wipe across your face just to feel halfway human. Normally you’d change. You’d scrub the glitter off, pull on sweats and reclaim some dignity you feel you have lost.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you just want to get the hell out.

When you push the door open again, Mingyu’s right where you left him—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on the hallway like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

You sling your duffel over one shoulder, eyes flicking nervously toward the guard still watching by the dressing room door.

He pulls off his hoodie in one smooth motion and hands it to you, already reaching for your duffel with his other hand like it’s instinct—no discussion, no pause, just him quietly taking care of you.

You slide the hoodie on immediately. It swallows you whole, the sleeves slipping past your fingertips, the hem grazing your thighs. The fabric is soft and warm, heavy with his scent, a shield against the chill and everything else that still lingers.

He’s left standing there in just his white tee, the thin cotton doing little to hide the bruises beginning to form—dark smudges blooming along his arms and collarbone, a fading imprint from the man who tried to push him off.

But Mingyu doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are only on you.

His hand moves to rest on the small of your back, steady and protective, guiding you forward.

The guard raises an eyebrow at Mingyu, clearly unimpressed and probably about to say something, but you put a finger to your lips and whisper, “Shhh, we’re leaving now. Just don’t give him a reason to get mad.”

As you step away, a few of the other dancers pass by, smirking knowingly.

“If I saw my man with a busted lip after beating up some dude for me,” one says with a teasing grin, “Lord, I’d be on my knees right now.”

Her friend laughs, “Same. Wouldn’t even wait to get home.”

You flush, and Mingyu mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath.

His hand stays firm and warm on your back as you both slip quietly out the back exit and into the night.

⸻

Mingyu keeps his hand on the small of your back as you step out into the night, his hoodie hanging heavy on your frame, your duffel bag secure in his grip. The street is nearly silent, save for the low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance and the soft scuff of your heels on the pavement. The club’s neon buzz fades behind you, swallowed by the dark.

You don't speak. He doesn't either. But his presence beside you is louder than any words could be.

He unlocks the car with a soft beep, opens the passenger door, and gently helps you inside. His hand lingers at your thigh for just a moment—just enough to make your breath catch—before he leans in, buckles your seatbelt, and closes the door with a quiet click. It’s such a small thing, but it makes your chest twist.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, the silence has shifted again—no longer thick or heavy, but charged. Fragile. Sacred.

The car is cold. His knuckles are scraped. His mouth is still bleeding faintly.

But he looks over at you like you're the only thing that matters.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, even though you know he didn’t ask.

“I know,” he says. Then, softer: “Still wanted to make sure.”

You rest your head back against the seat, turning slightly to face him. The hoodie smells like him—warm laundry, cedarwood, and something sharp underneath it all, like adrenaline refusing to settle.

When the engine starts, the heater sputters to life in bursts. He pulls out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other dropping instinctively to your thigh again. That same touch as before—grounding, reassuring, firm but careful. Like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You place your hand over his, your fingers sliding between his knuckles until they fit.

The streetlights flicker past the windows like slow blinks. Each turn he takes is gentle, almost reverent, like he’s afraid if he jolts the car too fast, you’ll vanish beside him. His thumb strokes your leg absently, and neither of you says a word for blocks.

But it doesn’t feel like silence anymore.

It feels like everything.

It feels like beginning again.

You glance at him once, catching the way his jaw is clenched and his eyes flick toward you every few seconds like he’s checking—rechecking—that you’re real. That you’re here. That you’re his.

Your chest aches.

Not with pain.

With something fuller.

He pulls into his apartment’s underground garage, the fluorescent lights overhead making the bruises forming on his arms look worse than they did in the club. He parks in the corner, far from everyone else, and shifts the gear into park. But he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

For a moment, the engine ticks beneath the silence, cooling slowly. The heater huffs one final breath.

Then he turns toward you.

Really turns.

His eyes rake over you—not in that heated way from before, not hungry or desperate—but with a kind of heartbreak. A kind of awe. Like he doesn’t understand how you’re still choosing him in this moment.

Your fingers tighten around his.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he says suddenly. His voice is low. Rough. “I thought you were pulling away because it was too much. Because I’d moved too fast, or I’d made you feel—”

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never did.”

His eyes close, just for a second. Then he nods.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly, the click echoing louder than it should. Mingyu watches you as you reach across the console, one hand brushing along his jaw where the skin is swollen and tender.

He leans into your palm like it’s instinct.

You whisper, “Let’s go upstairs.”

His breath hitches. But he nods again.

You both step out in silence. The garage air is colder here—still and sharp, echoing with the distant hum of the city above. Mingyu meets you at the front of the car and adjusts his hoodie where it swallows your frame, tugging the hem lower with quiet intention. There’s something instinctive in the motion—something protective. Like now that you’ve said you’re his and he’s yours, he won’t let anyone else glimpse what’s his to hold. Not tonight. Not like this. Then he slides your bag off your shoulder and onto his, his free hand reaching for yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t speak.

But your fingers stay linked all the way to the elevator—and they never loosen, not even once.

⸻

You don’t speak as he locks the apartment door behind you. The quiet between you is thick but no longer heavy—more like it’s stretching, expanding to hold everything you both haven’t said yet.

You take a step further in, heart slowing to a more human rhythm, and that’s when you see it.

The blanket’s still half-folded on the kitchen counter, the same one he’d once brought to the library after seeing you shiver before. A paper bag of your favorite snacks sits slouched beside it, open and forgotten. There’s a pitcher of your favorite tea you always ordered—and a plastic-wrapped bouquet of peonies, the pink kind with ruffled edges you used to draw in the margins of your notebooks.

It hits you like a punch.

He had been ready.

And when you didn’t show, he didn’t rage. Didn’t throw it away. He just… put it down. Set it aside. Like he couldn’t bear to get rid of it, but it hurt too much to look at.

Your throat tightens. “You really were going to ask me tonight.”

His voice is quiet behind you. “Yeah.”

You blink fast and inhale through your nose, but it still stings. You nod, fingers curling against the hem of his hoodie still draped around your thighs.

Then softly, “I need to shower.”

It comes out almost like a confession, but it’s not an excuse. You just… want to wash off the night. The club. The glitter, the eyes, the guilt. You want to feel clean. Just for a moment. Just for him.

Mingyu nods, like he understands all of that without you needing to say it.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you stuff.”

He disappears into the bedroom and comes back a moment later with a clean hoodie, and a pair of his softest boxers. His eyes meet yours as he hands them over, and the brush of your fingers sends a flicker of heat straight down your spine.

“I’ll be quick,” you whisper, even though he hasn’t asked you to be.

“I don’t mind if you’re not,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

The bathroom light is warm and gold. You undress slowly, stripping off everything that felt like armor earlier—lashes, rhinestones, glittering scraps of cloth—and let them scatter across the counter like the parts of a girl you’re no longer trying to be.

When the water runs hot, you step in.

And for a moment, the world stops.

You let it beat down on your back, scalding and sharp, like it’s burning away the past few hours. The scent of Mingyu lingers on your skin—on your neck, your wrists, your thigh—and now it swirls with the steam, all-consuming. Your muscles ache. Not from the dancing. From the weight. From the wanting.

You don’t hear him come in.

But you feel the change in the air.

“Mingyu?”

His voice is gentle. “Yeah. I brought you a towel. Forgot earlier.”

When you glance over your shoulder through the foggy glass, you catch the way he’s standing—just inside the door, back turned in his pajamas, one arm extended blindly toward the counter with the towel folded over it. His eyes are squeezed shut like it physically hurts him not to look.

It makes your chest ache.

“You can open your eyes, you know,” you call softly. “You already saw me in an outfit that left nothing to the imagination.”

He doesn’t move.

“And,” you add with a little smile, “you saw me completely naked a couple days ago. On your couch.”

His voice is strained. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because now I know what it feels like to touch you.”

You go still under the spray. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming low and slow in your belly.

The air pulses between you.

“Do you want to see me again?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yes,” he says, barely audible. “God, yes.”

“Then see me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his gaze instantly locking onto you standing beneath the steady flow of warm water. The way the droplets trace delicate paths along your bare skin, the subtle curve of your neck, the soft rise and fall of your chest—it all pulls him in with a quiet, awed reverence. For a moment, the noise of the world falls away, and there’s nothing but you, illuminated in the golden bathroom light, radiant and utterly captivating.

You shift slightly, stepping just enough out of the shower to reach for the towel folded nearby. But before you can take it, his fingers move with a mind of their own, the towel slipping silently from his grasp to the floor. Instead of keeping the towel in hold, his hands come up, cupping your cheeks with gentle warmth, as if he needs the feeling of you close, grounding him.

His lips brush yours—soft and tentative at first, barely more than a whisper of contact, as if he’s testing the air between you. The warmth of his breath mingles with the steam, his fingertips still resting lightly on your cheeks, steadying you, grounding the moment. It’s a kiss that lingers in its gentleness, like a promise held close, fragile but full of meaning.

You respond with a slow inhale, your lips parting slightly, inviting him deeper, and with that subtle shift, the tenderness transforms. Your hands rise to the curve of his neck, fingers threading into the soft strands of his hair at the nape. The kiss grows, no longer a cautious question but a deliberate declaration, the heat pooling between you rising, spreading like wildfire.

His mouth moves with reverence—slow, exploring, savoring every inch of you. The brush of his lips down your jaw, the delicate nip at the corner of your mouth, the pull of his tongue just grazing yours—each movement carefully measured but aching with need. Your body responds in kind, pressing forward, hungry to close the distance that still lingers.

Breath catches and mingles; hearts thud in chaotic rhythms as the kiss deepens. Your teeth graze his lower lip in a subtle challenge, and he yields, giving in fully to the growing hunger. His hands slide from your cheeks, one trailing down your neck, the other settling at your waist, pulling you flush against him. You’re trembling under his touch, the water streaming down behind you forgotten for the moment, the world narrowing to the heat between your bodies.

There’s an urgency now, raw and unspoken, a feeling like all the moments before this—the waiting, the ache, the confessions—have led here. The kiss intensifies, breathless and relentless. His mouth claims yours with a fierce hunger, demanding, yet tender. You match him, deepening the kiss, pouring all your desire and need into the contact. His hands grip your hips, steadying you as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse together with the strength of the longing between you.

Still kissing, still lost in the fierce gravity of each other, you both begin to move without thought—slow, unsteady steps that carry you stumbling back beneath the warm rush of water. The shower envelopes you again, the cold tile beneath forgotten as the heat of your bodies and the water blurs into a shared fire, every lingering touch, every breath, every desperate sigh binding you closer in a moment that feels like both a beginning and an eternity.

The spray of the shower rains down around you, cascading over your shoulders, streaming down your spine—but you hardly feel it. All that registers is him. The heat of his mouth, the press of his chest against yours, the soft drag of his palms as they map your skin like he’s been waiting a lifetime to memorize you.

Mingyu is soaked now, utterly drenched in his tee and sweatpants, the fabric clinging to every line of muscle. Water darkens his hair in rivulets, plastering it to his forehead, dripping from his temples—but he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t pull back. His focus is entirely on you.

Your lips part on a gasp when his hand trails up, fingers skimming over the curve of your waist, slipping up the line of your ribcage. He’s reverent—like every inch of you is sacred—but his touch is undeniably hungry. You feel it in the tremble of his breath against your cheek, in the way his fingers brush just beneath the swell of your breast and pause there, savoring.

You shudder beneath the contact, your back arching just slightly, offering more.

His thumb grazes your nipple, soft and curious at first, then more deliberate. The pad of it circles slowly, coaxing a sharp intake of breath from your lungs, and your head tips back against the slick tile wall, not even noticing the goosebumps forming on your body. The water may have lost its heat but you don’t feel the cold. Not really. Not when his mouth is pressing kisses along your throat, hot and open-mouthed, tasting the water, tasting you.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with something tender and raw, barely a breath against your skin.

“But you’re so warm,” you whisper back, voice trembling from more than just sensation. Your eyes flutter open, finding his—dark and storm-lit, burning and wide.

He lifts a hand—slow, steady—and tilts your chin up with two fingers, like he’s afraid to startle the moment, like he wants to see you before he devours you whole. His thumb strokes along your jaw as his gaze searches yours, fierce and unguarded.

“Then let me keep you warm,” he says, low and rough and entirely yours.

You don’t answer—not with words. Instead, your hands slide down his chest, feeling the soaked cotton clinging to him like a second skin. You trace the ridge of each muscle through it, feeling the strength he’s holding back for you. Your palms settle at his hips, and your fingers curl in the waistband of his pants, anchoring.

He exhales like it hurts, like the patience in him is breaking at the seams.

Then his mouth is back on yours—deeper this time, fuller. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe, like your lips are the only tether keeping him sane. His tongue slips past yours with a low groan that rumbles through both your chests, and suddenly there’s no air, no space, no boundary left between you.

The steam clings to your skin, sweat and water mixing until you don’t know which heat is yours and which is his. One of his hands tangles in your wet hair, tilting your head just right so he can kiss you harder. The other stays at your waist, sliding behind to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until you feel the full hardness of him through the soaked fabric.

A whimper slips from your throat, caught between the kiss and the steam, and he stills—just for a breath. His forehead leans into yours, chests heaving together, soaked and trembling, water cascading down your tangled bodies like a pulse.

Neither of you speaks.

But your lips part, not for words—for air, for closeness, for the sheer gravity of it all.

His eyes search yours, drenched strands of hair clinging to his forehead. The admiration in his expression makes your heart twist. And then—you smile. Barely there. Soft. Like the feeling blooming in your chest has nowhere else to go.

He smiles back, lips flushed, pupils blown wide.

Then, almost in tandem, your gazes darken—desire thickening in the space between your mouths. The warmth shifts. Deepens. A shared hunger blooms in silence, and you lean into it like you’ve both been waiting to burn.

Even as the water keeps pouring over your skin, even as your lungs beg for air, you can’t stop touching—can’t stop reaching for him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth.

He pulls back just enough to see you, your eyes wide and blown and burning, your lips swollen and slick from kissing. A bead of water trails down his jaw and catches on the edge of his busted lip—still faintly swollen from the fight, split and darkened but somehow impossibly beautiful. Your gaze flickers to it, then back up to his eyes.

"You're bleeding a little again," you whisper.

He smiles through it—crooked, ruined, reverent. “Don’t care.”

His hands settle firm at your waist again, holding you like you’re fragile and holy all at once. But this time, when his lips find yours, he kisses you through the pain. The kiss deepens, then slows. He pulls you into him like he can’t stand the inches of distance still left. It’s less frantic now—but no less hungry. The kind of hunger that’s waited. That’s earned its patience.

His hands slide down, beneath the curve of your thighs. And before you can blink, he’s lifting you—effortless, like you weigh nothing to him. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your bare chest pressed to his soaked shirt, nipples dragging against damp cotton, sending jolts of heat through your body.

He steps carefully out of the shower, still holding you, steam curling around your bodies like smoke. The air outside the stall is cooler, but neither of you feels it. His grip is firm, steady, one hand cupping the underside of your thigh, the other splayed wide across your back, keeping you tight to his chest.

He sets you down slowly—delicately—on the bathroom counter, your skin sliding against the cool stone, still slick from the water. You shiver from the contrast, and he leans in immediately, kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, murmuring soft nothings like I’ve got you and You’re okay, baby, as if his mouth alone could warm you.

Your legs stay spread around his hips, pulling him in close. You reach for the hem of his soaked shirt, tugging it up slightly, revealing the long, sculpted line of his torso. Your palms run up the ridges of his abs, mapping every inch, memorizing with touch what you’ve only dared to imagine. He lets you look. Lets you touch. His eyes never leave yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, voice fraying at the edges. “You don’t even know.”

Your hands roam higher—over his chest, along his shoulders, across the wet fabric still clinging to his arms. You slide it off, baring more of him, dragging your nails lightly over the bruises that have started to bloom along his biceps. The ones he got for you.

Your heart aches at the sight—but your body burns.

He leans down, kissing you again, and this time it’s messier. Wetter. All open mouth and gasping breath. Your hands tangle in his damp hair, fingers curling tight when he rolls his hips against you—slow, deliberate. You feel the length of him through the soaked sweatpants, hard and straining. Your hips arch instinctively, chasing friction, desperate for more. With a breathless whimper, you hook your fingers into the waistband and tug, aided by the steadiness of his hands, peeling the soaked fabric down until only his boxers remain between you.

The contact draws a low groan from his throat. He presses his forehead to yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, voice ruined. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “I want you so bad, it hurts.”

His jaw clenches. That busted lip splits a little more, but he doesn’t flinch. He only nods—once, like he’s just barely holding himself together.

Then his mouth is on your chest.

He kisses the slope of your breast first, warm and open-mouthed. Then his lips part, tongue flicking against your nipple, drawing it into the heat of his mouth. You gasp, arching against him, legs tightening around his waist. He groans at the feel of you squirming against him and sucks harder, flicking the sensitive peak until your toes curl against the counter.

His other hand slides down—slow and reverent. He strokes the outside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and then slides between your legs. His fingers brush the inside of your thigh, barely grazing your slick heat. You’re soaked—not just from the shower. He draws back to look at you, his lips swollen and wet, his pupils blown.

“Can I touch you?” he asks. “Really touch you?”

You nod, breath stuttering. “Yes.”

He kisses you once more before sinking to his knees.

His hands slide under your thighs, spreading you wider as he lowers his mouth to you—and even though your back arches and your hips jerk forward, he holds you steady, tender but firm. His tongue dips into your folds, slow and warm and devastating. You cry out softly, one hand flying to his hair, the other clawing at the edge of the counter.

He moans against you—moans, like the taste of you is something he’s craved forever. He eats you like a man starved, tongue teasing, licking, sucking, circling your clit with an impossible focus that makes your vision blur.

“Mingyu—” you gasp, barely able to form words.

He groans again, the sound low and guttural. “God, you taste so good. You’re so fucking sweet, baby.”

His voice, rough and low between your thighs, sends you spiraling. Your hips buck against his mouth, and he holds you tighter, guiding you through the pleasure like he’s worshiping you, not just pleasuring you. His tongue flicks faster, then slower, teasing you to the edge and back again.

You’re shaking, breath ragged, sweat and water slick on your skin.

But it’s not just lust—it’s love. It’s written in the way he touches you, the way he looks at you like you’re a miracle, the way he keeps whispering you’re mine, even as he’s unraveling you completely.

You’re already so close.

Your thighs are shaking around his shoulders. Every flick of his tongue, every warm breath against your drenched core is unraveling you by the second. Your fingers are in his hair, twisted tight, and the desperate sounds slipping past your lips barely sound like you anymore.

The tension builds—thick and hot and unbearable. It curls low in your belly, heat spiraling outward, wave after wave crashing toward the edge.

Your breath hitches. “Mingyu—I'm—”

But just as the tremor crests, just as your hips jerk and your chest arches—

He stops.

His mouth leaves you.

The absence is so sudden it feels like a crash.

Your eyes fly open, dazed and wide, your chest rising and falling like you’ve just surfaced from deep underwater.

“Mingyu—” you start to protest, voice breathless and aching.

But then you see his face.

He’s still kneeling, still flushed and dripping wet, but his eyes—God, his eyes are molten. Dark and wrecked and full of reverence. His busted lip is swollen, glistening with your arousal, and he’s panting like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands smooth up your thighs, slow and trembling. “I want to feel that,” he says, voice low and thick, almost hoarse. “I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You blink fast, breath catching.

“I want your first time to be with me, baby,” he murmurs, standing slowly, placing soft kisses along your inner thigh on the way up. “Not my mouth. Not my fingers. Me.”

Your chest caves in with the weight of it—the tenderness. The restraint. The absolute, aching need that vibrates through every inch of him.

You reach for him instantly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in until your foreheads touch, until you can feel his breath mingling with yours again.

“Then take me,” you whisper, raw and open and completely his.

He exhales a broken breath like you just shattered something inside him.

But he doesn’t rush.

Instead, he leans in slowly, catching your mouth with his again—soft at first, almost hesitant, but quickly growing deeper. Needier. Your legs wrap around his hips again, and now there’s nothing between you—just the soaked cotton of his boxers, sticking wet and hot to his skin, doing nothing to hide how hard he is for you.

You reach down between your bodies, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He stills under your touch.

“I want this,” you whisper, eyes searching his. “I want you.”

He nods once, sharp and reverent, like he’s sealing a promise.

“I’ll go slow,” he says softly. “You tell me everything you need, okay? We’ll stop whenever you want. We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in, voice steady now. Sure. “I want all of it. With you.”

A groan slips from his throat, wrecked and full of awe.

Then he’s kissing you again—deep, slow, molten—and this time, he starts to guide you off the counter, lifting you easily into his arms again.

“I need to get you to bed,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You nod, already dizzy with want.

And as he carries you out of the bathroom, soaked and breathless and burning for each other, you know—this isn’t just sex.

This is love, finally given a body.

And it's about to be yours.

⸻

He carries you out of the bathroom like you’re the most precious thing in the world—limbs wrapped tight around him, heart hammering in sync with his. The cool air hits your wet skin the moment the door clicks shut behind you, but the heat between your bodies burns brighter than any chill.

The hallway to his bedroom feels endless, every wet step echoing with the weight of what’s about to happen, but also with the quiet certainty of belonging. His grip never loosens, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you steady as you adjust, grounding yourself in him.

When he finally sets you down, the bedroom swallows you whole—soft shadows pooling in the corners, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the lingering warmth of fresh sheets. Mingyu doesn’t hesitate; his hands are on you again in an instant, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, memorizing the landscape of your skin with reverent hunger.

He doesn’t rush. Not tonight. Not with you.

His hands slide over your trembling skin, reverent and slow, mapping every inch as if memorizing a precious secret. His mouth follows, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone, down the curve of your neck, each breath warm and heavy against your skin.

When his fingers find your bare thighs, the heat of his touch sends a shiver rippling through you. You part your legs instinctively, inviting him in, your pulse hammering in your ears as you watch his dark eyes flicker with hunger and tenderness.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire and something softer—something almost sacred.

His hand slides closer, fingers teasing the delicate skin between your legs. He traces lazy circles, coaxing your body to open, to welcome him gently. You catch your breath as his touch dips lower, his fingertips brushing your folds with exquisite patience, drawing out a soft gasp.

Slowly, deliberately, he slides one finger inside you—soft, small, careful. His thumb strokes just above, rubbing gentle circles on your swollen clit, coaxing a rush of warmth and ache that settles deep in your belly.

You tremble at the new sensation, but his voice is a balm.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Just like that. You’re so perfect.”

His finger moves with a slow rhythm, easing you open, inviting your body to trust. When he adds a second finger, curling gently inside, you gasp—a mixture of surprise and pleasure—but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, needing his steady presence.

Then, as he tries to ease a third finger inside, your body stiffens, a sharp wince breaking free.

“Mingyu, I can’t,” you whisper, voice fragile.

He pauses, searching your face with fierce tenderness.

“I know you can, baby,” he murmurs softly, voice steady and sure. “How else am I supposed to fit all of me inside you?”

Your gaze drops, and you see him there in his boxers—hard, big, aching, desperate for you. A slow gulp escapes your throat. You want this—want him—but the thought sends a flutter of nerves through your chest.

You shut your eyes tight as he tries again, overwhelmed by the fullness, the pressure, the way his fingers stretch you more than you’ve ever known. But then—you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit, his tongue gentle and insistent, and something shifts. A moan slips from your lips. When you open your eyes again, blinking through the haze of pleasure and heat, you find him staring up at you from between your thighs. His lips are wrapped around your core, his fingers still buried inside, and his dark brown eyes are locked on yours—intense, reverent, burning with devotion. The sight steals your breath. You feel like you could melt completely, unravel into the floor tile, just from the weight of that gaze and everything it holds.

His fingers ease back, then slowly press forward again, pushing that third finger just a little further—barely more than before. His mouth works magic, sending waves of pleasure to counterbalance the stretch, making the ache feel like something you can bear, even crave.

“Shh, you’re doing so good,” he croons against your skin. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, body trembling with the delicious tension of pain and pleasure intertwined. The water from the shower still clung on your bodies splashes around you both, but you barely notice—the heat between you is a furnace.

He never rushes, never pushes beyond what you can handle. His eyes are locked on yours, steady and full of devotion, giving you strength when you falter.

With every gentle stroke, every lingering kiss, every whispered promise, you feel yourself opening—not just to him, but to this moment, to this love, to the sacred trust between you.

And in that slow, charged space, you realize this is only the beginning.

He watches you carefully, gauging every tremble, every twitch of your thighs, the way your breath hitches and your walls flutter around his fingers. He knows your body now—knows the sounds you make when it’s too much, the sighs when it’s just right. And when he feels you open around him, finally, soft and stretched and clenching in waves, he knows.

He lifts his mouth from your core, slow and deliberate, and the absence makes you whimper—a sound that twists something primal in his chest. His fingers slip from your body, soaked and shining, leaving you fluttering open and trembling on the bed. You lie there panting, legs still spread, flushed and undone, your chest rising and falling in stuttered breaths as the air brushes over your damp skin.

He straightens to his full height, standing at the edge of the bed, the steam still curling off both your bodies, his chest heaving. His gaze drags down your body—flushed, glistening, pliant beneath him—and he feels his restraint unraveling, thread by thread.

Then, without taking his eyes off you, he lifts his fingers to his mouth—those same fingers that had just been inside you, coaxing you open with patience and care. There’s nothing hurried in the motion, just heat. Reverence. Want. The pink of his tongue darts out to taste your slick—and your breath catches, sharp and fast in your throat.

But then you see it. Just a glimmer. A trace of red mixed with your arousal, glistening faintly at the base of his knuckle. A smear of something more than heat. Your stomach flips.

“Wait—” you sit up on your elbows, reaching for him. “There’s blood—Mingyu, don’t—”

But he just shakes his head, gaze burning as his fingers slip between his lips anyway, slow and deliberate. He groans low in his throat like your taste is everything, like it’s sacred. He sucks the digits clean, tongue curling around each one with something close to reverence.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with heat and something deeper, “it’s fine. You think I care about a little blood?”

You stare up at him, breathless. He’s standing over you, flushed and soaked, his busted lip still faintly swollen, a drop of water sliding down from his jaw to his collarbone, catching the light. He looks like sin and salvation all at once. Reverent and ruined. Devoted and starving.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s carving it into stone. “All of you. That includes this. Every part.”

Your lips part, and your throat tightens—but it’s not shame you feel. It’s awe. It’s gratitude. It’s love, thick and overwhelming.

And when he starts to peel down his boxers—slow, eyes still locked to yours like he needs to see every flicker of emotion—you realize just how far gone you are for him.

Your breath catches, and heat coils in your belly again—deeper, needier this time. You’re trembling, open and aching beneath him, and when he lowers himself between your legs once more, the air thickens with something unspoken. Like the whole world has gone quiet to make space for this.

He lines himself up with trembling patience, his hands braced on either side of your body. His expression is still soft, but his eyes burn—deep brown and blown wide, pupils swallowing the gold. His chest heaves with every breath, and his cock is heavy against your entrance, thick and flushed, tip brushing through your slick folds like he’s soaking in every part of you before crossing the threshold.

“Are you ready?” he whispers.

You nod, but he doesn’t move yet.

“Baby… I need to hear it.”

Your heart thuds like thunder. You swallow hard. “Yes,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He exhales slowly, hips tilting forward, and you feel the first push—just the tip. The stretch is immediate, a burn that laces up your spine and tightens your throat. Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you as your breath stutters.

He stills instantly.

“Okay?” he breathes, voice tight, like he’s holding back everything in him to make this right.

“Y-Yeah,” you manage, though your voice trembles. “Just… slow.”

“I will,” he promises. “I’ve got you.”

His hand finds yours and squeezes tight, grounding. Then, slowly—agonizingly—he starts to press in further. The ache sharpens for a moment, your body instinctively tightening around him, but he kisses your knuckles, murmurs your name like it’s the only word he’s ever learned.

You whimper when he sinks a little deeper, the sting blooming across your hips.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes locked on you. “I know, baby—it’s a lot. You’re so tight… fuck, you feel—”

He breaks off with a shuddered breath, like the pleasure of being inside you is almost too much.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your temple. “You’re perfect.”

And you believe him.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, he fills you—each breath pulling him closer, deeper, until the sharpness fades and the ache becomes something warmer, fuller, more bearable. He stretches you in a way that feels endless, but never once makes you feel like you’re being taken from. Only given to.

He’s gentle, so gentle, even when his body trembles with restraint. His busted lip brushes your cheek, and you turn your face to kiss it—lightly, reverently—like it’s your way of saying thank you without breaking the moment.

And then he’s fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush to yours, chest hovering just above your own. His breath is ragged, his forehead slick where it touches yours.

Neither of you moves.

The air is heavy and slow, like time has bent itself around this one instant. His hand finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, like he needs to hear it from you, not just see it.

You open your eyes—barely—and meet his gaze. “Like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

He lets out a soft, broken sound. His lips find yours again, careful, full of love.

And then—then—he begins to move.

He starts slow—so slow it almost hurts. Not the stretch, not anymore, but the way every inch of him moves like he’s memorizing you from the inside. Like every drag of his hips is a sentence in a language he’s only ever wanted to speak with you.

You cling to him without meaning to—arms looped around his shoulders, fingers buried in his damp hair. His name spills from your lips in a soft, breathy whimper, and he answers it with a low groan against your mouth, like the sound is too much and still not enough.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice frayed and reverent, his forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t—fuck—I don’t know how I ever touched you and didn’t know this is what we were made for.”

The words sink into your skin like silk and fire. You can’t breathe around them. You don’t want to.

His rhythm is gentle at first, hips rolling with steady control, every stroke long and deep. You gasp each time he pushes in, the ache melting into heat that spreads through your core, turning into something that coils and tightens with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asks between kisses, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the hollow of your throat.

You nod, then whisper, “More.”

His eyes darken—something wild and worshipful blooming in his gaze—and his hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, lifting it gently around his waist to angle you open even more. The next thrust sinks deeper, and your breath catches sharp in your lungs.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, nails biting into his back.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, voice lower now, rougher. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

The friction builds—slow and deliberate—until every nerve feels alive under his touch. His pelvis brushes your clit on each deep roll of his hips, a perfect, maddening drag that makes you writhe beneath him, needy sounds escaping you with no shame, no filter. You’re completely bare for him—emotionally, physically, soul stripped raw—and he treats you like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

His busted lip splits further when he kisses you again, a smear of pink across your mouth that neither of you care about. He tastes like salt and sweetness, like heat and need, like the past and the future clashing in a single kiss.

“Mingyu,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “Please…”

He grits his teeth like he’s trying to hold back—but your body is slick and pulsing around him, velvet and tight and perfect, and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

Still, he slows again, grounding himself in you. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced care. He rubs slow circles there, syncing with each deep thrust, and your mouth falls open in a choked cry.

“Let go for me,” he whispers. “I want to feel you when you come.”

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, body trembling with the building wave inside you. His rhythm doesn't falter—deep, slow, intentional. His fingers stroke your clit in time with each powerful roll of his hips, sending lightning down your spine and setting every nerve alight.

The pressure builds so quickly it’s dizzying—like standing at the edge of something vast and irreversible. His name spills from your lips again and again, a broken chant that doesn’t sound like language anymore, only want. Only surrender.

“You’re so close,” Mingyu breathes against your skin, his voice unraveling. “I can feel it. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

With a shattered cry, your body clenches tight around him, back arching off the sheets as the orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. It rolls through you in long, blinding pulses—sensation layered on sensation until you forget where you end and he begins.

He groans deep in his chest as you come, the rawness of your pleasure unraveling something inside him. Your walls tighten around him in rhythmic waves, slick and perfect and endless, and his control breaks.

“Fuck, baby—just like that,” he rasps, burying himself deeper, deeper still. “You feel so fucking good—so tight, so warm—shit, I’m gonna—”

His rhythm falters—just slightly—as he pushes once, twice more and comes with a low, guttural sound. His body jerks into yours, thick and hot as he spills inside you, pulse after pulse until there’s nothing left to give. You feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every desperate breath between you.

The room is filled with the scent of sex and skin. The only sounds are the sharp inhales you both fight to take, mingled with the slow thud of your hearts beating in tandem.

Mingyu doesn’t move right away. He stays pressed against you, face tucked into your neck, arms trembling as they hold you close. Like he’s afraid that letting go will undo it all.

You feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, the sticky slide of his chest against yours, the soft shake of his hands as he finally starts to breathe normally again.

Your fingers find his hair and sink in slowly, brushing back the damp strands from his forehead. He tilts his head just enough to meet your eyes—and the look he gives you nearly undoes you again.

He’s wrecked. Flushed. But his eyes are wide and warm and full of something you can barely hold.

Your lips are still parted when he begins to soften inside you, your bodies still tangled, breath still shared. His forehead rests against yours for a long, slow moment, like he needs to anchor himself in the closeness, the heat, the heartbeat under your skin.

And then, finally, gently—he pulls out.

You gasp, instinctively shifting your hips away, suddenly too aware of the sensation of his release leaking out of you. Warm and slow, slipping down your thigh. Your legs twitch to close, to hide, but Mingyu’s hand is already there—large and grounding on your hip, stopping you with ease.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent.

You glance up at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushing, but his gaze is fixed between your thighs—like he’s memorizing the sight. The proof of what just passed between you. The wet heat, the flush of your skin, the mess he made inside you.

“Mingyu…” you whisper, embarrassed.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and aching with something close to awe. “God,” he breathes. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”

You try to squirm away again, shy and overstimulated—but he doesn’t let you. His grip tightens gently, not to trap you, just to steady you.

“Let me see,” he says softly, almost like a plea. “Just for a second. You don’t know what you do to me.”

The vulnerability in his voice stills your retreat. And when you let yourself relax into the bed, legs still parted slightly, flushed and spent and trembling, his hand moves to your thigh again—gentle now, soothing.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, almost like he’s saying it to himself. “All of you. Even this.”

He leans down to press a kiss just above your hip, reverent and tender, like a thank you. Then one to your navel. Then another, lower. You’re too sensitive, too raw to do anything but breathe through it, overwhelmed by the way he’s still touching you like you’re something sacred.

Eventually, he lifts his head and meets your gaze again.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your damp cheek.

You nod, cheeks hot, eyes glassy with emotion you’re not sure how to name.

“I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Mingyu’s smile is soft and slow. He leans in to kiss you again—sweet and deep, no hunger now, just the kind of kiss that says you’re safe.

“I did,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Because it was you.”

⸻

// this is pretty much 9.0k words of straight smut im so embarrassed and feel so guilty lol

Tag List: @sojuxxi @belovedgyu @bingumingoo1004 @burnerforfiction @jujuz251013 @dmstoyangyang @armycarat2612 @eisaspresso @svthinker @babycaratdeul @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @iluvhosh @caratcak3 @anateeso @tooflef @cocoalmond @mayalou @aeerio @aquasan29 @chemiru @dinonara-ara

[andy-15-07]

You are a lifesaver and I mean it! Your work gets me through the days…..

Could I request Joel Miller x reader where reader is Sarah’s best friend. They’ve spent the last summer in California where reader is from, so now they’re spending it in Austin. They’re 23(?) Reader immediately develops a crush on Joel and isn’t actually comfortable with it. Joel feels the same. He can’t wait for summer to be over so her presence doesn’t torture him anymore…they kiss one night and it gets awkward after that. She finally has enough of awkwardness and decides to talk to him. She gets him alone outside when Sarah is asleep. They confess that they like each other very much, they acknowledge the fucked up situation they’re in, but end up in his bed that night (smut please). Sarah catches them after she hears the noise (something like that)….

Thank you thank you thank you

Heatwave

PAIRING:Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1209| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You never should’ve come to Texas.

That was your first thought when the air hit 100 degrees before noon. The second came later,after catching Joel Miller shirtless in the backyard, sweat slicking down his chest as he sawed through a plank of wood like it owed him money.

Your third thought: you were so screwed.

You were twenty-three. Fresh out of college. Supposed to spend the summer with Sarah, your best friend since freshman year. She missed Austin, missed her dad. So when she asked you to come with her and crash in the spare room,just for one summer,you said yes.

You didn’t know what you were walking into.

Joel wasn’t just attractive. He was magnetic. All quiet intensity and rough edges. Tan skin, dark hair, deep voice that made your stomach twist. He wore work boots like religion and grumbled through conversations like he couldn’t be bothered, but you saw the softness under it.

Especially with Sarah.

You hated that your stomach flipped every time he said your name. That you’d stare too long when he leaned over the table. That you dreamed about his hands even though he was your best friend’s dad.

You really hated that he noticed.

Because he looked too long too.

Caught your eye and looked away quick. Cleared his throat. Avoided being in a room alone with you.

Which made the night you kissed even worse.

It had been hot that night,too hot for sleep.

Sarah was already in bed, the house dark and still, but you’d wandered out to the kitchen in Joel’s oversized t-shirt, barefoot and flushed from the heat.

He was there, drinking a beer by the sink. You startled.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, voice rough from sleep. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

You didn’t know who moved first, but one second you were just talking, and the next, his mouth was on yours,rough and desperate, like he’d been waiting months to taste you.

Your hands had been in his hair, his palms gripping your hips, his tongue in your mouth,and then…

He pulled away.

Said nothing.

Just stared at you like he regretted breathing.

Then he muttered “shit” under his breath and disappeared down the hall.

After that, everything changed.

You barely spoke the next week.

You’d catch him looking, then pretending he hadn’t. He’d hover by the door when you talked to Sarah. You’d offer polite smiles, he’d grunt in response. The tension was unbearable.

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

That night, Sarah had fallen asleep early, leaving the house still and humming with heat. You padded out into the backyard where Joel was sitting alone with a drink.

The moonlight cut across his face. He looked tired.

You crossed your arms, nerves coiled tight.

“We should talk,” you said.

He didn’t look up. “Ain’t a good idea.”

“Joel.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re Sarah’s friend.”

“I know.”

“You’re twenty-three.”

“Not a child,” you said sharply. “Don’t talk to me like I am.”

He looked at you then. Eyes heavy, shadowed.

“You think I don’t want you?” he said low. “You think I haven’t thought about kissin’ you every fuckin’ day since you walked into this house?”

Your breath hitched.

“But it’s wrong,” he said. “You know that.”

“I know it’s complicated,” you whispered. “But it doesn’t feel wrong.”

He stood, drink forgotten, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re torture, darlin’. Every damn day I come home, and you’re just... here. Smilin’. Laughin’. In my shirts.”

You blinked. “You noticed that?”

“Course I noticed.” His eyes were wild now, desperate. “I notice every damn thing about you.”

You stepped closer.

“So what now?”

He looked at you like he was drowning. “I’m so fuckin’ tired of pretending.”

Then he kissed you again,this time harder, hotter, no hesitation.

You gasped into his mouth as he pushed you back against the side of the house, his hands gripping your waist, lifting you slightly as your legs wrapped around his hips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, grinding against you. “You feel that?”

You moaned. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want you, Joel,” you whispered against his lips. “So bad it hurts.”

That broke something in him.

He carried you inside, through the dark hallway, straight into his room,shutting the door with a soft click.

The moment your back hit the mattress, he was on you,hungry hands pushing your shirt up, lips trailing down your neck.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

You arched as he kissed down your stomach, slowly peeling your shorts off, exposing bare skin to the cool air.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Already wet.”

You whimpered as his mouth found your thigh, tongue teasing, working its way up until,

“Fuck,” you gasped when he finally tasted you.

He groaned, lapping at you like a man starved.

You clutched the sheets, hips twitching, thighs tightening around his head as his tongue circled your clit.

“Joel,oh god,”

“You’re perfect,” he muttered between strokes. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

You came hard,biting your lip to keep quiet, thighs trembling as he kissed your inner thigh and moved back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.”

He smiled,then kissed you, slow and deep, and you tasted yourself on his tongue.

He undressed quickly, tossing his shirt aside, jeans following.

Your eyes went wide. “You’re... big.”

He smirked, climbing between your legs. “I’ll go slow.”

You nodded, and he lined himself up, pressing in,inch by inch.

Your breath caught.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re so tight, baby.”

He bottomed out slowly, pausing to let you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

Then he moved.

Each thrust was deep, deliberate,his body pressing into yours, his voice rough in your ear.

“Been dreamin’ of this,” he murmured. “Dreamin’ of makin’ you mine.”

“You feel so good,” you gasped, clinging to him.

Your legs wrapped around him again, pulling him deeper.

“Harder,” you whispered.

He growled and gave it to you,pounding into you now, the bed creaking under your bodies.

“Gonna come again,” you whimpered.

“Let go for me, baby,” he said, hand slipping between you. “Wanna feel you come around me.”

And you did.

Stars exploded behind your eyes as you clenched around him, crying out his name.

He followed with a groan, spilling into you with one final thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

For a while, there was only panting. Sweat. His weight against you. The scent of sex in the air.

Then,

A knock.

Then a voice.

“Dad?”

You froze.

Joel shot upright like he’d been shot.

“Shit,” he hissed, reaching for his pants.

“Are you okay?” Sarah’s voice came again, closer now.

You scrambled for the sheets, heart pounding.

Joel cracked the door open an inch. “Yeah. Thought I heard something,” he lied, voice deep and gruff.

“Oh,” Sarah said. “I... I thought I did too. Like something thumping.”

Joel coughed. “Probably the damn water heater.”

She sounded skeptical but didn’t press. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

He closed the door quietly, locking it.

Then turned to you, rubbing a hand over his face.

“We’re so fucked,” he muttered.

You burst out laughing.

[mifvyfilms]

── .✦ NAGUMO YOICHI: see you again .ᐟ

— ANGST

— FLUFF (if you squint hard enough ;))

WORD COUNT: 5.5K

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ IN WHICH, is he truly happy even without her presence?

(a/n): short story i posted on wp hehe i forgot i had this app (ᵕ,—ᴗ—,)

──────── ୨୧ ────────

ch. 1: always ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ "NAGUMO, where have you been these past few days? you're supposed to be getting new information on slur, yet you've gotten nothing?" hyo's voice is low, and he raises a brow at the black-haired male who stands in the corner of a room in the jaa building.

"i'm searching, don't worry! but... maybe i have been getting a bit side-tracked," nagumo laughs hesitantly, scratching his jawline and looks away.

hyo frowns, unamused at the great assassin's behavior. "right," he says, glaring at nagumo in the dark corner he's in.

"whatever," hyo excuses himself and leaves the room, walking past nagumo. nagumo lets out a deep breath, his usual smile wearing off for a minute before feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

he glances at the caller id and answers, lifting the phone to his ear. "hey, sakamoto," he greets, chuckling. "my, my! this is the first time you've called me first," he teases the retired hitman.

the retired hitman ignores his words and cuts to the chase, "we found some information about slur whereabouts—wait, are you at her grave right now?"

"did you now...? and no, but i was about to head over there just now," he replies, leaving the building and leaping onto a rooftop. he gazes down at the city before sitting down, his legs dangling over the edge.

he hears sakamoto on the other line taking down an assassin for a second before speaking again, "you should go visit her first then come to my store after."

nagumo smiles after hearing this, "alright. see ya sakamoto!"

he gets hung up on but doesn't mind. he shoves his phone into his pocket and glances up at the sky one last time before leaving.

"i'll always be watching you even if i can't see you. and you'll always be watching me."

ch. 2: beaches ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ "AKAO! you're hogging y/n all to yourself! it's not fair!" the black-haired male whined as rion kept holding y/n in her arms.

she stuck her tongue out at him. "you think i care?"

the four—sakamoto, rion, y/n, and nagumo—were at the beach, a hangout they had planned a few days prior for their free day.

nagumo playfully frowned, but sakamoto grabbed him by the shoulder and sat him down on one of the beach chairs they had brought. rion led y/n to the ocean to splash each other and find seashells.

"when are you going to ask her out?" sakamoto asked nagumo, who leaned back in the chair with his arms behind his head.

"never!"

sakamoto face-palmed. "you clearly like her. just ask her out already.

"i can't," nagumo said, as sakamoto's brows furrowed.

"why? you're not shy about asking girls out. what's the difference with y/n?"

nagumo sighed, sitting up and crossing his legs. "there's a difference between asking someone out for fun and asking someone out because you actually like them, sakamoto," he explained.

sakamoto squatted down, rummaging through his beach bag. he pulled out a coin, holding it up to nagumo. "heads or tails?"

"what's this for?" nagumo asked, but guessed anyway. "heads."

sakamoto flipped the coin; it landed neatly on his palm. it was tails. but he quickly flipped it over before nagumo could see. "it's heads... you lose. you have to ask her out."

"what? nooo way! you're lying. show me it actually landed on heads.

sakamoto revealed the coin to nagumo.

"oh."

the gray-haired male nodded. "yeah, go ask her out now—"

"ask who out?" y/n interrupted, her sudden appearance startling the two boys. she came back with rion, each holding a bucket filled with seashells.

nagumo quickly changed the subject. "huh? what? no one!—what's in those buckets?"

y/n glanced down at the bucket she was holding. "seashells!"

sakamoto then cleared his throat. "by the way, y/n, nagumo has something to tell you—"

"no, i don't!" nagumo nudged sakamoto to stop talking.

she tilted her head, a bit confused. "oh, really? well, nagumo, i want to show you something." she told him. nagumo stood up, letting her take his hand.

his heart thumped, but he kept up his usual smile. as she and nagumo walked away, rion scratched her temple. "he definitely likes her."

"yeah, he does."

the video of them at the beach plays endlessly, each loop a fresh wave of grief. nagumo, a man of stone, now weeps until his eyes run dry. it was an unprecedented sight; anyone who witnessed it would swear it was an imposter wearing his face.

he yearns for her voice, its melody now a ghost in his memory. every day, he finds himself at her graveside, pouring out his heart in one-sided conversations.

standing before her tombstone, he gazes at the vast sky, picturing her soaring freely in the heavens above.

"if i could, i would continue to help you find seashells at the beach."

ch. 3: sunsetz ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ "IT'S SO PRETTY..." she admired the sky in awe, but his focus was solely on her.

"what is?" nagumo asked, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets as her hands were clasped together.

"sunrises!" y/n answered, smiling softly at the orange and pink hues that began to paint the clouds. she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin.

nagumo hummed. "well i prefer sunsets because that's when they remind me it's almost time for dinner!" he laughed, and she followed suit.

"that too... but sunrises tell you that a new day has begun." she slowly opened her eyes, turned toward him, and held out her hand for him to take.

he grasped her hand. "yeah, yeah, whatever. well, sunsets are still better."

she tugged him up, and together they headed toward school. "maybe we can ask taro and rion if they want to come with us tomorrow?" she suggested, but nagumo immediately shook his head, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

"nah, maybe just the two of us again."

"hm," she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "okay, but i'm gonna tell them both you said that!" she laughed as he rolled his eyes playfully, his smile widening ever so slightly.

"yeah, right—" just as he said that, he felt her slip out of his arm and begin to walk even faster toward the school.

"wait, no, y/n! i was just joking! we can definitely bring them next time!" he exclaimed, catching up with her as she stopped and turned around to face him.

"i'm just kidding! i like it when it's just us," she said, bringing her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks to bring him closer before their lips met for a brief second.

"we can watch the sunset as well," she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek before grabbing his hand and running inside.

"i miss everything... i miss it... i miss us..."

ch. 4: only ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ HE REMEMBERED the day he asked y/n to be his girlfriend as clearly as if it were happening all over again.

it was valentines day, and as jcc's most popular and hottest assassin-in-the-making at school, he was receiving about ten chocolates a minute from his fan club.

all these chocolates, yet not a single one from her. he was pretty bummed out since he had been looking forward to getting a chocolate from y/n.

but he couldn't find her anywhere. he tapped on rion's shoulder when he managed to find one of his friends. she turned around, a chocolate bar in her hand that she was in the middle of eating. "what?"

"where's y/n?" he asked his friend after she swallowed the last of her chocolate bar.

but she shrugged. "i honestly don't know. but i'm pretty sure she's getting gifts from her own fan club."

nagumo pouted, and when he lingered nearby, rion frowned. "what are you doing just standing here? go get your girl! go now!" she shoved him, sending him crashing into the opposite wall, which cracked slightly upon impact.

he rubbed his back, feigning pain. "ow..." since he didn't actually feel anything, the act was over in a flash. "have you been practicing your physical strength?"

rion nodded, a small smirk playing on her lips. "i gotta advance, y'know?"

nagumo left her on heard and immediately began roaming the building in search of y/n. he ran, avoiding nearby fights and dodging students who were chasing him to give him gifts.

suddenly, he caught a glimpse of y/n. he stopped in his tracks and moved toward her, noticing she was talking to...

uzuki kei?!

and she was...

laughing with him?!

no, just y/n. that dork uzuki kei had no personality. he cleared his throat loudly and stood behind her, waiting for her to acknowledge him. when she finally turned around, his heart almost skipped a beat.

"oh, hey there, nagumo!" y/n smiled at him, pausing her conversation with uzuki. little did she know, uzuki had quietly slipped away as soon as nagumo appeared.

nagumo leaned against the wall, his elbow propped against it, and looked down at her. "so..." he began, trying to steer the conversation somewhere meaningful.

she giggled and pulled a box of chocolates from her backpack. "here," she said, handing it to him. "i made it just for you."

february fourteenth, valentine's day—the day he had asked her out.

he gladly took it from her. "thank..." his cheeks flushed. "...you."

he felt a pang of guilt, realizing he had been so preoccupied with whether y/n would give him chocolate that he hadn't thought to give her anything in return.

she brushed off his gratitude with a pat on his shoulder and started to leave, but he took her hand, stopping her.

y/n turned around, and nagumo smiled gently at her.

"hey, wanna be my girlfriend?"

ch. 5: for the first time ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ NAGUMO WAS handed a list of names on a sheet of paper. "here," the voice says, "this is a list of people you have to kill by tonight."

these were his targets, his victims for the evening. he simply nods, accepting the grim task before leaving the jaa building, his mind already mapping out the locations of these assassins working under slur.

however, instead of heading straight for his targets, he decides to take a detour through the city.

the weight of the impending spree hung heavy, and he felt the need to delay it, if only for a little while.

his first stop was a familiar street food vendor. he picks up his usual stash of pocky and some nutritious food.

"remember to eat your greens, yoichi!" her voice echoes in his head as he leaves the area, a bag filled with his favorite snacks and healthy sustenance.

he carries the bag around the city, finding solace in the mundane. he takes small naps on park benches, his presence scaring some civilians who weren't used to seeing such a menacing figure in such a vulnerable state.

after each nap, he would eat, replenishing his energy for the task ahead.

as the day drew to a close and the sun began its descent, nagumo hurries to find the assassins before heading to the mountain.

the same mountain where he would watch the sun set or rise with her.

he runs through the city, his mind focusing on the task at hand. suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes fixated on a woman.

a woman who looks exactly like his lover. without thinking, he rushes towards her and grabbs her by the shoulders.

"y/n...?" he blurts out, his voice filled with a desperate hope. the lady turns around, her expression a mix of confusion and shock.

"whoops! i'm sorry!" he quickly apologizes, bowing deeply before leaving the area, slightly embarrassed by his impulsive actions.

"i must be hallucinating..."

ch. 6: save your tears ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ HE JUST MISSED his lover, the ache a constant companion in his heart.

nagumo clutches the plastic bag in his hand as he makes his way to the graveyard, a place where he could be found every day of the week. it was a pilgrimage he couldn't bear to miss.

he has never missed a day of coming to this place ever since she passed away. because if he does, even if he was forced to, he would never forgive himself. the guilt of not being able to protect her on that tragic day weighs heavily on his soul.

consider it a longtime streak. at least, he hopes he could make it up to her by not being able to protect her on that tragic day of her death. a silent promise to honor her memory, to keep her alive in his heart.

he kneels down, his joints protesting with a soft creak. he says a little prayer, before placing the plastic bag on the tombstone. he brushes off the dirt and places his briefcase beside the tombstone.

"hey, y/n." the words were a mere whisper, softer than any sound he'd ever allow himself to make. "y'know, today marks our tenth anniversary?"

he fought the tears that clawed at his throat, threatening to spill over. "happy... ten years," he chokes out, each syllable a shard of glass.

his hand trembles as he reached for the plastic bag, the crinkling of the plastic loud in the otherwise silent cemetery. inside, a small bouquet lay nestled, a splash of color against the drab landscape.

"your favorites," he mutters, his voice thick with unshed tears. he carefully lifts the wilted flowers from the vase on her grave, replacing them with the fresh ones, a futile offering to the woman who lays beneath the cold earth.

a long, shaky breath escapes his lips, as if trying to expel the grief that had taken root in his soul. "i'm pretty sure," he whispers, his gaze fixed on the headstone, "if you were alive still, i'd have quit this assassin life. and we'd have had that family we always talked about."

nagumo continues to talk, "sakamoto and i miss you, though we don't show it much... we found out uzuki is slur and—"

he wipes his tears away with his sleeve, the rough fabric doing little to soothe the raw ache in his heart. "and... how's akao? you both told me we would all die together because that's what friends were, right?"

yet his smile didn't waver, a fragile mask against the pain. he continues to smile, a desperate attempt to honor her memory. "you must be happy to see me still alive and healthy. i'm very happy to be your boyfriend, y/n."

his smile only widens, but his chest tightened with each passing moment. "you told me to be happy, always. you said my smile was the best thing you've ever saw and—"

a hiccup escapes his lips, betraying his composure. he needs water, something to calm the storm raging inside him.

"y/n..." he chokes out, covering his mouth to stifle any more hiccups, the sound a pathetic echo in the vast silence.

"i—"

"enough."

a voice called from behind, cutting through the heavy silence. nagumo was in an unbearable state to look at, his grief raw and exposed. no one had ever seen him like this, not even sakamoto taro.

sakamoto places a hand on nagumo's shoulder, a gesture of comfort and support. "listen, i'm sure she's happy with what you're doing. but i don't think she wants to see you cry uncontrollably at her grave on your tenth anniversary."

nagumo's eyes widens slightly, a flicker of understanding in their depths. he doesn't question why sakamoto is here. he straightens himself up, the ever-present mask of cheerfulness slowly returning.

he stands up, dusting the dirt off his pants and picking his briefcase back up. "right!"

and just like that, he was back to his usual cheery self, the transformation almost jarring. "thank you, sakamoto! you're my best bud!"

sakamoto deadpans, his expression unchanged by nagumo's sudden shift. he sighs, a mix of relief and resignation, and then left the graveyard with the assassin.

"it's not like you to cry, yoichi," she said softly, her voice filled with warmth and affection. she gently held his face, wiping his tears away with her thumbs, her touch tender and reassuring.

"your smile is the best thing i've ever seen. keep smiling. for me, okay?" she told him, her own smile radiant and filled with love.

nagumo stared at her, memorizing every detail of her face, until his tears were no more.

that day, he vowed to keep smiling, no matter what. as long as it made her happy, he would carry her memory with a smile on his face.

"you told me to continue to smile. but i want to see you smile again."

ch. 7: those eyes ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ HE WOKE UP, his memory a hazy fog. was it all just a long, cruel dream?

"yoichi!" y/n's voice rang out, clear and bright. no, no, it most definitely wasn't a dream. but how is this possible? he stared around his bedroom, taking in every familiar detail, trying to ground himself in reality.

he was back home. y/n barged into his room, her energy infectious. "yoichi! you slept in late. c'mon! we're gonna be late!"

he blinked a few times, his mind struggling to catch up. y/n... was talking to him? but isn't this what he wanted? for her to be alive and well, vibrant and full of life?

and then he felt something escape his eye, tracing a warm path down his cheek. it was wet. a tear. a tear had slipped out, unbidden, after hearing her voice, after seeing her standing there, impossibly real.

he remained frozen in bed, sitting as stiff as a rock, overwhelmed by the impossible reality unfolding before him.

it wasn't until she finally noticed his expression that her brow furrowed with concern. "you're... crying? what's wrong?" her voice was filled with worry, yet tinged with urgency, as she clearly didn't want to be late.

"nothing...!" he instantly wiped his tears away, a nervous energy filling him as he scrambled off his bed. "let's just go to school..."

and just like that, everything was normal again. he was back again as a teenager at jcc, preparing to become an assassin.

he was sitting with sakamoto, rion, and his girlfriend at the lunch tables, the familiar banter and camaraderie a comforting balm to his bewildered soul.

he was fighting alongside his lover, their movements synchronized and seamless.

he was sitting beside her in class, stealing glances and sharing secret smiles. the mundane normalcy of it all felt like a miracle.

he was back with her, the familiar thrill of combat mixing with the warmth of her presence.

"let's go on a date, y/n!" he blurted out in the middle of attacking her, the words tumbling out in a rush. the two had been paired up for a match to practice their combat, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

y/n almost paused, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second before she recovered, punching nagumo softly in the stomach. "you're extra clingy today. are you trying to distract me so you can beat me?" she teased.

nagumo smiled, the familiar sting of her punch a welcome sensation. "nope!" he chirped, bouncing back up, his energy renewed.

everything was perfect.

until he wakes up, again. the abrupt transition jolted him awake, the lingering warmth of her presence fading like a phantom limb.

he stares at the ceiling, the familiar disorientation washing over him, until a figure hovers over him, breaking through the haze of his thoughts. "mr. sakamoto! nagumo's awake!"

was he knocked out or what? he immediately sits up, his head swimming with a dull ache. "hey sakamoto! what happened?" he asks, a chuckle escaping his lips despite the confusion.

"you were in front of my store unconscious for some reason," sakamoto replies, his voice filled with concern.

"he's so stupid," shin spits out, the familiar chuckle nagumo let out grating on his nerves. shin irks, "oh shut up, nagumo!”

"haha y/n, i still can't let you go."

ch. 8 no one noticed ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ IT WAS another one of those hard fighting days at jcc, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat. nagumo was assigned to fight sakamoto taro, his best friend at the time and arguably the strongest one in the entire jcc.

but nagumo was no slouch; he was a formidable fighter in his own right. he and sakamoto would almost be neck and neck in every fight. however, sakamoto, with his uncanny reflexes and strategic mind, would always find a way to gain the upper hand, beating nagumo by a hair's breadth.

so, as everyone took turns fighting on the field, y/n and rion stayed beside each other, their eyes glued to the intense battle unfolding before them.

they watched their two friends fight with a seriousness that bordered on unsettling, their movements precise and powerful. it was as if they were going to kill each other.

the tension in the air reached a fever pitch when nagumo, in a moment of desperation or perhaps calculated strategy, pulled a metal pipe out of nowhere.

he raised it high above his head, ready to slam it down on sakamoto's head with bone-crushing force.

but sakamoto was vigilant, he dodged the blow with lightning speed, seizing the opportunity to retaliate. with a swift, decisive move, he whacked nagumo down to the ground, the metal pipe clattering uselessly beside him.

nagumo chuckled, a hint of resignation in his voice. "i'm still no match for you, sakamoto," he admitted, laying on the ground, his head bleeding from the impact.

no one seemed to care much about his bleeding head, chalking it up to his reputation as a tough guy who could handle anything.

no one, that is, except for her.

y/n, her brow furrowed with concern, dragged nagumo off the field, clearing the way for the next pair of classmates to fight. she leaned him against the wall, providing him with some semblance of support.

he sat with one arm resting above his knee and the other on the floor, trying to appear nonchalant despite the blood trickling down his forehead.

y/n retrieved her trusty med kit, a constant companion that she always carried with her, and opened it with practiced ease.

nagumo tried to wipe the blood off and hide it underneath his bangs, but y/n wouldn't have it. she hissed at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of exasperation and concern, and gently but firmly forced his bangs up.

"don't try to hide your wounds from me," she scolded, her voice soft but firm.

nagumo's face betrayed a hint of discomfort as she tended to his wound. he didn't like it when she saw him bleeding, because he felt weak and vulnerable in those moments.

"sorry..." he mumbled, allowing her to wipe the blood away and bandage the area that had been injured.

"there you go..." she said softly, putting away her med kit and settling down beside him. "you're too... reckless," she chided gently, her voice laced with concern.

"i went against sakamoto, what do you expect?" he replied with a chuckle, his eyes fixed on his classmates as they fought. y/n couldn't help but smile slightly at his attitude.

"it's okay, i'll always be here to take care of you," she announced, leaning her head on nagumo's shoulder, a gesture of affection and reassurance.

"no one fixes me up like you do anymore."

ch. 9 try again ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ HE KEPT her phone close, a constant presence in his life, like a phantom limb. he would spend hours scrolling through her photos, each one a bittersweet echo of moments they'd shared.

it was more than a habit; it was a ritual, a way to keep her memory alive. this phone was one of the last tangible pieces he had left of her, and he clung to it as if it held the very essence of her being.

after a long, solitary bath, nagumo sits on his bed, the lingering warmth unable to penetrate the coldness in his heart. he was shirtless, clad only in pants, a towel loosely draped around his neck.

he reaches for her phone, placing it tenderly beside his own. with a shaky breath, he dials her number, listening to the familiar ringing that led only to her voicemail.

"hey, this is y/n! i'm currently busy right now, so if you have a message, leave a message!" her voice, once a vibrant melody, now a haunting refrain.

he dials again, and again, and again, each time seeking solace in the sound of her voice, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the present and the past.

"hey y/n, it's me, yoichi..." he stops, the words catching in his throat. he turns off both phones, the silence amplifying the ache in his chest.

putting on a shirt, he walks over to his balcony and leans against the railing, the sprawling city a distant backdrop to his grief.

he stares at the sky, watching the sun bleed into the horizon, a poignant reminder of endings and fading light.

"we could be watching the sun set right now."

ch. 10 see you again ᝰ.ᐟ

━━ "HEY, WANNA know something?" y/n asked. he nodded, his mouth full, crumbs clinging to the corners of his lips as he devoured the cookies. "you're a pretty boy, yoichi," she declared, amusement in her voice.

he swallowed, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. "really? you? think so?" he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.

y/n nodded, gently cupping his cheek, her gaze softening as she watched him. "i think you're very pretty, yoichi," she repeated, a genuine smile gracing her lips.

his eyes widened slightly, a bit of surprise crossing his face. he scratched the back of his head, a smirk slowly spreading across his lips.

turning to his friends, he announced, "hey, sakamoto! akao! did you hear that? y/n thinks i'm pretty!" he flexed, prompting sakamoto and rion to roll their eyes in unison.

they didn't even acknowledge him—they barely did. they were too engrossed in their own conversation as if he hadn't said a word.

he whined, clearly seeking their attention, but they remained unfazed. y/n, however, reached out and gently ruffled his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp.

"it's okay, yoichi," she reassured him, her voice soft.

he immediately stopped pouting, leaning into her touch. "you're right," he declared, a grin spreading across his face. "only you matter to me!"

y/n gave him a deadpan look, taking a sip of her water. "hm..." she hummed, tapping her fingers against the table, the rhythmic clicks filling the silence. "i—“

"let's get married!" nagumo blurted out, interrupting her. every head in the vicinity swiveled in his direction, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"what is wrong with you?" rion exclaimed, playfully glaring at him, while sakamoto simply stared with a blank expression.

nagumo pouted again, then turned back to y/n, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "we should get married! our kids would be super cute, don't you think?"

"what?!" y/n exclaimed, completely taken aback. she glanced around, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks since sakamoto and rion were listening intently.

"because you're so pretty! you're my pretty girl!" nagumo gushed, beaming at her. y/n slowly nodded, a bemused expression on her face.

"right..." she then crossed her arms, trying to regain her composure. "sure," she mumbled.

nagumo's ears perked up, his eyes widening. "what was that?" he asked, barely daring to believe what he'd heard.

she sighed, resigned. "i said sure, as in, i'll marry you," she clarified.

"promise?"

"promise."

a wide smile spread across nagumo's face, lighting up his features. "yay!" he cheered, clapping his hands together. "sakamoto, you're my best man, and rion is y/n's maid of honor!"

"it's too early to be talking about marriage..."

was it though? was it too soon?

nagumo's mind raced, replaying the moment over and over. the truth was, his biggest regret was never marrying y/n.

but how could he have known she would be taken so suddenly? he didn't even have a ring at that time.

a wave of self-hatred washed over him, a constant reminder of his failure to protect her. each day began with a heavy burden, the crushing weight of losing the one he loved.

once again, he finds himself kneeling before her tombstone once more. with a sigh, he places a ring gently on top of the cold stone.

"i never got to ask you this, and i know it might seem silly now, but... will you marry me?" the silence that follows was deafening, broken only by the whisper of the wind.

yet, he can't hold back the words, the question that had haunted him since the day she was gone. his heart ached with a longing that never faded.

he had always envisioned a future where she was his wife, a dream now shattered. every reminder of her, no matter how small, brought a fresh wave of grief.

a familiar face in a crowd, a voice that echoed hers—each was a painful reminder of what he had lost.

the realization that their time together was over, that he might never see her again, brought him to tears.

but he fights back the sobs, remembering her aversion to his sadness. he knew she wouldn't want him to dwell in sorrow.

he leans closer to the tombstone, his hand gripping the cold stone. "i..." he stammers, his voice thick with emotion, "just want to see you again."

"wait for me y/n, i'll be there soon. and then, we can have our family and create a new life."

the end.

──────── ୨୧ ────────

© MIFVYFILMS ( pls don’t copy my works, repost it as your own, or translate )

[merrybloomwrites]

You Can Start a Family (Extra: unplanned Pregnancy)

Summary: An unplanned pregnancy causes tension between Y/N and the others.

Word Count: 2.8K

CW/Tags: unplanned pregnancy, angst, just/comfort, miscarriage, blood, morning sickness

AN: there was an anon request for a pregnancy scare or unplanned pregnancy extra for you can start a family. I’m not exactly sure yet if I’ll be including kids in the series so this is how I kind of worked around that. It’s a heavy one so please read the tags before reading the story

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You flip through the instructions, desperately trying to find some direction in English. Sure, you’re in Japan, but don’t they translate everything? Everywhere you go, things are written in English.

But for some reason this paper has literally nothing you can understand. Does two lines mean pregnant? Not pregnant?

Why couldn’t you get a test that clearly says the answer?

Because here you are, alone in a hotel room in a foreign country, your boyfriends and girlfriend soundchecking for yet another night of tour. A two year tour that they’re only three months into. Now would be a terrible time to have a baby.

But your period is late. And you’ve been nauseous, and moody, and so damn tired. Yes, all of this can be attributed to the constant travel. All of it except the missing period. You’re pretty sure frequent flying doesn't affect your menstrual cycle.

With the instructions being no help you turn to google. Finally, you find what you’re looking for. And your heart falls into your ass.

This was not the plan. Not even remotely close to the plan. Your mind spins with what this means, the choices you’ll have to make and the conversations you’ll need to have.

Still, your hand moves to tentatively rest on your belly. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing? After all, you know that Harry’s always wanted a baby, and now-

Fuck. This might not be Harry’s baby. It could just as easily be Mitch’s.

It was always clear that Harry could not get Sarah pregnant and Mitch couldn’t get you pregnant. That was like, one of the top rules. Because that would cause so much drama for the four of you, but especially for the child. You’d never let a baby get trapped in celebrity gossip.

And yet, that might now be happening on accident.

Oh god, what are you going to tell the others? How are you going to tell them? When? It doesn’t have to be right now, does it?

No, definitely not. Not while you’re still spiraling about the news. You need to sit with it for a minute. You need to be calm and steady, able to tell them in an unemotional, informative way.

So you keep the secret for a day. And then a week. And then two weeks.

The symptoms don’t go away. The others are worried, but you wave them off, telling them your body just isn’t used to traveling like this.

But then one day Sarah notices something. Your hand absentmindedly caressing your stomach. It’s a habit you started doing when in private, a way to keep yourself level when you start to spiral about the baby.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but she’s quickly pulled away, one of the techs asking her about her drum kit.

You go backstage to Harry’s dressing room and plop down on the couch, closing your eyes.

“Baby, everything alright?” He asks when he walks in and sees you.

“Just resting my eyes” you reply, smiling and forcing your eyes open so you don’t look as exhausted as you feel.

“Want some sushi?” He asks.

And you do. Really, you want some of the delicious, fresh sushi. But you know you’re not supposed to so you have to reply, “No thanks, I just ate a little while ago.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything,” he says, and you lean in for a kiss,wanting to be close to him. He goes happily, and the two of you sit there for a few minutes before he needs to finish getting ready for the show.

The concert goes great, as always, and you’re all hanging out afterwards. Mitch asks if you want a drink but you decline. While you’re not one to drink all the time, he’s realizing that it’s been weeks since you’ve accepted an alcoholic beverage.

The next morning it’s just you and Sarah in the hotel room. You wake up late, immediately feeling nauseous. She follows you into the bathroom and holds your hair while you deal with the stomach problems.

“This isn’t from travel,” she states once you’re feeling better. You meet her eyes and realize that she without a doubt knows the truth. “How long have you known?” She asks.

“Two weeks,” you reply quietly. For a moment the two of you just stand there looking at each other. Until she opens her arms and gestures for you to come closer. You practically go limp, falling into her arms and letting her hold you as you finally let the tears fall.

“Are you mad?” You choke out between sobs.

“No, love. I don’t love that you’ve kept it a secret, but no, I’m not mad.”

This comes as such a relief to you, and causes another wave of tears to fall. Sarah gently leads you back to bed, and the two of you lay there, Sarah holding you as you feel all the emotions you’ve been bottling up.

Once you’ve finally gotten it all out there’s a moment of tense silence.

“You can ask,” you say, knowing what’s weighing her mind.

“Do you know whose it is?” She asks.

“No.”

“Okay. Okay. We can still handle this. But you have to tell the boys.”

“I will, I promise.”

“When?”

“In a couple of days. We’ll be home and have a couple of weeks off to figure things out. I have an appointment next week.”

“Alright. It will be okay.”

You’re not sure if she's reassuring you or herself, but her words and gentle arms around you have you feeling ten times better than you’ve felt ever since you saw those two little lines.

She hovers closer to you for the next couple of days, and after a final show and many hours of travel, you’re all together in your London home. You get in late and all immediately crash in bed, sleeping soundly until the next morning.

When you wake up the nausea is worse than ever, but you’re fairly certain it has more to do with the conversation you need to have rather than the morning sickness.

You fight through and make everyone breakfast, needing to be the one setting the scene. It helps you feel a bit more in control of the situation. Once the pancakes, fruit, and bacon are on the table, you feel slightly better.

Sarah joins you first. “It will be okay,” she says, pulling you in for a hug. You hold onto her for a moment, her comforting embrace calming you enough that you think you can actually do this.

You step away and a moment later the boys join, big smiles on their faces, unaware of the bomb you’re about to drop on them.

“This looks delicious,” Mitch compliments.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Harry adds.

“You’re welcome. Sit, eat,” you say, trying to act normal but not quite achieving that.

You pick at your food while the others happily eat. Once you think they’ve all finished you start by saying, "There's something I need to tell you.”

“What is it, baby?” Harry asks, his hand moving to rest on yours.

You laugh sardonically at his choice of pet name. But you finally manage to blurt out, “I’m pregnant.”

Harry’s hand twitches on yours, as though he’s fighting not to pull away.

“Is it mine?” He asks.

“I don’t know.”

“How far along?” Is his next question.

“Maybe eight weeks. I have an appointment in a couple of days.”

Mitch sits silently, and you know his mind is swirling with thoughts. But he won’t say them. He’s completely shut down, maybe just processing, maybe completely angry. It’s impossible to tell with him.

Harry speaks up again and says, “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“Well I didn’t realize what was happening at first. And then I guess I didn’t want to distract you all when you had shows to do.”

“You think because I’m touring you keep things from me? That I can’t handle it? Y/N, I’m a professional, I know how to do my job and still be there for my family. We don’t keep secrets, open communication has been top priority since day one! We handle things together. This affects all of us! You should have told us.”

As his emotions rise, so does Harry. He stands and walks out of the room. The spot where his hand had been practically burns with the sudden abandonment.

One glance at Mitch shows he’s not going to break any time soon. So you stand and begin collecting plates. Sarah comes to help but you decline, wanting to clean everything, if just to distract you from what just happened. What’s still happening.

“I’ll talk to Mitch,” she says softly. “See if I can get anything out of him.”

You send her a grateful smile and then the two of them leave as well. Taking some deep breaths you choke back your tears. It’s like all those years after your family’s passing that you had to stay strong. You couldn’t break, couldn’t cry.

And then you met Sarah and Mitch and Harry. Not only could you show your emotions, they encouraged you to do so. They held you. They comforted you. But now when you need them most, the boys can barely stand to look at you.

Days pass in awkward silence. You fight internally about what you should do. Your appointment today will hopefully give you some answers and information, but you know another hard conversation with the other three will need to happen.

“Where are you going?” Harry asks as you grab your keys.

“Doctor. I have my appointment today,” you answer.

“Can I come?” You’re a bit surprised at this. He’s avoided you for days and now wants to join you?

But then he adds, “You’re my girlfriend. It probably wouldn’t be a good look if people spot you and I’m not there to support you.”

Any hope you felt disappears. He’s coming just to keep up appearances to the public. It hurts, but you still allow him to come with you.

He puts on the happy supportive boyfriend act, and sits by your side as you get checked and get bloodwork done. They do an ultrasound, warning that it might be too early to see anything or even hear a heartbeat, but they’ll still try.

And then comes the sound of a rapid heartbeat. Your baby’s heartbeat. Suddenly, Harry’s hand finds yours. When you turn to him you see he’s no longer acting. Tears swim in his eyes as he smiles, a real smile filled with awe.

The doctor prints some scans even though there isn’t much to see. You leave the office with a clean bill of health, the ultrasound photos, and a renewed sense of hope that everything will be alright. Harry is clearly warming up to everything.

But Mitch is still hesitant. He continues to sulk when you get home, but then Harry shows him the scans. Tells him about the baby’s heartbeat. How you’re growing a little human that will yes, complicate things, but will most certainly add more joy and love to their lives.

Mitch listens, and while he still doesn’t say anything at the moment, he finds you later in the evening.

“You think we can figure this out?” He asks.

“I do. If we’re all a team.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He sighs and says, “I just want you safe. And happy. And I’m scared of what this will mean. Harry’s fans can be brutal. If this baby is mine, and people pay enough attention to realize that, then all of our reputations are at stake. But….that's not really what matters, is it? What matters is that we’re together. Even if we lose everything else, we’ll have each other.”

“We will?”

“We will. I’m here. I’m sorry it took so long.” With that he opens his arms, reaching out to hold you for the first time in days, and it feels like coming home.

The next few days are absolute heaven. Your symptoms seem to ease up a bit, and the other three absolutely dote on you. But then things take a turn. You start to feel some cramping and back pain.

You take a warm bath and that helps the aches go away, so you join the others in bed. The four of you stay up way too late, talking about the baby, pitching baby names and planning nursery decorations.

You’re the first to fall asleep, and they stay up a bit longer to watch you rest, so relaxed and happy. They can’t believe that you’re growing a tiny human that they’ll all love and cherish. Finally they all drift off to sleep as well.

But soon they’re woken up, confused by what’s going on, until they notice you’re sitting up, your face completely drained of color.

“What’s wrong?” Mitch asks.

“I’m bleeding,” you reply.

Immediately everyone feels wide awake, knowing what this could mean. But Sarah calmly replies, “Y/N, some spotting can be nothing. It happens a lot in pregnancies.”

“It’s not light, Sarah. It’s a lot.” You move the blanket and they see what you mean. They know this isn’t good, but they remain calm.

“Let’s not think the worst, okay?” Harry says. “We'll go to the hospital and see what’s happening.”

“I’ll drive,” Mitch says, and everyone hops into action, getting dressed and helping you out of bed and into clothes as well. The cramping from earlier is back, worse even. You know what’s happening. Without a doubt. The others might still have hope, but you can feel it.

Still, that doesn’t make hearing it from the doctor any easier. It’s an hour later and you’re sitting in a stark exam room, Harry by your side and Mitch and Sarah waiting out in the car. The doctor confirms your worst fear, that there is no heartbeat. She tells you what to expect for the next couple of days, and what to look out for that would indicate a complication.

You head back to the car and everyone is silent on the way home. It’s early morning when you get back, but you all still go back to bed to get some more rest.

The next few days suck. The pain and bleeding gets worse until it culminates into the worst cramping of your life. While everyone is supportive, you’re grateful to have Sarah there since she can understand what you’re going through better than the boys can.

Finally, the pain fades. All that’s left is the emotional fallout. After experiencing so much loss in your life, you didn’t think this would hit you so hard.

“With my family, there was nothing I could do,” you explain to the rest while the four of you are sitting on the couch. “But I always thought I could at least keep my baby safe inside of me.”

“There’s nothing you could do here either honey,” Mitch says. “You didn’t do anything wrong or cause this to happen.”

“What if there’s something wrong with me? Like an incompetent cervix or hormone problems?”

Harry answers this time, “Then we’ll figure that out with your doctor and know how to prevent this from maybe happening in the future.”

You have one more question, one you’re most scared to voice. But you manage to ask, “Do you all want kids? In the future? Because I know you were all on board this time but you didn’t really have a choice.”

“I think, when the time is right, I will be overjoyed to add some little ones to our family,” Harry says. You turn to Mitch and Sarah who both happily agree.

This has been one of the more stressful ordeals of your life, and one of the only times you’ve ever felt so distant, like you were living an entirely different reality from the others.

But one thing is for sure. When the time is right, and you’re ready to grow your family, Harry, Mitch, and Sarah will be by your side for the journey.

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AN: I actually don’t think I have any more extras planned or requested for this at the moment so please let me know if there’s anything you want to see!

Taglist: @akkatz @pandeebearstyles @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite@theekyliepage@numafarawayglxy @booberry019-blog @hillzrry@ssareidbby @gem1712 @acesofspadess@houseofdilfs@shaquille-0atmeal-1@kissitnhekitchen @amateurduck @poguestyleskye@n0vaj3an@snwells@drunk-teens-doing-drugs ; @fdl305

[tashacee]

Hey what would happen if instead of the Hero's Aspect, Wild got stuck in the Toon Link mask?

Oh boy oh man i’m pretty sure you sent me this on new years eve sorry for answering uuuuuuuuuuh seven months late oh man oh man

ASPECTS OF A TOON

Well this was embarrassing.

Listen.

Link had a bunch of weird and wonderful magical outfits. He had ones that made him stronger. Ones that made him faster. He had ones that made his attacks shoot lightning, and that was just cool. He had ones that made him look like ancient beasts, ones that made him look like his own dark reflection. He even had one that draped him in the soul of a long dead, very cat-like hero.

And frankly. Of all of the outfits he could have gotten stuck in, he would have preferred any of those to what had happened today.

This was just.

It was just embarrassing.

So here’s what happened. Link had been minding his own business, taking a nice morning stroll along East Akkala Beach and killing a few lizalfos, when he’d thought that he saw someone he knew. And, being the generalised menace that he was, instead of going to say hello like a normal fucking person, he’d decided to sneak up and scare them.

In.

Well.

The dumbest ding dang mask that he owned.

He didn’t know anything about the Hero it was supposed to resemble. The inscription said the Hero visited an island but couldn’t leave, and that the mask made people want to wear it but. Not? Wear it?

Which made no sense.

Maybe the Hero was a goofy kinda guy who liked hijinks and that was why his mask was like that. Maybe it had been a costume from some sort of Hero Festival. Maybe he was just an asshole and someone made it to laugh at him.

Link didn’t know. He didn’t care. What mattered was that he had this dumb goofy mask and it was really funny to sneak up on people in, especially with how mad its little face was.

What he hadn’t banked on was, as soon as he put the dumb thing on, the world falling out from under his feet. It was like everything around him collapsed in on itself, and for a few seconds there was nothing, and then-

He was in an unfamiliar woodland, in an unfamiliar place, and something innate within him told him that this was a different world.

Weird.

So Link had done what any sensible person would do and had tried to take the goofy, giant mask off.

And. It had not come off.

The head hole was kinda tight and there was a knack to it, and it seemed the release mechanism had jammed and-

Oh, korok nuts.

He was stuck.

So he’d set on his way, mortified, in search of fresh water, a survival essential, and a way out of this dumb mask.

The forest seemed largely safe, at least. No big animals, no monsters, just the occasional low hanging branch for him to bonk his stupid mask on. And then, maybe half an hour after arriving in this foreign place, he’d seen a flash of colour in the trees and a voice call

“Yo, what the heck? Someone open a theme park round here?”

Oh great. He’d been spotted.

So, unable to muster even the slightest vestige of a swagger, Wild had slunk in the direction of the voice. If there were people there, then there was likely a safe camp, and hopefully someone who could get him out of this awful mask.

…

……

………

But man. Link had been prepared for a lot of things. He had been prepared to be embarrassed. He had been prepared to come up with a dumb story. He had been prepared to take pictures and laugh about it.

He had not expected to run into a group of Heroes from across time, all of which shared his soul. No, scratch that, cool Heroes from across time, all of which shared his soul. Cool, serious, well armed, well travelled guys, who were keeping a look out for monsters in a world equally unfamiliar to them-

And here he was, in the mascot head.

It was beyond embarrassing.

Ugh. And the worst thing was, they were all so nice about it, even when it was clear that they were trying very hard not to laugh. Link had at least thought that he’d get away with at least one of them taking him seriously when he met Sky and found out that the guy was blind, but no. No, he could never be that lucky.

Upon hearing that he had what ‘Four’ described as ‘The jankiest damn village-fete mask bobble head I have ever seen’, he had beamed with mischief and thrust his hands forwards. 

And he’d cackled when he felt the mask. Cackled! The indignity of it all! Link was beginning to think that the only chill guy in this whole ‘Chain’ of Links was the pink haired guy, Legend. He, at least, seemed eager to help him get the mask off, which he really appreciated. At least one of them was thoughtful!

Still. It took a while - Link had to make his way back to their main camp and be subjected to everyone seeing his shame before they got it off. In the end they had to use a stick of butter, a counterweight, and several newfound brothers pulling to get it off.

But in the end, they did, and Link - now dubbed Wild - found himself red-faced but free of the worst outfit he’d ever worn.

It was far from the ideal way to meet his new family. Because that was what they were - a family. He loved them. They were wonderful.

But it had been far from ideal. His brothers would never let him forget it, and the ‘big headed’ jokes didn’t seem to be coming to an end any time soon.

Well. Whatever. Wild was going to find out who the dumb mask was supposed to be the head of, and when he did, he would get his own back. He just needed to figure out who… 

It wouldn’t be an easy task. The Chain could be a closed lipped bunch when they needed to be, but at least in this task Wild would not be alone. The others may have laughed at him, but he had one ally at least!

Man. With him and Legend on the case? They’d be unstoppable!

[hearts4sturn]

CAUGHT IN A LIE – MATT STURNIOLO

pairing: heartthrob!matt x fem!reader synopsis: y/n was forced to attend a fraternity party after losing a bet to her friend. she was awkward—never quite sure how to handle parties like this. when a guy (who clearly couldn’t take a hint) kept flirting with her, she found herself unable to say no. matt, thinking he was doing her a favor, stepped in and claimed they were dating. but word spread fast around the university, leaving them no choice but to keep up the lie. warnings: lowercase intended, angst, alcohol, mentions of sex

masterlist | series masterlist

THREE: DEAL

“WHAT?” evelyn’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and sudden, like a knife slicing through thick air. her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes went comically wide, her face twisting in exaggerated disbelief. she stared at me like i’d just confessed to robbing a bank or adopting a stray raccoon or announcing i was moving to a remote island to live among goats. the kind of look someone gives you when they’re convinced your brain has temporarily short-circuited. pure shock, painted all over her face.

i collapsed onto her bed like i’d been hit by a truck full of emotional whiplash, as if all the air had been sucked out of me, the weight of everything finally crashing down in one heavy, overwhelming wave. my heart hadn’t stopped racing since it happened—like it hadn’t quite caught up to the absurdity of what my life had suddenly turned into. like i was the unwilling star of some bizarre, bootleg teen rom-com where i, of all people, was the reluctant protagonist. this wasn’t me. this wasn’t even close to being me. i was background noise. a human parentheses.

i dragged my hands down my face, desperately trying to shove my racing thoughts back in place, and mumbled through my fingers, “what am i supposed to do, eve? i don’t even know what to think anymore. should i say yes? should i say no? i’m seriously losing it over here.”

evelyn blinked slowly. like, full-on buffering mode. her brain was the spinning rainbow wheel of death. she stared at me for a beat, then another, until her jaw dropped again, even further this time. “wait—wait, wait, wait. let me make sure i’m hearing this right. matt sturniolo—you mean the matt sturniolo? the one with the stupidly perfect hair and a fan club practically built in? he asked you to be his fake girlfriend?”

“yes!” i cried out, burying my face into the nearest blanket like it might somehow muffle the madness of reality. “and i have absolutely no idea what to do! do i just... agree? like, ‘sure, cool, let’s casually fake date in front of half the school’? eve, this is insane. i’m so out of my depth here, i might as well be drowning. with bricks in my pockets.”

i rolled over, flinging my arms dramatically across her pillow like it might absorb the swirling panic currently hijacking my nervous system. everything was a mess. thoughts and worries spun around like a glitter tornado—chaotic and sparkly and entirely unhelpful. no clear answers. just noise.

evelyn sat up like she was about to lead a battle strategy meeting. she started ticking things off on her fingers like we were planning a school fundraiser, not negotiating the terms of a fake relationship with someone who basically walked around like he was the main character. “okay, let’s start with the pros. if you say yes, you get to hang out with matt freaking sturniolo. you know, the guy who makes the hallway feel like a runway every time he walks through it. people will notice you. and not in the bad way. you’ll actually exist to the rest of the student body.”

i groaned in response, rolling my eyes so hard it could’ve been considered a workout. i sank deeper into the pillow like it might swallow me whole and save me from this conversation.

“plus,” she continued, completely ignoring my spiraling, “it might help you get out of your shell. no offense, but you’ve been living in full-blown social invisibility mode for, like, forever. maybe this is the universe’s weird way of giving you a push. a weird, hot, slightly chaotic push.”

i just stared at the ceiling, unblinking. if i didn’t move, maybe time would pause. maybe the laws of reality would glitch and rewind thirty-six hours.

“cons,” evelyn said, switching gears like we were flipping through a menu. “people will talk. some of them are going to be... not nice. jealous girls, gossipy types, the whole high school greek chorus. and let’s be real, you don’t exactly thrive under scrutiny. you might spontaneously combust.”

i nodded faintly, still staring upward, hoping the ceiling would open up and swallow me whole or at least hand me a cosmic cue card.

“but then again,” she added, voice softening a little, “maybe being overwhelmed is just the first step to being brave.”

i didn’t respond. just sighed again, long and slow. the kind of sigh that said, i did not sign up for this timeline.

“so... what do i do?” my voice was small now, almost fragile. i hated how vulnerable it sounded, like i was afraid to hear the answer.

evelyn looked at me gently, that half-smile she gets when she’s trying to stay positive for my sake, when she knows i’m about to make a big decision and she wants to be supportive, no matter what. “it’s your decision. i can’t tell you what’s right. but whatever you choose? i’ll back you up. completely.”

“you’re not helping,” i muttered, getting up and dragging myself out of her room like the floor had turned to quicksand.

i collapsed onto my own bed, and the weight of my body felt ten times heavier than usual. i stared at the ceiling again. still no divine intervention. rude.

yeah, sure, maybe this whole fake relationship thing would help me break out of my shell. maybe i’d finally get to stop being the quiet girl in the corner who no one noticed unless i dropped something. but... pretending to be someone’s girlfriend, even if it was fake, still felt like lying. and i was terrible at lying. i overthink everything. i trip over my words when i get emotional. i panic-text friends to double-check if “haha” sounds too passive-aggressive.

and matt?

matt was... something else. charming. infuriatingly so. that easy, offhand charm that made you feel like the most important person in the world—even when he wasn’t trying. especially when he wasn’t trying. and me? i was a footnote. someone you wouldn’t notice unless i spilled iced coffee on your shoes or accidentally walked into a pole. 

being his fake girlfriend meant people would start watching. start talking. and worse... what if i started liking it? what if i actually caught feelings?

i sat up suddenly, as if the thought itself was too much to lie down with. the panic was back. but this time it had backup.

“eve?” i shouted, my voice echoing in the quiet of my room.

“yeah?” she called back from the other room, her voice muffled but still clear enough to hear.

“would you do it?”

there was a pause. long enough to make me wonder if she was really thinking it through or just dramatically sipping water for effect.

“probably,” she finally replied, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

i groaned and wandered back to her room like a zombie who had just given up on trying to make sense of anything.

“look who’s back,” she smirked, still glued to her phone.

“oh, shut up.” i plopped down beside her, exasperated. “why would you do it?”

she shrugged like it was no big deal. “i don’t know. it sounds fun. plus, matt sturniolo is hot.”

“you–!” i flailed a little, then flopped back onto her bed again. “you’re unreal.”

she just grinned, kicking her feet casually like we weren’t discussing the fate of my entire social existence.

and the worst part?

the worst part was that i was starting to consider it. seriously.

“so?” matt asked, sitting across from me at the same little cafe where this whole chaos had started, his eyes twinkling with the kind of confidence that only comes from someone who knows exactly how to get under your skin.

i took a deep breath. a long, shaky one. a breath that didn’t seem to calm my racing heart in the slightest. “i’ll do it. but there have to be rules.”

his lips curled into that annoyingly charming smirk. “rules?”

i nodded, my hands trembling slightly. “serious ones. non-negotiable.”

“like what? no falling in love?” he teased, leaning forward like this was all some game.

i gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. “i’m serious.”

“okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “hit me.”

i reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—written at 3 a.m., full of crossed-out lines, overthinking, and dramatic bullet points. “these are just... guidelines.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you made a list?”

“you asked me to fake date you. this is the least weird part of the entire situation.”

he chuckled, and i hated how nice it sounded. warm and easy, like fresh laundry right out of the dryer.

“rule one,” i said, steadying my voice, “no kissing. unless it’s absolutely necessary. like, cinematic, life-or-death kind of necessary.”

“so if someone’s dying and a kiss is the only cure, i’m allowed?” he grinned, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“exactly. short of that, keep your lips to yourself.”

“understood. high-stakes kissing only. very niche.”

“rule two: no unnecessary touching. unless we’re in public and someone’s watching—and even then, it better be subtle. i don’t want forehead kisses or hand-holding or whatever you think passes as ‘romantic.’”

“subtle. got it. can i put my arm around you?”

“you get one arm. use it sparingly.”

he grinned wider. “i’ll treasure it.”

“rule three,” i continued, “no flirting over text. no pet names. no heart emojis.”

he blinked. “not even ironically?”

“especially not ironically.”

he leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. “you’re really going all in, huh?”

“because this is serious. people are going to assume things. i just... i need boundaries.”

he looked at me for a moment, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. he was just... watching me. like he was really listening.

“okay,” he said softly. “boundaries. i get it.”

i looked down at the table, then back up at him. “this is so weird.”

“weird’s not always bad,” he said, his voice calm, reassuring. “sometimes weird turns into something cool.”

i rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “don’t make this a thing.”

“what thing?”

“that,” i gestured. “the charm thing. turn it off.”

he leaned back with a smug little shrug. “sorry. it’s automatic.”

i groaned, sliding the list across the table toward him. “just read the rest of the rules.”

“yes, ma’am,” he said, mock-saluting me as he unfolded the paper like it was a sacred text.

and as i watched him read, i still didn’t know if this was the best idea or the worst.

but for the first time in a long time?

i kinda wanted to find out.

matt unfolded the paper like it was some ancient scroll, eyebrows raised as he skimmed the dramatic bullet points and chaotic half-crossed-out ideas. his eyes flicked across the page, and every so often his lips twitched like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“you really wrote ‘no smirking like that’ as a rule?” he asked, tapping the margin with a fingertip.

i snatched the paper back. “you’re breaking it right now.”

“i’m not smirking,” he said, smirking. “i’m smiling. big difference.”

i glared at him. he just raised his eyebrows, like see? i’m adorable and technically innocent.

ugh.

“fine. that one’s unofficial,” i muttered, folding the list again and jamming it into my pocket. “but i’m watching you.”

“oh no,” he said, mock-serious, “not the watching. anything but that.”

i hated how light he made everything feel. like this was just a casual hangout instead of the start of what could become the most emotionally confusing thing i’d ever willingly walked into. like he wasn’t a walking social spotlight and i wasn’t about to step into it like a deer on the world’s biggest stage.

“so,” he said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “now what?”

i blinked. “what do you mean, now what?”

“i mean,” he shrugged, leaning back in his chair like this was no big deal, “are we telling people? are we doing a dramatic cafeteria reveal? posting a soft-launch photo dump? what’s the play here?”

my stomach turned. “you want to tell people?”

he tilted his head, considering. “well, the whole point is for people to think we’re dating, right? can’t exactly do that if we’re hiding in corners and pretending to be allergic to each other in public.”

i winced. he had a point. a gross, logical, painfully accurate point.

“i don’t know,” i muttered, fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. “i guess... i didn’t think that far ahead. i was too busy panicking.”

he grinned. “cute.”

“don’t call me cute.”

“noted.”

 he paused,  “but also, you’re cute.”

i smacked my forehead against the table. he laughed. loudly. unapologetically.

“i hate you,” i mumbled, voice muffled against the wood.

“no you don’t.”

and god help me, he was right.

wc: 3.4k author's note: HELP I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO POST THE NEW PART sorry for posting late </3 dividers: @toastray

taglist: @courta13 @tits4matt @backwardshatnick @emely9274 @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer

© HEARTS4STURN

[bigshot-n-primetime]

The phone is ringing

Its loud

Constant

Maybe you should answer your phone then?

We’re not getting any calls on our end!

“I hate these questions about the phone,” Spamton sighed, looking down at his coffee. “They freak me out, you know? What if it’s him trying to contact me through here?”

“I doubt it is,” Tenna reassured softly, resting a hand on his husband’s shoulder. He let out a soft sound as he bent down and picked Spamton up, carefully moving the coffee with him. “You know that even if it was I wouldn’t let him, love. Besides, like you said- our phones are silent. That’s how he would contact you.”

A quiet noise left Spamton’s mouth as he was lifted up, but he smiled gently and nodded. He took a sip of the coffee, hot on his tongue but as creamy as he liked it. He knew that Tenna was right, but it was hard to believe. He didn’t understand why people were so fascinated with the phone.

“I thought I made it clear that I haven’t answered the phone in years.”

“You did.”

“But they keep talking about the phone anyways.”

“They do,” Tenna began, holding Spamton to his chest as he weaved through their kitchen and into the living room, “but we can just ignore them.”

“That would be rude,” Spamton muttered, holding his coffee with both hands.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s rude,” the CRT remarked, looking down at him. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t really care.”

Spamton let out a soft scoff and nodded, resting his head against Tenna’s shoulder. Hard and mechanical, but reassuring all the same. He looked up at his screen, a soft laugh leaving his mouth as he did so.

“I don’t know why I was so worked up about it,” he murmured, taking a long sip of his drink before he continued. “It’s a good thing you’re there to keep me logical, huh?”

“I suppose so,” Tenna laughed softly, reaching a hand up and brushing a loose strand out of Spamton’s face. “We keep eachother sane, don’t we?”

“We do.”

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Down and dirty

Joe's life, it's pretty unreal right now. Winning on and off the field, until, he finds himself only winning on the field, as his girl, who happens to be a dallas cowboy cheerleader is no longer his. What's she like after the break up? Well, let the cameras roll.

There were nights were Joe Burrow swore he was dreaming.

LSU was winning, not just games but moments — big ones, historic ones, the kind he used to sketch in Ohio in spiral notebooks under math problems. And he wasn’t watching from the stands, oh god no, Joe Burrow was everywhere. He was making legendary calls on the field. Baton Rouge pulsed with something electric every time his cleats hit the field. His name was shouted alike a prayer.

People wanted to be him.

Some just wanted to touch him.

And still, none of it, none of the wins, the parties, the nights out, ever felt quite as good to him as when she walked through the door after practice, bag slung over one shoulder, lips glossed and hair pinned back from a long Cowboys rehearsal.

The kind of girl whose light didn’t need a stadium, the kind of girl whose beauty wasn't just measured with those icy eyes, or her smile that Joe swore was home, no. Her beauty was how she spoke to people, how she treated people. Her soul was as sweet as honey, and as untameable as the wind. She was his everything.

When she'd made DCC, there was no wider smile than that of Joe Burrow, and the uniform, it was nothing short of a bonus. She was living the life she had told him about when they were 16, and their dreams were as uncertain as the very wind, but she'd bottled that wind, and she knew she had no limits. He loved that about Gormley, she didn't set a standard, she was the standard.

What he didn't love was how pom poms seen more of her than him, he didn't want to frazzle her dreams, but Joe began to think, he was no longer her real dream, simply, he was just there.

And tonight, she was late. Again.

The door slammed harder than she meant to — that was clear by the way her eyes flicked toward him, immediately wary. She smelled like stadium grass, something so familiar to Joe, yet tonight, it only angered him further at what he was losing, at what was slipping through his fingers.

Gormley had prayed on the journey home that Joe would be in bed, a late night gym session, hell, even our drinking so he wouldn't notice, again, how late she was.

“You’re late,” he said flatly.

“I texted.” Gormley said, cringing at the emptiness that filled Joe's words, he wasn't excited to see her. He'd waited up to fight, she knew this. She didn't want to fight.

“You always text. That doesn’t make you on time.” Joe hated how much of a smart ass he was when he was pissed, he would never hurt her, ever. But he couldn't fight his temper, and the fire in him burned, it roared.

Gormley dropped her bag by the door, slow and deliberate, her calculation was something Joe admitted, she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it, but tonight, tonight it pissed him off. “Why are you picking a fight, Joe?”

His voice rose before his mind caught up. “Because I’m sick of waiting around like some fucking roommate when you swore you’d make time for this! For me!"

He hates shouting, he hates that she'd ever be scared of him, she was his home, refuge, not someone to hide from. But tonight, he shouted, that fire roaring so loudly.

“This?” she snapped, though exhaustion plagued her voice and it tampered any real chance of her sounding as poisonous as him. “Define this, Joe. Us? Or your fucking ego?”

He laughed bitterly. “You walk in late smelling like a damn commercial shoot, and I’m supposed to sit here and act like I don’t know what guys in that locker room are thinking when you dance in that outfit—”

He hadn't answered her question, define this. Joe couldn't define this, he wasn't sure it was anything anymore.

“Careful.” Gormley's eyes darkened, alike the unforgiving ocean before it plummets a boat beneath its surface. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you’re ready to burn for it.”

But he was already too far gone. “You think I’m wrong? I’ve seen the clips. The fucking edits. You’re everyone’s fantasy.”

He hadn't wanted to fight about her clothes for gods sake, why did he mention the outfit. He wanted his Gormley back, he wanted to start their romance again. He didn't care about an outfit, he was Joe Burrow.

“And you’re everyone’s goddamn hero,” she said, voice low. “You want me smaller so you can stay bigger. You don’t love me—you love owning me.”

Gormley didn't mean that, and she knew it wasn't true. She wanted to hurt him, as callous as it sounds. Maybe then, Joe's unwaged war would end, the guns would stop firing.

Joe was so proud to love her, and love her loudly at that. She was the first person he thought of and the last, she was his very heart beat, the very breath drawn into his lungs. Not tonight though, tonight, she wasn't his and he wasn't hers.

The silence that followed was louder than anything either of them had shouted. Who would blink first.

"It's fucking dumb thinking you're doing some unreal work and making a real change when you prance about in a sports bra." He spat. Joe had blinked. Gormley knew she'd won, but, how much did a win matter when she knew she'd was going to lose him.

They'd been fighting for weeks. Joe drank too much, he stayed out too late, she picked cheerleading over him, she doesn't turn down advances enough. They'd fought about every thing there was to fight about. He was distant, she couldn't care less. The house was empty despite two personalities in it. She didn't want to fight anymore, she was so so done.

She turned then. Picked up her bag. No drama. No last plea. Just her voice, sharp and resolute:

“You can do whatever the fuck you want, Joe, because I am so done.”

And she left.

-

No contact.

Fourteen days.

Two hundred and sixty-two unread texts on his phone from everyone but her.

Joe didn’t tell anyone he was flying in. Not his coach. Not his mom. Not even Ja’Marr, who would’ve guessed it anyway. He sat high in the VIP box, hood up, jaw clenched. He didn't care about the Cowboys, he thought they were shit. He was waiting, waiting so eagerly.

And then she came onto the field.

The world stopped.

She was brutal in blue and white, Joe had always loved her in white, silver flickering off every angle of her body like blades as she span onto the field. He felt every stab of the blades, he felt everything. But something was off, something was different.

Her hair, her hair was different. The usual white-blonde he's always known was jet-black. It cascaded down her back like a spell, it enchanted him, enthralled him. He fucking loved it. She looked like venom was coursing through her veins, the black only making those icy blue eyes more fierce.

Joe had known her for years. But this?

This wasn't a version he knew, it was the first version without him. The jet-black was almost blue under the stadium lights, and moon dust appeared to be sliding off of her.

This was her war paint.

She danced like she didn’t care who watched. Like no one had ever touched her. Like Joe had never held her until her breath hitched against his shoulder, whispering promises about someday. He was gonna get a real big ring because Gormely didn't do anything half assed, and he would get down on one knee, and he'd declare himself to her, forever. They'd have babies, maybe four.

It crushed him.

After the routine, she gave one brief wave to the crowd her pom-poms waving effortlessly, god she was so beautiful, she then turned to an NFL Network sideline mic that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Joe wouldn't have noticed anyway, where it came from, his eyes hadn't turned from her.

The interviewer smiled like it was all scripted. “Amazing as always Gormley. A question—fans online are wondering: You and Joe Burrow were once college football’s golden couple. Any comment on your relationship now?”

His heart dropped, they hadn't addressed the break up, hell, he hadn't even told his parents. He already knew his mom would shout at him for not sending a photo of her new hair, but how would he have, he didn't know.

And then it happened.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. She just lifted one shoulder, smirking faintly. “Joe used to being the most important person in every room. I think watching someone else be wanted… scared him.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Joe’s stomach dropped, he ignored that they were laughing at him, and he couldn't unhear what she'd said, "used" past tense. Past. Tense.

She looked directly into the camera then — like she knew. Like she knew he was watching, she probably did, she knew everything.

“Let’s just say… I’m done shrinking to fit his storyline.”

He just knew he’d lost her.

And the stadium had never felt colder.

⸻

The crowd had long since thinned, gone off to beer and barstools, but Joe didn’t move.

Not for the exit.

Not for the car.

Not even when one of the security guards looked at him with that “aren’t you that guy?” glance. He didn't care if he was anyone here, he did care that he wasn't her anyone. That needed to change.

He leaned against the concrete wall beneath the lower bowl, tucked into the shadows like he belonged in them, cap pulled low. Hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, a beat-up one from LSU he hadn’t been able to stop wearing lately. He didn’t even know why. Nostalgia was rotting him from the inside out. His heart felt mechanic, as if it were moving because it had to, not because it had something to beat for. He hadn't felt like that, not since she had left.

He knew her routine.

Knew it down to the minute.

Her team would stay on-field for press and post-game notes. Then the locker room — she took the longest, always the last out, always touching up something, fixing a detail, smoothing her hair to make sure it didn’t look like effort. She hated effort. Hated looking like she tried, he thought maybe her routine might've changed because of her hair, but he was confident in his ability to know her. He was always sure of that.

She would come out the north tunnel around 11:18, give or take.

At 11:17, he heard the door.

He didn’t straighten. Just looked up.

And there she was.

The air changed around her. Not dramatically. Not in some Hollywood slow-mo nonsense. But in the way traffic slows when a siren’s coming — quiet awe with a note of danger.

She had a duffle over one shoulder and her DCC jacket unzipped over a cropped tank. Hair loose around her shoulders, it was longer, and it ended just above her ass. He don't know why she done it, she loved being blonde. said she got to be barbie, but he loved this a lot more. Lip gloss reapplied — of course it was. He knew her. She hated her lips in photos, said they looked dehydrated. They always looked perfect to him.

She looked up as she stepped out.

Her eyes landed on him immediately — a flicker of surprise. And for the briefest second, he saw softness. Kindness, even. That ache behind the armor, she hoped she'd drop her sword, run back to him.

But it didn’t last.

The walls rebuilt in a blink. She turned. Said something to the girl beside her — brunette, ponytail, confident walk. Joe didn’t know her name. He should have. She always said he didn't care about her life here, he did, he swear he did.

The girl laughed and bumped her shoulder. They kept walking.

She didn’t even spare him a breath.

And that hurt more than anything else had.

He stood there long after they disappeared down the tunnel. Just him, the empty stadium corridor.

He pulled out his phone.

Typed, deleted, retyped.

He should probably go home, but his feet were glued to the spot. He swore when he looked up it was her again and again.

Then, finally:

Joe: You didn’t even look at me.

He stared at it. Knew it was pathetic. Sent it anyway. Dignity meant nothing if it was without her.

The dots appeared instantly. Instantly. He smiled slightly, she was waiting for him to text. Hm.

His chest tightened.

Gormley: No I looked at you. I just didn’t stop.

⸻

My babies are fighting nooo but don't worry, well maybe do worry... about part 2. Will they or won't they🙈