darkstar225

[darkstar225]

the girlies @ vidcon 🤭

[darkstar225]

IT'S SO GOOD 😭😂🩷

wartime | chasing sunshine

pairings: leah williamson x teen!reader, lionesses x teen!reader

summary: you and leah get into during camp leading to war

warnings: possible injuries

notes: this fic was in my drafts for so long, i forgot to post before nationals (got the dub btw) also this was inspired by the show baby daddy 😭

You had known Leah Williamson since you were nine years old. Back then, you were still the scrawny new kid at the Arsenal academy, tiny and wiry with oversized boots and a chip on your shoulder the size of London itself. You were a little loud, a little quiet, a little angry at the world—but even at that age, Leah saw something in you. Something sharp and fast and completely magnetic with a ball at your feet.

She took you under her wing almost immediately. Not in the showy, mentor-y way, but the quiet kind. She checked in on you between drills. Showed you how to hold your line tighter, how to time your tackles cleaner. Brought you extra protein bars when she noticed you skipped lunch too many times. Then, somewhere between weekend babysitting shifts and emergency school pickups, Leah went from being your big sister figure to your pseudo-mum, especially when your actual parents didn’t bother showing up.

So, naturally, you didn’t argue often—but when you did, it was apocalyptic. There had been yelling. Doors slamming. One time you drank the last of her favorite Earl Grey and didn’t say a word until after she came back from the shop with hopes of a perfect cup. Another time, you’d gotten into a fight at school and Leah had to come collect you early, again. By the time she got you home, her voice was gone from yelling and your pride was bruised from her disappointment.

Out of survival—and honestly, boredom—you created a system to keep the peace. A way to settle things.

The Williamson War.

It started out simple. Just you, Leah, and the rest of the Williamson clan. Jacob. David. Amanda acting as the designated referee. Challenges ranged from backyard obstacle courses to penalty shootouts to who could make the better beans on toast. But over time, the system caught on. Somehow, the Lionesses adopted it too, like it was part of the unspoken team constitution. If there was drama, or indecision, or just plain stubbornness between teammates—Williamson War it was.

So when you stormed into the St. George’s Park lounge after a light training session and heard raised voices—your voice and Leah’s—the team collectively groaned.

“Sunny,” Leah huffed, hands on her hips, “what aren’t you understanding about the situation?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “That you think you get to control my life because you taught me how to do a proper throw-in when I was ten.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not five, Leah. I can make my own decisions.”

“I’m your captain.”

“You’re not my captain when it’s about my life!”

“Oh, for the love of—don’t you dare—”

But it was already too late. You plucked your cochlear implants off and held them up in the air like a victory trophy. “Can’t hear you, sorry!” you said cheerfully before dropping them into her outstretched, infuriated hand.

Leah narrowed her eyes and started signing, her hands sharp and aggressive.

“Put them back in. Now.”

You grinned and signed back, “Bite me.” Then promptly closed your eyes and leaned back into the couch like a gremlin entering a power nap.

“Unbelievable!” Leah shouted as Keira and Georgia appeared out of nowhere to drag her away like riot control. Meanwhile, Alessia and Grace rushed to you, snatched your implants from Leah’s hands, and re-attached them to your ears.

“Right,” Alessia said, sighing as your implants clicked on and the world returned to full volume. “What’s going on?”

“Leah thinks she can captain my life,” you spat, gesturing violently in Leah’s direction. She was across the room, fuming in a fleece pullover, arms folded with that stiff jaw clench you recognized from when she was really, really trying not to explode.

“Oh, do not!” she yelled back.

“Do so!”

“Okay, enough,” Alessia said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let’s all take a deep breath.”

“I’ll breathe when she breathes,” you said flatly, still glaring at Leah like she’d set your boots on fire.

Leah’s eyes blazed. “You know what?” she said, standing up tall, cracking her neck once. “Fine.”

She raised one hand high. “One, two—”

“Leah, be careful now,” Lucy said from her beanbag throne in the corner, eyes wide.

“Three, four—”

“Leah, it doesn’t have to come to this!” Keira begged, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

“I declare a Williamson War!”

Beth Mead gasped so loudly it echoed off the lounge walls. Georgia threw a hand over her mouth like she was witnessing treason.

Alessia and Grace looked at each other, wide-eyed, clearly wondering what they had just signed up for.

You stood up so fast your water bottle fell over.

“Five, six, seven, eight—winner decides the loser’s fate!” you yelled, pointing directly at Leah like you were in the middle of a WWE promo.

A chorus of groans echoed around the room.

Niamh turned to Millie with a confused squint. “What… is happening?”

Millie, who had clearly seen it all before, sighed like she’d just aged ten years. “It’s a Williamson War. Leah and Sunny invented it when Sunny was still at the academy. It’s how they settle literally everything.”

“How serious does it get?”

Millie deadpanned, “Last time they did this, Leah broke Sunny’s wrist in an overzealous three-legged race. 2021. Never forget.”

“Oh my god.”

Grace looked nervously between you and Leah, who were both now stretching like you were about to play in a final. “Have either of you ever considered, I don’t know, talking it out like emotionally stable adults?” she asked hopefully.

You and Leah answered in perfect harmony:

“Too late for that.”

“This is war.”

The field was set. Bibs had been thrown on. Cones had been dramatically slammed into the grass. A whiteboard stood nearby, scrawled with WILLIAMSON WAR SCOREBOARD in messy pink Expo marker handwriting (courtesy of Ella).

Sarina— who agreed to ref the “team bonding”— stood at midfield in full tracksuit, arms crossed, her face unreadable. Like this was a World Cup Final. Not a civil war between the Lionesses.

“Challenge One,” Sarina announced. “Crossbar Chaos. Spin twenty-eight times, then hit the crossbar sixteen times.”

Grace turned to you, wide-eyed. “Wait, we have to hit the crossbar sixteen times?”

“That’s Sunny’s age!” Alessia said brightly.

“Yeah but I’m not built like her!” Grace hissed.

“None of us are,” muttered Aggie, cracking her knuckles.

Across the way, Beth Mead was bouncing on her toes, already holding a ball, already chewing invisible gum, already way too amped for what should’ve been a joke.

Leah smirked from the sideline, arms folded. “We got this. Beth was born for chaos. She thrives in nonsense.”

You snorted from the other side. “Perfect. This game’s made for us.”

Round One: Aggie (Team Sunny) vs. Beth (Team Leah)

Beth and Aggie stepped to the line like it was a duel at high noon. Ella had a paper towel roll she was pretending was a mic.

“Ladies and gents!” she announced in her best ring announcer voice. “In the red corner, we have the Pride of Whitby, the Destroyer of Defenses, Queen of the Rebound—Beth Mad Mead!”

Beth winked at the imaginary crowd and blew kisses.

“And in the blue corner, Team Chaos’s silent killer, the low-key powerhouse, the human missile—Aggie Grim Reaper Jones!”

Aggie gave an unimpressed shrug and mumbled, “Let’s just get this over with.”

“You’ll spin twenty-eight times,” Sarina declared. “Then you may proceed to the shooting zone. Crossbar hits only count if the ball bounces back in bounds. No wild rebounding into Scotland.”

“Scotland doesn’t want your balls anyway!” Ella heckled.

“On your marks,” Sarina said.

Beth dropped into a squatting stance like a gremlin about to do a backflip.

“Get set.”

Aggie muttered, “My breakfast is going to come back to haunt me.”

“GO!”

Both girls began spinning. The count was on. Ella and Alessia were chanting the numbers like a cult. You and Leah stood behind their teammates, yelling advice that no one was hearing.

“SPIN FASTER, AGGIE!” You shouted, cupping your hands like a coach on the sideline.

“MORE COMMITMENT, MEADY!” Leah yelled. “YOU SPIN LIKE A WEAK FAN!”

At spin number 12, Beth wobbled sideways and screamed, “THE EARTH IS MELTING!”

Aggie tripped over her own foot and collapsed to one knee before popping back up with pure rage. “I’M FINE!”

“Keep going! 18! 19!” Alessia yelled, giggling uncontrollably.

By spin 25, both were a mess. Beth’s hair was flying. Aggie’s arms were flailing like she was swimming midair.

“TWENTY-EIGHT!” screamed Ella, practically frothing at the mouth.

Beth stumbled to the shooting zone like a drunk baby deer and whiffed her first attempt so hard it rolled backwards. “I HATE PHYSICS!”

Aggie’s first shot actually hit the crossbar—but ricocheted directly into Georgia’s shin on the sideline.

“OW! WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?!” Georgia yelped.

“GET IN BETH!” Lucy screamed. “THINK OF THE NORTHERN PRIDE!”

Beth attempted to stabilize, took a deep breath, then launched her second attempt… and hit the post.

“WRONG BAR!” You called out gleefully. “OPEN YOUR EYES, MEAD!”

Aggie scored again. Clink. One down. Fifteen to go.

Leah was now squatting like a football dad, muttering under her breath. “C’mon, Beth. Lock in. Visualize. Channel the Beth who scored against Chelsea. Channel the Beth who stole my last yogurt and lived.”

Beth finally hit one. Clink. She screamed like she’d just scored a penalty in the Euros.

Ella counted out loud, way too fast. “THAT’S TWO! OR SEVEN! I DON’T KNOW ANYMORE!”

Aggie was at four. Then five. Then fell to the ground, dramatically holding her temple. “I’m gonna vom.”

You leaned over her. “No, you’re gonna win. Vom after.”

Beth hit her third bar and went full sprint into a celebratory dance that wasted precious time. Leah tackled her back into place. “Keep. Going.”

Alessia looked like she was crying from laughter. Grace was on the ground.

“FIFTEEN!” Ella roared at the top of her lungs.

Aggie scored the sixteenth bar. Sarina blew the whistle.

Team Sunny exploded. Ella tackled Aggie to the ground. You leapt into the air, nearly pulled a hamstring, and started yelling “GET DUNKED ON” at Leah.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Leah bellowed. “MEADY, I BELIEVED IN YOU.”

Beth flopped to the grass like she’d been assassinated. “My legs are noodles.”

Georgia sighed, still holding her shin. “This war is already a disaster.”

Sarina adjusted her stopwatch. “Team Sunny: 1. Team Leah: 0.”

Leah glared at you across the grass. “You got lucky.”

You gave her a two-finger salute. “I am lucky. I’m lucky you’re washed.”

Beth lifted her head from the grass. “Wow.”

You looked at her. “Love you, Beth.”

Beth muttered, “Rot.”

There was a certain energy to a nugget toss.

Maybe it was the smell—crispy, greasy, fresh out the team kitchen’s air fryer. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of elite professional athletes standing ten feet apart with chicken nuggets in hand, trying to yeet them into each other’s mouths. Maybe it was the fact that you were taking it way too seriously.

Either way, the sideline was packed. Ella was filming like it was her full-time job. Alessia and Aggie were doing warm-ups with ketchup packets. Beth was shouting unsolicited tips from behind a cone, as if she was the Gordon Ramsay of projectile poultry.

You were bouncing slightly on your toes, eyes sharp, laser-focused. Grace stood across from you, giggling like a kid at a fair.

“Are we really doing this?” she asked, holding a nugget like it was radioactive.

“We’re winning this,” you replied, cracking your neck. “Open wide.”

Across the pitch, Leah already looked stressed.

“Lucy, please, I’m begging you,” she muttered, watching as Lucy popped another nugget into her mouth before the game even started.

“I’m hungry!” Lucy defended through a mouthful of food. “They’re warm! I’m not wasting good nuggets on throwing!”

“You’re supposed to throw them!”

Lucy shrugged. “That’s not who I am as a person.”

Sarina stepped between the teams with her clipboard and whistle. She looked like she was reconsidering every choice that led her to this moment.

“Okay,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Rules. Each team has one tosser and one catcher. You get one point per successful mouth catch. Thirty seconds. No stepping over the cone. No spitting nuggets at the referee.”

Everyone looked at Georgia.

Georgia held up her hands. “That happened once.”

“Teams ready?”

“Born ready!” you shouted.

Leah glared at you. “You’re gonna choke on a nugget and I’m not helping you.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re invited to my funeral.”

“BEGIN!”

You launched your first nugget with surgical precision. Grace, bless her sweet soul, actually caught it with a startled yelp.

“ONE POINT!” Sarina called out, looking shocked.

Across the way, Lucy hurled a nugget so wildly it hit the side of Leah’s head.

“LUCY!”

“Oops.”

You threw your second. Grace fumbled it, but caught it on the bounce with her mouth and a squeal.

“Two points!” Sarina called.

Leah was now holding her arms out like a crossbar, fully bracing herself. “Try again. Aim low.”

Lucy tossed underhand this time, and Leah caught it… with her eye.

“OW! LUCY, THAT WAS A MEAT MISSILE!”

Meanwhile, you were on fire. Every toss was perfect. Grace caught one mid-laugh. One with her hands behind her back. One while spinning for no reason.

“Team Sunny is on SEVEN!” Sarina shouted, now genuinely enjoying herself.

Leah had caught one. Lucy had eaten five.

“I don’t even care if we lose,” Lucy said, chewing blissfully. “These are amazing. Compliments to the chef.”

“YOU ARE THE WORST TEAMMATE,” Leah bellowed, snatching the nugget bucket out of Lucy’s hands and tossing it behind her.

“Did you just THROW OUR AMMO?!” Lucy gasped.

Ella screamed from the sidelines, “YOU DON’T TOSS THE NUGGETS UNTIL YOU’RE READY TO WIN, LUCY!”

You wiped a fake tear. “It’s like watching a breakup in real time.”

Grace nearly fell over laughing.

“TEN SECONDS!” Sarina yelled.

You locked eyes with Grace. “Let’s go out with a bang!”

You tossed. She caught. Boom. You tossed again. It bounced off her nose, but she caught it on the rebound. Screams from the sideline.

Final toss. It flew like an arc of golden-battered glory. Grace caught it clean.

“AND THAT’S TIME!” Sarina blew her whistle.

Team Sunny: 10

Team Leah: 1

Lucy: 7 nuggets in her stomach, zero regrets

You and Grace celebrated like you’d won the Champions League. You jumped into her arms. She almost dropped you. Ella threw ketchup packets like confetti. Alessia was doubled over laughing.

Across the way, Leah dropped to her knees. “I hate chicken nuggets.”

Lucy patted her shoulder. “Don’t be mad. I’m full and happy. That’s what matters.”

Leah stared at her. “This is war. And you’re a double agent.”

Lucy smirked. “War tastes like poultry.”

Sarina marked another tally on the board. “Team Sunny leads two to zero.”

You blew Leah a kiss. “Better luck next time, Captain.”

She flipped you off without a word.

You grinned. The war was going very well.

There were many things the FA training facility was known for. World-class pitches. Premier rehab rooms. Tactical planning spaces.

It was not known for roller sports.

So naturally, it became the perfect arena for the next round of Williamson War.

The hallway, long, echoey, with fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were in a 2002 crime drama, was quickly turned into a battleground.

Traffic cones marked the boundaries. The vending machines at the far end stood ominously. Staff had been cleared from the area after someone (Georgia) sent out a mass text that read: “Clear the hallway. Death on wheels incoming.”

Ella and Alessia, once again, had their filming setup in full effect.

“Welcome back to WarWatch,” Ella whispered into her fake mic. “This episode: bruises, betrayal, and a coach casualty.”

You stood in your borrowed roller skates (which may or may not have been two sizes too big), adjusting your knee pads like this was life or death. Grace stood behind you with a water bottle and nervous laughter.

“I don’t know how to skate,” Grace muttered.

“Just pretend you’re escaping your childhood,” you replied, eyes narrowed.

Meanwhile, Leah was tying her laces like she was about to compete in the Olympics. She had that scary focused look—the kind she got before important matches or when someone took the last Yorkshire Gold tea bag.

“She’s fully in her villain arc,” Beth said, munching on popcorn from the sidelines.

Lucy was skating in little circles and nearly took out Keira twice. Georgia had been banned from the warm-up lap after trying to shoulder-check Alessia “as a test.”

Sarina stood at the starting line, clipboard in hand. Somehow, she had agreed to referee this again. Maybe she liked the chaos. Maybe she wanted a raise.

“All right,” Sarina sighed. “First to complete three laps of the hallway wins. No biting. No dragging your teammate by the ponytail. No crashing into staff—”

She paused. Looked at you directly.

You looked away innocently. “I’m an angel.”

Sarina didn’t look convinced.

“Three!” Sarina shouted.

“Two!”

Lucy screamed, “I’M GONNA DIE!”

“One—GO!”

Everyone took off like a bunch of wild toddlers with no center of gravity. Grace immediately screamed as she wobbled to one side, took Ella out like a bowling pin, and somehow ended up riding on Alessia’s back.

You managed to stay upright and build speed. The hallway zoomed by in a blur of polished floors, motivational posters, and confused physios peeking out of doors.

Leah—competitive demon that she is—skated like she’d been born on wheels. She was elbows out, teeth gritted, muttering under her breath like, “I will NOT lose to that child.”

You rounded the second lap and noticed the vending machine looming like a steel trap of death.

“Grace, MOVE!” you shouted.

Too late.

Grace skidded and crashed straight into the vending machine, causing a loud CLUNK and a rain of individually packaged biscuits to fall inside.

“Ow!” she cried. “But also… snacks.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” Ella called out from behind the camera.

Meanwhile, Lucy was skating backwards for no reason and rambling, “This is so much harder than Ibiza roller disco.”

“Focus, Lucy!” Leah shouted, speeding past her.

“Don’t tell me how to live!”

You pushed forward, legs burning, determined to cut off Leah at the final turn.

But just as you were rounding the last lap, a shadow appeared in front of you.

“Sarina?!”

She had stepped slightly into the hallway, checking her clipboard—at exactly the wrong moment.

“OH NO—” you shouted.

WHAM.

You collided full-speed into her, both of you tumbling to the ground. Her whistle flew through the air like a tiny sad rocket.

Gasps. Screams. Laughter. The sound of a vending machine spitting out one last KitKat.

“ARE YOU OKAY?!” you yelled, untangling yourself from her legs.

Sarina, flat on her back, blinked at the ceiling. “I see God.”

“‘He impressed?” you wheezed.

“No.”

Yet, Leah did not stop skating. Even as her team called out, “Leah, the coach is down!” Even as you lay there dramatically flopped over Sarina’s legs like a Victorian ghost.

Leah zoomed through her final lap, arms pumping, a single focus in her eyes: victory.

She skidded to a stop at the finish line, fists in the air.

“YES! I WON!” she yelled, chest heaving.

Lucy rolled up behind her. “Wait. Didn’t Sunny take out Sarina?”

Everyone turned to the coach.

Sarina raised one weary hand from the floor and wheezed, “I call… disqualification… for vehicular assault.”

You face-planted into the hallway floor in shame.

Grace, still trapped behind the vending machine, yelled, “It was worth it!”

FINAL SCORE

Team Sunny: 2

Team Leah: 1

Lucy helped Sarina up, only to nearly trip again. Ella zoomed in on Sarina’s unimpressed face. Alessia whispered, “This is so going in the team slideshow.”

Leah glared at you. “This isn’t over.”

You wiped dust off your knee pad. “It’s okay. I hear concussing the coach is trendy now.”

Sarina looked at both of you. “Next person to touch me on wheels runs laps for a month.”

The hallway was silent. Then Lucy whispered, “…Can I keep the skates?”

The final challenge had the atmosphere of a World Cup final—if that final involved cones, handstands, and deeply questionable strategy.

The pitch was sectioned off with plastic cones in a zigzagging maze. The only way to make it through? One person walks while a partner signed directions in British Sign Language (BSL). Then the navigator tagged the last teammate, who had to walk in a handstand across the finish line. But to make things interesting navigators had to wear giant, vision-warping, gag-store glasses. Imagine Elton John meets funhouse mirror.

“They look like cartoon flies,” Beth snorted as you and Leah strapped on your ridiculous eyewear.

Ella zoomed in with her phone.

“This is the highest level of football camp. Professionals. International caps. And they’re dressed like Pixar side characters.”

This was the Williamson War Final Showdown, and nothing had ever been more unserious yet more important.

Alessia pressed record on her phone.

“Ladies and gentlefolk, we bring you the dramatic conclusion of the dumbest series of competitions this camp has ever seen.”

She panned to the cone maze. “Obstacle course built by chaos. Starring: slightly concussed athletes and a very exhausted Sarina.”

Sarina, wearing a visor and sipping black coffee like it was tequila, gave a long-suffering sigh. “On my whistle. First team to cross the finish wins. You all know the rules. I can’t believe I have to say them out loud.”

Tooney leaned toward the camera. “You just know she’s texting the FA board like, ‘pls send help.’”

Leah is blinded. Keira signs. Georgia is warming up by walking on her hands like it’s casual.

Leah stood at the starting line, hands on hips. “Keira, if I run into something—”

“You will,” Keira replied. “Let’s just accept it now.”

“Confidence boost: zero,” Leah muttered and adjusted her glasses, blinking hard.

“Everything looks… bendy.”

“That’s the point,” Keira replied, cracking her knuckles dramatically. “Follow my lead.”

“Just don’t sign ‘yeet yourself into a cone,’ okay?”

Georgia stood near the finish line, stretching out her wrists like she was about to perform at Cirque du Soleil.

Sarina raised her whistle. “Ready… go!”

Leah started off confidently. Then took one wobbly step, panicked, and immediately bumped into a cone.

“Oh my GOD, she’s down already,” Tooney cackled.

“No, no, I’ve got this,” Leah huffed, reorienting herself. “Keira, sign clearer!”

“You need to look with your eyes,” Keira signed dramatically.

“I’M TRYING BUT EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A MINECRAFT TEXTURE PACK.”

Despite it all, Leah somehow recovered. She started speed-walking through the cones like someone trying to power-walk away from a breakup.

Beth, eating crisps, muttered, “She’s terrifying when she’s determined.”

Keira was signing wildly now, turn, side step, forward, and Leah was locked in.

She tagged Georgia with flair.

Georgia popped up into a handstand like it was nothing. Everyone on the sidelines gasped. Someone (probably Grace) fainted.

She cartwheeled once, balanced perfectly, and began walking on her hands toward the line.

“She’s floating,” Aggie whispered, eyes wide.

Alessia said into the mic, “If you told me she was built in a lab, I’d believe it.”

Georgia crossed the line and flipped onto her feet, posing like an Olympic gymnast.

Sarina blew the whistle.

Team Leah: 1 minute, 50 seconds.

The girls cheered. Leah whipped off her glasses dramatically and threw them to the floor.

“Beat that, gremlin,” she said, pointing at you.

You stood at the start line with a tight jaw, arms crossed, bouncing on your toes.

From the sidelines, Alessia zoomed in. “Here we have Sunny, notoriously feral, about to trust someone else for once in her life.”

Tooney snorted. “Growth moment.”

You were bouncing on your toes in your own enormous bug-eyed glasses. “These make me feel like I’m in an aquarium.”

“You look like you live in one,” Leah muttered.

You ignored her and turned to Khiara. “Are you ready?”

“Born ready,” Khiara grinned. “Don’t get lost or I’m never letting you live it down.”

Michelle cracked her knuckles at the finish line. “I’ve been practicing this since Year 6 PE. Let’s go.”

Sarina blew her whistle. “Go!”

You squinted. The cones were blurry blobs. The maze looked like a video game from 2004.

But you trusted Khiara.

She started signing, “Right. Small step. Now straight. Side step.”

You nodded and followed her lead—carefully, precisely, only nearly tripping once.

Ella whispered to the camera, “She’s serious. This is prime goblin mode discipline.”

Then you stepped over a cone so smoothly that Keira clutched her chest like a proud mum.

Aggie yelled, “She’s doing the stanky leg, but like… on purpose!”

You reached Michelle and tagged her. “Your turn. Don’t mess this up!”

Michelle grinned. “Watch and learn.”

She flipped into a handstand like it was her natural form and walked forward with zero fear.

The crowd roared. Grace fanned herself. Lucy burst into spontaneous applause.

“Look at the control!” Aggie screamed.

Alessia screamed, “LOOK AT HER GO! SHE’S GRAVITY DEFYING! NASA’S JEALOUS!”

Michelle wobbled once, corrected, and then gracefully, crossed the finish line.

Tooney dropped her phone. “WE’VE BEEN SERVED.”

Sarina blew the whistle. “Team Sunny: 1 minute, 38 seconds. Team Sunny wins the Williamson War of 2025.”

You tore off your glasses and fist-pumped the air.

Leah dropped to her knees. “AGAIN?!”

“Victory is mine,” you whispered, grabbing the cone you tripped over and holding it like a trophy.

“Cone of destiny.”

Georgia clapped her on the back. “You were robbed.”

Lucy handed Leah a chicken nugget. “For your pain.”

Sarina walked off the field muttering, “I’m too old for this.”

Tooney wrapped things up. “That concludes the 2025 Williamson War. Final score—Team Sunny: 3, Team Leah: 1, Team Sarina: emotionally destroyed.”

Alessia added, “We now return to regularly scheduled Lioness programming… until next time.”

You looked at Leah, smug. “I already know your punishment.”

The punishment had been decided unanimously, quickly, and with diabolical precision. No polar plunges. No public serenades. No forfeiting dessert.

Leah had to call Amanda Williamson. Her mum. The original referee of the Williamson Wars. Also known as Sunny’s biggest fan and number one defender.

Amanda had banned Williamson Wars after the infamous 2021 incident, when Leah got over-competitive and broke 12-year-old Sunny’s wrist during a three-legged race on uneven grass.

Amanda had said, verbatim: “I see one more ‘War’ and you’ll be lucky if I let you lead a prayer circle, let alone a football team.”

So naturally, you freshly victorious and high on glory (and sugar), picked that as the punishment.

Back in your shared room, Leah sat at the edge of her bed, phone in hand, looking like she was waiting to be executed.

You were sprawled dramatically across your bed, slurping a Caprisun through a neon curly straw you’d brought “for the aesthetic.”

“Do I have to?” Leah groaned, already dialing.

“Yes,” you replied gleefully, leaning back against your pillow fortress. “Tell her everything. Start with, ‘Hi Mum, it’s your disappointment child.’”

Leah glared at you. “I should’ve made you eat peas as your punishment.”

“You tried. I won. Now call Mother Amanda, peasant.”

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

“Leah Cathrine Williamson.” Amanda didn’t even say hello. Her voice came through stern, crisp, and full of maternal judgment.

You snorted so hard you almost choked on your juice pouch.

“H-hi Mum,” Leah said, already wincing.

“Oh, don’t ‘hi Mum’ me. What did you do?”

Leah threw a hand in the air. “Why do you always assume I did something?!”

“Because whenever I get a call right after training, someone’s either injured, traumatized, or missing an eyebrow. Now speak.”

Leah groaned. “It was a Williamson War, okay? But like—low stakes. Mostly cones.”

Dead. Silence. Then Amanda exhaled. The kind of sigh that said ‘I carried you for nine months and this is how you repay me?’

“You what?”

“Technically Sunny participated too—”

You waved from your bed. “Hi Mum Amanda! I won!”

Amanda’s voice shifted instantly. “Oh, hi sweetheart! I’m so proud of you, my little champion! Did she feed you today?”

“Three times,” you said. “Plus a CapriSun.”

“Good girl. Now back to Leah—YOU STARTED ANOTHER WAR?!”

Leah groaned. “It was joint custody chaos! The kids needed entertainment!”

Amanda was not amused. “I banned Williamson Wars after you broke her wrist. BROKE. HER. WRIST.”

“It healed!” Leah said weakly. “Now it’s like a superhero wrist!”

“Leah Cathrine, I ought to fly there myself and drag you into retirement.”

You dramatically fake-gasped from the bed. “Tell her about the vending machine crash!”

“I will hit you,” Leah hissed.

Amanda did not miss a beat. “What vending machine crash?”

“She hit Sarina,” you whispered into the phone.

“WHAT?!”

“It was an accident!” Leah cried. “And Sarina lived! She walked it off!”

“You’re lucky she walked it off! I told you, no more Wars! And now you’re back at camp with the team acting like Wile E. Coyote on wheels!”

You collapsed in laughter. Leah had her face in her hands.

Amanda continued, not letting up for a second.

“I should call Sarina myself. Apologize on your behalf. And you”—she paused for dramatic effect—“are on punishment.”

Leah blinked. “I’m 28 years old.”

“You’re never too old for consequences. You are banned from leading anything, including lunch lines, until further notice.”

You applauded from your bed. “I’d like to submit a motion for a five-year ban on Williamson Wars.”

“Seconded,” Amanda said.

“Mum!” Leah whined.

“You’re lucky she’s not asking for a CPS case. Sunny is basically yours.”

You grinned. “Leah is my legal guardian.”

“I knew it,” Amanda muttered. “Should’ve tied her to a bench in 2020.”

Leah tossed her phone on the bed and fell back with a groan.

You picked it up sweetly. “Love you, Amanda!”

“Love you, darling. Keep her in line.”

“Always,” you replied with a salute, then ended the call.

Leah stared at the ceiling. “I should’ve just let you drink my tea back in 2017.”

You smiled, sipping the last of your juice. “I’m so glad you didn’t.”

[darkstar225]

Don't Get Wet

[darkstar225]

spork dump

[darkstar225]

i love you, i’m sorry — minatozaki sana.

now playing: i love you, i’m sorry - gracie abrams.

synopsis - after growing up side by side, you and sana blurred the line between friendship and something softer—until fame pulled her forward, and she left you behind in the quiet. months after the betrayal, she reappears—wrecked, wanting, and ridiculously still in love. part 2 of 'i know the end'.

pairing - minatozaki sana x fem reader.

it’s been forty-six days since you left.

sana doesn’t mark it on the calendar. she doesn’t have to. the number just lives in her body—etched into her ribcage, settled deep into her joints, like a quiet ache that never goes away.

the morning is grey. cold. one of those mornings where even the city feels slow to wake. the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m., but sana’s already been lying there for hours, eyes open, muscles locked. she doesn’t remember falling asleep. she doesn’t remember waking up either.

the bed is too big now. too tidy.

you used to toss and turn in your sleep, always pulling the blankets toward yourself, leaving her to shiver on the edge. now the duvet stays tucked, untouched. she misses the chaos of your presence—the way you’d talk nonsense in your dreams, your foot constantly finding its way onto her calf, as if afraid she might disappear.

she turns her head. the pillow beside her is empty. still.

the mug you always used—the chipped white one with the tiny red heart painted on the handle—is gone. so is your toothbrush. your scarf. the half-used perfume bottle you left on the dresser.

but the letter remains.

it lives in the drawer of the bedside table. always half-open. she keeps telling herself to put it away properly, but she doesn’t. she can’t.

some mornings, like this one, she reads it again. not all the way through—just fragments.

“you are the deepest claw mark on my heart.”

her breath catches. even now, the words dig in like teeth. she folds the paper back carefully, like it’s something sacred, and places it where it’s lived for weeks.

she gets up slowly, limbs stiff. her body aches more these days. not from rehearsals or lack of sleep, but from the weight she’s been carrying.

she makes tea but doesn’t drink it. just watches the steam curl into the air, disappearing the way you did.

she sits on the floor. the spot near the window where you used to read. she doesn’t open a book. she just stares out at the street below, eyes vacant. people pass, umbrellas bobbing against the sky, lives moving forward.

it makes her feel like she’s underwater. like she’s been left behind in a version of life where everything has slowed down except her heartbeat, which won’t stop racing.

her phone buzzes.

a group chat.

a schedule reminder.

a message from nayeon: you still coming? car’s downstairs in ten.

she stares at the screen. she almost replies i’m sick. almost replies i can’t do this today.

but she doesn’t.

she stands up. brushes the dust off her sweatpants. ties her hair into a loose bun. pulls on the coat you once stole and never gave back until she begged.

she makes it to the car with two minutes to spare.

jihyo greets her softly. momo hands her a drink. nayeon doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her wrist, brief and wordless. they know. they all do.

but no one talks about you.

not directly.

but sometimes, in between soundchecks or on the edge of a long silence, someone will glance at her like they want to ask have you heard from her? or do you think she’ll come back?

they never say it aloud. and she never asks. because the truth is you won’t. and she knows that.

she knows it every time she gets home and opens the door to nothing. no music playing from your phone. no smell of burnt toast. no muffled humming from the shower.

just quiet.

just the echo of the life she ruined.

she lies awake most nights replaying every version of the fight you never had. the apologies she never gave. the ways she took your kindness and stretched it too thin until it snapped.

some nights she almost whispers your name into the pillow, just to hear it again. just to see if it still holds weight in her mouth.

but she know it does. 

it always will. 

so she doesn’t try. 

and some mornings, like this one, she wonders how long she can keep moving through a world that doesn’t have you in it.

not with her.

not anymore.

⸻

it starts quietly.

missed steps in choreography she’s done a hundred times. forgotten lyrics in rehearsals. a look in her eyes during shoots that editors later try to crop out, calling it “detached.”

and maybe that’s the word—detached.

sana smiles when she’s told to. laughs when it’s expected. bows, greets, sings, dances. she does everything the same way she always has. but something is missing.

and the people around her feel it.

it’s in the way nayeon watches her during breaks, brows pinched, like she’s waiting for something to snap. in the way jihyo squeezes her shoulder just a second too long after every performance.

it’s in how the staff stop teasing her. how they speak a little softer when they pass her her schedule.

momo says it plainly one night, backstage, just the two of them sitting in silence.

“you’re not really here, are you?”

sana doesn’t answer.

she’s not sure she knows how to be.

everything reminds her of you.

the song playing on the radio—the one you used to sing under your breath while washing up. the empty seat beside her in the van where you once sat on the way to a late-night performance, your hand on her knee.

the stupid peach flavoured juice from in the vending machine. she used to buy it without thinking. now, she walks past it like it’s haunted.

she avoids your part of town. she doesn’t go near the station where you’d meet her after practice, scarf looped carelessly around your neck, cheeks pink from the wind.

but still, you’re everywhere.

one morning she wakes up from a dream she can’t remember, face wet with tears. her throat is sore from holding back from whispering your name.

somewhere between the schedules and the silences, she starts forgetting who she is.

she misses a radio interview. shows up late to a dance shoot. her manager takes her aside, voice quiet but stern.

“you need to get it together.”

she nods. apologises. smiles.

and then goes home and cries so hard she throws up.

the group notices. they all do.

but they don’t ask about you. they don’t say your name.

not because they don’t remember—because they do. they remember the way you lit up around her. the way she softened around you. the way her laugh used to sound when you were in the room.

but they know better than to press a bruise.

so they let her unravel. quietly.

the fans notice too. comments start piling up.

“sana looks tired.”

“is sana okay?”

“sana seems… different.”

she reads them all.

scrolls until her eyes blur.

keeps reading anyway.

it’s not your absence that’s destroying her—it’s the way you left behind nothing but the truth.

you didn’t yell.

you didn’t break things.

you didn’t scream.

you just left.

and that’s what haunts her.

you loved her until it hollowed you out. and when you had nothing left, you walked away.

and she let you.

she didn’t run after you.

she thought you’d come back.

she thought you always would.

but you didn’t.

because she drove you out herself. 

and now she doesn’t know how to forgive herself for that.

⸻

the door clicks shut.

it’s the two of them now—just sana and nayeon, dressing room lit too bright, silence stretched too tight. the show is over, but nothing feels finished.

sana sits in front of the mirror, not bothering to peel off her mic or unclip her earrings. sweat drying on her neck. eyeliner smudged.

nayeon doesn’t sit.

“you need to pull yourself together.”

sana blinks. slow. unreadable.

“you can’t keep doing this,” nayeon says. “you were seconds late to your mark. jihyo nearly had to cover for you.”

“it was fine.”

“no, it wasn’t. we all felt it.” nayeon crosses her arms. “you’re not here, sana. not really. and we’re getting tired of pretending like we don’t notice.”

sana exhales through her nose. “i said i’ll do better.”

“that’s not what this is about,” nayeon snaps. “this isn’t about your timing or your spacing. this is about the fact that you’ve been walking around like a ghost for months and none of us know how to bring you back.”

the words land sharp. harder than she meant. but she doesn’t take them back.

sana doesn’t flinch. she just stares at herself in the mirror.

“you’re grieving someone,” nayeon says, quieter now. “we all know that. but you won’t say it. you won’t talk about her. you can’t even say her name.”

sana’s jaw tightens.

“it’s not about a name,” she says, hollow. “saying it won’t change anything.”

“then what will?” nayeon asks. “you think keeping it inside is helping?”

“you don’t understand.”

“then explain it to me.”

sana stands, too fast, chair scraping against the floor. she paces a step, two, like the room is suddenly too small.

“she was—” her voice catches. “she was always there. even when i forgot to be. and then when she stopped waiting, i hated her for it.”

nayeon watches her carefully. “but you don’t hate her.”

“no,” sana breathes. “i don’t, i could never. i hate me.”

nayeon’s throat tightens. she steps closer. “then say it.”

sana shakes her head.

“say her name.”

“don’t do that.”

“why not?”

“because if i say it,” sana whispers, voice crumbling, “then she’s real. and if she’s real, then losing her is real, and i can’t—”

“you already lost her.”

sana’s whole body curls inward.

“she loved me when i didn’t deserve it. she waited. and i made her wait until there was nothing left of her.”

nayeon steps forward, voice gentler now, tears forming in her own eyes. 

“sana, say it.”

sana breathes in. shaky.

“i miss her,” she says, fragile. “i miss the way she made space for me when i didn’t ask. i miss the way she smelled like jasmine and ink. i miss the sound of her laugh at three in the morning when everything else was quiet.”

nayeon’s eyes begin to sting.

“i miss her,” sana repeats, and her voice cracks open. “i miss y/n.”

and there it is.

the name falls out like a wound. like a confession. like a prayer.

and as soon as she says it—her knees buckle. she drops to the floor, shoulders trembling, mouth pressed against her hands to muffle the sobs.

nayeon drops with her, arms around her in an instant. holding her through it. cradling her like something broken and precious.

“it’s okay,” she murmurs. “it’s alright. i’ve got you.”

what neither of them sees is the door left slightly ajar.

and jihyo standing just behind it.

still. 

watching.

she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—she’d only come to say she’s leaving, to say goodnight.

but then she heard your name fall from sana’s lips, wrapped in nothing but pure agony.

and jihyo—who’s never said it aloud, never spoken the softness she feels when sana laughs at something only she hears—feels something fracture in her chest.

she bites her lip. her breath shallow.

she doesn’t step in. doesn’t interrupt.

instead, she tilts her head up slightly and a tear falls as she closes her eyes. 

and she prays.

not for herself. not tonight.

if i can’t have sana, she pleads, please, just let her have y/n.

⸻

the sky is beginning to bruise when you step into the convenience store.

the sun’s slipping behind the rooftops, casting everything in a low, golden haze. your shoes are scuffed with the day, your jacket slipping off one shoulder. your friend’s waiting in the car down the road, but you’d asked for a few minutes—to grab something for the drive, and maybe to breathe, alone.

you wander slowly, aimless. a few bags of different crisps, water, a half-hearted protein bar. 

everything tastes like nothing lately. 

but you just want to be full.

you’re reaching for the shelf with the bottled teas when you hear it.

“…y/n?”

you turn.

jihyo.

simple hoodie, no makeup, oat milk and frozen dumplings in her basket. she looks as surprised as you feel.

you straighten up. blink once. “oh. hey.”

her expression flickers somewhere between polite and startled. “hi. i didn’t think i’d see you around here.”

you nod at the basket in her arms. “you live nearby?”

she hesitates. then smiles, easy. “my sister does. i’m just staying over tonight. you?”

you return the smile. not forced. just quiet. “i’m just grabbing something for the drive back. was looking at an apartment nearby earlier.”

“moving out here?”

you shrug. “maybe. it’s quieter.”

a small silence slips between you. not sharp, but present.

jihyo shifts the weight of her basket in her arms.

“you look well.”

“i’m trying,” you say simply. and then, before you can stop yourself—“how’s sana?”

you don’t say her name like it stings. you say it like it’s still part of your breath.

jihyo’s mouth parts. just slightly. she wasn’t expecting that.

“she’s… not great,” she admits. “but better than she was. she’s trying.”

you nod. a little too quickly. “good.”

you glance down at your basket. then at the door. you shift slightly on your feet. 

“i’m glad you were here,” you say, honestly. “it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

and you mean it. you mean all of it.

jihyo smiles again. something flickers in her eyes—warm, but tight. “you too,” she says.

you give a soft smile as you turn, basket tucked into your arm. and you’re gone.

the bell above the door jingles as it closes behind you.

and jihyo just stands there. still.

it takes her a moment to realise why her throat aches.

you’d asked about sana first.

not a how are you?

not a  how have things been?

not a what have you been up to?

but a how’s sana?

like nothing else had been sitting heavier in your chest.

and suddenly it’s so clear—too clear—why sana still falls apart when she hears your name.

because you still love her.

and jihyo feels it like a bruise under her ribs. not anger. not jealousy. just a low, dull ache.

she exhales. closes her eyes for a second.

if i can’t be the one she needs, she thinks, please, let it be someone who still loves her like that.

⸻

the flat is dark by the time jihyo gets home.

not quiet—hollow. the kind of stillness that feels like something’s missing. not gone. just misplaced, like a coat someone meant to come back for.

she toes off her shoes without turning on the light. the hallway is faintly lit by the spill of a streetlamp outside.

she hears it before she sees it—sana’s breathing, uneven.

she’s on the sofa, curled into herself, wrapped in nothing but the baggy jumper she’s been wearing for three days straight. her phone is facedown on the coffee table. the candle next to it has burned out completely, wax hardened in a small, forgotten pool.

she’s not crying. not this time.

just still. folded inwards. like something pressed pause on her.

jihyo stands there a second longer than she needs to.

then crosses the room.

she picks up the blanket that’s half-hanging off the back of the sofa. it smells faintly like lavender and old longing. and she unfolds it, gentle before she lays it over sana with care.

sana doesn’t flinch.

jihyo’s hand hovers. hesitates. then lands—soft, slow—on her shoulder.

she should pull back. she means to.

but she doesn’t.

her fingers curl ever so slightly into the fabric. into warm skin.

and for a moment—just one unbearable moment—sana leans into it.

like it’s familiar. like it’s safe.

and then—quiet. so quiet it might’ve been imagined if it didn’t cleave straight through her—

“…y/n?”

jihyo freezes.

sana shifts, just a little. nuzzles into the hand still resting there.

like she’s found you.

like you are home.

jihyo pulls her hand back slowly.

not sharply.

not violently.

like she’s unthreading herself from something sacred before she gets too deep. 

sana doesn’t notice.

she whispers your name again. softer. with the reverence of someone dreaming of a god they once touched.

jihyo steps back. once. twice.

and the thing that kills her isn’t the name.

it’s the way she says it.

like a lullaby. like a memory. like a promise.

jihyo stands there a moment longer, alone in the dark with the soft sound of someone else being wanted.

and she steps back again until she’s out of the reach of that voice. that name. that grief that isn’t hers to claim.

she stands at the edge of the room for a long moment, her hand burning with the ghost of a touch she should never have tried to keep.

and then she turns. and walks quietly down the hall. opens the door to her room like it might wake someone. like it might wake sana.

and she closes the door like she’s shutting herself inside her own silence.

her back hits the door.

her head resting against the oak.

but she does not cry.

not because it doesn’t hurt.

but because it always hurts.

because she wanted it to be her. just once. just for a second. she just wanted to hold sana’s name like a vow. and it almost was. until it wasn’t.

and because pain, when repeated often enough, becomes a kind of devotion.

and jihyo slides down the door, knees to her chest, eyes burning.

sana sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, dreaming of the only voice that can touch her soul.

wrapped in a blanket of someone else’s kindness.

wrapped in a blanket jihyo would’ve given anything to be.

⸻

sana doesn’t hear momo’s joke, or nayeon’s laughing across the table.

sana doesn’t notice jihyo’s half-scrolling, half-watching her, or that her drink’s gone warm and untouched.

sana does notice the bartender calling your name and teasing you for being at the bar again as her gaze moves across the stools before seeing you.

sana does notice the way you laugh a laugh too familiar to her. the shape of it lodged in some old part of her.

you’re at the bar, coat still on, scrolling absently through your phone as you wait to order.

you don’t see her.

but she sees you.

something rises in her chest too quickly. her drink forgotten. her hands already moving before she thinks.

jihyo says her name under her breath—“sana, don’t”—but it’s like speaking into wind.

she’s already standing. already walking.

when you look up, she’s two steps away. “y/n.”

you freeze. your eyes widen a fraction. “…sana,” and it lands like a stone between you.

you’re still. guarded. your voice is calm, but your arms fold across your chest. “what do you want?”

sana’s already breathless. “just to talk. please. i’m not trying to make a scene.”

you glance around the bar. someone moves past you, laughing. music hums just beneath it all. “not here,” you say flatly. “this isn’t the place.”

“i know. i know that.” sana’s voice drops lower. “just… please. ten minutes. somewhere else. whenever you want. i just—i need to say some things. things i should’ve said a long time ago.”

you don’t reply.

your silence feels final.

but she steps forward, slower now, voice steadier:

“you don’t have to say anything back. you don’t have to forgive me. i’m not asking for a second chance. i’m just… i need you to hear me.”

your eyes flicker. something shifts. sana knows.

you take in her appearance—skinnier, concealer barely covering the bags under her eyes, the eyes that are nowhere near as bright as they used to be when they would wake up to the sight of you next to her, instead, the eyes that display panic, fear, hopelessness.

and it has you sighing and nodding once. “i’ll text you,” you say. “don’t be late.”

you don’t wait for her to respond.

you pick up your bag.

you leave.

sana stands there for a second too long, breathing like she’s just surfaced from underwater.

then—slowly, carefully—she turns back towards the table.

and when she sits down, everything is still the same around her—drinks half-finished, momo scrolling, nayeon deep in conversation.

but something in her is different.

she’s still. calmer. lighter. her face soft in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.

jihyo sees it.

sees the shift in her posture, the almost-smile tugging at her mouth, the way her fingers stop fidgeting for once.

“you saw her,” jihyo says.

sana nods.

she doesn’t say anything else.

she doesn’t need to.

the hope in her eyes is louder than words.

and jihyo—

jihyo turns away. 

presses her lips together. 

breathes through her nose.

because it’s not fair.

because it’s always you.

because she’s been holding sana together with bare hands for months, and the second you look at her—just look—she starts glowing again.

and jihyo hates that she understands.

and she hates that she still loves sana anyway.

⸻

you don’t wait by the door.

you just sit. still and quiet with hands folded like you’re holding a decision between your palms.

when she knocks, it’s barely a sound.

you already knew she’d come right on time. 

you saw her sitting in her car outside earlier when you were pacing back and forth.

you open the door.

and there she is—smaller. softer. still her. not completely. hoodie pulled tight around her face, eyes wide in a way that has nothing to do with surprise. like the world’s been too much for a long time and she’s forgotten how to take anything in.

you say nothing, just step aside.

she walks in like she’s afraid her feet will be too loud for your floor. like she’s stepping into a house of cards.

you both sit.

the sofa dips beneath her, like it remembers a weight that used to belong there.

you watch the candle on the table. it wavers once. then steadies.

you don’t ask how she is.

you can see it.

she doesn’t ask how you are.

you’ve always hidden well.

“thank you for…” she starts, but her voice trails off.

you nod and she doesn’t finish the sentence.

minutes pass like slow wind.

then—“you look well,” she says, eyes flicking over your jumper, your face, the mug on the table you never drank from.

you don’t say thank you. just—“you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“i haven’t.” you believe her. the proof is right infant of you in flesh and blood.

you shift slightly. arms crossed. heart closed. not locked. just… protected.

“why are you here, sana?”

she swallows. “because not saying anything was worse than the chance of saying it wrong,” you look at her. properly. her eyes are glass and her hands are fists in her sleeves. “i ruined it,” she says.

you nod. “you did.”

“i tried to pretend i hadn’t. i thought… if i didn’t say it out loud, maybe it wouldn’t be true.”

“it was true anyway.”

she doesn’t cry yet. but she’s close. and you know it.

“i thought about texting you,” she whispers. “every day. every night. i didn’t know if it would be selfish. or worse—useless.”

you breathe. slow. even.

not steady. just practiced.

“i waited for you,” you say. “longer than i should’ve.”

“i know,” she blinks. “i’m sorry. ”

“and i think that’s what hurts the most. you knew. and you didn’t stop me from giving up.”

she’s crying now. quiet, small tears. not dramatic. just tired.

“i was scared,” she says. “not of you. of me. of what i was becoming. of how much of you i was asking to hold when i wasn’t giving anything back.”

your voice is low. “you gave me scraps, sana. and i told myself they were enough because they were yours.”

sana leans forward, elbows on knees, like her body can’t hold the weight of what she’s saying.

“i still love you.”

your hands tighten around your own wrist. but your voice doesn’t waver. “that’s not the same as loving me well, sana.”

silence settles between you. deep.

full of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered.

but you can both hear the sound of her heart breaking at the tone you used when you said her name.

the candle burns low.

“i don’t know what to do with this,” you say.

sana lifts her head. her face blotchy, red. she looks so raw. “i don’t expect anything.”

“don’t lie.”

she exhales. “okay. i… i hoped maybe you’d say you missed me.”

you do. 

you miss her in the quiet moments, in the gaps between songs, in the way your toothbrush still leans to one side like it’s waiting for hers.

but you don’t say it.

“i’m not ready,” you say.

she nods—rapidly, understandingly.

“i’d still rather have you as a friend than not at all,” she whispers. “even if i’m still in love with you. even if it hurts.”

her voice shakes as she adds. “i’d take any version of you you’re willing to give.”

and that’s the part that guts you.

because it’s not a performance.

it’s not a line.

it’s her heart, open and trembling, held out like an apology.

you breathe in.

and for a long, aching pause—you don’t answer.

“i need time.”

she nods again. fast. eyes wide and full. “of course. whatever you need, y/n.”

“i don’t know if i can be your friend,” you say. “not yet. maybe not ever.”

“i know.” she swallows.

“but i don’t want to hate you either.”

sana presses her lips together. “then maybe,” she whispers, “we can start with not hating each other.”

the clock ticks once.

you nod.

it’s not a promise.

but it’s something.

and she smiles.

not with joy.

with relief.

with pain.

because she’d rather have the broken edges of you than none of you at all.

and you let her sit there, beside the quiet flame.

not forgiven.

not gone.

just here.

and for now—

that’s enough.

⸻

you text her first.

it’s not long. just a message about a café opening near the station.

remember that one place you used to drag me to with the chalkboard menus? this new one has the same smell.

she replies five minutes later.

sweet potato scones and overpriced tea. god, i miss those.

you don’t answer.

not straight away.

but a week later, you pass the café and think of her again.

you send a photo.

no caption.

she doesn’t say anything either.

but you see her heart the post two hours later.

⸻

you bump into her again.

this time, on purpose.

she’s sitting outside a bookstore. hoodie up. tea in hand.

you don’t say her name.

you just sit beside her. “you look less like death,” you say.

“i’ve been trying.” she smiles softly. “therapy. walking. not being a terrible person.”

you nod. sip your coffee.

it’s still strange—still stiff—but it doesn’t sting.

“you’re still you,” she says.

“i think i’m someone new,” you reply. “but she’s got the same bones.”

she doesn’t reach for your hand and you don’t reach for hers—you’re both learning not to.

⸻

you help her carry a box.

not on purpose.

she’s moved out the dorm into a new apartment. you’re walking home from work.

you see her outside the building. struggling.

“do you want help?” you ask.

she blinks. then laughs, sheepish. “only if you promise not to throw it off the balcony.”

you do not laugh. but you lift the box.

in her new flat, she offers you tea.

you say yes.

it feels like something.

you sit on the floor.

mugs between you.

knees not quite touching.

“do you ever think,” she says, “that if we met later… we might’ve stood a chance?”

you look down. “i think we met exactly when we were supposed to,” you take a sip. “and broke exactly when we had to.”

she nods. and you can tell it’s forced. 

you stay until the candle on her coffee table burns too low to keep pretending.

when you leave, she doesn’t hug you—but she walks you to the door.

and for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like goodbye.

⸻

you see her again on a wednesday. not planned.

she’s walking out of a florist’s, a small white paper bag in one hand. you’re walking past on your lunch break, airpods in, already halfway through a voice note from your friend.

you both stop.

she smiles first. awkward.

the kind of smile people give to someone they’ve dreamt about for years.

you pause your voice note, tilt your head at her whilst raising a brow—but sana focuses on the small teasing smile that plays on your lips. “buying flowers?”

she nods. “for jihyo,” then, softer. “she’s been a good friend.”

you don’t say she always was. you don’t say anything.

“you’ve got glitter on your cheek,” she says, gently.

you blink and begin to reach up.

but you’re too late. 

she steps forward and brushes it away with the softest touch of her thumb.

then she pulls back—eyes wide, as if she didn’t mean to.

neither of you says sorry.

“you’re free tonight?” you ask, quietly.

not like an invitation. like a wondering.

she nods. like a yes that’s been waiting.

you walk away. but slower this time.

that evening, she comes over and she helps you cook before you eat on the floor, knees bent, sharing one bowl between you like you used to.

a film plays in the background with low volume. 

neither of you pays it much attention.

“i missed this,” she says.

you don’t look at her. “what is this?”

she doesn’t answer.

because neither of you knows yet.

but she stays until midnight.

and when you shut the door, it no longer feels like a line you’ve crossed.

just something you’re slowly building again.

and when she leaves, her jumper smells like your laundry detergent.

and jihyo hates how it’s all she can focus on when sana gives her the flowers. 

⸻

the rain outside does not fall.

it presses.

slow, heavy, like the sky is laying its whole body across your windows

asking, can i come in?

you do not answer.

sana is in your kitchen, barefoot, like the version of her you buried.

the light is low. the candle burns steady. your chest does not.

you stand beside the counter where she used to kiss you without asking.

where she once whispered your name like it meant hunger.

now there is silence between you, silence wide enough to lose a person—sana, you— in.

then—“i thought i could do it,” she says, her voice splintering before it even reaches you. “i thought being your friend would be enough.” you do not turn.

“because having a version of you—any version—felt better than not having you at all,”

her voice shakes, but it does not stop. “i told myself it was brave. to hold you at arm’s length. to smile across rooms when all i wanted was your hand. to call it healing. to call it grace.”

a pause—so long you could fold your life into it.

“but it wasn’t brave,” she breathes. “it was cowardice dressed in quiet.”

you close your eyes. tight. hard.

your breath is a wound.

“i’m still in love with you,” she says, and the words fall between you like broken china.

“not kindly. not sweetly. but completely. hopelessly. in a way that undoes me. in a way i no longer know how to survive.”

you turn then. slow. 

your eyes meet hers

and she looks like a temple on fire—something built to hold worship, now consumed by its own light.

“i’m sorry,” she says again. “i’m sorry for making you think you weren’t enough for me but cheating on you, i’m sorry for all the ways i loved you like silence, for all the versions of you i asked to wait for me at the door, for every time you gave and i looked away.”

you step closer. not to touch. just to feel the ache better.

“do you think i wanted to leave?” your voice is smoke. “i had to choose between drowning with youor saving the part of me you kept forgetting to hold.”

she bites her lip. “i know.”

“and i did. i saved her,” you swallow. “but i still see you in everything she touches.”

there’s a sound in her throat. you think it might be your name.

“i came here thinking i could pretend,” she whispers. “that i could make you tea and call it enough. but i’m not built for pretending when it comes to you.”

your hands shake at your sides. “then don’t pretend.”

you both breathe.

or try to.

you fail at it in the same rhythm.

“i love you,” she says again.  “and it hurts. but pretending not to love you hurts worse.”

and then—the softest sentence. one made of bruises. one made of hope. “but if friendship is all you’ll give me, i will take it, and carry it like some sort of holy scripture.”

your heart breaks—not like glass. 

but like bread—like something meant to be shared.

you step back. just enough. because closeness is dangerous when you’re trying to feel clearly, when you’re trying to feel clarity.

“i need time,” you say. and your voice is not cruel. it’s sacred.

she nods. not like agreement. like faith. “i’ll wait.” she says like devotion.

you believe her.

not because she says it well.

but because she says it like a prayer

and stays very still

like she’s afraid it might break the moment open.

the rain presses harder.

and something in your chest

begins

to let go.

⸻

it rains the way it always does when something is trying to come back to life—soft. steady—like the sky’s been holding something in for days and finally lets itself weep.

the windows are fogged. the room is dim. the sheets smell like her again. not perfume. just her. that subtle trace of skin and sleep and the shampoo she’s always used.

she’s beside you—her breath is warm on your neck, slow and steady, like the rhythm of someone who finally let herself rest.

you stare at the ceiling, unmoving. not because you’re afraid she’ll disappear, but because she won’t. not this time.

her hand is draped over your waist, fingers curled in, not gripping—just there. a quiet presence. the ghost of every time she reached for you too late.

sana stirs. not all at once. just her eyelashes brushing your skin, her hand twitching gently, the small exhale that gives her away.

you don’t move. 

but your heart does. 

just a little.

ot quite touching. her breath is warm on your neck, slow and steady, like the rhythm of someone who finally let herself rest.

you stare at the ceiling, unmoving. not because you’re afraid she’ll disappear, but because she won’t. not this time.

her hand is draped over your waist, fingers curled in, not gripping—just there. a quiet presence. the ghost of every time she reached for you too late.

she stirs. not all at once. just her eyelashes brushing your skin, her hand twitching gently, the small exhale that gives her away.

you don’t move. but your heart does. just a little.

“y/n,” she mumbles like a habit, like a prayer, like she’s not sure if she’s still allowed to say it, but says it anyway.

you whisper, “hi,” and it’s the softest thing either of you have said in weeks. 

she doesn’t speak for a while. just shifts closer, her forehead brushing your jaw, like she’s anchoring herself to something real. something true. you.

“you stayed,” you murmur, not to her exactly, but to the room, to the night, to some part of you that didn’t believe she would.

her fingers curl tighter into the fabric of your shirt, not enough to hurt, but enough to say i’m here, i heard you, i’m not letting go this time.

her voice, when it comes, is barely sound. “i didn’t know how to stop wanting you.”

you inhale. not like a gasp. not like something sudden. it’s slow. reverent. like your lungs are remembering what it means to breathe in the presence of something holy.

“i still don’t know how,” she says, barely above a whisper. “i thought i could live with less. i thought if i smiled at the right moments, if i kept a respectful distance, if i played the part of friend well enough… it would make the wanting go quiet.”

she pauses. the space trembles.

“but i lied,” she chokes. “it didn’t quiet. it got louder. it broke me.”

you say nothing. not because there’s nothing to say, but because some things deserve to finish breaking the air before being held.

“i love you,” she breathes, and it’s not a declaration. it’s not a performance. it’s surrender. “i love you more now than i did when you were mine, because now i know the shape of your absence. now i know what it costs to sit beside you and not reach.”

you close your eyes. it doesn’t feel like falling. it feels like gravity. like truth pulling everything back into place.

and then you feel it—something warm. not her hands. not her breath.

her tears.

falling quietly onto your collarbone, sliding down your bare breasts.

you feel the tremble in her shoulders.

you hear her try to swallow it down.

you don’t stop her.

“i’m sorry,” she sobs. “god, y/n, i’m so, so sorry.”

your throat tightens. not with anger. not even sadness. just the weight of hearing what you’ve waited months to hear, and still not knowing what to do with it.

her grip on you tightens. her voice frays at the edges.

“i didn’t know how to handle it. everything was changing. the schedules, the pressure, the noise—i couldn’t hear myself think, i couldn’t feel my own skin. i was losing control and i—” she breathes out sharply—“so i let go of the only constant i had. the only thing i ever needed.”

her next words fall apart as they arrive.

“i love you. i love you. so much. i’m still in love with you. i think i always have been. i think i always will be.”

her lips press against your skin—your shoulder, your chest, somewhere near your heart—and when she says it again, it breaks.

“i love you, i’m sorry.”

you exhale. slow. deep. whole.

because now, when she says it, it isn’t a plea.

it isn’t a rehearsal.

it’s a truth that’s fought its way through silence, shame, fear.

and still chose to live.

you don’t say it back right away.

you let it sit between you. you let it settle into the sheets like her tears. you let the ache breathe.

then, softly, so softly— “i know,” and you feel her smile against your skin. small. wet. real.“i love you too.”

and that’s it—no grand gesture, no strings, no swelling soundtrack.

just two people who burned down a good thing. and sat in the ash long enough to build something gentler.

this is not perfect.

it never will be.

but it’s here.

and it’s real.

and this time,

it’s enough.

⸻

the dorm is warm with late evening. someone’s lit a candle that smells like citrus. there’s a film playing low on the television, but no one’s really watching. nayeon’s draped across the floor, feet in chaeyoung’s lap. momo’s in the kitchen grabbing snacks she forgot she already brought. jihyo’s in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a blanket pulled half across her lap.

sana’s sitting on the rug, cross-legged, thumb tracing slow circles on the rim of her cup.

then she says it.

not loud. not shy.

just soft. like it’s a truth that finally found air.

“y/n and i are together again.”

a beat.

and then—noise.

“wait, what?” nayeon twists around, grinning like she already knows but wants to hear it anyway.

“since when?” chaeyoung asks, already reaching for her phone. “do i need to update the group chat? should i make a playlist?”

“oh my god,” momo yells from the kitchen, “i knew it. i knew you were being weird last week—i told mina!”

sana smiles, eyes dipping, face flushed.

jihyo doesn’t say anything.

she watches as nayeon leans forward, eyes bright.

“okay, i need to know everything. everything. who said it first? did she kiss you? did you kiss her?” she wiggles her eyebrows. “was there, like, a moment?”

sana laughs, soft and nervous.

“we were… in bed. not like that,” she adds quickly, cheeks darkening. “we were just lying there. she said something about how quiet the rain was. and i—i just told her everything. everything i didn’t say the first time.”

nayeon sighs dramatically. “that’s so cinematic. i’m going to cry.”

jihyo looks at the half-empty glass in her hand. watches the way the ice clings to the rim. 

and she swallows. slowly. gently. as if her body knows something she doesn’t want to.

“was she surprised?” jeongyeon asks.

sana shakes her head, her voice softer now. “no. she said she knew. but she needed to hear it. properly. not like a promise. just like a choice.”

jihyo feels her heart pull. not sharply. not in a way anyone could see. it’s just a little shift in her ribs. a little pressure in her throat.

because she knows what it’s like to wait for someone’s love to sound like a choice. and never hear it.

“i’m happy for you,” nayeon says, reaching to squeeze sana’s shoulder.

jihyo forces a smile. the kind that’s too well-practised. the kind that doesn’t reach.

“me too,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

but sana hears.

she turns—just slightly—towards jihyo. eyes soft. knowing.

and jihyo hates it.

hates that she noticed.

hates that she always notices.

hates how much she wants to be the person sana looks at like that.

and still, she smiles again.

because what else is there to do?

later, when the movie’s finally been forgotten and the snacks are long gone and the group begins to scatter into bedrooms, jihyo stays behind to rinse her glass.

she doesn’t cry.

doesn’t crumble.

she just stands at the sink, the tap running too long, the silence humming.

and as the lights dim behind her, she presses a hand to her chest.

not to hold anything in—

just to feel what’s still left.

“it should’ve been me,” she whispers, barely a sound.

then turns off the tap, and walks away from the kitchen like she hadn’t said anything at all.

⸻

the light comes in slow, like it’s careful not to wake you. it stretches across the wooden floor in long gold ribbons, soft and dust-heavy, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’ve survived something.

you sit on the floor by the window, knees drawn up, mug cooling between your palms. everything is still. the air, the morning, your heart.

she finds you like she always does now—without footsteps, without needing to ask. barefoot, sleep-tousled, wrapped in the jumper she never gave back. her eyes are quiet. not tired. just full.

she lowers herself beside you. doesn’t speak. doesn’t need to. her head comes to rest against your shoulder like it was made for that place, and maybe it always was.

you don’t say i love you.

you don’t need to.

the moment says it for you.

the silence sings it.

outside, the world keeps moving.

but you don’t.

you stay.

and so does she.

not because it’s perfect.

not because it’s painless.

but because it’s real.

and this time, real is enough.

[darkstar225]

i know the end — minatozaki sana.

now playing: i know the end - phoebe bridgers.

synopsis - you grow up wrapped around each other, best friends turned lovers, inseparable. but fame finds sana, and slowly, she slips away. love becomes longing, warmth turns cold. you hold on with claw marks, hoping she’ll remember how to love you. part 2 ‘i love you i’m sorry’.

pairing - minatozaki sana x fem reader.

you're six when you first meet her, and it feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

your mother’s hand is firm around yours as you stand in the doorway, the classroom loud with laughter and squeaky sneakers. your new backpack is too big for your shoulders, dragging you down, and you feel small, barely breathing. the teacher says something about finding a buddy, and your stomach twists—everyone’s already paired up, and you’re too shy to speak.

then, like a burst of light, she appears—messy pigtails bouncing as she barrels through the door, cheeks flushed, and a crooked band-aid on her knee. she doesn’t hesitate, not for a second. her eyes land on you, and she grins, toothy and wild, like she’s just found something important.

“hi! i’m sana!” she announces, loud and bright. “wanna be friends?”

before you can answer, her hand finds yours—warm, a little sticky from candy, but comforting. she pulls you towards a table at the back where the art supplies are scattered. you don’t remember saying yes, but it doesn’t matter. it’s like she’s decided for you, like friendship with her isn’t something you choose but something that just is.

“we can make crowns,” she tells you, digging through a box of glitter and pipe cleaners. “mine broke last time, but if we make it together, it’ll be super strong.”

her enthusiasm is magnetic, and before long, you’re twisting pipe cleaners into messy circles, your fingers brushing against hers every few seconds. when she laughs—loud and uninhibited—it’s like a firework, and you can’t help but laugh too, even if you don’t know why.

at lunch, she pulls you to sit beside her, sharing her juice box without a second thought. she talks and talks, about her hamster and how it keeps chewing through its cage, about her dream of being a singer someday. her eyes light up when she talks about music, and you find yourself nodding, entranced, though you don’t really know what debut means.

by the end of the day, your cheeks hurt from smiling. when the bell rings, she grabs your hand again, leading you outside where your mothers are talking. she hugs you tight, arms around your waist, and whispers, “see you tomorrow,” like it’s a secret only the two of you share.

you don’t realise it then, but that day imprints itself on your heart—soft and bright, the first bloom of something that will one day be too big to contain. you spend the walk home pressing your palm to your chest, trying to memorise the warmth of her hand in yours, and that night, you fall asleep with her name on your lips, like a promise.

⸻

you are ten when you realise that sana isn’t just your best friend—she’s your everything.

it’s summer, hot and sticky, and you’re both barefoot in her backyard, the grass cool against your ankles. she’s spinning in circles, arms wide, head thrown back, laughing like she’s trying to catch the sky in her mouth. you sit under the shade of the cherry blossom tree, just watching her, feeling the kind of joy that aches.

when she finally collapses into the grass beside you, dizzy and breathless, she turns her head, eyes bright. “why didn’t you spin with me?” she asks, poking your cheek.

you shrug, not daring to admit that watching her made your heart feel too big for your chest. she doesn’t press you, just tangles her fingers with yours, her palm warm and slightly sweaty. you don’t move, afraid to break the spell.

later, you’re on the floor of her room, colouring together. she’s drawing flowers, messy and vibrant, and you’re sketching her profile without meaning to. when she tries to peek, you cover it with your hands, cheeks hot.

“you’re always hiding from me,” she teases, leaning closer, her breath tickling your ear. you can’t explain it—the way your stomach twists when she’s this close, how her touch lingers like it’s meant to.

that night, you build a fort with blankets, curling up inside with a flashlight and stories whispered into the dark. her head rests on your shoulder, and her hand finds yours again, fingers laced without a second thought.

“let’s stay like this forever,” she murmurs, half asleep.

you don’t reply, too afraid to break the fragile quiet. you just squeeze her hand back, hoping she can feel the way your heart is racing.

⸻

you’re fourteen when you realise that other people are starting to notice sana, too.

it’s not like before, when it was just the two of you spinning in the backyard or whispering secrets under a makeshift blanket fort. now, when she walks down the hallway, heads turn. boys start hanging around her locker, finding reasons to laugh too loud or show off. you hate it, the way they look at her like she’s something to be conquered.

but sana doesn’t seem to notice. she’s too busy singing in the choir room or staying late after school for dance practice. you wait for her sometimes, sitting on the old metal bleachers in the gym, pretending to do homework while watching her spin across the floor.

one day, you’re both lying on her bedroom floor, surrounded by open textbooks and crumpled notes. she’s doodling stars on her math homework, humming under her breath. you wonder if she knows how beautiful she looks, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, hair messy and cheeks flushed from dancing.

“you should come watch our performance next week,” she says, glancing over with a grin.

you nod, trying to seem casual. “of course. i wouldn’t miss it.”

she nudges your shoulder with hers, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin. “you’re my biggest fan,” she teases, and you can’t help but smile, even as your chest tightens.

when the performance day arrives, you sit in the second row, hands clenched in your lap. the music starts, and she steps onto the stage, confident and bright, eyes gleaming under the spotlight. your heart swells with pride and something else—something like longing, sharp and sweet.

afterwards, she finds you in the crowd, pulling you into a hug before you can say a word. she’s still breathless, sweat dampening her hairline, but she’s smiling like she’s never been happier.

“did you see me?” she asks, voice buzzing with excitement.

“you were incredible,” you manage, and she beams, pressing her face into your shoulder.

when you pull back, you notice one of the boys from the basketball team watching from the doorway. he waves at sana, and she waves back, casual, oblivious to the way your stomach twists.

that night, lying side by side in her room, sana rolls onto her side, her face so close you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

“do you ever think about the future?” she whispers.

you swallow hard. “sometimes.”

she smiles, soft and wistful. “i want to be on stage forever,” she says, tracing patterns on your palm with her fingertip. “and you’ll be there, right? cheering for me?”

“always,” you whisper back, and when her hand slides up to cup your cheek, your breath catches.

she leans in, hesitant, and kisses your cheek, just like that day on the swings, but this time it lingers, softer, warmer. you don’t dare move, terrified that if you breathe too loud, the moment will shatter.

when she pulls back, her eyes are wide, like she’s not sure what just happened either. but she just grins, quick and dazzling, and pulls you into another hug, like it’s easier than facing the confusion between you.

you don’t sleep that night, heart pounding against your ribs, replaying the feeling of her lips on your skin. you think about how her hands felt in yours, about how she doesn’t seem to notice how the boys stare at her.

and you wonder how long you can pretend that being her best friend is enough.

⸻

you’re sixteen when sana tells you she’s going to audition for a big entertainment company.

it’s late, past midnight, and you’re both sprawled out on her bedroom floor in her small seoul apartment, the remnants of instant ramen scattered around you. the city hums outside the window, neon lights seeping through the thin curtains. her voice is softer than usual, almost hesitant—a rare thing for someone like sana, who usually speaks as if the world belongs to her.

“i want to try,” she says, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “really try. not just school performances. something real.”

your heart thuds, heavy and uncertain. you knew this would happen eventually—knew she was meant for something bigger than the school talent shows and dance club competitions. but hearing her say it makes the air in the room feel thin.

“you’d be amazing,” you say, and it’s the truth. you’d follow her voice anywhere.

she turns to look at you, something bright and fierce in her eyes. “you really think so?”

you nod, not trusting yourself to say more. because what you really want to say is, don’t go. stay with me. stay where i can reach you.

a couple weeks later, she calls you, screaming into the phone, half crying, half laughing. “they liked me! they actually liked me!”

you rush to her house, and when she opens the door, she throws herself into your arms. you’re both laughing, tangled together, and when she pulls back, her hands are on your shoulders, gripping tight.

“i’m going to be a trainee,” she says, breathless and triumphant. “i’m really going.”

that night, you sit on her bed, legs tangled together, talking about the future. she’s already dreaming out loud—about late-night practices and learning new dances, about standing in front of thousands of people.

“will you come visit the company building?” she asks, quieter now, like the thought of being apart hadn’t really hit her until this moment.

“of course,” you whisper, and it’s the easiest lie you’ve ever told. because you don’t know if you can handle seeing her change, seeing the industry take her, reshape her into something shinier and less yours.

just before dawn, when you’re both half asleep, she shifts closer, brushing her lips against your temple—a soft, almost accidental kiss. it lingers, warm and uncertain.

you don’t dare move, just close your eyes and pretend that this is enough—that being her anchor will be enough when she’s chasing stars.

⸻

you’re nineteen when sana debuts, and everything changes.

it’s surreal, watching her face on the big screen in the middle of gangnam, her smile radiant and confident. the other members stand around her, each with their own practiced poise, but your eyes never leave her. you’re in the crowd, lost in a sea of strangers, and you feel both proud and terrified.

when the performance ends, the crowd erupts in cheers, and you find yourself clapping too, even as your heart aches. you text her after, a simple you were amazing, and wait, phone clutched too tightly in your hand.

it takes hours for her to reply, just a string of heart emojis and a did you see me?! and you can picture her, eyes bright, almost bouncing on her toes with excitement. you can’t help but smile, even though you know it’s only going to get harder from here.

you don’t see her for weeks after that. she’s swept up in a whirlwind of interviews and dance practice, of photoshoots and choreography revisions. you catch glimpses of her on TV, your stomach flipping every time you hear her name.

then, one evening, when you’re walking home from your part-time job, she calls. her voice is tired but happy, and your heart lurches at the sound.

“i have a break tonight,” she whispers, like she’s sharing a secret. “come over?”

you don’t hesitate, practically running to her dorm. when she opens the door, she’s still in stage makeup, glitter smudged under her eyes. she grins and pulls you inside, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

“i missed you,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

you hold her close, burying your face in her hair. “i missed you too.”

she pulls back just enough to kiss you—soft, lingering, as if trying to make up for lost time. your hands find her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt, and she shivers, smiling against your lips.

later, you’re lying together on her tiny couch, her head on your chest, your fingers tracing patterns along her spine. the TV is still on, replaying their debut performance, and she snorts softly when she sees herself.

“i look so nervous,” she mutters, cheeks pink.

“you looked perfect,” you correct, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

she tilts her head to look at you, eyes soft and serious. “it doesn’t feel real yet,” she admits. “like… i’m just waiting to wake up and be a nobody again.”

you brush a thumb over her cheekbone. “you’re never going to be a nobody,” you promise. “not to me.”

her lips twitch into a smile, and she kisses you again—deeper this time, like she’s trying to remind herself that this is real too.

you stay like that, tangled together, until she drifts off, exhausted. you don’t sleep, just watch her breathe, the rise and fall of her chest, and wonder how much longer you’ll have moments like this before the world takes her completely.

⸻

you’re twenty, and for a while, it’s good. it’s more than good—it’s perfect.

it’s stolen mornings wrapped in sheets, sana’s face buried in the crook of your neck, refusing to let go even when her alarm blares. it’s her laughter echoing in the small kitchen as you attempt to make pancakes, batter smeared on your nose, and her teasing kisses in between bites.

you don’t see her every day, but when she’s with you, it’s like nothing’s changed. you meet her at the company building sometimes, waiting on the steps with coffee and snacks, and she always runs out with that same radiant smile—bright, unstoppable.

you remember one night when she pulled you onto the rooftop of her building. the city stretched out below, lights blinking like scattered stars. she was buzzing, high off a good performance, eyes alight with excitement.

“can you believe it?” she asked, spinning around, hair flying. “they’re talking about our first award show! i’m really going to be on stage at the melons!”

you couldn’t help but smile at her, so full of joy it felt contagious. “you deserve it,” you whispered.

she stopped spinning, breathless, and turned to you, eyes suddenly serious. “it doesn’t feel real without you there,” she admitted. “sometimes i just want to grab your hand in the middle of the stage and pull you with me.”

you reached out, squeezing her fingers. “i’m here,” you promised, even though you knew you’d never be part of that world, never under those lights.

on quieter days, when she’s not running from schedule to schedule, you lie together on her tiny bed, legs tangled, her head on your chest. she hums softly, the vibrations warming your skin, and you let your fingers comb through her hair.

“do you ever get scared?” you ask one night, voice barely louder than a breath.

she shifts to look at you, lips brushing your collarbone. “of what?”

“of losing yourself in all of this.”

she pauses, tracing circles on your stomach. “sometimes,” she admits. “but when i’m with you, i feel like me. like… the real me. you remind me of who i was before all this.”

you kiss her, slow and tender, and she melts into you, hands clutching at your shirt. you don’t say it, but you know you can’t be her anchor forever.

still, you let yourself believe in the fantasy. you let yourself imagine that this closeness will last. that the city and the fame and the endless demands won’t change the way she clings to you when the world feels too loud.

one evening, you’re curled up on the couch, her head in your lap, when she falls asleep mid-sentence. you watch her for a long time, brushing your thumb across her cheek. she’s so beautiful it hurts, and you wonder how much of her you’ll have left when the world finally realises what you’ve known all along—that sana is meant to be adored.

you don’t know it yet, but these are the golden days—the moments you’ll look back on when everything else falls apart.

⸻

you’re twenty-one when things start to shift, but it’s so subtle you barely notice at first.

it’s not like she’s absent—not really. she still texts you every day, sends blurry selfies from practice rooms, messages filled with heart emojis and silly jokes. she still calls when she gets a chance, usually at odd hours when her voice is sleepy and soft, telling you about how she almost tripped during choreography or how the new vocal coach is terrifying.

you’re used to her being busy. her life has always been this whirlwind of practice and performance, and you’ve learned to be patient, to wait for the rare days when she can spend a few hours tangled up with you on the couch.

but now, those in-between moments feel a little longer. sometimes you’ll text her something funny—a picture of your terrible cooking attempt or a random meme—and she doesn’t reply for hours. it’s nothing unusual, really. you tell yourself that a hundred times.

you still meet up when she gets a day off, and it’s good. it’s normal. she kisses you as soon as she walks through the door, wrapping her arms around you and whispering how much she’s missed you. she doesn’t seem different—just a little more tired, eyes a little darker underneath from the lack of sleep.

one evening, you’re curled up together on her couch, watching some variety show where one of her group members is a guest. sana’s head is on your shoulder, and you’re absentmindedly running your fingers through her hair. she laughs at a joke on screen, but it sounds a bit forced, like her mind is elsewhere.

you don’t say anything, just kiss her temple and let the warmth between you settle.

a few nights later, you’re out with some friends when you see a poster for her group’s upcoming tour. it’s nothing new—they’ve been talking about it for weeks—but seeing her face plastered there, larger than life, makes something twist in your stomach. it’s not jealousy, not really. it’s just this quiet, creeping fear that keeps whispering, this is just the beginning.

when you see her again, you mention the tour, and her eyes light up, all nervous excitement. “can you believe it?” she says, cupping your face and kissing you breathless. “we’re really doing it. i can’t wait to see the fans.”

you smile, trying not to let your worry show. “you’ll be incredible,” you assure her, because you know she will be. she always is.

it’s not until she’s asleep, curled up against your side, that you let the feeling settle in—this quiet ache that maybe, just maybe, her world is starting to grow too big for you. but you shake it off, pressing a kiss to her forehead and promising yourself that it’s just nerves.

after all, nothing’s really changed. not yet.

⸻

you’re twenty-two when it finally dawns on you that she’s slipping through your fingers.

it’s not a sudden realisation—more like a slow, suffocating build-up. you’re used to her being busy, used to waiting for texts, used to staying up late just to catch a few minutes of her time. but lately, even when she’s with you, she’s not really there.

you meet her for coffee one afternoon, and she’s already on her phone when you walk in, barely looking up when you sit down. she’s distracted, scrolling through messages, occasionally glancing around like she’s somewhere else entirely.

“hey,” you say softly, reaching for her hand. she lets you take it, but her fingers are limp, her smile fleeting.

“sorry,” she mumbles. “it’s just… everything’s so crazy right now.”

you nod, forcing a smile. “i get it.”

but you don’t—not really. because even when she’s talking to you, she’s answering emails, her mind still wrapped up in choreography and schedules and press releases.

one night, when she comes home after another late practice, she doesn’t even bother changing before collapsing into bed. you lie next to her, tracing circles on her back, and when you murmur, “are you okay?” she just hums in response, already half asleep.

you wonder when the silence between you started to feel so loud.

you still get glimpses of the old sana—the way she’d kiss your cheek just because, or how she’d insist on cooking ramen together even though she’d burn the noodles. but those moments are rarer now, replaced by rushed phone calls and tired goodbyes.

it’s not that she’s changed, exactly. it’s more like the world around her has grown too fast, too wide, and you’re stuck standing still, trying to catch up.

one evening, you catch her on a live broadcast, surrounded by her members, laughing that familiar, bright laugh. you can’t help but smile at how radiant she looks, but there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t go away.

you realise that while she’s reaching for the stars, you’re the one left holding on to the fragments of what used to be.

⸻

you’re twenty-three when the rumours start.

it’s not even something you’re looking for—you’re just scrolling through your phone absentmindedly when you see the headline: “Rising Idol Sana Spotted With Mystery Woman Late at Night.”

your heart drops. you know how tabloids are, always spinning stories from shadows, but you can’t help the way your hands tremble as you click the article. the photo is blurry, taken from a distance. sana is in her usual oversized hoodie and cap, but her arm is looped around someone’s shoulder, her head tilted close to the other girls.

you stare at the screen, your mind a mess of thoughts, trying to rationalise. maybe it’s a friend, a manager, a member’s sibling. you don’t want to believe it could be anything else.

you text her, casual, just asking how her day’s been. it takes hours for her to reply. busy, sorry. practice went late. you don’t mention the photo. you don’t know how.

the next day, you meet her after practice, and she’s as bright as ever, talking about their upcoming music video, how the concept is different this time. you watch her carefully, looking for signs of guilt or hesitation, but she just kisses your cheek and squeezes your hand.

you don’t ask, because part of you is terrified of what she might say.

a week later, the rumours intensify—more photos, different places. you’re at home when you hear it first, her voice through the thin apartment wall. she’s on the phone, her voice low and serious.

“no, it’s not like that,” she says, frustration seeping through. “i just needed… i needed to feel normal for a while.”

the person on the other end says something muffled, and she laughs, bitter and quiet. “it’s complicated. i just… sometimes it’s easier with her. she gets it. no expectations.”

you sit frozen on the other side of the wall, heart thudding painfully. it feels like the world has tilted off its axis. you don’t want to understand what she’s saying, but the pieces start clicking into place—late replies, distance, the way she’s here but not really here.

when she comes into your room a while later, she’s quieter than usual, sliding into bed without a word. you turn your back to her, trying to keep your breathing steady. she wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“you okay?” she whispers, voice soft and hesitant.

you swallow the lump in your throat. “yeah,” you manage, forcing a smile she can’t see.

you don’t sleep that night, staring at the ceiling while she breathes peacefully next to you, wondering when loving her became this heavy, this lonely.

⸻

you’re twenty-four when you finally admit it to yourself. 

sana’s not yours anymore.

it doesn’t happen all at once. it’s not a sudden, shattering revelation—it’s more like a bruise, spreading slowly until it colours everything. you spend days convincing yourself that the late nights, the distracted conversations, the way her kisses feel more like apologies than love—it’s just stress, just her schedule pulling her in too many directions.

but deep down, you know. you’ve known since you heard her whispering through the wall that night. still, you hold on, because leaving feels impossible, like ripping out a piece of yourself.

some days, it’s almost like before. she’ll come home from practice, exhausted but smiling, and collapse into your arms. you’ll cook ramen together, the noodles slightly overcooked because you’re too busy stealing kisses. she’ll laugh when you complain about her turning the living room into a dance studio, and for a moment, you can almost believe that nothing’s changed.

but other nights, she’s distant. she’ll get a text, and her smile will falter. you’ll ask her what’s wrong, and she’ll just shake her head, mumbling something about company stress or a new choreography that’s giving her trouble.

you never push. you don’t want to be the reason she pulls away even more.

one evening, you’re cleaning up the apartment when her phone lights up on the counter. you don’t mean to look, but the message preview catches your eye. can we meet tonight? i miss you. it’s from a name you don’t recognise.

you feel cold, rooted to the spot. your hands shake as you put the phone back exactly as you found it, acting like you didn’t see anything. when she comes home, looking exhausted but content, you try to meet her eyes, but you can’t.

she hugs you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. “hey, love,” she murmurs.

you force a smile, tilting your head to brush your cheek against hers. “hey.”

you want to ask—want to confront her, make her explain why her love feels like it’s being shared with someone else. but fear lodges in your throat, suffocating you. if you ask, it becomes real. and if it’s real, you have to do something about it.

so you stay quiet. you let her kiss your neck, whisper something about missing you, and you pretend it’s enough. you hold her a little tighter, hoping she won’t notice how your hands tremble.

that night, while she sleeps, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. your chest aches, and you wonder if love is supposed to feel this heavy—like you’re drowning, and no one’s reaching out to pull you up.

you know the truth, but you’re too scared to face it. you’re too scared to lose her, even if keeping her means holding onto something that’s already gone.

⸻

you’re twenty-five when you start to forget what happiness feels like.

it’s been months since you saw that text, months of swallowing your suspicions and pretending everything is okay. some days it almost works—you convince yourself that she’s just tired, that the exhaustion in her voice is from overwork, not guilt.

but then there are nights when she comes home, smelling faintly of someone else’s perfume, and you can barely breathe. you tell yourself it’s just stage makeup or a stylist’s touch, but it doesn’t sit right in your gut. your instincts are screaming, but you’re too afraid to listen.

you don’t say anything. you just keep playing your part—the supportive, understanding partner who doesn’t ask too many questions, who doesn’t push too hard. you tell yourself it’s enough just to have her come home to you, even if it’s not all of her.

one evening, you’re folding laundry when you hear her on the phone in the other room. you freeze, ears straining to catch the words.

“no, it’s not like that,” she says, her voice tense. “i just… i can’t keep doing this. it’s too complicated.”

silence, then a muffled reply. you can’t make out the words, but her response is clearer.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” she admits, voice breaking. “it’s like… i’m losing control of everything. and sometimes, i just need something that’s mine. something that doesn’t expect anything from me.”

you sink to the floor, laundry forgotten. your mind races—who is she talking to? who makes her feel like she’s in control when you apparently don’t?

when she comes out of the room, she barely glances at you, just mutters something about needing a shower. you don’t move from your spot on the floor, legs too weak to stand.

that night, when she curls into bed beside you, you stay awake, staring at the ceiling. when her hand reaches for yours, you flinch before you can stop yourself. she pauses, her fingers hovering, and then pulls away, rolling over to face the wall.

you want to apologise, want to reach out and pull her back into your arms, but your hands feel frozen, your chest hollow. you know if you speak now, your voice will break.

the next morning, she’s gone before you wake up—a note on the counter saying she has early practice. you sit at the table, staring at her rushed handwriting, wondering when you became so terrified of losing someone who’s already halfway out the door.

you make coffee, but it tastes bitter, and you leave it untouched on the counter. you wonder how long you can keep pretending, how long you can survive loving someone who doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

⸻

you’re twenty-six when you finally hear it.

you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. it wasn’t intentional. you’d come home early, hoping to surprise sana with takeout from her favourite place. but as you’re unlocking the door, you hear voices inside—hers and someone else’s, low and muffled.

you freeze, hand still on the handle, the key half turned. through the thin wood, you can just make out her voice, tight and frustrated.

“i don’t know how much longer i can do this,” she says, and the tone of her voice hits you like a slap. “it’s too complicated. she’s always waiting for me, always there, and i just… i need space to breathe.”

there’s a murmur from the other person—a deeper voice, soothing, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“you know i care about her,” sana continues, her voice softer now, almost guilty. “but it’s like… i’m suffocating. sometimes i just want to feel… free.”

you don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until the room spins. you steady yourself against the doorframe, heart hammering in your chest, bile rising in your throat.

you don’t hear the rest. you can’t. your hands are shaking too much, and you feel like you might crumble right there in the hallway.

you retreat, as quietly as you can, slipping back down the stairs, out into the cool evening air. you sit on the steps, your hands still wrapped around the takeout bag, the plastic crinkling under your grip.

you don’t know how long you stay there—long enough for the sky to darken, for the city lights to blink on. eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. it’s her. she’s alone.

“oh! you’re home early,” she says, surprise colouring her tone.

you force a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. “yeah. thought I’d surprise you.”

she leans down, pecking your cheek, but you can’t move, can’t reciprocate. her lips feel cold against your skin.

“you okay?” she asks, brows knitting together.

you nod, swallowing down the knot in your throat. “just tired,” you lie.

that night, she falls asleep with her head on your chest, and you stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint, wondering when the version of sana you fell in love with turned into someone you barely recognize.

you should leave. you know that. but when her hand finds yours in the dark, squeezing softly, you can’t help but squeeze back, letting her take what little remains of you. because loving her still feels like the only thing you know how to do.

you spend the next few weeks in a daze—going through the motions, letting her use you as her comfort when she’s exhausted, ignoring the guilt in her eyes when she slips into bed beside you.

you tell yourself that this is love—staying even when it’s tearing you apart. letting her find solace in you when she’s burnt out from being someone else’s dream. convincing yourself that a fractured version of her is better than not having her at all.

you’re not sure how much longer you can keep convincing yourself of that lie.

⸻

you’re twenty-seven when you finally see it for what it is—you are just a place for her to land when the world gets too heavy.

the cycle has become predictable. she disappears for days, caught up in rehearsals, photoshoots, industry parties. you don’t ask where she’s been or who she’s been with. you don’t want to hear another excuse or feel the pang of betrayal when she offers a weak, tired smile.

when she comes home, she’s worn out, eyes hollow, and you let her crawl into your arms without a word. she clings to you, like you’re the only solid ground in a world that keeps spinning too fast. you feel her desperation, the way she kisses you like she’s trying to remember who she used to be.

it’s always like this—she leaves, she slips away, and then she comes back, unraveling in your arms, needing your warmth to stitch herself back together.

you can’t bring yourself to say no. even when you catch glimpses of texts on her phone—messages that make your stomach twist, names that aren’t yours. you swallow the hurt, tell yourself that it’s just the industry, that she’s trying to survive.

one night, she comes home late, her movements sluggish, and you help her out of her jacket, ignoring the unfamiliar cologne lingering on the fabric. she doesn’t say much, just buries her face in your shoulder, muttering apologies that don’t make sense.

“i’m so tired,” she whispers, voice cracking. “just… just let me be here.”

you don’t respond, just guide her to bed, letting her drape herself over you like a broken doll. you stroke her hair, your touch gentle, even as your heart splinters with every soft breath she takes.

it’s in the way she doesn’t kiss you hello anymore. in how her hands hesitate before touching you, as if remembering someone else’s skin. you know she’s slipping further away, and you’re just holding onto the ghost of her—whatever pieces are left that still want you.

one evening, you’re making dinner when she comes in, phone pressed to her ear, laughing at something the other person said. when she sees you, her smile falters, and she quickly says goodbye, shoving the phone into her pocket.

“work call?” you ask, keeping your voice light, casual.

she hesitates, glancing at you before nodding. “yeah. just… stuff about the new choreography.”

you don’t call her out on the lie. you just stir the soup, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something that will shatter whatever is left between you.

that night, as she sleeps beside you, you reach for her hand under the blankets, but it’s cold, limp in yours. you let go and turn away, tears burning behind your eyes.

you can’t remember the last time she looked at you like she used to—with that light in her eyes that said you were the only one who mattered. now, when she sees you, it’s like she’s seeing a memory—something faded and worn out.

you wonder when you became just another part of her routine—something she uses to remind herself of a life that doesn’t fit her anymore.

and you realise that staying is no longer an act of love. it’s an act of fear—fear of letting go, fear of being without her, even if she’s not really yours anymore.

the thought terrifies you, but the truth is more painful: you’re just a safe place for her to come back to when the world burns her out. and you’re not sure how much longer you can bear being a sanctuary for someone who’s already forgotten how to love you.

⸻

you’re twenty-eight when sana comes home just past midnight, the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. practice had dragged on far too long—nothing seemed to click, and her manager’s words still echoed in her head. you’re losing focus, sana. get it together.

she fumbles with the keys, pushing the door open, expecting the familiar glow of the living room lamp, maybe your soft voice asking if she’s eaten yet. but the flat is dark, eerily silent. something cold sinks into her stomach.

“babe?” she calls out, her voice too loud against the quiet.

no reply.

she flicks on the light, blinking against the sudden brightness. the place look emptier. feels emptier. 

she kicks off her shoes, ignoring the niggling feeling gnawing at the back of her mind. she moves through the hallway, calling your name again, but the air feels thick, suffocating.

it’s only when she enters the bedroom that it truly hits. the bed is made—neatly, like you never left it. her eyes catch on the folded piece of paper on your pillow, your handwriting stark against the white: sana.

her hands start to tremble as she picks it up, unfolding it carefully. she can’t breathe—doesn’t dare to—because there’s something final about this. something irreversible. 

dear sana,

i’ve always had a problem with letting go. the things i leave behind always have claw marks on them—proof that i tried to hold on far too long, long past the point of saving them. you are the deepest claw mark on my heart. i thought if i held on tighter, you’d remember how to love me again. i thought if i loved you hard enough, i’d be enough.

but i’ve realised something—love shouldn’t make me feel this hollow. i shouldn’t feel like i’m begging for scraps of your affection, waiting for those fleeting moments when you remember to look at me like you used to. you stopped singing for me, sana. you stopped coming home with stories and kisses, and i kept telling myself it was just the stress, the pressure. that once things settled, you’d find your way back to me.

i was wrong.

the truth is, i’ve been losing you for a long time. maybe i should have let go when you first started slipping away. maybe i shouldn’t have clung to the memories of who we used to be, convincing myself that love was enough to hold us together. but i did. i held on, even when it hurt. even when loving you meant forgetting how to love myself.

do you remember that night on your balcony when you sang to me? it was raining, and you were embarrassed, but you still sang that silly pop song because i begged you to. you were so beautiful—hair damp, cheeks flushed, voice cracking on the high notes. i think that was the first time i knew. knew that i was in deep, that you had your hands around my heart without even realising.

but now? now you come home smelling like someone else, and you lie to me with a straight face. i hear you whispering to her on the phone when you think i’m asleep. you stopped choosing me, and i let you, because the thought of being without you was too much. i thought it was better to have fragments of you than nothing at all.

i can’t do it anymore. i can’t keep waiting for the pieces of you that remember to love me. i can’t keep holding on to someone who doesn’t want to be held. you’ve made me feel small, like i’m only worth the leftovers of your affection, like i’m the thing you return to when the world leaves you exhausted. i deserve more than that. i deserve someone who looks at me like i’m their first choice—not a backup plan.

i love you. god, i love you so much that it’s destroyed me. but i can’t keep breaking myself just to keep you whole. i hope one day you realise what you’ve lost. i hope it keeps you awake at night the way i’ve been kept awake, wondering what i did wrong.

but i’m letting go now. it’s the hardest thing i’ve ever done, but i have to. because if i don’t, i’ll lose the last pieces of myself I’ve got left.

goodbye, sana.

the letter slips from her hands, fluttering to the floor. she feels like she’s falling, the room spinning around her. her knees give out, and she collapses onto the bed, hands clutching the duvet, gasping for breath.

her mind races, images flashing like a montage—the way you’d smile when she came home, the way you’d always know just what she needed after a long day, how you’d make her feel grounded when the world felt too big. she never thought you’d actually leave. she always thought you’d be there—waiting, loving, forgiving.

she lets out a broken sob, burying her face into your pillow, inhaling the faint scent of you that still lingers. the realisation crashes over her—she let you go without even noticing. she was so busy chasing her dreams, so consumed with being someone everyone loved, that she didn’t see you slipping through her fingers.

her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she scrambles for it, clicking on your number with trembling hands. it rings, and rings, and rings, until it cuts to voicemail. 

her voice cracks as she speaks. as she begs. “please… please come back. i’m sorry. i didn’t know… i didn’t realise. please. i love you. i swear i love you. just… just come home. i’ll do better. i promise. just… come back.”

the message ends, and she’s left staring at the screen, hoping you’ll call back, hoping it’s not really over. she curls into herself, your letter crumpled in her hands, sobbing into the empty space you left behind.

she thought she could have it all—fame, success, you.

but she was wrong.

she had you, and she didn’t even realise it until you were gone.

now, she’s alone.

drowning in regret.

realising that some losses can’t be undone.

some mistakes can’t be taken back.

⸻

link to part two in the synopsis note! enjoy xx

[darkstar225]

feel a way pt.2

• pairings : nayeon x fem! reader , sana x jihyo, sana x jihyo x fem!reader

• synopsis : your long time girlfriend , nayeon, confessed to cheating on you and getting pregnant. it broke your heart. even though you never openly said anything about to anyone, it was apparent. Park Heiran, the daughter of Park Jihyo and step child of Sana Minatozaki , witnessed this and told her moms. Sana had already been crushing on you for a while. so was Jihyo. can they help bring the light back in your eyes?

•warnings : comfort, reader gets taken on a date by jihyo, mentions of eating food, slight mentions of crying, talking about ex relationship, kissing, slight petname usage, mentions of insecurities

a/n: DANG I DIDNT KNOW YALL ACTUALLY LIKED PART 1!! part two was requested so im delivering! anyways enjoy!

story under the cut ;)

you and i need to talk…sana said.

about what? i dont need sympathy okay, im just healing thats all. you said. well im glad youre moving on but look, me and my wife were just having a conversation about you. we wanted to help you heal. sana said.

those words made your heart melt. sana actually wanted to help you do better. and her wife whom youve seen pick heiran up, she’s beautiful. they seem to have a great relationship and connection. but since you love sana the way you do, you didn’t wanna mess it up. sana seriously, thank you for the food and everything youve done, but i dont wanna ruin the relationship with you and your wife. she seems lovely and heiren seems to have a great relationship with her moms. you said softly.

tell you what. why dont you call that number on that card? have a date with her. shes a very good woman, shes nice and very sweet. she is very flirtatious so be careful. sana giggled. okay sana…okay ill give it a go. you said. not really feeling it but just wanting to make sana happy.

soon the school bell rings and class starts. you go one with your teaching. often glancing more at heiran than anyone else. it had you thinking, heiran likes you, but would she be okay with a third mom? the lunch bell snaps you out of your thoughts and you sat down to eat the lunch Jihyo made you. it was the best thing youve had since the break up, its better than a sorry ham sandwich. you were so busy thinking about going on a date with sana’s wife that you didnt here sana come in to have the usual lunch conversation.

so..what do you think? will you give her a try? sana asked. i guess i will, but im just scared to ruin the relationship. you reminded her. i know but trust me, jihyo and i are both willing to do this with you. sana reassured. so you picked up the card, dialed the number and heard the phone rang. sana was sitting next to you also waiting for jihyo to pick up. sana this is stupid she isnt pickin…..you said but suddenly a voice came from the phone. hello? jihyo answered.

you sat there for a second before jihyo could say anything. uh hi, this is heirans teacher. you said. oh, hi uh i didn’t expect that you would actually call. jihyo said back. oh yeah, um i was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me? you said nervously. i would love to! when should i pick you up? jihyo asked. how about after school today? um you and i could go for dinner anywhere you want. its on me… you said but she interrupted. oh no let me pay for it. dont worry about it. jihyo said. you wanted to argue about paying but whats the point in that.

well if you dont mind it. you said. of course, my treat for the lady whos making my little girl smarter everyday. jihyo said. she made your cheeks go red for a second. sana was right, she is a bit flirty. uh alright then, so see you at 7:00 tonight? you said. its a date! jihyo said. and you both hung the phone up. if you werent screaming on the outside, you definitely were on the inside. ahhh! sana said with excitement. it’s happening im so happy for you! she continued. as the bell rang, sana gave you a kiss on the cheek and walked out. thats new, sana has never kissed you before.

after drop off, you headed home to get dressed for your date. the first real date after nayeon. you were nervous no doubt but also excited to get back out there and find love. you checked the time and it was close to 6:30 pm. you looked in the mirror one last time, just making sure you look your best. you leave out the door and shoot jihyo a text saying you were on the way to the restaurant. she sent a thumbs up and said she was excited to see you in person. you smiled to yourself, the feeling of being wanted once again, it made you so happy.

you walk into the restaurant, looking around for her. your eyes landed on hers as soon as she picked her head up. she looked you up and down and smiled deeply at you. the gesture making you blush. you sheepishly walk over to the table and she stands up to greet you. “you look…you look…wow, just wow.” “oh, i’m sorry. i was kind of rushing…” you were getting a little nervous over jihyos reaction. she sensed that, and instantly comforted you. “you look amazing babe! i love the way that dress looks on you. are you ready to eat?” you looked down and smiled, her words touching your heart. “thank you! you look great as well. and yes i’m starving!” both of you laughed lightly. and the night went on from there.

full of laughter, some tears shed, but the both of you had a great night. “can i tell you something?” jihyo asked. “sure! what is it?” you replied. “sana told me about what happened between you and your shitty ex.” you became slightly apprehensive “so?” “so she also mentioned that she has a thing for you, which is one of the main reasons why i decided to reach out. sana has a very specific type. and she also has great taste in women. i see why she has a crush on you. i think im starting to develop one for you too.” you blinked as her words caught you off guard a bit. “really? do you really have a crush on me?” you say, slightly desperate for a genuine answer.

“yes. you’re sweet, charismatic, you have a great sense of humor, i love how gentle and soft you are. i honestly don’t want this night to end.” jihyo confessed. you smiled at her, she smiled back. “i feel the same way about sana, i just don’t know how to tell her. i feel the same way about you as well. i hope this won’t be the last time we see each other.” you confessed back. your words taken her slightly aback. “oh, this most definitely will not be the last time honey! actually, what are you doing after this?” jihyo asked. “well nothing really. why?” you said. “how about you come over for the night. heiran would be happy to see you, and so will sana! what do you say?” “oh gosh, yes!”

after dinner, you got in your car and followed jihyo home. “welcome to our home! don’t worry about clothes because we have some for you. when you come in, heiran should be asleep but if not she’ll be happy to see you. are you ready to come inside?” jihyo said. you nodded and followed her into her home. as you both entered, you saw sana with her hair up, heiran in her arms sleeping, in her satin nightgown. “i take the date must’ve been successful!” sana smirked at you. you blushed at her. “i see why you have a thing for her. she’s a catch, that’s for sure.” jihyo said as she turned and winked at you. both of them flirting with you made your heart race. face heating up.

they gave you some clothes, you showered and changed in them. you came out the bathroom and both of them looked at you with admiration and love. “i could get used to that sight.” sana teased and she walked up to you and put her hands on your side. “i agree baby. alright sweet thing, are you ready to crash?” jihyo said as she walked up and got behind you. her hands lightly massaged your shoulders. “yes! where do i sleep?” you asked. “you sleep with us. i hope you don’t mind being in the middle. you get the most warmth that way.” “she’s so lucky to be in the middle. i wish i was being sandwiched between two hot women.” sana half heartedly joked.

you three got in the bed, sana and jihyo at either side of you. you turned towards sana, sana was facing you. she looked in your eyes and leaned in. you didn’t know why, but you leaned in as well. just a couple centimeters away from kissing. “thank you sana!” you said softly as to not wake jihyo. sana closed the gap and kissed you deeply. not fast, not rushed, just slow and full of emotion. she pulled back a minute later. “you’re welcome. and thank you for giving us a shot.” sana said back. you leaned in and kissed her again. you felt jihyos arm wrap around your waist. “i want some of that action.” she said sleepily. you turned you her and kissed her the same way you kissed sana.

you were happy. and that’s what mattered at the end of it all.

©️luvanniiee on tumblr !!

[darkstar225]

Hey dear, i would like to request a slight angst, fluff , poly. twice NaSaHyo×fem reader.

R and Nayeon where dating for years, they been happy and all but one night

While Nayeon and R where laying down on their bed, Nayeon confessed that she cheated on her and she's pregnant, using the excuse of " i wanted kids and he seems nice"

R won't overreact and just ask Nayeon to break up with them, so she won't have to lie about their break up. And just say that they broke up mutually.

(The reader is a KG teacher along with Sana, and Jihyo has a Daughter from a failed marriage. )

The R losses her sparkles and becomes less energetic, forgets everything easily, ends up not feeling a live, just a walking object.

Jihyo's 5yrs old daughter notices the changes in the R and starts to give her alot of attention. Asking her how she's Daily and ofc tells her mom about the changes she noticed in her teacher.

Sana have been crushing on R for as long as she remembers so when she sees the R recent change, she tries her very best to know what happened but R is very secretive.

Jihyo also likes R, but is afraid to confess for her failed marriage hunts her 'till this very day.

___________________________________________

I hope that makes sense and i expressed my request in a understanding way.

Thanks for your time and

Can i be 🪷 Anon!!!???

feel a way

• pairings : nayeon x fem! reader , sana x jihyo, sana x jihyo x fem!reader

• synopsis : your long time girlfriend , nayeon, confessed to cheating on you and getting pregnant. it broke your heart. even though you never openly said anything about to anyone, it was apparent. Park Heiran, the daughter of Park Jihyo and step child of Sana Minatozaki , witnessed this and told her moms. Sana had already been crushing on you for a while. so was Jihyo. can the help bring the light back in your eyes?

• warnings : angst , mentions of cheating , pregnancy , slight toxicity , fluff at the end , heartbreak , mentions of food , mentions of crying, its sad but has good moments, mentions of divorced parents.

• a/n : okay so i was writing this yesterday, but the app crashed and i lost all of that work. but i was thinking about making it a mini series because why not. also anon if you are seeing this: of course you can be 🪷 anon!! but yeah anyways i hope you all enjoy this!!

• story under the cut ;)

you had just come home from work. youre a kindergarten teacher. you love your students like your own children. and they were part of the reason why you wanted kids. nayeon, your longtime girlfriend, was laying in bed. she has been sick for the past couple months. you wanted her to go to the doctor but she always refuses. normally she would have no objections but you decided not to upset her and stopped asking her. she had her fingers in her mouth biting on her nails and had tears falling from her eyes.

nayeon? whats the matter sweetheart? i asked gently. shes also been very moody lately. ever since she came back from her friends house a couple months back , shes been a mess. she sniffled and looked at you. i need to tell you something y/n. she spoke softly. i approached the bed and laid next to her. whats up? i asked. she was trembling softly but it was still noticeable. y/n, do you remember when i went to my friends house? she inquired. yeah. uh Haneul, right? you replied. well hes not just my friend. she spoke.

you blinked a couple times trying to process this information. hes my boyfriend. and we talked about having kids. you know how much i want kids of my own, and he seemed nice. so one thing led to another and now im pregnant. she confessed. your mind went blank for a second. then the reality hit you like a ton of bricks. your longtime girlfriend of 5 years, confessing how she has a boyfriend and is now pregnant with his child. nayeon, i know i cant give you kids, but we talked about having kids when we got married. you said you could wait until then. you spoke, hurt and betrayal now apparent in your voice.

she looked at you. i know y/n, im sorry i hurt you like this. but please, stay here with me. she said. you stood up and started to pack your bags. please y/n. she begged. no nayeon, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen huh? you think im stupid enough to stay here and provide for you when you have a whole ass boyfriend who obviously is more than capable of taking care of you and that child? did you think i was gonna stay here and let you run over me? you paused to see her reaction. she only hing her head low. you must think im dumb. you must think im that fucking naive. well news flash , your wrong and just as stupid if you actually think im gonna sit here and be your puppet.

you huffed as you kept packing. nayeon staying silent. honestly nayeon, i thought you loved me. i thought you cared. you said as tears started coming down. she looked at you, she was hurt too. goodbye nayeon. you said and you picked up your bag. as you started to walk out, you looked at her one more time, tears falling from her eyes. you turned around and walked out. the feeling of leaving her made you sick to your stomach. you felt yourself about to breakdown. you were leaving the woman of your dreams , but you kept walking. you got in your car and drove to the nearest hotel. were you spent the night crying.

luckily, it was friday. so you had the whole weekend to cry. you decided to call one of your friends and you told her what happened. when you asked if you could stay until you got back on your feet , she was more than happy to have you home with her.

today is monday. youve spent the weekend crying. you cried so much, it looked like youve been beat up except your eyes were red. but by monday most of the puffiness was gone. you got ready to set everything up. you got your notes and things ready to present today. the bell rang for the students to come from in from breakfast. you wanted to smile but you were still hurting too much. you put on a mask so that only your eyes were showing. you spoke in your usual tone with the kids.

goodmorning class! how was your weekend? you said cheerfully. you were getting different replies from the kids. some said they went out of town, some said they hung out with eachother, some even said they did nothing. but one student, her name is Heiran, she just stared at you. she was looking in your dark eyes. she noticed that the sparkle that was normally there was replaced by grey skies. Heiran, what did you do? you asked her . oh i hung out with my mommies! she said cheerfully. you smiled softly at her and she smiled back.

you admired Heiran. her biological mother had a failed marriage. they got divorced when Heiran was just a baby. and she had to grow up with a single parent who wasnt making a lot but sure made sure that she had everything she needed. then she told you that her mother found a girlfriend and they were happy. she really didnt fit in with everyone but she didnt seem to care. you admired her because she always smiled even if her feelings were hurt. she was raised well.

it was now lunchtime. all students went to the cafeteria to eat their lunch. you opened your bag and took out a sandwich. normally with nayeon, she would pack you a homecooked meal, and even put a note in there to encourage you throughout the day. your eyes started to well up again until your favorite teacher friend , Sana, walked in. hey honey! she said. oh hey sana! you greeted back. you alright? you look like youve been crying. sana said, concern in her tone. yeah im fine, allergies. you spoke back. she side eyed you. y/n i have been around you long enough to know that allergies dont make you cry over a sandwhich. sana said. just leave it alone sana. you spoke a little harsh. hurt was becoming apparent in your tone.

alright. she said. then she took her lunchbox out and pulled her meal out. hers looked so good. it looked way better than the sorry sandwich you had in your hands. she noticed you staring at it. do you want some? she asked. no. im fine with this. i just wanted to see what you had. you said in a monotone voice. she only huffed out and started eating with you. she always did that. ever since you started working here, she always made sure to sit and eat with you. you looked at sana. her mouth was full, but you thought she looked cute. you always thought she was cute.

the bell snapped you out of your thoughts. sana hurried and finished her bite before she cleaned up. bye y/n. sana said. and she walked towards the door but turned around to look at you. she flashed the warmest smile ever. and walked away. the kids were quick to pile in after that. sanas smile seemed to make you feel slightly better. but you didnt give it much thought.

the bell rang for the last time today. it was dismissal. everyones parents were there to pick there kids up. the small children running into their parents arms. it made you think of nayeon. soon she will be of those moms with the man she cheated on you with. snapping you out of your thoughts, you felt someone tug on your hand. you looked and saw little heiran there. she looked up at you with a bright smile. you keep flashing that bright smile honey, youll outshine the sun! you told her. she giggled. uh, ms y/n? heiran asked. yes? you answered. um…nothing. she said. you only giggled at her.

whats your moms name? you asked her. my mommas name is Jihyo, and her girlfriend is Sama! she answered. Sama? that sounds kinda like sana. then the mom honked her horn. Heiran gave you one last hug before running off and getting in the car. her mom rolled down the window and waved. you waved back. and they drove off

[Jihyos Pov]

how was school today? did you make friends? i asked my daughter. shes had a hard time fitting in. i think its because she has two moms instead of one mom and one dad. no, but mommy, i think ms y/n is sad. Heiran said. oh? whats wrong with her? i asked. i knew Heiran loved her teacher. she always talked about her. and Sana too. and from all ive been hearing, ive seemed to have fallen in love with y/n. even if i havent spoken to her directly. i dont know mommy. Heiran said. i looked in the rear view mirror at her, she smiled and looked out the window.

soon we arrive home. i get dinner started and wait for my girlfriend to get home. and two hours later, she came home. hey honey! i greet her as i kissed her cheek. hi baby! she said and kissed me back. hi heiran! sana said. and heiran ran into her arms. after sana puts her coat down and gets comfy, i set the table and server dinner. we all ate and heiran went to her room and played with her toys. so uh heiran said that y/n was sad today. oh yeah. she was missing her usual spark. she was about to cry over a sandwich. she was staring at my food. she was just very dismissive which isnt normally like her. so i decided to call her girlfriend nayeon. and nayeon said that they broke up last friday. so i think shes just going through a tough breakup. sana and i conversed.

[end of jihyos pov] [first person pov]

the next day you went to work, you saw a box. it was on your desk, you furrowed your brow and walked over to it. there was a note on top of it. ‘im jihyo! heirans mom. please call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx! enjoy your meal’ is what it read. you opened the box and there was a nice meal in there. you smiled and set it aside for lunchtime. y/n? sana called. it startled you from the sudden voice. uh yes sana? you answered.

you and i need to talk… sana said

this is part one. there will probably be two parts but i had to end it here cuz im exhausted babes !! anyways i hope. you enjoyed this so far ! i have a surprise for my ateez lovers after this story is done. but anyways i hope you stick around to the next story. it gets juicier than kylie jenners lips. anyways love all!! even my new mootie ;)

©️luvanniiee on tumblr !!

[darkstar225]

(not edited yet) enjoy this fantasy of mine ㅜㅜ

thinking about kpop it girl who finally appears in sana’s fridge interview 🌟🍟🥞🍼

you are one of the rising star in the industry. lethal face card, body is lipton, mics are always on, perfect all kill, trending variety shows, ridiculously overpriced photocards, and house ambassadors for a lot of brands

despite being a rookie, you already get compared to jangkasull trio which you could only humbly disagree

male idols would actually sneak their numbers in your inkigayo sandwiches and try to flirt with your backstage (which disgusts you tbh)

you always communicate with your fans through bubble and tell them random things. this includes your love declaration for sana sbn 🫧 you always mention how much you love her show with the hope of being invited

when your manager tells that your have been invited to sana’s fridge interview, you literally cried like a baby. like girl, be so fucking for real

you even brought present for sana sunbaenim !! you packed her favourite snacks, betty boop casing, bracelets, and a merch plushie of yours

and the whole interview was so fun, your brain short circuit so many times when talking to the pretty unnie. she helps to put on the apron for you too :(

“mmm, be careful” she softly says as she watches you peel the pear, she eventually volunteers to help since she gets worried that you might hurt yourself

despite your hot girl image, you literally melt into a baby lamb in front of her. sana unnie who listens to your concern attentively and knows when to tease you too

“unnie, i really love being here with you” you probably said that more than ten times, she keeps on calling you pretty and cute too which makes you flush in heat

“i think if i were a man, i’d love a girlfriend like sana unnie” ok homotron 3000???

you straight up say that your ideal type is her too 😒 you about to debut in top 10 kpop sapphic tweet of the week

you feel so sad when the filming ends, but you managed to exchanged number with the minatozaki sana !!

you are determined to make the next bubble update is about your date with your favourite idol ever 🌷 (you are already thinking to do an touchy 4 grid pic with sana 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩)

[darkstar225]

Hiya Lovely

Alexia please being all protective and buying lots of water and vitamins for a teammate that she thinks is pregnant only for it to be revealed it is a different teammate who is pregnant. Cue confusion 🤣

Sorry for slightly changing it - cause I didn’t know if it’s sister you wanted but this is what you got, lol.

Alexia Putellas x Sister!Reader

Who the hell?

WC: 506

Alexia Putellas MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: short, pregnancy? Also if the Spanish is wrong. I apologise.

-

Alexia didn’t mean to snoop.

Honestly.

She’d just gone into the shared bathroom at La Roja’s training camp to grab her moisturizer from her bag, and there it was—half-hidden under a bunch of paper towels in the bin. A pregnancy test. Positive.

Her eyes widened. Panic immediately set in.

She retraced her steps, trying to remember who had been in the bathroom before her. And then it hit her—Salma. She’d seen Salma slip in there earlier. Alone. Quiet. Suspiciously fast. Was she acting strange this morning?

Oh God.

Salma’s just 21. Still at the beginning of her career. Alexia’s mind raced as she tossed out every scenario: a secret relationship? An unplanned pregnancy? Was she okay? Was she scared?

Cue Protective Alexia mode.

-

By the end of that day, Salma had six bottles of electrolyte-enhanced water, three different kinds of prenatal vitamins (Alexia had asked Jenni which were best), and a discreet, heartfelt speech about how “she didn’t have to go through it alone.”

Salma blinked at her.

“Wait. Go through what?”

Alexia frowned. “Salma… it’s bueno. I found the test. lo sé.” (Fine - I know)

“…What test?”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore. I saw it in the bathroom earlier.”

Salma’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you think I’m pregnant?!”

“…You’re not?”

“¡¿No?!”

Alexia stared at her. “Oh.”

Cue silence.

And then: “Entonces, ¿quién carajo-“ (then who the hell-)

-

That night, when Alexia got back to the apartment she shared with her younger sister, she barged into your room without knocking.

You were sitting on your bed in your hoodie, eating pickles from a jar with your headphones in.

You looked up. “Hola,” (hello)

Alexia crossed her arms. “Bathroom. Training camp. Pregnancy test.”

Your face went pale. The jar tipped slightly in your hand.

“Not Salma?” You asked

“Definitely not Salma.”

You winced.

“Esta bien, no te enojes,” (Okay, don’t get mad)

“…Are you kidding me right now?”

“I was drunk!” you blurted out. “It was a party. He was nice. It didn’t mean anything, it was just—ugh, no sé, Alexia, it just happened.” (I don’t know)

Alexia’s face was unreadable.

“I’m gay. Still very gay,” you added quickly. “Just also… apparently bad at tequila.”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “¿Estás bien?” (Are you okay)

You blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m terrified,” Alexia said. “But mostly for you. You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t know how,” you whispered. “And he’s actually… being really supportive? Like, he wants to be in the baby’s life. sin drama. Just… there.” (No drama)

Alexia’s face softened. She sat on the edge of your bed and looked at the pickle jar between your knees. “That explains that.”

You chuckled weakly. “Did you really think Salma was pregnant?”

“I bought her vitamins, Y/N.”

You both burst out laughing—slightly hysterical, a little teary.

After a moment, Alexia reached over and pulled you into a hug, hand gently resting on your hair.

“We’ll figure this out, okay?” she murmured. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“te amo, you know.” (I love you)

“yo también te amo, Even if you make me think my teammate’s having a secret baby.” (I love you too)

[darkstar225]

Peter Parker x female!reader (established relationship)

Imagine if Peter finally brought his gf to the tower

Everyone would be so happy for Peter, and tony would give her wanrjngs ofc

this is an alternate universe where the events of civil war never happened, but tony still called peter in. and let’s not talk about how i’m over a year late… life caught up to me. if you’ve stuck around, i appreciate you! thank you for requesting ♡

･｡ﾟ: ∘◦☾◦∘｡ﾟ.

pairing: mcu!peter parker x reader cw: mentions of anxiety, mentions of alcohol, threats wc: 1.4k

“honey, why are you fidgeting?” peter asked, gently grasping your fingers to keep you from pulling on the hem of your sweater.

you sighed, giving his hands a small squeeze. "i'm scared, pete. they're a huge part of your life. what if they don't like me?"

he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "i promise they'll love you, bug. how could they not?"

you managed a wobbly smile, and concern clouded peter's face. "how about this, honey? if they don't like you, i'll quit. i'll pack everything up and leave. we're a package deal, yeah?"

he extended his pinky, prodding yours.

"no, that's so stupid. this is- you love everything about them, and this job. i could never make you do that."

peter wrapped his pinky around yours and grinned. "good, because it's not going to happen."

a small ding preceded the elevator slowing to a stop, and your heart once again raced. you knew it was stupid, you knew they wouldn't be anything but kind to you. and yet, the same little voice that told you peter was too good for you was talking.

it didn't have much time, however, because the elevator doors slid open.

in front of you stood a massive workshop, high-tech equipment stuffed in every corner. screens mounted high on the walls blinked with all sorts of blueprints, while robots scuttled across the ground and holograms of iron man suits twirled through the air. both vintage and sports cars lined the back wall, shelves stuffed with funnels, jacks, and batteries. old versions of iron man suits stood displayed across the workshop, all the way from the silver mark two to the flashy mark forty-five.

the real iron man was bent over a table saw in the middle of the workshop. he was clad in a ragged metallica shirt, grease smeared across his face as he ran a sheet of cherry-red metal over the blade. sparks danced up into the air at the contact, just missing his face.

“hey, mr. stark!”

the screech of the saw stopped, though tony didn't look up from his work. a scrap of metal clattered to the floor, and you cringed at the sound.

“hey, pete,” he said.

it was silent for a moment, and peter cleared his throat. tony’s gaze flicked toward you, and you offered him an awkward wave. his eyes widened.

“well jesus, spider-boy, you didn’t tell me you were bringing a lady!”

“sorry,” peter laughed. “this is mr. stark. mr. stark, this is…”

"oh, she needs no introduction!"

he leapt up from his desk, tossing his plastic safety glasses to the side before pulling you into an embrace. he smelled like smoke, and your eyes stung with it.

"nice to meet you, mr. stark," you said, muffled against the fabric of his t-shirt.

"nice to meet you, kiddo." tony leaned in close to your ear to whisper. "you hurt him, we hurt you."

you blinked. "um-"

"kidding, i'm kidding. but seriously," he said, straightening up and walking back to his saw. "don't try it."

"i-i won't."

peter shot tony a glare before taking your hand in his. "come on, bug, let's go meet the rest."

"bug? that's adorable. think i should try that on pepper?"

"shut up, mr. stark!"

peter led you across the floor, through a set of doors, and up a flight of stairs. when he ceased to hear your footsteps pattering behind him, he glanced back at you. you stood three or four steps down, mouth agape at the majesty of the space in front of you.

it was the floor of the avengers tower that you'd become accustomed to seeing, in the back of peter's selfies and facetime calls, but pictures didn't do it or its inhabitants justice. beautiful paintings were hung across the walls, antiquated weapons were illuminated in glass cases, and intricate centerpieces adorned a dark wooden dining table. bookshelves lined the hardwood floors, full of armor and games and magazines. light streamed in from frosted glass windows and glowed from lamps set in every corner.

the kitchen was just as impressive, overflowing with bowls of fresh fruit, all sorts of cutlery, and every cooking gadget you could dream of. some shelves were full of cookbooks and ingredients, others displaying china and cocktail glasses. the sleek silver appliances glinted in the sunlight, only compounding your overwhelming sense of just how expensive everything was.

the scarlet witch stood at the stove, stirring the contents of a pot that smelled heavenly. across the room, sprawled on an orange couch, was black widow. the opposite couch held sat captain america and the falcon, deep in conversation.

peter's voice echoed across the room when he spoke.

"hey, i, uh, brought you guys a friend."

every head turned, and suddenly, all eyes were on you. silence hung heavy in the air, and your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"well, don't stare the poor thing down," natasha said.

somehow, just like that, the tension was gone.

wanda smiled brightly from her spot in the kitchen, offering you a wave with her free hand. "i like your sweater!"

"thank you!"

steve rose to his feet and shook your hand firmly. "i hope tony didn't scare you too badly."

you chuckled. "no, he's just... a little intense."

natasha laughed, shifting to one side of the couch to make space for you. "that's a nice way of putting it."

you settled next to her gratefully, and she offered you a warm smile.

"he's going crazy because rhodey's not here to keep him in check," sam said.

"when does he get back?" peter asked. "i have an idea for a new attachment for his suit."

"he has a committee meeting in d.c.," natasha said. "he should be back in a week."

peter frowned. "why does he have to be gone for so long?"

"do not be upset that colonel rhodes has a job and you are unemployed," a new voice spoke from behind the couch.

you snickered at the betrayed look on peter's face.

the android floated around the corner, extending a vibranium hand. "i am vision."

you shook his hand. "nice to meet you."

peter didn't want to let the subject drop. "being spider-man is my job," he argued.

you saw your chance to tease him, and took it. "then where are those paychecks?"

peter's jaw dropped, and before you could protect yourself, he was lunging forward, fingers tickling under your shirt. you squealed and squirmed behind natasha, who stared daggers at your boyfriend until he backed down.

steve smiled. "i like you. you're good for the kid."

"yeah, he needs humbled sometimes," sam agreed.

the conversation continued around you, and while you didn't contribute much, they made sure to include you. you found you loved observing the avengers' dynamic, their quick banter and easy laughter captivating you. it felt like, well, a family.

wanda called to you from the kitchen, her voice pulling you out of your reverie. "i am making lunch, would you like a plate?"

you shook your head. "that's very kind, but you don't have to."

"no, i insist."

"trust her," sam offered. "she's a great cook."

you relented. "if you're sure, wanda, i'd love a plate."

everyone gathered at the kitchen table while wanda served up lunch. peter pulled a chair up next to you and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"having fun?"

"so much," you smiled.

wanda had made dumplings, and they were indeed delicious. you were glad you had taken her up on her offer. they even seemed to sate peter's superhuman appetite- he sat back in his chair after only six.

tony passed through the kitchen, even dirtier than before, if that was possible. now a whole sleeve of his shirt was singed off. he grabbed a plate with stained fingers and loaded it with dumplings.

"these are great," he managed between bites.

"they're better if you chew them," steve mumured.

"hop off, old man. not like you could chew with those dentures anyways."

he finished his plate and set it on the table, grabbing a bottle of scotch from the shelf. natasha and steve exchanged looks while he poured himself a glass.

"underoos, do me a favor and bring your aunt over next."

he strutted out of the room before peter could let out an exasperated 'mr. stark!'

when you had finished your dumplings, peter cleared both of your plates and returned to your side.

"ready to go, baby?"

"pete, could we actually... stay a while?”

you swore you'd never seen peter as happy as he looked in that moment. he was positively beaming, eyes alight with pride.

"we can stay as long as you want, bug."

･｡ﾟ: ∘◦☾◦∘｡ﾟ.

ko-fi ♡

[darkstar225]

Nerves and Nerds

Requested: yes

Plot: a young actress has her first day meeting the stars of the avengers set, playing Morgan Stark.

Tags: Fluff

Triggers: none. its pure fluff with a cute kid and the avengers cast

Masterlist here.

Taglist here.

Requests here.

Y/n, a 6 year old girl who had recently started acting, sat in the office beside her mum, her legs swinging, as the adults talking. She knew she had gotten a big role in a Marvel movie and she got to play in a movie with some big names in Hollywood. Her parents had said they had to talk some logistics out before she would have to go into the big room where all the other actors were to meet them. Something that made her incredibly nervous.

Her head snapped out when her mum said her name. “Y/n?” The 6 year old looked up with a small smile.

“Yes mama?” Her voice lilted as she tilted her head to look up at her mother, not sure about what’s going on after colouring her pictures the whole time the adults have been speaking.

“Are you ready to go meet your co-stars?” Y/n’s little heart picked up a little bit, her nerves striking her as she was about to meet some pretty big stars. She nodded her head and tucked her colouring book and pencil crayons away in her small backpack and stood up next to her mum who held her hand out, prompting the child to take the womans hand. “You okay little butterfly?” She asked crouching down, noting her daughters quiet demeanor all of a sudden.

“I’m nervous mama… what if they don’t like me?” She asked, her head hanging down, her foot shuffling back and forth. “What if they’re mean?” Her voice had dropped to a small whisper.

“Oh baby… I promise you that no body will be mean.” The mother said, one hand landing on the girl sshoulder and the other tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ear. “They’ll have to deal with mama bear if they do.” A small wink was thrown towards the little girl who giggled quietly and wrapped her arms around her mums neck forcing the woman who scoops the little girl up.

“Okay mama.” She muttered as her mum walked towards the board room that was full of her newest co-stars. When the director opened the door, the small girl tucked her head into her mothers neck with a small whimper after seeing everyone there. “Too many mama…”

“You’ll be okay butterfly.” A warm hand started rubbing her back gently. “One at time okay? We’ll start with Robert because he is who you have the most scenes with okay?” A small nod was given before green eyes peeked out to meet with Robert Downey Jr. eyes. “This is Robert.”

“You can call me Rob though sweetheart. I promise that its not as scary as it sounds. Most of the people here are so nice and fun, except Scarlett, shes scary.” The man winked at the little girl who looked over at who she knew to be Scarlett Johansson who had a look of pure shock on her face.

A small smack was heard before the whole room melted at y/n’s little giggle that followed after watching the blonde smack the man gently. “I am not! If anything, Renner is the only scary one.” Johansson said looking at the little girl who giggled again looking at the man who mocked a loud gasp. “Look how scary he is.”

“How dare you Johansson! I am a saint!” Jeremy said, placing his hand on his heart. “Mackie is the worst!” Another gasp had the girl giggling.

“Excuse you Renner! I am perfect just the way I am!” Mackie said with a proud smirk on his face. “Nice to meet you lady y/n! My name is Anthony Mackie!”

The girl smiled shyly then looked over at a lady who rolled her eyes and smiled shyly.

“Hi darling, I’m Gwyenth but you can call me Gwen. I play Robs wife so I’ll be your mum.” Y/n looked back at her mum then at Gwen and nodded.

“You can be my mama for the movie.” She said smiling at her. “You seem nice!”

“Awe thank you darling!” Gwen placed her hand on her heart smiling sweetly.

“You’ll be my mama so he will be my daddy?” Y/n said pointing to Robert who nodded and smiled widely at the girl.

“I will be! Youll be my daughter, Morgan Stark!” He said with pride.

“Morgan Stark… I like that name!”

“She’s so cute!”

“Mackie! Give the girl some space.”

“Stop telling me what to do Evans.”

“Never in my life!”

“Seriously. Can you two stop talking?”

“Says you Hemsworth.”

“Ow! I did nothing wrong Renner!”

“You were looking at me funny Ruffalo.”

“What does that even mean??”

A sharp whistle was heard and all the adults turned to look at Robert who had a disapproving look on his face, his hands placed over the 6 year olds girls ears so he didn’t frighten her. “You guys are scaring the kid!” They all looked at the girl who had a big smile on her face, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Wow… the whole Avengers cast is really just a big bunch of nerds…” Y/n’s mum uttered, sparking a whole new fight between the cast making the girl laugh even louder.

Taglsit:

@asiangmrchk13 @boredandneedfanfics @mythixmagic @natashamaximoff-69 @grim-trans-witch @hitler-the-stripper-318

[darkstar225]

starting a collection of my favourite AO3 author’s notes

honourable mentions

[darkstar225]

Amanda Lehan-Canto, 2014

[darkstar225]

this interaction is still so funny

[darkstar225]

In case of emergency | Ona Batlle x Paramedic!Reader

5k celebration prompt: "That's a lot of blood."

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.6k

-----

Today you would be giving a first aid training session at the Joan Gamper training ground, the staff of FC Barcelona had requested a course on the basics for some of their new employees. For the club it was very important that everyone knew the basics, even while they have trained medical professionals on their team.

As your partner started on setting up the CRP dummies that had been delivered earlier by some of your coworkers, you let the station know you’d be on location giving a training session. While this was a planned session, it was during work hours, so the possibility of being called to an emergency was always possible. You didn’t expect it for today since the schedule today was jam packed with personnel, but still you clipped your radio to your belt as you stepped out of the ambulance.

“All set up, Pedro?” You asked your partner as you watched him check something off on the clipboard. “Yeah, all ready to go.” He gave you the clipboard for a quick double check. “Looks good, let’s open the doors and get started.” You said after looking at the list. The two of you had given many training sessions, so the division of tasks came naturally for you by now. 

A group of ten people was waiting out in the hall as you opened the door, “Come on in.” You told them with a smile. They walked in and took their seats. Pedro started on some basics, he thought the theory, while you focused on the practical teaching. 

You listened to him teach from the sidelines, as you heard the door next to you open quietly. When you looked over your shoulder you saw someone who didn’t look like the rest of the people in the training. They were all office personnel, but she looked to be one of Barcelona’s players. Wearing a sleeveless training top, training shorts, and by the looks of it some quickly thrown on trainers.

“Sorry I’m late.” She whispered. “Training ran a little long.” Confirming that she was one of the players. “It’s okay, happy you still wanted to join. Take a seat.” You said with a smile. Usually the players didn’t attend the first aid training sessions, so you were intrigued to see her wanting to be part of today’s session. You let your eyes linger on her a little longer as she quietly took a seat in the back row. Instantly listening to Pedro, while quickly tying her shoe laces. 

“Now that you know those basics, I think it’s time we put your knowledge to practice. For that, my coworker will take over.” You stepped up, and asked them to follow you to the dummies. 

“If you could all sit down at a dummy in pairs, I will show you here up front how CPR works.” The group filled out over the floor, you watched as they each sat down next to a dummy with the person standing next to them. The football player looked around, realising everyone was partnered up. “Over here, you can be my partner.” You said with a smile, gesturing for her to come to the front with you. 

You quickly unclip your radio from your jacket and reclip it to your shirt, as you take off your jacket and lay it down in the corner. Once you’ve laid it down, you turn back to the class and kneel down next to your dummy. 

As you sit down besides the footballer, you send her a soft smile. “Thank you for joining, it doesn't happen often that players come to a session.” The footballer nodded her head with a smile, “Yeah, you never know when you might need it.”

“Smart thinking. You would be surprised how many people wait to learn until it’s too late.” Her joining voluntarily instead of having been signed up by the club impressed you. The more people knew CPR the better people could be taken care of. “Would you mind helping me show the class?” She agreed instantly and you turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, let’s get into the basics of CPR. It is the best tool to use when someone is not breathing and has no pulse. This is how you can keep someone alive long enough until help arrives.” The group listens to you intensely, nodding along as you show them how you can check for a pulse, and some tricks to check if someone is breathing. Then you show them the proper way to intertwine your fingers and the position you should be in to give CPR. 

“In this position you will start giving compressions. Your elbows should be locked, that way you’re using your upper body and not your arms.” You watch as they all copy the position. “Yes, exactly like that.” You say as you look around the group. “Now, Pedro will sing us a song. It’s called Staying Alive" by the Bee Gees, the song ironically has the exact right amount of beats per minute to follow the rhythm to do CPR to.”

The group chuckled at Pedro singing, and you smiled at his commitment to the bit. “Alright everyone, I will show you how to do it properly, and then you can follow my lead.” You started doing compressions to the beat that Pedro was singing, before telling Ona to take over and try. 

“Like this?” She says as she positions herself above the dummy. “Yeah, perfect. Now just use your upper body to push hard on the dummy's chest.” You watched her do five perfect compressions in a row. “You’re a natural, keep it up.” She smiled at you as you got up to walk around the group. You stopped by everyone to give bits of advice and tips. 

“Alright, next up I want to show you all how you can switch with a partner.” You looked at her realising you never asked for her name, so you quickly asked her. “To show you how this is done, Ona will start doing compression and I will take over.”

“Sometimes when compressions need to be done for an extensive amount of time, it is best to switch, since CPR is heavy work. So, Ona, could you start the compressions again? Pedro will continue humming the song, and I will count the compressions. Once you’re at thirty, I will take over.” 

She nodded and started the compressions back up, softly humming the song along with Pedro. You smiled at the way she was picking it up so quickly. Under your breath you counted, “-twenty eight, twenty nine,” you positioned yourself on the opposite side of the dummy. “Switch compressions.” You said and continued where Ona left off. As you counted to thirty again, you saw Ona getting ready to take over again. You watched with pride as she copied what you did before, “-twenty eight, twenty nine, switch compressions.”

You let Ona take over again as you addressed the group on the rotation of compressions and how it would benefit both the patient and yourself. As you were about to tell Ona that she could stop your radio beeped. 

"Ambulance 4866, Ambulance 4866, respond priority one to Avenida de Cornellà. Multi vehicle collision. fire department requesting an extra ambulance.” The dispatcher called out. "Control, this is Ambulance 4866. Responding priority one to Avenida de Cornellà.”

Pedro was already telling the group that you needed to respond to the emergency and that you’d be in contact for the continuation of the training another day. “Sorry, we have to leave.” You yell as you run outside to where you had parked the ambulance.

The call was a tough one. An arterial bleed in the field was never easy. Your hands, arms, and shirt were covered in blood, but you hadn’t taken a second to look at that. You got the patient to the hospital alive, that’s all that mattered. 

Pedro drove the ambulance back to the station, what you didn’t expect to see once you got out of the ambulance, was to see a familiar face from the CPR training earlier. “Ona?” You call out to the brunette standing to the side with one of your coworkers. 

The footballer turned around with a smile but her smile faltered when she saw you. “That's a lot of blood.” She said with eyes widened. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine. And the patients whose blood it is, made it.” She sighed in relief for both statements. “That’s good to hear.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see you again, but what are you doing here?” She opened her bag and pulled out your work jacket. “You left your jacket, I thought you might need it.” You smiled at her kindness and thoughtfulness. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you.” She chuckles, “I think that quite literally is you and not me.” 

“Let me know if this is overstepping, but could I get you a coffee or dinner as a thank you?” You asked her nervously. “I don’t need a thank you.” She said, and you let your head fall slightly, thinking you did overstep. “But I would love to have dinner with you.” You lift your head back up and smile. 

“I’m done with my shift if you want to go now?” You look down at your clothes again, “Well, after a quick shower of course.” Ona looked down at her own clothes, still her Barcelona training gear. “How about I pick you up in an hour? Then we can both take a shower and get changed.” You smiled, “Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.” 

You exchanged numbers and texted her your address. Who would’ve thought that a CPR training interrupted by a call would have turned into a date? Definitely not you when you stepped out of bed this morning, but you were excited to meet up with her.

-----

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[darkstar225]

can you do a barca x teen reader, where reader is the youngest by a lot and the team always reminds her of this, like making sure shes eating right and hydrated. One day when they are out of a team walk she sees something and ventures off until alexia realises and gets really scared something has happened??

Hiiiii - so I loved the idea of this but I thought it could have ended up a little bit too much lie @woso-dreamzzz's McDreamy so I've changed it to protective basically-a-mum-Alexia and R is about to do her uni exams

Baby

Barça Femeni x Reader ; Alexia Putellas x reader (platonic)

Description: Alexia is with you when you're about to go do your university finals.

At just 15 years old, you made the move to join FC Barcelona, one of the most prestigious football clubs in the world. Leaving behind the familiarity of home and stepping into the highly competitive environment was terrifying. Not to say that your home club wasn't competitive - far from it really. But Barça was a whole new level.

You were suddenly thrust into a new world where everything was foreign – everything from the food down to the weather was different. You found yourself constantly struggling to communicate even the simplest thoughts and feelings. Every conversation was a challenge, as you fumbled with words, trying to make sense of everything around you. The isolation was deepened by the lack of friends your age – no one who understood the awkward, confusing struggles of being a teenager. You were surrounded by talent and ambition, yet there was no one to confide in, no one who could relate to the fears and doubts you were battling daily.

It was hard. Really, really hard. You missed the comfort of familiar faces, the shared jokes, and the friends who knew you inside and out. You were tired and scared and lonely.

You had been given Alexia’s spare room. Moving in with her was a condition of your signing. Well, not her specifically, but moving in with someone was a non-negotiable.She had been kind enough to open up her home to a total stranger, offering you a place to stay when you needed it most. Living with Alexia was nice; she was patient ... understanding ... kind. But despite her warmth, there was always a lingering sense that this space wasn’t truly yours. Even after months of living there, the room still felt like hers, like you were just living in her guest room. That you weren't really in your own space.

You were too shy to make any changes to the room you were given. The walls remained the same neutral white she had chosen when it was just a guest room. You hesitated to hang up posters, put up photos, or even change the bedding from the plain pale green she had bought, fearing it might be overstepping a boundary. So, the room stayed as it was. White and pristine. It had taken you well over three months to completely unpack from your suitcase, although it stayed propped against the wardrobe in case you needed to repack quickly.

It took a while for Alexia to finally realise what was really happening. She had always assumed you were simply a shy child. That’s how she knew you, and that’s how everyone on the team saw you. Your quietness was just part of who you were, or so she thought. On the pitch, you were a different person entirely – a force of nature. The way you commanded the ball, the way you held your ground against opponents twice your size, wasn’t something that could be taught. It was an innate skill, a raw talent so deeply embedded in yourself that it was as if the ball was an extension of yourself. On the field, you were fearless, exuding confidence and poise far beyond your years.

But off the pitch, it was a different story. Away from the roar of the crowd and the adrenaline of the game, you were so painfully shy. Alexia had always noticed your reserved nature but hadn’t thought much of it. She had figured you just needed time to come out of your shell. However, as days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, she began to sense that there was more to your silence than just shyness.

She had assumed that your habit of retreating to your bedroom was just typical teenage behaviour. After all, she distinctly remembered herself and Alba doing the exact same thing when they were growing up. It was a chance for her to escape the busy household, to relax, to hide when the world was too much for her. So when you started spending more and more time behind the closed door of your room, Alexia didn’t think much of it. She figured you were doing what any teenager does – seeking out some privacy, a space to unwind and gather your thoughts.

Alexia didn’t mind the bedroom door being shut; in fact, she saw it as a sign that you were comfortable enough to claim that space as your own. She was more than willing to give you the privacy you seemed to want, respecting your need for quiet without questioning it.

But what she didn’t know – what she couldn’t have known – was that behind that closed door, things were far different from what she imagined. She had no idea that the walls remained bare, empty of photographs, posters, or any of the usual decorations that might have made the room yours. There were no signs of you putting down roots, no personal touches.

What Alexia didn’t realise was that your retreat into that room wasn’t just about typical teenage privacy. You were alone in Barcelona, and it absolutely terrified you.

She had come home after yet another one of her many events. The house was silent as she stepped through the door, but that wasn’t unusual. You had always been a quiet person to live with, moving through the house with a gentle presence that was almost ghostly.

As she kicked off her shoes and set down her bag, Alexia’s thoughts were already on you. She knew you tended to retreat to your room, and after a long day, she wanted to check in, to let you know she was back, maybe even see how you were doing. It had become a small ritual of sorts, she would see you at training all the time, but she liked to knock on the door and tell you she was home. So she made her way up the stairs, her footsteps soft on the carpet.

But as she got closer and closer to your room, something stopped her. You were crying. It wasn’t just the sound of someone crying; no, this was the sound of heart-wrenching sobs, the kind that made it hard to breathe. The sound was raw and painful, filled with a pain so intense that it hurt just to listen.

Alexia froze for a moment, her hand halfway raised to knock on the door, unsure of what to do. She didn't do emotion too well. She always managed to say the wrong thing and usually made everything worse. But she couldn't just ignore you. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing, not when you were hurting so deeply just on the other side of that door. With her heart pounding in her chest, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might find as she gently knocked on the door, hoping that in some way, she could be there for you.

“Bebita?” she called softly as she knocked gently on the door.

The moment her voice reached you, the sobs cut off abruptly, replaced by a painful, strangled noise that made her heart clench tighter. You clearly didn’t want her to see you like this. The sudden silence on the other side of the door was deafening. She could almost feel your fear and embarrassment through the door, imagining you scrambling to pull yourself together, to hide the tears that had already given away so much of your pain.

“Bebita, I’m coming in, ok?” she continued, her voice gentle but firm. Alexia pushed the door open slowly, giving you a moment to prepare yourself.

You had never looked so small. You were folded in on yourself, your body tucked into a tight ball as if you were trying to disappear, to make yourself as small and inconspicuous as possible. The oversized hoodie you wore swallowed you whole, the sleeves hanging far past your hands. It was much, much too big for you – Alexia assumed it must have been one of yours parents, or maybe an older siblings.

Your eyes were red and puffy, swollen from the tears that had clearly been flowing for some time. Your cheeks were flushed and slightly swollen, tear tracks streaking glistening wetly. For the first time, you looked your age. A tiny, terrifying child that was in so much pain.

Alexia felt her heart twist at the sight, realising just how much you had been struggling in silence, how much you had kept hidden from everyone ... from her.

“Oh, bebita. What happened?” Alexia’s voice was soft, her tone careful. She knew that right now, the last thing you needed was pressure, so she kept her voice light, almost coaxing. Her eyes searched your face for any sign of what might be wrong, but all she could see was the lingering pain in your red-rimmed eyes.

You didn’t say a word, only offering a small shrug. It was clear that you were retreating further into yourself, not ready – or perhaps not able – to open up just yet. Alexia didn’t push. She could see how fragile you were, how much you were struggling just to hold yourself together.

“Can I come sit down?” she asked gently, nodding with her head toward the empty space on the bed beside you. Her voice was full of warmth. She didn’t want to invade your space without permission, knowing that trust was something that had to be earned, especially when you were feeling so vulnerable.

You shrugged again, the gesture almost identical to the first, as if it was all you could manage. It wasn’t exactly a yes, but it wasn’t a no either, and Alexia took it as a small sign that you were at least open to her being there with you. She moved slowly, carefully, like you would approach a scared animal. As she sat down on the edge of the bed, she left a bit of space between you, not wanting to crowd you, but close enough that you would feel her presence

“Did something happen?” Alexia asked softly, her mind immediately jumping to concerns about your physical safety. You had made your way home on public transport today, not wanting to wait for her to finish with her duties. You shook your head. It was clear you weren't going to lie to her, but you also weren’t about to volunteer information unless she asked the right questions.

“Ok, that’s good,” Alexia murmured, relieved to hear that you weren’t hurt. She took a deep breath and glanced around the room, hoping to find some clue that might help her understand what you were going through. Her gaze swept over the room – walls still bare, the same sheets she had bought a few months back when she offered to take you in.

“Did you need help putting up some pictures or something?” She suggested, changing the subject.

You shook your head again, a bit more definitively this time. “H-have none,” you finally managed to stammer, your voice trembling slightly as you spoke.

She blinked. “Oh … well that’s ok,” she responded gently. She wanted to offer a solution, something that might help alleviate the tension. “We could go and find some if you want,” she suggested. “Or you could order some and have them delivered?” Her tone was careful.

You looked at her wearily. “Your room. Don’t want to ruin anything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Alexia’s heart sank as she took in your words. The realisation that you were so deeply concerned about making mistakes was heartbreaking. “No, no, bebita,” Alexia said, her voice soft and reassuring. “This is your room. You can do whatever you want to it.” You swallowed, scared you had done something wrong. “We … we could paint it? Or build some shelves or something – put some extra storage in? Change the bedding, or ... or put some posters up?”

A small tear escaped before you could even attempt to brush it away. Alexia’s heart tightened at the sight. Shit, she had fucked it up again.

Alexia’s hands fluttered nervously at her sides, not quite knowing what to do in the face of your sudden tears. She wanted to reach out, her instincts told her you needed a hug, but her mind held her back. What if you didn't what to be touched? “No, no, don’t cry,” she cooed. “What … what can I do? What do you need from me?”

Your response came out as a barely audible whisper. “Ca-can I have a hug?”

Despite the fact that you had moved out well over a year ago, Alexia couldn’t help but worry about you. Yes, you were very much an adult now, living in your own house with its cozy, sunlit corners and a fluffy cat that could often be found napping lazily in the warmth.

And yet, whenever Alexia saw you, she couldn’t shake the image of the awkward 15-year-old who had changed her life in so many ways. No matter how much you had changed outwardly, no matter how many years had passed or how tall and strong you had become, the memory of that scared, shy teenager remained vivid in her mind. You had grown taller than her, and your physique could rival Captain America’s, a show of all your hard work and dedication. But for Alexia, all those changes did little to alter the way she saw you.

In her eyes, you were still the same delicate soul who had hesitated to ask for a hug. She had always questioned whether she wanted children, yet you had managed to trigger a deep-seated maternal instinct that she never thought possible. You had shown her how to be the person someone else relied on entirely.

She had held you so close, kept you in a tight hug for so long you had both fallen asleep. She had watch you take small steps, coming out of your shell with every passing day. It started with new sheets, then a trip to Ikea, then off days spent exploring the small shops of Barcelona, finding things to fill your shelves with.

You started cooking together, getting coffee after training, curling up on the couch to watch a movie together. Slowly, she became the big sister you never had, she would tease you and annoy you, and complain when you stole her clothes. She would make sure your water was all full and took stock of what you ate at lunch, she was the first to defend you if you needed it and often let you sleep with your head resting against her shoulder on the bus to away matches. She aggravated, annoyed, and most importantly, loved you in every why possible.

She couldn’t believe it – it was last university final. Alexia was caught between wanting to laugh and cry. On one hand, she felt an overwhelming sense of pride and joy at seeing you reach this point in your life. The thought of you sitting in an exam hall, ready to tackle your finals, brought a smile to her face as she marvelled at how far you had come. On the other hand, the reality of your situation tugged at her heartstrings, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia and emotion. She remembered the countless hours you had spent studying, the late-night revision sessions, the stress you had endured.

“Ok, bebita, you’ve got everything, sí?” Alexia’s voice was filled with a concern as she checked and rechecked your exam supplies. Her eyes, usually so assured, were tight with anxiety.

“Sí, Ale,” you replied with a gentle sigh. It was clear that her overprotectiveness, while touching, was a bit much, but you appreciated the sentiment behind it. You could see the love and concern in her eyes, and it made you feel supported, even if her meticulousness was a bit overwhelming.

“Pens? Spare pens? Paper? Calculator?” You looked at Olga, both of you shrugging at Alexia's hovering.

“Yes. Yes. They give us paper,” you answered each question with a nod, “I’m taking a history exam, I don’t need a calculator.” you added with a touch of humour.

Alexia’s eyes softened at your response. She took a deep breath, offering one last, affectionate smile. “Alright, bebita. Just making sure,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. “You’re going to do great. I know it.”

She smiled, kissing your cheek as she pulled you into a tight embrace. You loved Alexia's hugs. They always were a safe place for you, and it had only grown with the passing years. You couldn’t help it – her hugs had always felt like home. You took in a steadying breath, her coconut shampoo a familiar scent.

Even if you wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped up in Alexia’s arms all afternoon, savouring the security, you knew you couldn’t. Reality had a way of intruding, and in this case, it came in the form of an impending exam. You reluctantly began to loosen your hold on her, trying to step back and break free from the comfort.

Despite your gentle attempt to pull away, Alexia tightened her embrace, holding you close with a fierceness that spoke to how much she cared. You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

After a moment, you turned your head slightly, meeting Olga’s eyes unspoken message was clear: Get your girlfriend off me so I can sit this bloody exam. Olga smiled widely, winking at you before speaking up. “Corazón, mi amor, maybe let the pequeña go,” she said gently, “She does have an exam to get to.”

Alexia, huffed slightly but she finally loosened their grip, though she didn’t let go entirely just yet.

“Oh, sí, sí, lo siento,” Alexia said, her voice tinged with both concern and warmth. She gently adjusted the hair that had fallen onto your shoulders, her touch tender g. “You have everything, sí?” she asked again. You raised an eyebrow at her.

“Lo siento, bebita,” she smiled sheepishly. “You go in now; we will be here for you when you come back,” she promised. “We can go for lunch afterwards,” she added with a hopeful smile.

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you turned toward the entrance of the building where your exam awaited. You took in a deep breath, shrugging your shoulders and cracking your neck.

Alexia smiled at Olga, turning around and heading back down the steps.

"Ale, wait," you shouted, rushing back to where she had frozen. You flung your arms around her, squeezing tightly and burying your head in her necl.

“Good luck, bebita,” Alexia whispered into your ear, her voice barely above a breath. She placed a gentle kiss on your temple.

“Thanks, Ale. For everything.”