pookalicious-hq

[pookalicious-hq]

isagi yoichi who would literally be my dream bf like realistically speaking in this day and age...

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ first of all greenest flag ever (when he isn't on the field...)

i think we've seen enough evidence that suggests that isagi really has no past events that would lead him to be a toxic partner. this boy was raised right and it shows through out his interactions with the rest of the bluelock guys. (him on the field is completely different tho like tbh if everyone was treating me like that and calling me a donkey and trash and shit at my sport i would also blow up at them too tbh)

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ MATCHING YOUR FREAK/you two would be so comfortable together

i mean this in the sense that like with some people or some s/os there's like a certain image to uphold of like "the perfect cute" partner especially for girls like idk yk... I wanna be able to act like how i am with my bsfs all the time with my s/o and i feel like isagi would not only NOT judge you, but he would join in on it too. you're making weird jokes and not making sense?? he'll just nod along and agree-- maybe add his own random points. you're tweaking out about literally anything?? he'll scream with you about how that bitch stole your parking spot. he would literally be a a built in bsf, ykwim?? thats the type of guy I want... anyways

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ he isn't the type to shy away from physical touch/personal space

like for example he's not like a rin or kaiser type in the sense that if you tried to touch them they'd literally just sit there and maybe even move away... I feel like he'd be a huge pda like arm around you handholding typa guy.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ENABLER!!!

if you needed to crashout about something he would just feed into your rant with small "mhmm you're so right baby"s and shit like that. If you were a shopping addict and locked your credit card away so you wouldn't spend more money he would just buy everything in your online wishlists with his own CHUNKY BANK ACCOUNT (plus just shove cash in your purse when you're not looking)

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ SO FUCKING ADORABLE

this man... i can't even begin with how much i wish he was real. Hot, awkward, AND good at sports?? need.

[pookalicious-hq]

motion sickness... abby anderson x reader

next | masterlist

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - friends to frenemies to strangers to friends to lovers? how you and abby's lives unintentionally weave together through the game you grew up playing. tags: soccerplayer!reader, fluff, swearing, angst, collage au, soccer au, sfw <3,

˚₊‎‧ . 1. sorry that it went down like it did...

Good turf was always different from real grass.

Cleaner cuts. Predictable bounce. No soft patches or surprise divots to swallow your footing. You knew what to expect on turf—but after the last few years, the scent of freshly cut grass was something you found yourself missing. Something grounding. Messy. Real.

Still, there’s something comforting about the turf under your cleats. The way it grips, the way it gives. Your soles know this surface. Your feet move like they remember every inch of it. These shoes are broken in just enough to feel like part of your body—tight but not restrictive, hugging your arches like a promise.

The sun hangs low in the sky, stretched gold and lazy across the field. It glints off the goalposts, paints the turf in a warm shimmer, and casts your shadow long behind you. It’s still hot. Late-summer heat, the kind that clings to your skin even after the wind picks up. Your shirt’s damp at the collar, sweat cooling in patches along your back. Your thighs burn pleasantly from drills. There’s a rhythm in your chest, in your limbs. A hum you’ve only ever found in motion.

Your airpods pulse with music—something fast, bass-heavy. You’ve cycled through playlists, gone from aggressive pre-game to quieter tracks, but your body hasn’t slowed down. Doesn’t want to.

You never really want to stop moving.

Stillness makes you feel like you’re falling behind. Like if you sit down long enough, the rest of the world will keep spinning without you, and you’ll be left crawling to catch up. If you’re not training, someone else is. Someone hungrier. Faster. Better.

So you push through.

You’d moved into your dorm that morning, a mostly-empty space that smells faintly of industrial cleaner and new sheets. Your roommate hasn’t shown yet—just your duffel and luggage on the floor, your cleats by the door, and the echo of your own thoughts in that quiet room. No expectations. Just space. Just time.

So you came here.

The turf was familiar. Reliable.

People pass by the edge of the field, walking along the sidewalk that cuts between practice areas and the dorm quad—some dragging boxes from cars, some with water bottles tucked under arms, some laughing, already in groups. Already clicked in.

You haven’t met the team yet. Not really. A few nods during orientation, some passing mentions of names you’d rather not hear. That’ll all come later.

For now, it’s just you and your orbit.

You’d started slow—cardio laps, then tight cone work. Your breath syncing to your feet. Then more aggressive moves: speed cuts, switches, footwork. You love this. Love the way they demand your whole body. Love the precision. Love the burn in your calves and the stretch of your lungs and the way your heart kicks like a drum in your ribs.

It’s movement. Escape. Proof that you’re still here and still fighting to be seen.

Now, you’re wrapping up with shots. Piques. Quick setups off tight angles. You dart in from the top of the box, plant with your left, kick through with your right. Aiming for upper ninety.

Clang.

The ball smacks the crossbar and rockets back with a vengeance. You’re already jogging after it, cursing under your breath when—

“Fuck—”

It hits someone.

Dead-on. Back of the head.

They stagger a step and drop one bag, hand flying up to where it landed. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. Your cleats stop short on the turf, heartbeat louder than your music, drowning out the percussion thudding in your ears.

Then she turns.

And it’s like the world slices in two.

You knew you’d see her here.

Of course you did.

After all, right before your spoken commitment to USea, Abby Anderson did it first. The announcement made headlines—another power recruit for Seattle’s top women’s program, the girl from West Seattle High, the captain who tore through the championship bracket like a storm.

Still.

Knowing she’d be here—seeing her here—were two entirely different things.

The last time you saw her was in mid-May. Nationals.

Your team—Jackson Heights—had clawed its way to the final match. You’d played through bruised ribs, through overtime, through every bone-deep ache you’d carried since winter.

But it hadn’t been enough.

West Seattle High won it all. 3-2.

Abby assisted the final goal. A beautiful tackle and pass up the field that gave her offers to any school she wanted to go to.

You remember the way her arms stretched to the sky, the way she turned and ran toward Owen and Nora on the sideline. You remember the sweat-soaked back of her jersey. Her braid swinging behind her. The sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

She never looked toward your bench.

And you? You couldn’t stop watching her. Not really. Not then. Not now.

Her hair’s darker now than it was in elementary school.

Still long, still thick, still tied back in that braid you taught her how to do in 4th grade—after a Saturday club match when her mom was late picking her up and she was too shy to ask for help. Back then, she was too shy to ask anyone else, so you sat there on the sidelines, showing her how to loop it and pull it tight. Now? You imagine she does it in seconds, her fingers moving like muscle memory.

And yet, there’s a coldness to it. To her. To the way she holds herself, like a wall between the person you used to know and the one standing in front of you now.

She’s taller. Stronger. And she looks at you like—like she’s unsure of you.

She looks exactly how you remember.

And nothing like it at all.

She’s giving you the look right now, hand still at the back of her head, but there’s something unreadable in her eyes. Something carefully closed off. Almost too controlled.

You yank your airpods out, throat dry. You never expected it to feel like this. Her. Standing there. So close. You swallow hard.

“Abby.”

She blinks. A pause. Her lips tighten, like she’s calculating how to answer without revealing too much.

“…Hey,” she says. Her voice is flat. Almost casual.

Like nothing has changed. Like you two didn’t spend years—decades, really—by each other’s sides. Like you didn’t share everything, even your secrets.

But you did. You remember.

Your chest tightens. You hate how much that hurts.

The crowd is roaring now, so loud it makes your ears ring. The sound of feet pounding the bleachers, the hum of the announcer’s voice cutting through the air. It’s electric, and yet you’re hyper-aware of how it all seems so far away now. It’s just you and her, standing across from each other, two strangers caught in the pull of a past you can’t shake.

You look at her, really look at her now.

You’d seen pictures. Scouted her, watched her highlights. But it’s different when she’s right in front of you. Her muscles are more defined than you remembered, her frame taller than you expected. You always used to be the one who grew first. The one who was a little bit taller. But not anymore. Abby’s grown into her body in a way that feels solid, like she’s built to stand her ground, to carry weight that you didn’t see when you were kids.

And there’s something about the way she stands now. Confident. Poised. She looks put together in a way that makes you catch your breath. Beautiful, yes, but there’s something sharper in it now. Something more fierce.

Her hair is darker, pulled back into a tight braid that you remember teaching her how to do after practice all those years ago. The braid, the one that used to hang so loosely over her shoulder, now looks sharp against her back.

You glance at the armband on her arm, and then to yours. Both of you captains. Both of you leading your teams onto this field, where everything is different now. You’re not her teammate anymore. You’re not her best friend. You’re rivals.

Her gaze doesn’t leave yours, not even for a moment. It's steady. Controlled. But there’s something behind her eyes you can’t place. Something you used to know, but now feels distant.

She looks too composed, like everything is just... a game to her. But you know better. You know that Abby, the one you used to know, didn’t just play for the win. She played with everything she had. For her team. For herself. And in a way, maybe she still does.

But right now, there’s this quiet shift between you both. The tension feels thick in the air. You can hear the crowd but it’s all distant, muted, as if the roar of the stadium has drowned out everything except the space between the two of you. Your breaths are too loud. The turf beneath your feet feels hard, almost unforgiving, like it’s reminding you where you are. Where you both are.

Her voice cuts through the air again, like it’s barely there, and you want to believe it's just a hello. But it’s not. It’s too neutral. Too detached.

"See you out there," you mumble, and it comes out more like a challenge than a greeting, something unspoken behind the words. You don't know why, but the air feels thick, like you’re waiting for something to happen. Like you’re both holding back.

You see her glance at you for just a second, quick—almost like she’s scanning for something. But it’s gone as fast as it came, and then she’s already turning away. She walks back to her team, shoulders squared, as if she’s left everything that’s happened between you two behind her, leaving it all on the other side of the field.

Your heart pounds in your chest. You try to steady your breathing, but it’s hard. Too much is different now, and yet… it’s like nothing’s changed. You watch her, and for a split second, the world feels smaller. Like it’s just you and Abby again, back when everything was simpler, when it was just the two of you and soccer.

But it’s not like that anymore.

The whistle blows, snapping you out of your thoughts. You step forward, and your cleats dig into the turf. It feels sharp beneath your feet. The heat from the day still lingers in the air, the scent of sweat and fresh-cut grass mixing with the sweat on your brow. You focus on the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, blocking out the noise as you walk toward your team.

Abby does the same, her eyes straight ahead, her posture still perfect. You’re not sure what to do with the lump in your throat, the knot in your stomach.

But when the game kicks off, everything’s different. It’s not just about the ball anymore.

It’s about you and her.

And everything that’s left unsaid.

But now the two of you are forced with the reality of having to reconnect whether you like it or not.

“I’m so sorry—shit. I didn’t mean to do that—”

“Yeah,” she lets out a breath. Not out of anger or annoyance, more as though she needed to remind herself that this had to happen eventually, “s’all good, I know where you meant for it to go.”

You almost smiled at that, it would’ve been right to, but it would’ve felt wrong.

You both stand there, the space between you charged with everything unspoken. Abby shifts slightly, the weight of her bags a distant thought compared to the weight of your gaze. The bags are heavy, the kind she’s carried a thousand times over, but right now, it’s not about the weight of the world she’s hauling—it’s about the weight in the air between you two. You feel it, thick and suffocating, and you know she does too.

She shifts again, subtly, like she's trying to steady herself, like she’s already bracing for something she can’t quite name. Her muscles are tight under the fabric of her shirt, her posture squared like she’s about to take on a whole team. It’s defensive—like she’s still holding on to something. Holding onto her silence. Her walls. And you can feel that, can almost see them, see how they loom over her, a physical barrier she’s not ready to break. Not yet.

Abby clears her throat, the sound slicing through the quiet with an awkwardness that stings more than it should. It’s too loud. Too deliberate. Like she’s trying to erase the tension with something simple. Something normal.

“So, uh, USea…” Her voice is light, but Abby can hear it—the crack in the casualness, the strain behind the words. She wants to make it sound normal, make this moment feel like just another thing in the past. But she knows you’re reading it differently. You always did.

“I knew you’d be back,” she adds with a shrug, though the action feels like it’s for show. She can’t shake the weight of the words, even if she’s trying to mask it. You can hear it, too. You’ve always been able to read between the lines. It hangs in the air between you, thick with everything she’s been carrying. Her past, her choices, the silence. She wishes she could shrug that off like she used to do, but it's too heavy now. Too real.

The question from you cuts through the quiet, simple but loaded. “That why you didn’t answer my calls?”

Abby feels a cold ripple of panic shoot through her chest. She stands there, frozen for a second, the question echoing in her mind. You’re not angry, not accusing. It’s just... a question. Your voice is steady, curious, and it hits her in the worst way. She can see you standing there, eyes on her, waiting. She knows that look. It’s the same one you wore back when things were easier, when you didn’t have to piece everything together. And it makes everything feel ten times harder now.

She glances down at her hands, gripping the straps of her bags, knuckles pale from the tightness. It would be so easy to drop them—just let go and let everything spill out. But the bags feel like a lifeline, something to hold onto when everything inside her is shifting. They don’t compare to the weight of your gaze, though. It’s the one thing she can’t ignore.

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she wonders if she’ll even be able to breathe through this. She’s been holding onto so much for so long, and now it feels like it’s all about to break loose. She hadn’t thought she’d be standing here, in front of you, again, so soon. She thought she’d get to keep it at a distance. Keep you at a distance. But here you are, and you’re not angry. You’re just... curious. And it makes it worse.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy between you two. She wants to fill it. To say something—anything—to close the gap. But every time she opens her mouth, the words feel wrong, too small. Nothing can cover the distance between you.

She clears her throat, but it sounds too loud in the empty space. She doesn't know how to break this tension. What can she say? How does she fix something that’s been broken for so long? Her heart thuds in her chest, and she feels the panic creeping in, the familiar knot forming deep in her stomach. She doesn’t want to feel this way, not with you. Not now.

Finally, she forces herself to speak, her voice flat. “No. Definitely not.”

It’s all she can give. No explanation. No reason. Just the bare minimum. And it stings. Because it’s not the whole truth. But she doesn’t know how to give you the rest of it. Not here. Not like this.

Her gaze flicks briefly to your face, but she doesn’t want to look too long. She’s afraid of seeing too much—of seeing that you’ve changed, or worse, that you haven’t. But she can’t stop herself. She takes you in—your eyes, your posture, the way you stand now with that quiet confidence. You’re different. She can feel it. You’re still you, but you’ve grown, you’ve become something else, and she doesn’t know how to fit into that anymore.

Her gaze moves down, lingering on your cleats. Same brand. Same colorway. She remembers those cleats from back then, remembers kicking around in the park, laughing, not caring about anything other than the game. Back then, everything was so simple. But now, even that feels like a reminder of everything lost, of everything that’s slipped through her fingers. She can’t decide if it’s a comfort or a curse, if it’s something to hold onto or something that just drags her back into the past.

But it’s not just the cleats. It’s you. It’s the way you’re still you, but you’re not. And the harder she looks at you, the more she’s afraid of what she might see—or what she might not see. She doesn’t know if you want answers anymore, or if you just want to move on. She doesn’t know what you’re looking for, and it terrifies her.

The silence stretches on, suffocating in its weight. She’s not sure how long she can stand it. The space between you is too close, but it feels impossible to bridge. Abby tries to hold herself together, tries to keep her walls up, but it’s getting harder. The more she stands here, the more she feels like she’s breaking down piece by piece.

Her heart beats a little faster, each second that passes making it harder to keep the distance. She doesn’t know what comes next. But she knows it can’t stay like this. Not forever.

a/n: love my wife <333 mini series!!! lmk if you wanna be tagged

[pookalicious-hq]

ive needed this

Wait a fucking second…

Hear me the fuck out…

[pookalicious-hq]

she’s literally the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen in my entire life and i’m not even exaggerating.

photo from abbystanaccount ᡣ𐭩

[pookalicious-hq]

abby anderson, what in the living fuck did they do to you? i'm so sorry baby, we lost you to the male gaze </3

[pookalicious-hq]

this is how tomorrow moves... ushijima wakatoshi x reader

˚₊‎‧♡‧₊˚ - wakatoshi's life was always lived along side the hum of your violin, since when did it get replaced by strums of metal? tags: rich!reader, semi's cousin, fluff, swearing, angst later, musical prodigy reader, sfw <3, discription is mentioned sorry, but only stuff like hair and clothing masterlist

Much to his oba-chan’s dismay, Wakatoshi only knew how to play the piano. Not the cello. Not the flute. And worst of all, he had never touched a violin.

"A baby could play the piano beautifully," she had scoffed once, arms crossed as she watched his fingers move stiffly over the keys. "But a violin? Now that takes true artistry."

She had wanted a musician. Someone who could bring out the soul of an instrument, who could command an audience with a single bow stroke. A violinist’s hands were meant to mold sound into something alive—fragile, fierce, untouchable. But Wakatoshi had never been interested in delicate strings or breathy woodwinds. He wanted control. He wanted movement. He wanted to play volleyball, just like his father.

So, the violin—her prized instrument—remained untouched in its case, the polished wood hidden beneath layers of velvet, gathering dust in the corner of their home. She had told him it would stay that way until he could play both voices of the song properly.

Carnival of the Animals: The Swan. A duet for piano and violin. A melody that drifted through his childhood like a whisper of things left unfinished. The song he had learned to pour tea to, each note threading through the air with the scent of steeped leaves and warm tatami. His grandmother’s favorite piece—and for now, his as well.

But this wasn’t the usual melody that spoke tenderly to Wakatoshi’s thoughts. Lasting keys gave way to striking strums, the sharp twang of steel strings breaking through the quiet. His brows drew inward.

Ever since his last year in junior high, he had come to the third-floor music wing to listen. One of the rare places in Shiratorizawa Academy that brought him back to his early mornings with his oba-chan. He would sit just across from the open practice rooms, letting the soft timbre of violin strings fill the empty hall. It had become a habit, an unspoken ritual, one that helped quiet the restless thoughts that sometimes settled in his mind.

But today—today was different.

The confusion was evident in Wakatoshi’s expression. His brows knit together, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his usually steady gaze. His head tilted ever so slightly to the left, as if a different angle would help him process what he was hearing.

It was wrong. Not in an unpleasant way, but in a way that unsettled something deep in his chest.

The sound had hit him just as he stepped onto the third floor—a sharp, resonant strum, cutting through the air like a clean blade. Not the smooth glide of a bow across strings, not the aching vibrato of a well-held note. It was rougher, bolder, something that demanded space rather than slipping into it.

Ever since his last year in junior high, the third-floor hallway had been a sanctuary of delicate strings and practiced arpeggios. A place where he could sit against the wall, close his eyes, and let the weight of the day dissolve into each measured note.

But this—this wasn’t the same. It was something new. Something Wakatoshi couldn’t help but be drawn to.

And it was coming from the practice room at the end of the hall.

Determination was a quality that was evident in the way he lived. Every step he took carried weight, every word he spoke was measured—nothing wasted, nothing lingering. There was no room for indecision in his movements, no hesitations in his plans.

He was methodical, the kind of person whose pace never faltered, whose decisions never wavered. When he moved, it was always with intent. Even his silences had purpose—reserved for moments when words didn’t need to be said. All those were qualities he had been praised and admired for, though he never understood why. At the end of the day, he always knew what was next.

But this sound, this discordant strum, it tugged at the edge of that rhythm, a break in the usually seamless pattern of his life.

The music was louder now, a sharp edge that seemed to vibrate through the floor beneath him, drowning out the usual echo of his footsteps. For a moment, he found himself frozen in place, the usual clarity of his next movement stalling. His foot, which would have naturally moved forward without a second thought, hovered for the briefest instant. The sensation that this moment was different had an almost tangible weight to it—something unsettling, yet undeniably... pulling.

Without thinking, his pace quickened. His bookbag bounced against his leg, the familiar thud a reminder of the habitual things he carried with him. But his thoughts weren’t on the bag or the end of the day. No, they were on the sound. The rhythm was foreign to him, but it had a strange kind of pull—a curiosity that made his heart beat a little faster.

His steps came faster, now, the music almost guiding his movement. There was something magnetic about it—something that made him want to see who was behind it. Who could create such a sound? He could already feel the words bubbling up, the anticipation of telling Tendou later. He almost didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.

Finally, he reached the end of the hall. The other practice rooms were empty, their doors left ajar, but all the sounds were coming from the one at the end. He paused briefly, hand resting on the doorframe, listening.

Then, as if on cue, someone started singing. The soft, almost fragile voice cutting through the music. 

"Spinning out on what to say or what to do."

He almost stopped, the air catching in his throat. His steps faltered, his usual precision thrown off by the beauty of the voice. It was soft, tender—a contrast to the strums that echoed through the hall, which still rang with strength and urgency.

Wakatoshi hadn’t expected this. He’d imagined that a strong guitar would accompany a strong voice, something deep and raw, like the rock songs Eita had once forced him to listen to. Songs that had felt like they were meant to punch him in the chest, to rattle his bones. He remembered those moments—the ache in his ears, the harshness in his head. But this? This was different.

This voice was like velvet—smooth, controlled, each note wrapping around him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The guitar’s intensity was tempered by the delicate timbre of the singing, a seamless blend of power and softness, of strength and vulnerability. The contrast felt like a revelation to him, something unexpected and unshakeable.

Wakatoshi’s feet moved again before he realized it, the beat of the music syncing with his own steps. He had to see who this was. He couldn’t let the curiosity go—he wanted to know what was happening in that room, to understand the magic that had pulled him here.

The door was just a few feet away now, and his heart seemed to beat a little faster with every step.

Through the gap in the doorframe, he saw you.

He could only make out the side of you—your figure silhouetted against the room’s light, framed by the soft glow of the windows. His gaze immediately settled on the guitar you held so tenderly, the way your fingers brushed the strings. There was something captivating in the simple way you sat there, at ease, as if the music was a part of you. And yet, he couldn’t shake the sense that he wasn’t simply watching someone play an instrument—he was witnessing something far deeper.

Wakatoshi’s heart skipped a beat, the confusion settling in, tight and inexplicable. You looked beautiful.

He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t even begin to decipher why he felt this way. He had seen beautiful things before. His mother had an extensive collection of vintage yukatas displayed in one of the many halls of their estate, each piece carefully preserved and admired for its intricate colors and fine craftsmanship. When he was little, he would sit for hours in front of them, entranced by the delicate threads woven together into something so exquisite. He knew what beauty was. He understood it in a way that went beyond simple admiration.

But this... this was different. Why did he feel this pull toward you? Why did something so simple as the way your hair fell against your shoulder, the pink highlight catching in the light, stir something in him?

He watched the way you held your guitar, the wood of the instrument catching the sunlight streaming in through the windows, casting a soft, pink hue at your feet. It was as if you were suspended in time—unaware of the effect you were having on the world around you. Your movements, delicate and purposeful, seemed to have their own rhythm. There was something natural about the way you existed in the space. The contrast between the soft, almost ethereal voice and the steady strums of the guitar created a harmony that felt real, raw. It made Wakatoshi want to understand you more, to know what had led to this moment.

In some ways, you reminded him of an idol—though the thought immediately felt wrong. Idols performed for an audience, their image curated, their emotions manufactured by the hands of a controlling company. But you, Wakatoshi could tell, didn’t play for anyone but yourself. The way you seemed lost in the music, your fingers dancing across the strings as if the world had faded away around you, made it clear that this was something pure. Something personal.

Wakatoshi stood there, the edge of the doorframe digging into his shoulder as he lingered in the threshold. At first, the music was all that filled his senses—the sharp, deliberate strums of the guitar, each one echoing down the empty hallway, threading through the air with a mix of tension and release. It was hypnotic. The kind of sound that seeped into the space around him, demanding attention, drawing his thoughts away from everything else.

But then, as the melody continued, something shifted.

His mind snapped back to the present when you turned your head, catching the way the sunlight caught in your hair. You weren’t aware of him at first, lost in the reverie of the music, your fingers lightly grazing over the guitar strings, moving with such practiced ease. You had a few clips in your hair, some colorful and some simple, sticking out of your otherwise messy ponytail, strands of hair escaping and curling around your face. The clips weren’t particularly stylish, but they gave the impression of someone who wasn’t concerned with perfection—someone who just... was.

What caught his attention most was the way the sunlight danced across your skin, casting a soft glow, illuminating the contours of your cheekbones, the gentle curve of your jaw. The slight pink hue of the light reflected in your hair—giving the whole room a surreal, ethereal glow.

Then, when you finally turned to meet his gaze, it wasn’t the shock or discomfort he expected. Your expression was more... teasing? His heart gave a peculiar lurch, and the moment stretched out between you two. For the briefest second, he thought he imagined the slight lift of your eyebrows, the way your lips curled in the most subtle, mocking grin—like you knew exactly what you were doing. His breath caught, caught somewhere between disbelief and fascination. And before he could even fully process that, your voice melded effortlessly back into the music, an easy continuation of the song, as if the brief interruption didn’t matter.

The strumming continued as your hand moved fluidly along the guitar, and he caught the fleeting contrast of the motion—the way your fingers danced so tenderly across the strings, like each note was a secret only you could share. But it wasn’t just the sound that made him stay rooted to the spot; it was the way you embodied it. Every movement of your hands, every small breath between words felt like it had a rhythm of its own. The light that surrounded you, the shadowed shapes of your figure—everything felt like it was part of the same song, woven together seamlessly.

Wakatoshi’s focus shifted slightly, and for the first time, he took note of the little things—the details he might have otherwise missed. You were wearing those mismatched leg warmers, the kind that were so out of place in the sweltering warmth of the afternoon sun, but they fit you in some inexplicable way. The fabric was wrinkled from frequent use, the woolen texture a contrast to the smoothness of your skin. They were colorful too—stripes of purple, pink, and blue, which somehow added to the whimsical vibe of the whole scene, like you didn’t mind the oddity of it. It was such a small thing, but it made him feel like he was seeing something genuine, something real. You weren’t putting on a performance for anyone. You were just... existing.

And then there was the way you held the guitar. He hadn’t realized how delicate the act of playing could be. Your fingers pressed against the strings with a kind of reverence, barely any pressure, as though the instrument was an extension of yourself. The polished wood of the guitar gleamed in the soft light, the grain of it catching the sunlight in a way that made it look almost alive. He didn’t know much about guitars, but the way the instrument seemed to come alive in your hands made it clear that it wasn’t just an object—it was something you shared a connection with.

That connection was even more apparent when you glanced at him again, this time with that faint smile. It wasn’t a smile that invited company or conversation—it was almost as if you were amused by him being there, caught in your world without an invitation. That small, knowing laugh bubbled up from your chest, almost in time with the song, and it threw him off-balance. For a brief moment, he wondered if you were laughing at him. Was his presence that obvious? Was it strange that he couldn’t pull himself away? But there was no mockery in your voice—just a playfulness that was unexpected. It felt... like you were in on a joke he hadn’t heard yet.

Wakatoshi’s gaze was caught by your lips as you turned back to the guitar. The soft smile lingered there, like a secret you hadn’t shared yet, but it didn’t disappear into silence. Instead, it turned into the quiet hum of your voice again, slipping back into the song. The sound of your voice weaving its way through the air, so fluid and natural. His chest tightened again.

And in that moment, he wasn’t sure what it was exactly that had shifted in him. It wasn’t just that you were beautiful—there were plenty of beautiful things in the world. Beautiful objects, beautiful places, beautiful people. But this felt different. It wasn’t a superficial thing, not the kind of beauty that one could describe in simple words. There was something about you—the way you existed in the space, the way your energy matched the music, how the light seemed to bend to you—that created a pull, one he couldn’t understand.

His pulse quickened as his eyes traced the outline of your figure. You were like the song itself—melodic and haunting, but also untouchable, unknowable. And that was what drew him in. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he wanted to know more. There was a quiet hunger in his chest, an urgency to understand what made you so magnetic.

But, as he’d been graced with your presence, something had to go horribly wrong. For the first time in his life, Wakatoshi was late to volleyball practice.

The soft hum of his watch on his wrist broke his trance. He blinked, pulling himself back into the present. He glanced down and saw the notification—Shiratorizawa Boys Volleyball Club Practice

The cold reality hit him like a slap. 5:00 p.m.

His usual routine was precise—he had it all memorized and organized, everything set neatly in his calendar. Practice at 5:00 p.m., with reminders set in place out of habit. It was a habit formed after his mother’s presence began to decline, when she could no longer drive him to club practices. He’d gotten used to the rhythm of those reminders, a gentle nudge that kept everything in place.

He could curse under his breath, the reminder of his responsibilities dragging him back to reality. His eyes flickered back to the practice room, disappointment settling in his chest. He hadn’t expected to be this drawn in by the song, by you. He wasn’t the type to get sidetracked like this—he was always so on top of things. So organized. And yet, here he was, standing in the doorway, trying to force himself to pull away.

But before he could take a step, he heard the final notes of the song float through the door. The last one hung in the air like a sweet, lingering breath, a note that refused to fade completely, as if it wanted to stay forever. His feet seemed glued to the floor as the sound wrapped around him, sinking deep into his bones.

The room had fallen still again, and for a moment, everything was silent, save for the faint echo of that final note. He could feel it in his chest, the way it settled like a quiet promise, like something unfinished.

And though words barely formed in his mind, a realization took root: he wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for, but he knew—he didn’t want to leave until he found out.

The melody still lingered, but the reality of his commitment tugged at him. He took one last glance into the room, a brief moment where he caught the lingering softness of your presence, your hair still catching the light, the guitar resting in your lap like a lover, before he reluctantly turned and walked away. His steps were slow at first, like he was walking in sync with the fading music, trying to hold on to the memory of the sound, the way your voice had seemed to pierce through the air, leaving an imprint on his mind.

But as he stepped back down the hall, the final notes of the song reached his ears, and though he didn’t look back, he knew—he wouldn’t forget either the voice or the song. They would stay with him, hidden deep inside, like a seed waiting to grow.

“Days blend to one when I’m on the right beaches.”

The words came out quietly, almost too soft to catch over the muted thud of a volleyball landing somewhere in the gym. It bounced once, then rolled lazily across the court, nudged by a stray gust from the wall fan overhead. Most people would’ve missed it entirely—but Satori didn’t.

He paused mid-stretch, the long lines of his frame frozen in a lazy arch, towel slung loosely around the back of his neck. His red hair was damp with sweat, clinging to the sides of his face in uneven wisps. Slowly, he turned his head toward Wakatoshi, who stood at his side like a statue caught in thought.

“…What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Satori asked, blinking in mock offense, like the sentence had personally walked up and slapped him.

Wakatoshi didn’t answer immediately. He stood tall—noticeably taller than most of the third-years still lingering around the court, despite only being a second-year himself. His height alone made him a presence, but it was the stillness that made people look twice. He wasn’t just resting between drills; he looked… caught. As if his body was in the gym, muscles warm and humming from practice, but his mind was somewhere miles away—somewhere with soft sand, salt-warm wind, and a voice like honey and waves.

He held a water bottle loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the plastic like he’d forgotten he was holding it at all. His eyes were fixed on the far wall of the gym, where the banners hung proudly from seasons past, but it wasn’t the fabric he was seeing. Not really.

His chest rose and fell with a calm, post-practice rhythm. Measured. Controlled. But inside, something had been shaken loose.

“Getting into poetry now, are we, Waka-chan?” Satori asked, voice lilting as he leaned in slightly, like he was trying to peer into the deeper layers of Wakatoshi’s head.

Wakatoshi shook his head once—slow, deliberate.

Then he turned to face Satori more directly, and there was something oddly open in his expression. Not vulnerable, exactly. But… inquisitive.

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

Satori blinked. Then blinked again.

“Wait—you don’t know?”

No answer.

And that alone made Satori’s grin twitch a little. Because Wakatoshi always knew what he meant. He always said exactly what he thought, whether people liked it or not.

So Satori squinted at him, exaggerated and comical. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to be mysterious. Oh my god, are you trying to build intrigue now?”

Wakatoshi looked away. Not sharply. Just… distantly.

Satori's teasing slowed to a crawl.

“...Where’d you hear it?” he asked, suddenly more curious than playful.

Wakatoshi paused.

He’d been excited earlier. Really, genuinely excited. The lyric had stuck in his head like a thread caught on a nail, echoing and reshaping itself every time he thought about it. He’d wanted to ask Satori what it meant because Satori was good at that—turning abstract things into shape, giving names to emotions Wakatoshi didn’t always know how to express.

But now that he was here—now that Satori was looking at him with that knowing glint in his eye—he didn’t want to say it.

He didn’t want to tell him about you.

About how your voice had stopped him mid-drill like a rope around the ribs. About how that lyric floated out of you so casually, like it had always belonged to you. About how the gym felt different after hearing it. How he felt different.

It felt selfish. Wanting to keep it. Wanting to keep you.

Everything he had was always shared. The jersey number he wore? Someone else had worn it first. His position on the team? Earned, yes—but never truly his. Volleyball belonged to everyone who played it. Even his victories were shared with teammates, with the school name stitched across his back.

But that song? That lyric? That moment when your voice filled the room and found him in the middle of everything? That felt like it was only his.

And he didn’t want to give it away.

So he lied.

Badly.

“I read it,” he said, flatly. “In a book.”

Satori stared.

Then snorted.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, deadpan, tilting his head. “Sure you did. What book, Waka-chan? The Complete Guide to Suddenly Feeling Human?”

Wakatoshi nodded.

“Yes.”

Satori let the silence stretch a little longer, watching him.

He could see the edges of something fragile in Wakatoshi’s body—the way his grip flexed subtly around his water bottle, the way he wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore. And that alone told him everything he needed.

Wakatoshi never lied. He was blunt to the point of being painful sometimes. His opinions weren’t things he ever felt the need to hide.

So if he was lying?

It had to matter.

Satori didn’t push. Not this time.

Instead, he let the grin come back slow and wide.

Wakatoshi’s mind had already slipped away—to the faint blush of pink light on the floor where you’d sat earlier, guitar balanced on your knee. The quiet confidence in your voice. The shimmer of your hair clip catching sunlight as you turned. The moment your eyes lifted and found his—and the soft little laugh you gave, like you hadn’t expected him to be watching.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

From across the court, one of the third-years cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Ushijima! Tendou! We need you for blocking practice. Semi vs. little Shirabou.”

Satori stretched out his arms dramatically. “Duty calls,” he said with a smirk, then leaned in as they walked. “But this conversation isn’t over. I’m going to find out who made you get that look. And when I do, I’m making them a cake.”

Wakatoshi didn’t respond. But a tiny shift in his expression—halfway between fond and distant—was enough.

He could still hear the lyric in his head, looping like a soft tide.

Days blend to one when I’m on the right beaches.

The hallway still smelled like disinfectant and sweat. Freshly cleaned floors. The faint sting of shampoo Wakatoshi had just rinsed from his scalp still clung to the collar of his uniform shirt. The walk from the gym to the classroom wasn’t long, but the chill of the morning air still clung to his skin beneath his sleeves.

He adjusted the strap of his bag, gaze steady on the door ahead. The familiar scrape of Satori’s footsteps followed behind him—dragged, lazy, a soft slap of soles against tile as he half-shuffled beside him, towel still hanging like a limp scarf around his neck.

Late. But expected. Monday always started with morning practice. The teachers understood that.

Class 2-3 was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the projector at the front of the room. Some documentary was playing, the kind that played slow orchestral music under old film footage. Not that anyone was really watching. A few students had their heads down. Others were doodling in the margins of notebooks or sneakily scrolling through their phones.

None of them looked up—at first.

Wakatoshi stepped through the door and into the room like he always did: silent, steady, unbothered.

Then he stopped.

Mid-stride. Dead still.

Satori bumped into his back with a soft “oof”, and muttered, “Waka-chan, why are we braking in the middle of traffic—”

But then he looked past him. Around him.

And saw it.

Wakatoshi’s desk—his desk, always second from the window, third row—was not empty.

Ayumi was sitting there. Legs crossed neatly at the ankles. Headband tucked into her chestnut curls. She had her bag propped on the seatback and a glitter pen between her fingers, tapping it absently against her cheek as she glanced up at the two of them.

“Oh—hey, Wakatoshi-kun.”

Wakatoshi blinked.

Slowly.

He looked at her. At the desk. At the little ceramic cat charm dangling from her pencil case where his own mechanical pencil normally sat. His brows drew together slightly. His hands shifted where they rested on his bag strap, the tension working into his knuckles.

“I think you’re in the wrong spot, Ayumi-san.”

His voice was low, polite—but loud in the quiet classroom.

Ayumi’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced toward the projector screen like it might save her.

“I—no, um—can you sit down, please?” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips and motioning frantically to the teacher, who was still watching the video from their desk. “We switched spots—I’ll explain, just sit—”

“I think you’re mistaken.” Still not whispering. “This is where I always sit. Satori bothers me, but I can handle it.”

A stifled laugh echoed from somewhere in the back, as well as a small sound of protest from Satori.

Ayumi looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

Wakatoshi didn’t move. He reached forward slowly, hand hovering over her things—the pen, her notebook, her drink bottle—like he was about to start gently moving her belongings off his desk.

Satori saw it. He watched Wakatoshi’s fingers twitch like they were trying to grip a volleyball and instead landing on a glittery fruit sticker instead.

“Oh my god,” Satori muttered, stepping around him. “As much as I love attention, I do prefer it when I’m not actively getting Ayumi-chan in trouble.”

“I don’t understand why we need to switch seats,” Wakatoshi said flatly.

“Waka-chan,” Satori whispered—actually whispered this time. “C’mon. New seating chart. It’s fine. There are two empty desks right there, just sit—”

He tugged at Wakatoshi’s sleeve gently, the way one might try to move a boulder that’s thinking about becoming a mountain.

Finally, reluctantly, Wakatoshi stepped back. His hand hovered over Ayumi’s notebook one more time before he let it fall to his side. She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for an hour.

Satori slid easily into the desk to Ayumi’s right, dropping his bag beside his chair with a thump and sprawling immediately like a cat into sunbeams.

Wakatoshi walked around the row, already preparing to sit—

And then he saw you.

You were seated just behind Ayumi, diagonally to the left of Satori’s new spot, right beside where his new desk was.

And you were watching him. With a hand curled near your lips, covering a smile that threatened to spill out anyway.

A soft breath caught in his throat.

It was like the projector light hit you first. Like the room around you dimmed for just a second. The dust motes in the air moved slower. His thoughts lagged behind his body as he took in the delicate slope of your shoulders, the sparkle of the hair clip above your ear, the slight shine of lip balm, the gentle shake of your head as if to say that was ridiculous.

You smiled wider.

He sat down too fast, too straight. Like he was suddenly very aware of how he moved.

Your perfume—something sweet and almost caramelized—drifted into his awareness and completely wrecked the logical part of his brain.

You turned back to the screen.

Wakatoshi stared at the edge of his desk.

He hadn’t said a single word to you.

And yet his heartbeat was in his ears.

He blinked once. Twice.

Satori leaned backwards and whispered like he was narrating a slow-burn movie. “Wonder who Pinky Pie is.”

Wakatoshi didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to. His hands were perfectly still on his desk. But the tips of his ears—just slightly—were red.

You had the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.

They weren’t just beautiful. They were familiar.

A very specific kind of familiar. Not the kind that comes from seeing someone in a hallway or on a club poster—but the kind that crawls up from your bones and knocks softly on your memory like an old friend.

And he didn’t know why.

Wakatoshi didn’t shift often. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t move unless movement had purpose. But now—now his posture adjusted in the smallest of ways, a subtle slide of his arm, a half-inch shift of his leg under the desk. Not because he was uncomfortable. But because the energy inside him was prickling.

His brow furrowed—barely. Just a crease. Just enough to mark that something had snagged in the smooth flow of his thoughts.

Your eyes had pierced through it.

There was something about them—the exact hue, the way the light settled into them like it was home. And the smile you wore, too easy and too knowing, it stirred something in him. Not desire. Not nerves. But… a sound. A tune.

A violin.

Just a whisper of it.

Soft and bright, flitting along the edge of a memory.

He didn’t remember the notes, not exactly, but he remembered the feeling. The space between each one. The hush of a room listening to a solo. The scent of polished wood and faintly drying flowers. The swish of a dress hem near a concert stage. The sound you made when you bowed with your head just slightly tilted, before rising again.

That music lived in his memory like dust caught in golden light.

He kept staring. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

Not in the way people stared when they were interested or stunned or trying to get under your skin. No—Wakatoshi stared the way a child looks out a window on a rainy day, trying to remember something the storm reminds him of.

And you felt it.

You’d felt it the whole class. The steady weight of his gaze pulling at your shoulder blades. So eventually, you leaned over, chin tilting with casual confidence, hair spilling like silk across your cheek as your body shifted toward him.

“Is there something on my face, Ushijima-kun?”

Your voice was soft. Curious. No edge. No bite. And that smile—gods, that smile—curved slow and teasing across your lips, as if it had been waiting to be used all morning.

He blinked.

He should’ve looked away. That was the normal thing to do. The polite thing. But he didn’t. He just… looked.

The glitter on your eyelids caught the light like dew. Your eyeliner was sharp and clean, accentuating the upward sweep of your lashes. The shape of your eyes—larger now than he remembered, but still yours.

And then the sunlight from the window hit the pink in your hair. And his breath hitched—only slightly.

Because it was the exact shade of the first flowers to bloom in his mother’s garden each spring. He remembered them. Quiet and soft, blooming between the stones. He remembered bringing one to you once. A long time ago. Maybe.

It clicked—just a little more.

“Still have a staring hobby, huh?” you asked, voice warm with amusement.

His throat moved. And then, in a gesture so very Wakatoshi, he nodded.

You laughed—a quiet thing, like water slipping over stones—and it was only interrupted by the teacher’s voice slicing in:

“Semi-san!”

Heads turned. You straightened slowly, not rushed, not panicked. Graceful. Composed. The ease of someone who was never truly caught off guard.

“I assume you already finished reading the text since you’re chatting with Ushijima-kun! Give me a rundown, if you would.”

Wakatoshi almost—almost—shifted in his seat again. The flicker of guilt was unfamiliar and didn’t sit cleanly in his chest.

But you didn’t miss a beat.

“Of course, sensei,” you said, voice respectful but light, like you’d balanced on the edge of formality and made it your stage. “The koto is a traditional Japanese stringed instrument that dates back to the 7th or 8th century. It was originally imported from China and became part of the imperial court’s gagaku music during the Nara period.”

You tapped your pen gently against your notebook, not to fidget, but to keep time. Your rhythm was steady—measured.

“It was considered an instrument for the elite,” you continued, “mostly among aristocrats and the highly educated. The koto has thirteen strings and is played using picks worn on the fingers… which are super uncomfortable, by the way. At least mine are.”

The class chuckled. Even the teacher smiled.

“Well said, Semi-san.”

You dipped your head once, gracious but amused.

And Wakatoshi just… stared.

Semi.

The puzzle pieces rearranged themselves again. Not fast. Not all at once. But noticeably. Tangibly.

You. Semi.

At break, he stayed in his seat, watching the class shift around him in waves of motion and laughter. He watched you zip your bag. And then, with the same quiet straightforwardness that made his serves so feared, he asked:

“How are you related to Eita?”

You turned, brows raised slightly.

“We’re cousins,” you said.

He frowned—not deeply. But thoughtfully. “Eita only has one cousin.”

You smiled again. Slower this time. Wiser. Like you knew what was coming.

And Wakatoshi felt it. The moment the memory slotted into place.

You.

You were the violinist. The prodigy who went overseas. The girl who played at that recital years ago, whose music silenced even his restless feet. The girl with pink-tinted petals in her hair.

And those eyes.

He remembered you bowing with a practiced grace. The swell of strings that lingered in the air after your last note.

He remembered holding his breath for reasons he didn’t understand.

And now, here you were.

Smiling at him like you’d never left.

a/n: woah, its been a while. sorry here's an old draft i had <333 probably gonna take a little break from writing, sorry loves

[pookalicious-hq]

atsumu miya who has the biggest crush on you and makes a private story with ONLY you on it so he can post thirst traps to get ur attention

[pookalicious-hq]

WE FUCKING DID IT LETS GO IM NOT AMERICAN BUT I FEEL SO PATRIOTIC RIGHT NOW BLEED BLUE UCONN RAHHHHHH

say it with me now UCONN NATTYYYYYYYY

[pookalicious-hq]

say it with me now UCONN NATTYYYYYYYY

[pookalicious-hq]

i don't even like you that much ...

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ has anyone noticed that paige has a staring problem, but only with you? tags: paige bueckers x reader, bball player reader, not proof read so many typos, pre-relationship

There’s a difference between zoning out and staring. One is an unconscious habit, the other—a deliberate choice.

And Paige? Well, everyone had started to pick up on the fact that she had a bit of a staring problem. Or maybe it was just with you. No—truthfully, it was undoubtedly just you.

At first, it had been subtle. A glance here, a lingering look there. The way her eyes would find you in the middle of a drill, during warm-ups, or when conversation buzzed around her. It wasn’t obvious—not yet. You never really noticed. You were always too wrapped up in the chaos of the game, the chatter, the moment.

But lately?

Lately, something had shifted.

Now, when your eyes flickered in her direction, her stare wasn’t just lingering—it was locked in. A gaze so steady it felt almost tangible, the kind that wasn’t meant to be caught. And when you actually met her eyes? Her expression would soften, the corners of her mouth curving just slightly before she abruptly looked away, pink blooming along her cheekbones, feigning distraction.

Still, you didn’t think much of it. You weren’t the type to overanalyze, and besides, on the court, your mind was always somewhere else—set on the next play, the next move, the next win.

But the cameras? The cameras saw everything.

The post-game interview was routine. You stood front and center beside KK, answering the usual questions about the game, the energy, the pressure. The lights were hot, the buzz of reporters constant, but you handled it with ease. Paige stood just off to the side, listening.

Or at least, she was supposed to be listening.

What she was actually doing—what the whole world saw—was watching you.

Not just watching. Staring.

The footage caught it all: the unwavering focus, the slight upturn of her lips, the way she unconsciously leaned in every time you spoke. Paige Bueckers, reigning leader on the court, utterly transfixed—like you were the only thing worth seeing.

And by the time the interview hit the internet, everyone had the same thought.

Paige didn’t just have a staring problem. She had a you problem.

And everyone knew she had no intention of fixing it.

a/n: lover girl paige

[pookalicious-hq]

365 party girl ...

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ : paige ends up having to pull you away because who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman? tags: swearing, paige bueckers x baddie!reader, mention osf "wife beating", bballl player reader, not proof read so many typos, established relationship

Anyone could tell when someone was made to perform. There was always a distinct look in their eye, a deep breath released in what should’ve been a career-changing action. It didn’t take an expert to figure out that you were meant to be seen.

It was in the way the cameras always found you—during warm-ups, during time-outs, even in those fleeting moments between plays. Your presence wasn’t just noticed. It was felt.

UConn’s most dominant defensive guard alongside with an offensive playmaking machine. A nightmare for any offense, quick-footed and relentless. You were everywhere—pressuring passes, cutting off lanes, moving in ways that turned good guards into hesitant ones. They knew if they fumbled, if they hesitated even a second, you were already on them.

And still, even in the chaos of the game, you looked perfect.

A flawless base, lashes full and fresh, nails a sleek, polished set—practical enough for the court, but still you. Hair laid to perfection, untouched by sweat despite the intensity of the game and atmosphere. When the camera cut to you, lips slightly parted, eyes burning with intensity, everyone watching across the nation didn’t know if they wanted you or wanted to be you.

The arena was electric. The matchup was personal. Everyone was here to watch UConn, to watch South Carolina.

To watch your girls.

And tonight? Under the blinding lights of March Madness, against South Carolina, with the whole world watching?

This was your stage.

So who the fuck did Ashlyn Watkins think she was, talking shit to your freshman?

The piercing tone of a whistle broke through the crowd’s outraged cries, and the image of Sarah Strong on the ground.

The foul was blatant—a hard block, sending Sarah sprawling onto the hardwood. But it wasn’t just the foul that set you off. It was the way Ashlyn stood over her, staring her down, like she had the right to intimidate her.

Like she had the right to intimidate anyone.

Before the refs could even get between them, you were already there. Your body moved before your mind fully processed it, stepping right into Ashlyn’s space and giving her a solid push—just enough to separate her from Sarah, just enough to send a message.

Ashlyn barely budged. But her expression shifted instantly—no longer that smug, self-assured look. Now, it was something harder, something pissed. She wasn’t used to anyone daring to move her.

Sarah, still wide-eyed and holding her head, reached up for your hand. Without hesitation, you gripped her wrist, pulling her up with authority, keeping your focus locked on Ashlyn. Sarah stumbled slightly, her hand coming up to her head, but Paige was there, steadying her her voice low, checking in on Sarah.

The gym was in full chaos—shouts, gasps, the air so thick you could feel it in your chest. Everyone felt the heat radiating off you. You were like a fuse waiting to explode, and Paige? She’d seen it before. Knew how deep that fire ran. You’d fight through hell for anyone on your team, and right now? Sarah was yours to protect.

Ashlyn’s smirk came back, but it was laced with pure irritation. She tossed her head back, then scoffed. “Make sure you hit the weight room, fucking rookie,” she muttered, her voice a venomous drip of arrogance.

And that was it.

Your jaw clenched. The muscles in your neck tensed. Your nostrils flared. Ashlyn knew better to keep her mouth shut. Before you could even think, the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

"Better stop hitting anyone else or we might hafta call the cops again, fuckin’ wife beater."

The gym froze.

For a half-second, just long enough for the weight of your words to crash down. The crowd was silent, processing what you just said, trying to piece it together. 

Then? Chaos.

The crowd exploded. Some in shock, some in laughter—loud, boisterous, the kind of reactions that only March Madness could ignite. On the UConn bench, Geno’s face was already in his hands, an exhale that said he’d seen this trainwreck before. One hand on his hip, the other rubbing down his face, mentally preparing for whatever he’d have to explain later.

In front of you, Ashlyn’s face twisted from irritation into pure rage.

Before you could fully process the chaos around you, Ashlyn was already in your face. Her steps were heavy, chest puffed out, eyes burning into yours.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

You didn’t move a muscle. If anything, you stood taller, chin lifted just enough to show you weren’t scared. The air between you two thickened, crackling with tension. The gym wasn’t silent—far from it. Whispers swirled through the stands, the crowd unsure whether to stay quiet and hear what was going down, or to keep up with the drama. 

“I said,” you drawled, each word slow and sharp, “maybe you should stop hitting people… or should we check the police reports, sweetheart?”

Behind you, Paige muttered low enough for only you to hear, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sarah, still holding her head, glanced between you two, unsure whether to step in or just let you handle it. Her hand stayed by her temple, like the hit was still rattling around in her head.

Ashlyn’s nostrils flared, her voice dropping lower, filled with venom. “Watch your mouth.”

You laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle—it was a mocking, unapologetic laugh, sickingly sweet. “Or what? You gonna hit me next?”

The gym hummed with tension now. People were leaning in, trying to hear every word exchanged, but only a select few could actually catch what was said—UConn's team, some of the players around you, and those courtside. The rest? They could only pick up on the heat radiating off the exchange.

Paige was still close enough to mutter under her breath, “She’s not worth the tech.”

You didn’t care. Not one inch. You stood your ground, your voice low but cutting. “Honey, I’ve got 911 on speed dial and two thousand witnesses who’d love to see you with an ankle monitor.”

Ashlyn’s face twisted in anger, her eyes narrowing, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But before she could respond—before you could provoke her further—Paige made her move.

With effortless ease, Paige wrapped her arms around you, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing.

“Nope,” Paige’s voice was firm, carrying through the chaos around you.

“Paige, put me down, right now.” You kicked your feet, your anger still boiling just beneath your skin. You could feel the crowd’s eyes on you, the way they were all in suspense, waiting for something to happen. You weren’t about to let them down now.

“Nope.”

“I’m fucking serious—”

“I know, babe.”

Still kicking, still throwing insults over Paige’s shoulder, you shot a look back at Ashlyn. “Yeah, that’s right, keep walking, Ashlyn. You got more fouls than made shots, anyway.”

The gym exploded. The noise went from tense whispers to full-blown shouts and laughter. The stands were electric, people on their feet, some hooting and hollering, others still trying to catch the tail end of what had just gone down. UConn’s bench was fired up, while South Carolina’s players shifted, looking to see who would make the next move.

From the bench, Azzi’s voice cut through the noise like a knife: “Paige, sit her ass down. I’ll grab the duck tape.”The crowd’s laughter reached a fever pitch, some of the students clapping, others just shocked at the boldness of it all. This wasn’t just a game anymore. This was personal. You’d stood up for your team, your freshman, your entire squad. And the gym knew it. Ashlyn? She was in over her head, and everyone watching could see it.

a/n: from a situation that just happened with me and my teammates...

I LOVE MY WIFE

[pookalicious-hq]

real

ESPN PLAYING “Doing it again baby” BY GIRL IN RED WHILE SHOWING PAIGES DEFENSE IN THE FIRST QUARTER IS SK LESBIAN LIKE SOME INTERN ATE WITH THAT ONE 😩😩😩

[pookalicious-hq]

a foreigner's god... 1 - skybound

library | navi | next part

synopsis: with the presence of a shadow, light isn't far behind. through two worlds you live within a balance of waiting and living. memories, faith and lovers all lost at once. tags/tws: a court of thorns and roses/throne of glass crossover!, azriel x fem!reader, so much fluff then so much angst sorry, meantion of blood, war and fighting, suggestive scenes, swearing, meantions of torture word count: 11.5k

You could never truly hide from the sun. Even with your eyes shut, even in the deepest shadows, she would find you—because she was never meant to be hidden from. Her touch, warm and gentle as a mother’s caress, reached through every barrier, slipping past closed lids to paint the darkness gold. Her light kissed bare skin, seeped into bones, and whispered secrets only the heavens could understand.

She was everywhere, in the glow of dawn spilling over the horizon, in the golden dust that clung to skin, in the lingering warmth on stone long after she had set. Others might shrink from her at times, shielding themselves from her intensity, but to you, the sun was not something to be feared. She was a promise, a constant presence, a piece of yourself reflected in the sky.

You loved the sun.

And she loved you as well—so deeply, so fiercely, that even before your first breath, the whispers of your existence had already begun. They did not start with you; they had been there long before, woven into the fabric of myths and half-forgotten prayers.

The stories claimed that once, long ago, the sun had not merely bathed the world in her light—she had given life. That in a moment of divine will, she had poured herself into the earth, searing it with something more than warmth, something more than fire. And from that touch, from that sacred moment, you had been born.

A child of light. A daughter of the sun. The first Seraphim.

But the sun had not let you walk the world just yet. Instead, she cradled you in her golden embrace, hid you away in the sky or beneath the earth—no one could say for sure. Only that you slept, untouched by time, waiting.

And then, two hundred years ago, you awoke.

You emerged into a world that had nearly forgotten you, into a court that had never expected to witness the return of something so celestial, so impossible. The Day Court took you in, for where else could you belong but in the lands that worshipped the light? The people called you goddess, miracle, salvation. Some knelt before you. Some feared you.

But the sun only watched. She only smiled.

And wherever you walked, she followed, not in fleeting rays or stolen moments of warmth, but in the knowledge that if there were shadows, there must be light, an eternal tether. She bent to you, wrapped herself around you like a second skin, a friend, a mother, a guardian, all at once.

The people of the Day Court saw this, and they whispered. A goddess, they called you, murmuring in reverence as you passed. They spoke of the sun’s favorite child, of the one who wielded light as if it had been crafted for her alone. They spoke of you with awe, with devotion, with a kind of fear reserved only for things beyond common understanding.

But to him, you were not a goddess.

You were an angel.

Azriel had never believed in myths.

He had spent centuries lurking in the dark, learning that gods the mortals prayed to did not answer. No divine hand reached down to save those who suffered. If there were gods, they were cruel things, detached and uncaring, watching from above as blood soaked the earth.

The idea of godly intervention was a lie, and yet, mortals still whispered of them. Some tales spoke of winged messengers who soared through the skies before vanishing into legend. Of celestial beings not born of flesh, but of stardust and sunfire. Of the Seraphim, holy creatures that had once walked among the Fae before they were wiped from history, nothing more than a fever dream of the past.

Azriel had dismissed them as nothing more than stories meant to lull children to sleep. Until now.

The rumors had spread like wildfire. A creature of light. A goddess in mortal flesh. The Sun’s Daughter.

He had not believed them. But as he moved through the Day Court’s gardens, bathed in molten gold and soft summer winds, he thought—perhaps, just this once—he had found something holy.

You stood at the heart of the garden, sunlight pooling around you as if you had been sculpted from it. Your hair shimmered, flecked with gold that caught the light like a halo. Your eyes—strange, radiant, endless—were the color of burnished honey. But it was your wings that truly unraveled him.

Feathered. Vast. White tinged with gold, as though the sun had kissed each individual plume. They twitched slightly, unconsciously graceful, and when you turned, your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Azriel was not a man who faltered. He had faced High Lords and warlords, had battled creatures that haunted nightmares, had stood before beasts and not flinched.

But that smile—soft, warm, unafraid—knocked the breath from his lungs.

He should have left. Should have remembered his mission, the scroll tucked into his leathers, the fact that he did not belong in this place. But for the first time in centuries, Azriel did not move.

He only watched as you stood in the garden, tilted your head, as if trying to place him in the shifting light.

And then, as if you already knew him, as if you had been waiting—

You spoke, "Come into the sunlight."

He winnowed back to the townhouse before you finished your breath.

But he did not flee.

At least, that was what Azriel told himself as he winnowed straight into the townhouse, shadows curling tight around him like a second skin. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, an unfamiliar thing—a foreign rhythm he had not felt in centuries.

He exhaled sharply, forcing his mind back into order. It was a trick. A game played by Day Court illusions. That was the only explanation.

And yet, even as he reached for logic, your voice still echoed in his ears.

Come into the sunlight.

Azriel cursed, dragging a hand down his face. He did not want to think about you, but the vision of your wings, your golden eyes, the way the sunlight bent for you, refused to leave his mind.

He needed answers.

It began as a flicker of curiosity, the faintest whisper of doubt at the edge of his thoughts. But the more Azriel tried to suppress it, the louder the question became. There was something about you—something he could not place, something right about you being here, in this place where the sun never left, yet he could not shake the feeling that this world didn’t deserve you.

Azriel turned to the one thing he knew best: shadows. He had spent centuries learning how to listen to the whispers they carried. And so, he sought out the tendrils of darkness, letting them twist and curl around his fingers, using them to search for any trace of what you were.

The answer had come back as a murmur—a single word.

Seraphim.

Azriel had scoffed. He had thought the Seraphim were nothing more than myths, forgotten tales from ancient history. He was no fool; he knew better than to put stock in such things. And yet, as he dug deeper, his shadows pulled him toward the stories, the scattered remnants of their existence.

It was not a mere legend. The Seraphim were real—or, at least, they had been.

Weeks passed, and Azriel’s frustration mounted. The more he searched, the more the answers slipped through his fingers, like fine sand caught in the wind. Even his shadows struggled to find anything concrete, as though the very nature of the Seraphim was designed to be hidden from view.

He tried the library, hoping for something more tangible, but all he found was dust and silence. Rhysand, ever perceptive, had begun to question his unusual research habits, asking with subtle curiosity why Azriel was spending his days between ancient scrolls and forgotten tomes.

Azriel, ever the master of evasion, had not answered.

After a week of dead ends and unanswered questions, he had exhausted every option. And so, with no other recourse, he found himself standing in Amren’s study, the heavy scent of bloodred wine lingering in the air as the ancient female regarded him with a knowing look.

“Why the blank face?” she asked dryly, swirling her glass lazily.

Azriel did not rise to the bait. “Tell me about the Seraphim.”

The name seemed to catch her attention. Amren set down her glass, the flicker of candlelight dancing off her silver eyes, which narrowed as she studied him. “Seraphim?” Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Now that is an old name.”

Azriel’s eyes flashed with irritation, but he kept his tone level. “I don’t have time for riddles.”

“You never do, you and your Truth Teller,” Amren muttered, her finger tracing the rim of her glass in a slow arc. “But why the sudden interest? The Seraphim have been gone for eons. Not a single trace of them remains.”

Azriel hesitated. He hated admitting vulnerability, especially to Amren, but the frustration gnawed at him. “What if they weren’t gone?”

A long, pregnant silence hung in the air before Amren’s lips parted in a quiet, amused chuckle. “Ah,” she said, reaching for her glass again, her fingers long and graceful as they grasped the stem. “So you’ve met her.”

His brow creased just the slightest. His pulse quickened. “Who?”

Amren’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time in their long acquaintance, Azriel felt a flicker of something other then danger in her eyes. “The Sun’s Daughter,” she said softly, as if the name alone was enough to unravel everything. “She is the first of them.”

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat, the word Seraphim now taking on an entirely different meaning. But before he could ask more, Amren raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t bother asking me questions you’re not ready for, Azriel,” she warned. “The answers will find you—whether you want them to or not.”

The finality of her words hung in the air, but as Azriel left her study, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders, he couldn’t help but wonder how much he truly wanted to know.

And whether, by seeking the truth, he would be prepared for what it would reveal.

Azriel stood at the foot of the palace stairs, his gaze wandering over the grand expanse of the Day Court's grounds. The sunlight filtered through the trees, their branches heavy with blooms of pink and gold, casting dappled shadows across the courtyard. Yet, amidst all the beauty, his attention was fixed on a single spot.

You.

There, at the edge of the garden, you stood like a figure of light itself, as if the golden rays of the sun bent down to meet you. Your wings, large and ethereal, caught the sunlight, radiating warmth and brilliance. Azriel’s heart skipped a beat as he stared, unable to pull his eyes away. The Seraphim. The Sun’s Daughter. His thoughts flitted through the fragments of stories he'd heard—myths, whispers, half-truths about a figure lost to time. But seeing you in person, bathed in sunlight, felt like a living impossibility.

A rush of confusion and curiosity gripped him. He’d never been the kind to be distracted, to let his gaze wander, but there was something about you that called to him, something undeniable.

“Azriel?” Rhysand’s voice snapped him out of his trance, sharp and knowing. “You planning to stare at the garden all day, or are we going inside for this meeting?”

Azriel blinked, taking one last look at the figure bathed in sunlight before nodding stiffly. “Right,” he murmured, forcing himself to turn away.

The walk inside was as grand as the courtyard outside. Tall marble columns, gilded with gold, stretched to the high, vaulted ceilings. The scent of roses and citrus hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint, calming scent of freshly polished wood. The palace radiated warmth, like sunlight turned into a physical space. But despite all its beauty, Azriel couldn’t shake the image of you.

Inside, Helion, as radiant as ever, stood in the center of the room, waiting for them. His smile was warm, genuine, and his eyes gleamed with intelligence that Azriel had always respected. The room was bathed in soft light, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, filling the space with a gentle glow.

Helion greeted the group with his usual charm, his voice smooth as honey. “Welcome, I trust your journey was pleasant?”

The conversation flowed effortlessly, as politics often did, but Azriel found himself unable to focus. His thoughts kept drifting back to you, to the way the light seemed to swirl around you like an aura, to the impossible reality of your presence. His gaze flicked toward the windows, barely catching glimpses of the garden, his mind wandering back to the figure he had left behind outside.

It wasn’t like him to lose focus—his job was to watch, to listen, to be ever-present and ever-aware. Yet, as the meeting continued, Azriel found his attention waning. His eyes darted once more toward the garden, searching, even though he knew you weren’t there anymore. He could feel the burn of curiosity creeping up his spine, pulling him away from the conversation that he should have been fully engaged in.

Helion, ever perceptive, finally caught on. His smile never wavered, but there was an amused glint in his eye as he shifted his gaze to Azriel. The room seemed to pause for a moment, the conversation carrying on without him, and yet Azriel’s mind was elsewhere.

“Spymaster,” Helion’s voice broke through the murmur of the room, teasing but not unkind. “Looking for something? Or should I say… someone?”

The words landed in the room like a ripple, drawing the attention of the others. Rhysand’s brow arched slightly, Cassian’s eyes narrowed with curiosity, and Mor’s lips quirked into a smirk, clearly intrigued. Azriel’s throat tightened as he realized they had all noticed.

He didn’t answer. His gaze flickered once more toward the window, unable to contain it, before returning to the table.

Helion chuckled, his voice light but warm. “I see. You’ve spotted her, haven’t you?”

Azriel clenched his jaw but remained silent. He couldn’t form a proper response. His mind was filled with too many questions, too many pieces that didn’t fit together.

And then, like something out of a dream, you appeared.

The sun seemed to bend to your will as you swept into the room, your wings gliding gracefully behind you. The sunlight haloed around you, casting a soft glow on everything it touched. It was like you carried the very essence of light within you, and Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as he watched you move. His mind, already in a whirl from the earlier tension, faltered in its attempts to regain focus.

Helion let out a soft laugh, clearly delighted by the situation. “Ah, here she is, the one you’ve all been hearing rumors about.”

You landed with ease beside Helion, your wings folding gently behind you. You glanced around the room with calm interest, but when your gaze met Azriel’s, your smile grew—soft, knowing, almost like you had been expecting him all along. You tilted your head slightly, as though regarding him with quiet curiosity.

“Yes, Father?” Your voice was light, playful, and the way you spoke the word Father seemed so natural, as if you had always known him—an unspoken bond, centuries old.

Helion’s laughter echoed around the room, rich with affection and a bit of amusement. It was clear there was a deep connection between you two, one woven through years, if not lifetimes, of shared history. But there was something else there, too—a familiarity that Azriel couldn’t place, something beyond the surface of simple familial ties.

Azriel’s chest tightened. He couldn’t stop looking at you, feeling the warmth radiating from you. Your golden eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and for a moment, it felt like you could see everything about him—the things he kept buried deep.

Helion, with his characteristic ease, broke the moment. “This is my ‘adopted daughter’,” he announced with a grin, “the Sun’s Daughter, as we in the Day Court call her.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, the energy shifting as everyone processed the revelation. Azriel’s heart raced, his thoughts scattered. You had a title, a legacy. And yet, there was something about the way you stood there, serene yet undeniably powerful, that made it feel like you were more than just a title.

You turned your gaze toward Azriel again, a small smile playing on your lips. Despite the golden light around you, there was a coolness to your stare, like you were studying him just as intently as he was studying you. There was something in your eyes that hinted at secrets—things too complex to be understood at a glance.

“A pleasure,” you said softly, your voice carrying a quiet authority. Your tone was polite, yes, but there was a depth beneath it—an underlying strength that Azriel couldn’t quite grasp.

Helion leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “I would assume Amren has already told you about her, though I must say, I’m grateful for your silence on the matter, Ancient One.”

Amren, who had been sitting in a quiet corner, raised an eyebrow and gave a wry smile. “I’m good at keeping secrets, Helion. You should be grateful.” There was a sharpness in her voice that Azriel knew all too well—one that indicated she wasn’t giving away anything she didn’t want to.

Your eyes met Amren’s then, and the connection between you two was unmistakable. The slight curve of your lips in a smile, the way Amren’s posture shifted just a bit more relaxed in response—it was clear you two shared something. A bond that transcended mere acquaintance. Despite the vast differences in your temperaments, Amren tolerated you, even enjoyed your company in her own way. And in return, you didn’t seem to push her boundaries, always respecting the ancient secrets she carried with her.

The conversation shifted toward political matters, but Azriel’s mind wasn’t in the room anymore. Every glance he stole toward you was filled with questions—rumors he’d heard, but never fully understood. What are you? He wondered, his pulse quickening every time his gaze met yours. You felt like something… ancient, almost too much for him to comprehend.

As the meeting came to a close, the Inner Circle stood, moving toward the door. Azriel’s mind was still tangled in confusion and curiosity, his eyes following you as you made your way toward the exit. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more about you—something he needed to figure out. But as the last of the conversation died down, he realized there was one person he could never get an answer from.

Amren.

Cassian’s voice broke through his thoughts as he threw his hands up in disbelief. “What the hell was that about?” he asked, his voice louder than usual. “Who is she?”

Rhysand’s gaze lingered on the door where you had just disappeared. “What’s her deal, Azriel?” His voice was low, measured, but there was an edge of concern. “Why does she feel so… different?”

Mor, who had been quiet until now, added her thoughts in a softer tone. “She didn’t just look like a goddess, Azriel. She felt like something else entirely.” Her words were filled with apprehension, and Azriel could hear the unspoken question behind them.

The group turned toward Amren, who had barely acknowledged them since the introduction, her gaze distant. But it was clear that whatever was going on with you, Amren wasn’t going to provide any clarity. She knew more than she was letting on, and they all knew it.

“What’s she hiding, Amren?” Cassian asked, his voice casual, though his eyes burned with the same curiosity as the rest of them.

Amren’s lips twitched into a half-smile, the kind that spoke of knowledge and power. “Nothing that concerns you, Cassian,” she replied cryptically. “But perhaps he will explain it one day.”

Her gaze flicked to Azriel for a brief moment, as if she were passing the torch to him. The others followed her glance, and Azriel felt their eyes on him, all their questions suddenly becoming his responsibility. He met their stares, his chest tightening with the weight of the unknown.

They all knew they wouldn’t get anything out of Amren, not now, not ever. The question of who you were and why you felt so different hung in the air, unanswered.

Azriel stared at the door, lost in thought, his mind racing with questions. For once, he didn’t have the answers.

"I was wrong."

Something most conscious beings had a hard time accepting. Azriel was wrong. He shouldn’t have left the comfort of the townhouse to find you.

It had been two weeks since the meeting, two weeks since Helion introduced you with that quiet, almost serene confidence. Two weeks since the unknown and inexplicable pull toward you had woven itself into his every thought. He needed to understand what it was about you. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly: Who were you? Why did you feel so different? What was this pull?

He had never been the one to chase after something—or someone—for answers. It was not in his nature, not with his shadows constantly whispering to him. But this time, this time had been different.

As he entered the gardens of the Day Court, the sun beat down in the way it always did, warm and soft. He moved through the orchards, the tall flowers brushing against his arms, the scent of petals and herbs surrounding him in a blanket of calming sweetness. But the air felt heavy, filled with something more than just the fragrance of blooming flowers. It felt like the garden itself was watching him, as if it knew the reason he was here.

And yet, you weren’t there.

The familiar stillness of the garden set a subtle unease in his chest. Normally, you were here, somewhere, basking in the sunlight, just as the rumors said the Sun’s Daughter always did. But not today.

He moved deeper into the garden, weaving between the trees and flowers, his steps quickening, impatience building with each turn. The further he walked, the more the path opened before him, as if the garden itself was guiding him, leading him toward a place he didn’t want to go but couldn’t seem to avoid. It felt like the landscape itself was conspiring against him.

Then, there you were.

In the distance, beneath the golden rays that seemed to crown you with an ethereal glow, you stood, as though waiting for him. Your wings unfurled slightly, catching the light, and in that moment, everything around him seemed to pause.

He shouldn’t be here. This was pointless. Why was he so attracted to you? It wasn’t in the way he found you attractive—no, that was not it. It was deeper, more insistent, like his very being was drawn to yours, like there were answers in you that he was meant to uncover.

But this was a bad idea. Why hadn’t he thought this through?

He had no plan. No questions. He hadn’t even figured out what he was going to say when he saw you. He had just followed the impulse, the need to understand. To learn.

And now, here he was.

A part of him wanted to turn around, walk away before you noticed him. But his feet were rooted to the ground, his shadows clinging to the grass, unwilling to let him go.

As he approached, you turned, your gaze meeting his with that same calm, knowing expression. It was like you had been expecting him all along.

You said nothing at first, simply studying him with those golden eyes that shimmered like the sun itself. It was maddening, how effortlessly you seemed to see through him, how everything about you felt like a riddle he couldn’t solve. And yet, it wasn’t just the curiosity gnawing at him—it was something more. Something inexplicable. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to understand you. That you were important.

The questions—the endless swirl of them—tumbled from his mind, and for a moment, he could hardly remember why he had come. Instead, his chest tightened with the overwhelming presence of you. You stood there like the sun itself, casting light on everything in the garden. You absorbed it, drank it in, until it seemed like the very air around you glowed, like the golden light was woven into your skin, your wings, your very soul.

"Hello, Spymaster," you said softly, as if you knew exactly who he was, even without the title. There was a weight to your voice that caught him off guard, pulling him into the moment, forcing him to face the reality of why he was here. "I didn’t expect you to come looking for me. How do you find my garden?"

His pulse quickened, throat tight, as the words threatened to spill from him—but no, they remained stuck, caught somewhere between his chest and his lips. What was he supposed to say to you? How could he possibly ask the questions that had been burning inside him for weeks? Why did he feel like he was unraveling the moment he tried to approach it?

"It’s beautiful…" Azriel finally muttered, but the words didn’t satisfy him. They weren’t enough, not when the weight of everything he wanted to know pressed on his shoulders. Not when the pull to understand you felt like an invisible thread wrapped around his chest, tightening with each passing second.

You smiled, a soft, knowing smile, and Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that you saw straight through him, down to the very core of his thoughts. "You don’t need to explain yourself, Azriel," you said, your voice threading through his mind like a whisper, cutting through the confusion. "Not to me."

Your eyes, still shimmering with that quiet power, seemed to study him for a moment, as though weighing something unsaid. Then, with a trace of amusement, you added, "You’re not the first to come looking for answers. And you won’t be the last."

Azriel stood there, his mind whirling as your words settled in the space between them. Who else had come looking for you? What did you mean by that? But even more pressing, why did it feel like you knew everything about him already, like your presence was somehow… familiar?

"I didn’t think this through," Azriel admitted quietly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He was standing here, in front of you, and his mind was a mess. He had no plan, no strategy. The questions he’d come with—he could barely even remember them now.

You tilted your head slightly, regarding him with a faint smile. "Most don’t," you said simply, as though it was something you’d seen countless times before. "You don’t have to ask all your questions right away. Some things need to come in their own time."

Azriel was left standing there, feeling as though everything about you had just unraveled him. The way the sun seemed to bend toward you. The way you drank it in, effortlessly glowing in its embrace. The pull he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried.

Finally, the question broke through his fog, desperate to be asked. "Who was the first?" He could barely keep the curiosity out of his voice.

You smiled again, and the air seemed to shift with it, like something old and powerful stirred beneath the surface. "I was."

And in that moment, Azriel’s world narrowed to that single response, the weight of it pressing down on him like a storm on the horizon. It made everything else feel irrelevant, insignificant. Because the first was you, and in some way, he knew now that he had already lost himself in you.

The game had changed, and he had no idea how to play it.

Ethereal was the only word closest enough to capture your essence within the confines of a single meaning. But even that seemed inadequate. You were more than just light, more than the sun’s rays casting their warmth on the earth. You were the embodiment of it, every movement you made bending the air, shifting the very atmosphere around you in a way that felt both surreal and magnetic.

Azriel could never have predicted it—how someone so... untouchable would invade his thoughts. He was used to the shadows, the quiet, the things that lurked in the dark. But you, with your golden eyes and that calm, knowing presence, made the very air feel like it was alive with energy.

He remembered the first time he had truly seen you—your wings unfurling like rays of sunlight, your form glowing, bathing the world in warmth. That was when the curiosity had first taken root. But now, two weeks later, it was more than just curiosity.

It was obsession. A quiet, relentless pull that kept him coming back.

He told himself it was nothing. That it was just a fleeting fascination. You were a powerful force, a being unlike anything he had ever encountered. That was all. But the more time he spent with you, the harder it was to keep up the façade. It wasn’t just your power. It wasn’t just your beauty. It was the way you made him feel, the way you seemed to see through him with that knowing smile, the way the light itself seemed to respond to your very presence.

As the weeks turned into months, Azriel found himself returning to the Day Court again and again. At first, he told himself it was just to understand you better, to unravel the mystery that surrounded your presence. But somewhere along the way, it became something else. It wasn’t the questions anymore. It was you.

He found comfort in your company, a strange sense of belonging he didn’t know he was searching for. You didn’t just listen to him—you saw him, in ways that no one ever had before. His silence didn’t frighten you; it seemed to give you space to talk, to share pieces of your life, your memories. You talked about the light, about the way it shaped everything in your life, and the way you could feel it in ways others couldn’t. You shared stories of the plants you cared for, the ones that seemed to thrive under your touch, and how you could coax them into bloom by simply being with them.

Azriel became so enmeshed in your world that he couldn’t remember when it happened, but he found himself looking forward to these visits. What began as a way to pass the time between missions, a fleeting curiosity, grew into something deeper—a friendship he didn’t know he needed. He didn’t need to be anyone else around you. He didn’t need to be the spymaster, the shadow that everyone feared. He could just be yours, and that was enough.

One day, during one of his visits, he finally asked you, hesitantly, “Your light, how does it work? I can only imagine, but I know I don’t do it justice in my head.”

There was a flicker of amusement in your eyes, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Azriel. You’ve earned that.”

He followed you into a secluded part of the garden, where the sunlight bathed everything in a golden glow, and the air was thick with the scent of flowers in bloom. You stepped into the open space, your wings unfurling slowly, catching the light as though they were made of sunbeams themselves. Azriel’s breath hitched. It wasn’t just the way the light seemed to bend around you; it was the power of it, the sheer beauty.

You closed your eyes for a moment, your entire being becoming attuned to the world around you. Then, with a sudden movement, you raised your hands, and the air around you shimmered.

Azriel watched in awe as the light seemed to dance, twisting around you like an ethereal storm. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. It wasn’t just power—it was life, it was energy, it was pure light. It moved and swirled in intricate patterns, forming shapes and colors he couldn’t even begin to describe. The glow around you intensified, casting long, stretching shadows across the ground, yet it never touched you. It was like the light belonged to you, and the world had to bend to your will.

Azriel was entranced, standing there in silence, utterly captivated. He hadn’t realized just how deeply he had become drawn to you, but in that moment, it was impossible to deny. The way your eyes shimmered with the power you controlled, the way your expression softened as you weaved the light into something tangible—it was mesmerizing.

When you finished, the light slowly faded, but the lingering energy remained in the air, like a hum. Azriel was still standing there, speechless, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low, almost reverent.

You smiled, an expression that was both soft and knowing. “Most people don’t get to see it. Only those who truly understand the light can appreciate it in its purest form.”

Azriel finally found his voice, his gaze still locked on you. “I don’t think I ever will truly understand it,” he admitted quietly. “But what I do know... is that I’ll never forget what I just saw.”

There was a warmth in your eyes, a glint of something deeper—something that made his chest tighten. You didn’t need to say anything more. The moment was enough. Your friendship had always been grounded in an unspoken understanding, but in that moment, there was a shift—a deeper connection that neither of you could ignore.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden light across the garden, Azriel found himself wanting to stay with you. More than anything, he wanted to stay, to let the moments stretch on forever. He hadn’t realized until now how much he had come to depend on your presence, how much he needed this—needed you.

Soon, he realized love was a fickle thing. It wasn’t something that could ever hurt, he came to realize. Others would advise him otherwise, with love came loss just as much as with light, there was dark. But as he spent more time with you, as he allowed himself to fall deeper into the connection they shared, Azriel understood—this love didn’t hold the loss others talked about. It was the moments in between, the small exchanges of trust and tenderness, and the quiet understanding that bound them together.

The longer he stayed by your side, the more he saw how others were wrong about love. It wasn’t a fragile thing that shattered with the weight of pain—it was a force that could build, that could sustain and hold even when the world around them trembled. He hadn’t expected that, not from someone like you, not from someone who shone with such brightness that it seemed impossible to reach. Yet here he was, every day becoming more tethered to you, to the light you offered without hesitation.

And yet, still—he was afraid.

He had grown close to you, closer than he ever thought possible, and with each passing day, the pull between them deepened. You were no longer just the Sun’s Daughter, a mystery he was desperate to understand. You were his, in ways that neither of them had fully acknowledged. But even then, there was that flicker of doubt.

What if it was too much? What if, in the end, there was nothing left after all of this, after the years, after the feelings? Love was something he had seen destroy—so much loss, so much darkness that followed the light.

Azriel had never been one to confront his own vulnerabilities. His shadows were a far safer companion than the raw ache of affection that had begun to reside in his chest. Still, the more time they spent together, the clearer it became: he could no longer deny that he loved you.

But that wasn’t enough. Love had never been enough, not when it could be taken away in the blink of an eye.

The sky was painted in strokes of gold and amber, the last remnants of the sun bleeding into soft pinks and purples that stretched endlessly across the horizon. The air was thick with the scent of ripe citrus and jasmine, the warmth of the day lingering on the grass, on the petals of every flower swaying in the gentle breeze.

Azriel lay stretched across your lap, his wings tucked close to his body, his head resting against your legs as though this had always been his place. And maybe it had. Maybe he had been meant to find you, to end up here, beneath the golden glow of the setting sun, his shadows quiet for once as the world bathed in your light.

It should have been like every other evening. Another quiet moment stolen in the hush of the Day Court gardens. But tonight, something was different.

He had watched you a thousand times before, but tonight, with the sunset casting you in molten gold, you looked like something from a dream. A painting of the divine, bathed in warmth, kissed by the light itself. And the worst part—the part that made his heart clench painfully—was that you didn’t even seem to notice. You didn’t realize how the fading sun bent to you, how the light curled around your wings like it was drawn to something greater, something more.

His gaze drifted to the sky, watching birds weave intricate patterns overhead, their wings slicing through the painted clouds with effortless grace. The soft rustle of the leaves, the distant hum of the fountains—it all blurred into the background, fading beneath the quiet sound of your breathing, the warmth of your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensation, on the way you touched him so easily, so gently, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps, by now, it was. He had grown accustomed to your warmth, to the way you leaned into him without hesitation, without fear. It had been a year of knowing you, and yet, every day, you unraveled him further.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to find you already looking down at him, your expression soft, knowing. The sunset burned behind you, turning the strands of your hair into liquid gold, your golden eyes catching the light in a way that made it impossible to look away.

You were the sun itself. And he—he was just a fool who had spent too long pretending he didn’t need its warmth.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you said, voice barely above a murmur, yet carrying the weight of something ancient, something undeniable.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. You always saw too much, always slipped past his defenses like light spilling through the cracks. And now, now you were here, looking at him like you already knew the answer.

Still, the words were difficult to admit. They felt heavy, lodged in his throat. But when he finally spoke, it was quiet, raw, barely audible beneath the soft rustling of the garden.

“That you’ll fly away,” he confessed, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, as if that alone would keep you here. “That you’ll go somewhere I can’t reach. I can’t bear to be apart from you.”

Your lips curved, and for a moment, you said nothing. Just reached down, your fingers tracing along the sharp edge of his cheekbone, soft and grounding, the kind of touch that settled deep in his chest and took root.

“It’s a good thing you have wings as well, I suppose,” you murmured, thumb brushing lightly over his scar. “I’ll never be somewhere you can’t find me.”

And as your fingers trailed lower, as the warmth of the setting sun melted into the warmth of your touch, Azriel realized—he had never stood a chance. He had already fallen.

The golden light clung to you, illuminating every delicate curve of your face, every feather of your wings, as if the sun itself refused to let you go. And him—he was the shadows creeping at the edges, the night patiently waiting its turn. He had spent a lifetime shrouded in darkness, wrapped in silence, yet somehow, here you were, standing at the seam where day met night, and instead of turning away from him, you reached out.

Azriel closed his eyes at your touch, his breath shaky. The weight of his fears, the shadows of loss and pain, suddenly felt so insignificant under your soft guidance. He had been running for so long, afraid to let anyone too close, afraid to truly let himself love. But now, here with you, he understood.

The light you gave him wasn’t just about warmth—it was about trust. It was about letting go.

When he opened his eyes, the sky had deepened into a watercolor of indigo and violet, the last streaks of sunlight retreating below the horizon. Yet, even in the growing dusk, you still shone. Soft, unwavering. The sun may have set, but its glow still lingered on your skin, as if refusing to leave you entirely.

Azriel lifted a hand, hesitating only for a second before brushing his knuckles against your cheek. It was a silent acknowledgment, a wordless confession of everything he had yet to say.

“I don’t want to tether you down,” he whispered, voice rough with something fragile, something afraid. “But if you’ll have me, I’ll make myself worthy to follow after you.”

Your expression didn’t change—not in the way he expected, at least. No surprise, no hesitation. Only quiet understanding, only that same steady warmth he had come to crave like a man starved of sunlight.

The wind stirred between you, ruffling your feathers, tugging at his shadows. Day and night, converging in this in-between moment.

You smiled, the kind of smile that was not just an answer but a promise. Your hand covered his, pressing his palm flat against your cheek, grounding him in the warmth of you.

“You were always worthy, Azriel,” you murmured. “You only needed to see it.”

And as the night settled in, as the stars blinked into existence overhead, Azriel knew, deep in his soul, that this was no longer about keeping himself safe. It was about taking that step forward, even into the unknown. He loved you. And for the first time, he was willing to believe that love could heal, not hurt.

The darkness of his past still lingered, and it always would—but now, beside you, he could finally see past the night.

Four hundred and fifty years, and you’d never set foot outside of the Day Court. Why would you?

The sun had always been your home, its warmth woven into your very essence. The golden sands, the vast orchards, the shimmering lakes that reflected the endless sky—you had everything you needed. The light had never failed you, never given you a reason to leave.

Until now. Until him.

Azriel stood beside you at the edge of a balcony, his figure a dark silhouette against the glow of the Velaris skyline. The city stretched below, vibrant and alive, its lanterns twinkling like stars, the soft hum of the Sidra echoing in the distance. He had asked you—gently, as he always did when it came to things that mattered—to come with him. Just for a little while. Just to see what existed beyond the eternal sun. And for the first time in four and a half centuries, you had said yes.

The moment you stepped into Velaris, the change was immediate.

The air was cool, crisp, and laced with the scent of rain on stone, the scent of something not quite like the sun-warmed earth you were used to. The sky, painted in deep purples and indigos, stretched above a city that glowed—not with sunlight, but with the soft flicker of lanterns and the warm golden light spilling from windows. It was a softness you weren’t used to, a stark contrast to the harsh brightness of your own world.

It was so different.

You inhaled sharply, your body reacting before your mind could process it. You instinctively curled inward, your wings flicking out slightly as though trying to shield you from the unfamiliar cold. But before you could say a word, something warm and heavy settled over your shoulders.

Azriel’s cloak.

“You’ll get used to it,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet amusement, though there was something deeper behind it—a tenderness, something protective. Something he had only shown to you.

You turned your head to look at him, meeting his steady gaze, and saw him watching you, his dark eyes tracing every emotion that flickered across your face. There was something magnetic about the way he studied you—like he saw all of you, even the parts you had never shown anyone else. You exhaled, shaking your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“You don’t feel it?” you asked, your voice quiet and almost uncertain.

“The cold?” Azriel asked, his wings shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. “Not like you do.”

You hummed thoughtfully, adjusting the cloak around you, letting its warmth seep into your skin. “You should have feathers, then.”

Azriel blinked, clearly taken aback for a moment. Then, a soft laugh escaped him. “I should, huh?”

You nodded, your gaze shifting from him to your own wings. The contrast between you was so apparent now—his wings like midnight shadows, smooth and leathery, while yours shimmered in the dim light, golden feathers catching the glow of the city.

“You’d look ridiculous with them,” you mused, a playful glint in your eye.

Azriel tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you teased back.

His smirk deepened, and the playful challenge in his eyes made your heart flutter. With a slow, deliberate motion, Azriel extended a hand toward you, his silent invitation hanging between you. It was a promise, a quiet assurance that, just as you had guided him in the Day Court, he would now guide you through this strange new world.

Before you had even set foot in Velaris, Azriel had come to Rhysand with the request to let you into the city. The High Lord, ever the schemer with a knowing glint in his eyes, had agreed without hesitation. He trusted you. The Inner Circle trusted you. And though Rhysand’s approval had been granted, it was Azriel’s belief in you that mattered most.

Despite the unfamiliar chill of Velaris, despite the strangeness of the city and the night around you, you took his hand without hesitation. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, his presence a grounding force in the whirlwind of everything new.

And you followed.

Every step you took with him brought you deeper into the heart of Velaris, into his home. Even as the city wrapped around you with its soft, vibrant glow, there was something about Azriel’s steady, unwavering presence that made the unfamiliar feel more like home.

As you walked through the streets of Velaris, everything seemed so different from what you had been told. For centuries, the whispers had painted the Night Court in dark, ominous tones, a place filled with shadow and secrecy. But standing here, beneath the dusky sky lit with a thousand twinkling stars, you knew that everything you’d heard was nothing more than the distortions of fear.

The streets were alive. Laughter and chatter filled the air, the sound of children running playfully through the cobblestone streets, their energy infectious. The buildings that lined the streets were bathed in the soft, golden glow of lanterns, and the Sidra rippled peacefully in the distance, its waters reflecting the stars. It was a city of life, not darkness, and it filled your heart with warmth.

You had never seen such joy—such pure, unrestrained happiness. It was a far cry from the serenity of the Day Court. The children, wild and free, played without care. Some of them waved at Azriel as you passed, their faces lighting up in recognition, while others simply stared at you, wide-eyed.. Your presence felt... different here, as though you didn’t just walk through the streets but shone through them. Golden light flickered along your skin as if the stars themselves had taken up residence in your being.

Azriel, ever the protector, noticed the way the children watched you—eyes wide with awe, captivated by the sheer brilliance of your presence. His wings twitched slightly, the familiar feeling of protectiveness stirring in him, but there was something else this time. There was pride, too. Pride that they could see, even for just a moment, how magnificent you were. That they could witness what he had come to know so intimately—the light that radiated from you, the beauty that filled every space you entered.

He said nothing as they stared, as some of the children whispered excitedly to each other, their faces lighting up in wonder. He simply kept walking beside you, his presence a steady warmth against the chill of the city air, the pride in his heart unwavering. You were his, and everyone here, in this place he called home, would learn to see what he had known for years: that you were meant to shine.

When you finally arrived at the townhouse, a wave of relief washed over you. It felt like him. As Azriel closed the door behind you both, you moved toward him, wrapping your arms around him from behind, pulling him into an embrace. His body stiffened for a brief moment before melting into your touch, his own arms coming up to encircle you. You felt his chest rise and fall with a shaky breath, and in that moment, everything felt perfect. He fit so naturally in your arms.

Azriel turned in your embrace, cupping your face gently, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt, but finding none. His thumb traced the line of your jaw before his lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of everything you had built together, of the years that had led to this moment. His lips tasted like home, like everything you had ever wanted and more.

When you pulled away, his hands lingered on your skin, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I have something for you,” Azriel said, his voice low, and something in the way he said it made your heart flutter with anticipation.

Curious, you followed him to his room, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet of the townhouse. As you stepped inside, you were immediately drawn to the middle of the room, where a set of clothes and leathers lay neatly on a pair of chests. You raised an eyebrow in surprise as Azriel watched you closely, his eyes filled with a quiet excitement.

The leather was deep black, almost indistinguishable from the shadows themselves, but it shimmered with intricate gold embroidery of a sun, its rays curling like tendrils across the fabric. The stitching was delicate but purposeful, capturing the essence of light in a way that left you breathless. You could feel the weight of the craftsmanship, the care that had gone into making them.

He watched as you knelt down to touch the fabric, your fingers brushing over the soft leather. When you checked the inside, you realized it was insulated—perfect for the chill of Velaris. He had thought of everything.

“You know me too well,” you whispered, your heart swelling with gratitude.

“Don’t forget this,” Azriel continued, moving to the side of the room, where a velvet dress hung. It was a deep, rich gold, the fabric so soft it almost seemed to shimmer in the light. Black accents adorned it—lace at the collar, delicate patterns embroidered across the hem. The contrast between the gold and black was striking, and you could already imagine how it would feel against your skin.

Azriel stepped closer, a soft smile playing at his lips. “ I knew you’d get cold. Don’t want you finding warmth within anyone except you and I.”

You laughed, the sound filling the room, and with a quick motion, you reached up to kiss him. But before he could react, you pushed him back onto the bed, your playful grin spreading across your face.

Azriel let out a startled huff, his body falling back onto the soft sheets. He reached out, grabbing for you, but you were already slipping away, your eyes filled with mischief. The softness of the moment lingered between you as you stood above him, the room filled with nothing but the sound of your shared laughter.

In that moment, nothing else existed. It was just you, him, and a love that felt as if it had always been meant to be.

...

Over the years, Azriel had noticed that you seemed to be fond of Velaris. Perhaps it was because you’d lived in the Day Court your entire long life, or maybe it was because Velaris made you feel more free. Sure, you had Helion in the Day Court, who had always been more like an uncle than a father, and the fact that you were technically older than him never ceased to amuse you both. But here, in Velaris, in the townhouse, you felt like you had the chance to be part of a real family.

The hum of warmth from the fire in the hearth was a constant presence as you spent your days with the Inner Circle. The dinners around the large table in the dining room had become something you looked forward to—a place where laughter flowed freely and the light of the flames flickered in the faces of those you now considered family. The smell of freshly cooked meals—Rhysand’s endless experiments with new flavors and Amren’s refined touch in the smallest of details—had become familiar. It was a home, the scent of food and wine mixing with the sounds of their voices filling every room.

After a week of sparring with Cassian and Azriel, learning the rhythm of their moves, your body had begun to adjust to the new style of fighting. Cassian’s encouragement, Azriel’s patient corrections—both had become staples of your daily routine. Yet, it was the moments spent with Amren that you cherished most. The quiet afternoons where you two would sit in companionable silence, the fire casting shadows on the walls, and Amren’s stories about the ancient times of the Fae were enough to make you feel as though you had known this family for lifetimes.

And still, even in the midst of all the joy and the softness of it all, the pull of the Day Court remained—a place where the gardens and the sun’s warmth always beckoned. But now, Velaris had a piece of you. And tonight, you had prepared something special for them.

The room was filled with the delicious scent of your cooking—a blend of spices and herbs that had been carefully chosen, much like the way you’d been welcomed into this home. As the table was set, the warmth from the candles reflected in everyone’s eyes, the flickering light creating an almost magical atmosphere.

And yet, there was something else, too. You could feel the lingering hum in your chest, the familiar pull of your powers, quietly waiting beneath the surface. You’d been so content, so at ease here with them, that it was almost as though your abilities were waiting for the right moment to make themselves known.

Cassian, ever the troublemaker, leaned back in his chair with a grin. “You know,” he said, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass, “we’ve never seen your powers. When we first met you, Azriel almost pissed his pants just being in the same room as you.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, and he shot a glare at Cassian, his shadows curling like tendrils of smoke, responding to the shift in the air. “I don’t remember it exactly like that,” Azriel grumbled, though his voice was laced with fondness, as he sent a quick, playful poke of his shadows toward Cassian, causing the general to flinch.

You smiled at the banter, letting the lightness of it all fill you. It was familiar, comforting, in a way that was entirely new.

“Well,” you said, standing up and stretching, “if you’re all so curious, I’d love to show you.”

The room grew still for a moment, as if the space itself held its breath. The flickering of the fire and the candlelight seemed to dim, the shadows stretching and bending at the edges. You could feel the pull of your power, the warmth of it coiling within you like the golden threads of sunlight, drawing you into the very air.

The temperature in the room shifted, growing warmer, the light beginning to ripple and pulse as you let it rise from within. You felt it now—like an old friend—coursing through your veins, filling the room with the soft, golden glow of the sun.

The warmth spread across your skin, illuminating everything in its path. Your wings fluttered lightly, the gold and amber of your feathers glinting in the light, casting ripples of color around the room like the dance of sunlight on water. Tendrils of light moved with purpose, curling through the air in slow, graceful patterns, as if the sun had woven itself around your body. It was as if the room itself was caught in the embrace of your energy, the shadows retreating as the warmth enveloped everything.

The Inner Circle watched in stunned silence. Cassian’s teasing grin faltered, his eyes wide, and even Rhysand, usually so composed, allowed a flicker of surprise to show on his face. Amren, ever the silent observer, gave a low whistle, her sharp eyes gleaming with approval.

But it was Mor who spoke first, her voice soft with awe. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed, her eyes reflecting the golden light that surrounded you.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest at the compliment. But Cassian, ever the joker, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Careful, Mor. Az might think you’re trying to get with his girl.”

Azriel’s shadows immediately shot toward Cassian, as if to scold him for his teasing. But you could see the slight tightening of his jaw, the possessiveness that he tried to mask. Azriel’s gaze flickered to you, and in that moment, you could see the silent question in his eyes. Would you ever leave him?

You chuckled, the golden glow around you flickering in amusement. “Relax, Cassian,” you said, voice light and teasing. “Mor’s just admiring my power. I can hardly blame her.”

Mor winked at you, a playful glint in her eyes. “You’re right,” she said, her gaze never leaving you. “You’ve got an incredible gift.”

Azriel relaxed slightly at your words, but his gaze never left you. You were surrounded by warmth, not just from your own light, but from the acceptance and admiration of the people who had become family.

You took a deep breath, letting the light recede slowly, the warmth still radiating gently from you. The room returned to its natural warmth, but there was a lingering glow, like the fading warmth of the sun after it sets.

Cassian, still recovering from the display, shook his head and let out a low whistle. “Okay, that was something else.”

Rhysand chuckled, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. “You’ve been holding out on us, haven’t you?”

Amren rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small, knowing smile. “She’s still holding out. I’ve seen her do much more.”

You laughed softly, the glow around you flickering with amusement as you winked at Amren. “I figured it was about time. Besides,” you added, glancing at Azriel, “I don’t think anyone should be in the dark about something this beautiful.”

Azriel’s gaze softened, and for a long moment, everything felt still. He crossed the room in two steps, reaching for you, his fingers gently brushing your cheek before cupping your face. His touch was grounding, a quiet reassurance, and you melted into it. His lips met yours softly, lingering for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever.

And in that moment, you knew: this was where you belonged—here, with them, with Azriel. The power you had, the love you shared—it was all part of you now, woven into the tapestry of this new family you had found.

Azriel had just returned from a long, arduous mission—one that had taken him deep into the shadows of distant courts, gathering whatever whispers and rumors he could about the general named Amarantha. She was said to be a force to be reckoned with, a weapon whose power could rival the might of the Fae themselves. But every spy and informant he’d spoken to had told him the same thing: while the rumors were growing, the war wasn’t going to erupt for some time. It was all just talk, whispers in the dark. Nothing imminent.

For once, Azriel allowed himself to breathe easy. After weeks of travel, research, and the constant pressure of worrying that the worst was right around the corner, he had finally returned to Velaris.

He hadn’t come back to the Inner Circle’s townhouse immediately; instead, he’d allowed himself a small gift of quiet. A walk through the streets of the city, just the two of you. He could already feel the tightness in his chest slowly unraveling as you laughed at something ridiculous he’d said, your presence grounding him in a way nothing else could. It felt good—so good—to just be here, walking in the sunlight with you, far from the tension and bloodshed he’d left behind.

You, with your golden wings fluttering lightly behind you, basked in the warmth of the sun, and Azriel couldn’t help but stare at you. The world around you seemed to glow brighter when you were close, the golden strands of your hair catching the light in such a way that it almost looked as though you were glowing from within. Your smile was easy, carefree, and for the first time in a long while, Azriel allowed himself to enjoy this.

He thought about the information he had gathered. About the war that was brewing between the courts. About Amarantha, whose name sent shivers through the shadows that clung to Azriel’s very soul. He had returned with knowledge that could change everything—but for now, he pushed it aside. No need to think about it yet.

For now, he was home.

The two of you walked together, your laughter mixing with the sounds of Velaris—children playing in the streets, merchants calling out their wares, the gentle hum of the Sidra River winding through the city. Azriel’s dark wings rested comfortably behind him, their usual tension gone for the moment. The weight on his shoulders, the responsibility that always pressed down on him, had lessened.

It was easy, almost too easy, to forget the storm clouds that loomed just out of sight. But for once, Azriel allowed himself to be fully present in the moment, enjoying your company, letting go of the constant vigilance he had lived with for so long. He’d been with you through so many battles, but today, he didn’t have to worry about anything except you.

But then, the shift came. It was subtle at first—an almost imperceptible change in the air. But Azriel, ever the shadow, felt it before anything else. His muscles tensed, and his steps slowed as he glanced toward you, his eyes narrowing slightly. The warmth of the day seemed to drain from the air, replaced with something cold, something heavy. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

And then you felt it too.

The soft breeze carrying the sweet smells of Velaris began to still. The warm sun above you turned cold—an eerie chill crawling across your skin. The cobblestones beneath your feet seemed to lose their warmth, and the air around you thickened, pressing in from all sides. It was the same kind of weight you felt before a storm, only this time, there was no storm in sight. Only an unsettling silence.

Your heart started to race. You tried to breathe, but the air felt too thick, too heavy to fill your lungs.

Azriel stopped walking beside you, his body going rigid. The playful, easy tension between you both evaporated, replaced by something much darker. His wings shifted behind him, stretching as if sensing something dangerous in the air. The small, almost imperceptible pull at the base of your chest—like the world itself was trying to drag you away from this moment—grew stronger. You instinctively took a step back, your feet grounding you, but your wings fluttered, restless and agitated.

Azriel’s head snapped toward you, his gaze locking with yours, the intensity of his stare making your stomach twist. "Did you…" His voice was low, tight, as if he was trying to keep his own fear at bay. His hand reached for yours instinctively, the warmth of his skin against yours grounding you, if only for a moment.

Before you could answer, you felt it—a powerful shift in the air, like a ripple in the fabric of reality itself. It wasn’t just the city, the world around you—it was something far deeper, something ancient.

You froze, feeling the tug deep inside you, a pull toward the Day Court. Your pulse quickened, fear sparking in your veins as the connection to the Court grew stronger, darker.

Azriel’s face paled, his breath catching. "Something’s wrong" he breathed again, his voice a mix of disbelief and fear.

“I feel it,” you whispered, your voice shaking. Your wings twitched, restless, desperate to take flight. “Something’s happening. I need to go.”

Azriel’s grip on your hand tightened, his face a mask of determination and concern. “No. Stay here, with me. Velaris is safe,” his voice was pleading as he spoke your name in a rush, “I can protect you. Please.”

But you could already feel the distance growing between you and him, the pull toward the Day Court too strong, too urgent to ignore. You tried to steady yourself, to focus, but the instinct to leave, to move toward whatever danger was awaiting you, was overpowering.

You cupped his face in your hands, grounding him in the moment, in the unspoken promise you had made to always be there for him. His eyes softened for the briefest moment, but they still carried the weight of his fear for you, for everything that could happen.

“Angel, please.” His voice broke as he searched your gaze, his shadows swirling beneath his words like the storm in his mind.

You pressed your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your chest. "Azriel… I will always be somewhere you can reach," you whispered, your voice firm, despite the dread gnawing at your insides. "But I can’t stay here."

His eyes flickered with a pain so raw it made your chest ache. "Please…"

With a final, lingering kiss, your lips brushed his one last time. The air around you felt electric, charged with the intensity of the moment, of everything unsaid between you.

You pulled away from him slowly, your wings unfurling behind you, catching the last rays of sunlight. Without another word, you took off, your body soaring into the sky, the wind rushing around you, carrying you away from the only place that had ever felt like home. The city of Velaris disappeared beneath you, its golden glow now a distant memory.

Azriel stood motionless, his heart pounding, his hands still trembling with the weight of the moment. He closed his eyes, the image of you—flying away, just out of reach—burned into his mind.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Rhysand’s voice crashed into his mind, urgent and sharp.

“Az. Find Cassian. Protect Velaris.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had to move, had to act. His wings snapped open as he winnowed away, his mind racing, but all he could think about, all that lingered in his chest, was how much he wished he had kept you with him, how much he wished you had never left.

a/n: AHHHHH WHY DID I START SUCH A HARD FIC PROJECT, gonna hate myself in a month cuz of this. lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next part!! this is totally just my brain child i have a solid plot but i might be too lazy to write all of it. i haven't really seen meany tog/acotar crossover x readers so that's what this is hope you like it pookies <33

[pookalicious-hq]

love my man !!

ISAGI "they're not that bad" YOICHI really doesn't understand how other people hate you so much. bitchy? rude? you're nothing like that.

if anything, isagi sees you as a sweet and shy individual, just like him. you're like two peas in a pod. maybe once or twice he's heard what kind of venom could spew from your mouth, but hey! maybe the person deserved it! you never know what people are like these days, right? (is he even hearing himself?)

so whenever people say you should have matching outfits for halloween – him as an angel and you as a devil – it takes him a second to have his eureka moment and clock the backhanded meaning. you a devil? yeah, in his nightmares. yes, he does defend you. yes, his expression turns sheepish hearing about other people's experiences with you, but seriously, he's never seen anything out of the ordinary from you.

isagi is truly blinded by love. but there will be that one day where he eventually understands that perhaps you are as bad as people say. for now, you've basically got him wrapped around you pinky. who knows? maybe he prefers it that way.

@lizbix u better be sleeping but its ur man 🫵

[pookalicious-hq]

i wanna write for acotar but i didn't read the last two books and I'm so confused but I also wanna write badass valkyrie nesta sooooo idk... also need a tog acotar crossover selfship fic so badly but i don't remember anything to write them...

so many problems! whatever.

also who wants a fourth wing/acotar crossover......

[pookalicious-hq]

i need instagram and tiktok to have a header photo section for profiles like pinterest and tumblr cuz i need to show how hot i am AND the vibes i bring to the function.

[pookalicious-hq]

yes

mirko