#it's been getting better i think but it's never been that good

[dimeadozencows]

i know he's probably not supposed to be a dog guy but the thought that this super composed sad older man is also a tired puppy is just too much for me to resist

[wosospacegirl]

Unheard - reader x leah x elle

Summary: A sweet day off during the Euros turns ugly when you have a fight with your girlfriends. You try to be miss independent, but you need them more than you think.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: mentions of endometriosis and r being in pain

A/n: I've been obsessively writing this since I woke up, and I might be late for my dentist.

Switzerland was kind, gentle, and beautiful. It was a small country, but filled with pretty landscapes and delicious food.

You and Leah didn't have much time to go out and appreciate the scenery, since you two were always training or doing interviews or having meetings.

Elle, on the other hand, was having the time of her life. She visited all the tourist places, tried all the food, and attended every game you and Leah have played so far.

You were honestly having a good time at the Euros (ignoring the fact that the Lionesses had lost the first game), although you were feeling weird.

You were more lightheaded than usual, more snappy and more tired. You blamed it on the stress that came with the semi-final approaching.

But it seemed like you were the only one feeling that way; none of your teammates (or girlfriends) looked like they were struggling.

So you kept it to yourself. Trying not to ruin everybody's mood.

You and Leah got a day off, and you decided that there was nothing better to do than spend time with Elle.

Elle came with friends to Switzerland because she knew you and Leah wouldn't be able to give her much attention, but it didn't change the fact that you and Leah were feeling a bit guilty for not spending time with her.

So that's why the three of you decided to visit a little village in Switzerland's countryside on your day off.

The village was small and old, with only locals living in it. The houses were beautiful, vintage, just like the movie 'Heidi' that you used to watch when you were a kid.

The village wasn't really touristy, but there were a lot of caf��s and restaurants, as well as a petting zoo for the cows.

Leah and Elle were completely in love with the cows, petting them and saying it was the cutest thing they had ever seen.

You, on the other hand, were more focused on tasting the hot chocolate from one of the little cafés you saw earlier.

You looked at the sky. It had that sweet orange and pink colour, indicating it was the end of the afternoon. You pressed your lips tight, looking at Leah and Elle, who were in front of you, moving to pet yet another cow.

You looked at your watch: 5:46 pm.

The café was going to close soon. You wanted that hot chocolate so badly. You felt like it was the only thing that was going to make your day better.

Of course, spending time with your girlfriend was amazing, but you just weren't feeling your best today. Your body hurt, and it didn't seem like it was from training either.

You had told them before leaving the hotel that you wanted to do something more chill, but Leah had insisted on walking around, getting to know Switzerland.

Elle was looking between you two, not quite sure who she agreed with. In the end, you gave in and said that you would do whatever they wanted to do.

"Girls," you said. "Can we please go to that coffee shop I wanted?"

You waited a few seconds, but neither of them looked at you, too engrossed in the... cow in front of them.

You rolled your eyes, saying a bit louder this time. "Leah, Elle. Let's go? It's getting late."

"She's so fluffy," Elle said, looking at Leah with a big smile. "How can a cow be fluffy?"

"I've never seen this breed before," Leah answered, rubbing the cow's snout. "Cutie!"

You rolled your eyes again.

They couldn't honestly just be ignoring you right now. You breathed once, then twice, then took three steps toward where they were.

When you got closer, they finally looked at you, clearly happy.

"Hey, baby, touch her head, I swear it's—" Elle began saying, but you interrupted.

"Can we go now? Please?" you said, showing them your phone screen. "That coffee shop I told you about is almost closing."

Leah looked between the cow and you. You couldn't help but narrow your eyes.

"What if we stay just five minutes?" Leah asked, giving you one of her side smiles that would (normally) make you melt, but not right now.

"If we stay five minutes, we're going to have to run to get to the café in time," you argued, a pout on your face.

Elle chuckled and kissed your lips sweetly. "Just five more minutes and we'll go, alright? We want to see the other cow breeds."

"But—"

"Five, we swear," Leah said, kissing your lips the same way Elle did.

Leah took the other girl's hand and moved through the grass to see the cow that was standing near the fence a few meters away.

You didn't follow them.

You searched for a bench to sit on and stayed there, watching the two of them having the time of their lives.

You kept watching your phone screen, noticing how the shadows made by the trees changed position as the sun set down between the Swiss Alps.

You wanted hot chocolate. So. Fucking. Much.

You considered leaving, leaving Elle and Leah behind, since it looked like they were having way more fun without you.

You sighed, feeling something hard pressing on your chest. You didn't like it. You were sad, very sad.

You were stressed with the tournament, and there was definitely something wrong with your lower abdomen. Your head was pounding, and the only thing you had told your girlfriends you wanted to do on your day off was to get hot chocolate.

But they clearly didn't care.

You were sitting right in front of one of the cows. She mooed at you, and you considered that an offence.

You rolled your eyes at her, holding yourself back from giving the middle finger to a literal animal.

It was 6:12 now, less than half an hour until the coffee shop closed. If you were sad before, now you were angry.

You watched Leah and Elle; they were patting the last cow. Maybe now you would be able to really do something you enjoyed.

"Can we go now?" you yelled at them, trying to be heard from a distance.

They looked at you confused, so you put your hands on your wrist, as if touching a watch.

They exchanged a few words and then smiled, making their way to you while holding hands.

You stood up from your bench and waited for them.

When they got closer, Elle wrapped one arm around you, and you kept walking.

She kissed your cheek. "Let's go, Miss Impatient."

"I'm not impatient," you told her, crossing your arms as you heard Leah chuckle. "I just want to—"

"Drink hot chocolate," Leah finished for you. "We get it, grumpy."

You rolled your eyes and didn't say anything as you made your way back to the old town square.

Although you started to get restless as you saw a street clock saying it was 6:26, you had exactly four minutes to reach the coffee shop.

You began pulling at them, making Leah and Elle walk faster. "Come on, it's closing soon."

"Oi, mate," Leah said, "calm down, we're going."

"But it's closing soon!"

"Baby, stop!" Elle protested, and then gasped. "Oh fuck, my ankle!"

You and Leah stopped in your tracks.

Elle was holding herself to your shoulder with one hand, while the other hand went to her ankle.

It didn't look bad, it wasn't swollen or red (yet), but judging by her face, it hurt.

"Oh, Elle, baby! I'm sorry," you said guiltily, "I didn't mean to pull you so hard and—"

Leah practically put herself in front of you, holding Elle by her elbows, letting her sit on the bench.

"Come here, baby, don't worry, let's sit for a moment."

You looked at the clock one last time before sighing and following them.

The two of you sat on the bench. You placed a comforting hand on Elle's thigh as Leah knelt in front of her, examining her ankle.

"I think you just twisted it slightly. I don't think it'll hurt for long," Leah said, then she looked at you accusingly. "You shouldn't have pulled her."

"I didn't mean to pull her," you tried to defend yourself, " I just wanted to go faster."

"Maybe we should have just walked like normal human beings instead of running."

"If you two hadn't spent the last three hours patting cows, I wouldn't have had to run."

"If you could be patient, then—"

"Enough!" Elle said, looking at you and Leah with a stern expression on her face, the one she always pulled when you and Leah were arguing.

Both you and Leah loved each other a lot, but you wouldn't deny that you two were a little too alike. A little too grumpy, a little too angry at times.

"Fighting won't get us anywhere," she continued. "Leah, we weren't very considerate of what she wanted to do, so can we please just walk to the café, trying to end the day without any arguments?"

Leah lifted her chin like a petulant child, while you rolled your eyes.

Elle sighed, but got up from the bench on her two feet. She tested her ankle, and it didn't seem like it was bothering her so much anymore.

"Let's go," she said determinedly.

The three of you walked. You were a few steps ahead of them, eager to get to the café.

You heard Leah murmuring something to Elle, but the American shut her down with one of her looks.

You had just one minute to get to the coffee shop, so you started to walk faster, leaving Elle and Leah bit by bit behind.

You turned a corner, and Leah and Elle lost sight of you.

As soon as you got to the coffee shop, you were face to face with your worst fear.

The lights were turned off. No one was inside. You tried to force the door open (just because), but it wouldn't budge.

You felt your eyes filling with tears.

"Oh," you heard Leah say behind you after a few minutes, and you turned to her.

You weren't one to cry in front of your girlfriends. You didn't like it, most times you kept big feelings to yourself, but this time, you couldn't help yourself from letting the tears fall.

Elle was looking at you sadly, completely guilty. Leah had the same expression on her face.

"Baby, I'm so—" Leah began saying, reaching a hand to touch your face, but you took a step back.

"Let's go back to the hotel," you said, turning around and walking before the two of them could say anything.

"Love, hey," Elle said behind you, trying to hold your forearm, but you were stronger than her and pulled away. "We're sorry."

You were silent.

The two of them kept talking in your ear the whole way back to the train station.

You kept ignoring them.

As soon as you stepped onto the train, you wanted to be petty and sit alone, let the two of them stay together (since it clearly was what they preferred), but you decided against it.

Well, you didn't really decide.

Leah was guiding both you and Elle with a firm hand on the bottom of both your backs as you walked through the aisle. She turned her body slightly to one of the cabins, and you had no other choice but to follow her.

You sat near the window, looking as the landscape passed by.

You couldn't see much (it was dark already), but you could see the fucking cows. You hated them now.

Leah and Elle were sitting in front of you. They clearly didn't know what to say, and your not very inviting face wasn't helping them either.

You continued to cry, but it was an angry cry.

You weren't sobbing, you weren't making any noise really. Just silent tears leaving your eyes as your cheeks got redder and redder.

After what felt like fifteen minutes in completely uncomfortable silence, Leah reached for your hand. You slapped it away without even looking at her.

"My love. Please," Leah said, using her soft voice, one she didn't use much. " We're sorry. We didn't mean to stop you from having your hot chocolate."

Your head snapped at her. It seemed like Leah was waiting for you to continue ignoring her, because she looked at you, surprised.

"If you two didn't mean it," you began saying, looking at Leah's blue eyes and Elle's green ones, "then you would have done something about it."

Elle opened her mouth, but then she closed it.

"I told you that the only fucking thing I wanted to do today was to drink that hot chocolate," you said.

"It was the only thing I wanted. Twenty minutes max - that's all it would've taken. But nooo, because you two had other plans. Plans that were going to happen regardless of my opinion"

"We can go on our next off day, baby," Leah said carefully.

"Yeah?" you said sarcastically. "The off day that will be in Zurich? The off day that we've already agreed to spend with your family, Leah?"

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about—"

"You two seem to be forgetting everything that doesn't involve what you want." You responded dryly.

You knew it had hurt them.

You saw how Leah held Elle's hand a bit too strongly, that Elle bit her lower lip in that way that told you she was upset, but it didn't matter.

You were hurt, and honestly, you wanted everyone to feel a bit of it, too.

The rest of the train ride was in silence. You had stopped crying, but your breathing still felt uneven.

You were still angry. You knew that some part of it was irrational. It was just hot chocolate. You bet the fucking stadium sold hot chocolate, you could also order one from the hotel's kitchen.

But you wanted the experience of tasting hot chocolate in the countryside.

You were feeling sad and upset since you woke up, and just wanted to do something for you, something that you were sure was going to light up your mood.

It was hard to be in a relationship with more than one person. The feeling of being left out was present some days, and you had to fight it.

Today was one of those days.

It was like they didn't hear you, or worse, they heard you but just didn't care. It was your off day, too, but you had spent the whole day doing what they wanted.

You just wanted twenty minutes to do what you wanted.

When the three of you left the elevator, you quickly turned right while Elle and Leah turned left. You didn't say goodbye, you didn't say anything.

You were ready to take your key card from your pocket when they showed up behind you. Leah held your forearm and turned you around.

"Hey," Leah said, confused. "Where are you going?"

"To my room," you said drily, trying to set yourself free, but Leah held you with a bit more force, so you stopped trying to squirm.

"Why?" Elle asked. "You barely slept in your room since the Euros started. Come stay with us like the other nights, baby."

"No," you said decidedly. "Let me go, Leah."

Your face was cold enough that Leah let go without a word. You shut the door behind you, catching a glimpse of them wearing the guiltiest puppy-dog expressions.

You closed the door on their faces and sighed, turning around and looking at your room.

This Euros, every player had their own room, but just like Elle said, you barely used yours. You had been sleeping with Elle and Leah every night. You were sure half of your suitcase wasn't even here.

Your bed was beautifully made, as if no one had slept in it in days. Which was true.

You let yourself fall face-first on the mattress. You didn't want to cry now. You really didn't, but you were feeling hurt.

So you allowed yourself.

You stayed in the hotel room.

You didn't get up when Elle knocked on the door and spoke in her sweet voice, telling you how much she missed you.

You didn't get up when Leah knocked and told you (less gently than Elle), that she wanted to stay with you and wished you would open the door.

You stayed still when Lotte's voice came through the door, telling you two could talk if you wanted.

You ignored the hundreds of messages Elle and Leah had been sending you.

You also ignored the room service that was sent by either Elle or Leah, because you clearly hadn't asked for dinner, although you were hungry.

You had completely dissociated.

So much that you didn't realise you had fallen asleep.

You didn't expect to wake up in a pool of blood at 4 am.

You didn't expect to wake up with the worst pain you had felt in your life, a pain that was as excruciating as it was familiar.

You turned around on the mattress, feeling too weak to move, both from the pain but also from the lack of food.

The last thing you had eaten was at yesterday's lunch.

You had completely forgotten about your period. Your cycle was completely irregular; some months you got your period twice, other times you went months without seeing blood.

You had become accustomed to it by now, of not expecting it, to always being surprised.

But this time, you cursed yourself.

All the signs were there: how snappier and more sensitive you were, how your belly was aching, how, when Leah had cupped your breasts a few days ago, you wanted to scream at her about how swollen they were.

You opened the nightstand, searching for one of the protein bars Elle had given you, telling you that you always forgot to eat proper snacks.

You found one and ate it, swallowing it down with some water from a water bottle left on the floor a few days ago.

You closed your eyes hard enough, trying to gather strength from... you weren't even sure. You let out a sigh and got up from the bed.

It was worse than you imagined… there was blood everywhere. You didn't dare to look at your pants.

You quickly took off the bloody sheets and left them on the side of the door, so you could take them to the hotel's laundry room.. then you knelt near your suitcase, the only one that was in the room.

You were searching for pads, tampons, menstrual cups, anything, but you found nothing. The suitcase with your period products was probably in Leah and Elle's room.

You groaned, fighting back tears.

You could barely walk, and now you were going to have to find a way to go to Leah and Elle's room, even though you really didn't want to see them.

You took a change of clothing from the suitcase and went to the bathroom. You took a quick shower (it hurt standing for so long), added a lot of toilet paper to your underwear, trying to create a makeshift pad.

You walked to your hotel room door and made your way to Elle and Leah's room. You were hating yourself for it.

You were hurt, you didn't want to see them. But you were in pain, on your fucking period, and your endometriosis was so bad you felt like throwing up soon.

Leah had suffered from the same thing as you. You and Elle always tried to help her through it.

You knew they wouldn't think anything less of you. You had been dating for two years now, and they had seen you at your worst, but you still didn't like to be so vulnerable.

You shyly knocked on their bedroom door. You heard noise on the inside; there was a shadow under the door.

You waited a few more minutes, and Leah appeared. She had just woken up. She was rubbing her eyes, and her hair was a mess. She was wearing an old Arsenal shirt with some shorts. She looked very cosy.

Leah's eyes widened and she smiled when she saw you, but then her smile turned to sadness. "Hey, what's wrong, baby?"

You didn't answer; you walked right past her. Elle was sleeping on the bed, and you hated how red her nose was, as if she had been crying.

You searched for your suitcase around the room, until you found it. You knelt in front of it, but before you could open it, Leah was kneeling at your side, her hand on top of yours.

"Hey, talk to me," she said seriously. "What's wrong? You don't look good."

You mumbled an answer, looking down, but Leah didn't hear it.

"What?" She held your chin, so you were looking at her. "What happened?"

"I got my period," you said, this time louder. "Just need some tampons, I left them all here."

"Is it bad?" Leah asked, taking her hand from you and placing them on your back, letting you search for what you needed.

"No."

"Don't lie."

You froze, and Leah noticed it.

"How bad?"

You finally found a pack of tampons. You got on your two feet, and Leah mirrored you.

"Bad." That was the only thing you said before turning around, ready to leave again.

Leah held your forearm again. "You aren't leaving," Leah said. "Stay here with us, I'll get you tea and medicine."

"I don't need any of that." You hated how dry you sounded, but you honestly just wanted to sleep, to make the pain go away.

Leah surprised you when she held your jaw in place - it was firm, but soft at the same time.

"I understand you are upset with me and Elle, and you have every right to be; we were idiots, but don't punish your own body because of it."

"I'm going to the hotel's kitchen to get some tea for you," she continued, leaving no room for argument. "When I get back, I want you in bed. Do you understand me?"

You were ready to be difficult, to give Leah a hard time, to show her that you could deal with your condition on your own, but a large wave of pain shot through you, making you curl.

Leah's stern demeanour changed in a matter of seconds.

"Shh," she said, wrapping one hand around your hips and bringing you closer as the other one settled on your lower abdomen, massaging it. "I'm sorry, I'm gonna make it better, I swear."

Leah helped you to the bathroom and left the room, promising to come back with what you needed. When you emerged from the bathroom, Elle was already awake.

It seemed like, while you were sorting yourself out, Leah had woken her up and explained everything.

Elle opened her arms, smiling at you sadly. "Come here, baby," she said, and you absolutely melted.

Your tough attitude was long gone.

You crawled to bed, letting yourself be pulled by Elle. Your head resting on her shoulder as she kissed your forehead.

"It hurts, Elle," you said, letting yourself cry against her warm body.

"I know it does," she said tenderly. "It'll be better soon, just close your eyes now."

"I'm sorry," you said after a few moments in silence. "I ruined our day off yesterday by getting mad and—and—"

"No," Elle said, "You don't apologise for anything. Leah and I were selfish; it was your day off, too, you deserved to do something you enjoyed as well."

"But I could have been more kind about it," you said. "I hurt your ankle."

"I think we all could have handled it better," Elle murmured. "And my ankle is fine, don't worry about me. I want you to worry about yourself."

You were about to say something else when Leah came back through the door, carrying a tray with steaming tea and what looked like every medicine she could find in the hotel.

"How are we doing?" she asked softly, setting the tray on the nightstand before climbing into bed on your other side.

"Better," you mumbled against Elle's shoulder, though another cramp made you wince in pain.

Leah's hand found your back, rubbing gentle circles.

"I brought chamomile tea and some painkillers, and..." she paused, looking almost shy. "I may have asked the kitchen staff about hot chocolate."

You lifted your head to look at her, confused.

"There's a café two blocks away," Leah continued. "I thought... maybe tomorrow morning, before training, when you're feeling better, we could go together? Just the three of us, no cows involved."

Your eyes filled with tears again, but this time for a completely different reason. "You don't have to—"

"We want to," Elle said firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "We should have listened yesterday. Your hot chocolate is important because you're important."

Leah nodded, reaching over to brush a tear from your cheek.

"Plus, I looked it up and apparently, they do this thing with heavy whipped cream and salt? I don't know if it's good, but it seems very Swiss."

You couldn't help but smile (the first real smile you had had since yesterday afternoon). "That sounds perfect, thank you."

"Good," Leah said, settling down beside you properly. "Now drink your tea and let us make up for yesterday."

Your period still hurt like hell, and you were still exhausted, but now wrapped up in their arms, you felt heard. You felt seen.

"I love you," you whispered.

"Love you too, grumpy," Leah murmured against your hair.

"No grumpy," you mumbled

"Just a little grumpy," Elle added, smiling.

You were almost asleep when you felt Leah's lips against your ear. "Tomorrow, we're getting you the best hot chocolate in Switzerland. I promise."

A/n: pls let me know if you guys liked it <3 it would mean a lot

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen

[munsonsmixtapes]

One of Our Own

Johnny Storm x fem!reader

summary: You decide you want to have a baby with Johnny when you see him playing with Franklin.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut ( p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) breeding kink

Laughter fills the living room where you sit with Johnny, Reed, Sue, Ben, and Franklin. Johnny is holding Franklin as you all make conversation with one another and you can’t help but stare at him. You’ve always wanted children and right here and now, you’re sure that you want to have Johnny’s baby. 

It gets to a point where you have to turn away before your thoughts consume you. You’re both always so careful in the bedroom, trying to prevent pregnancy and you’re not entirely sure how he would feel about actually getting you pregnant right now. You’re actually very sure because you always agree that you want them eventually. 

You wonder if he’ll let you take him back to his place and do unspeakable things to you. You need him so bad that you’re starting to ache between your thighs and he needs to take care of it soon or there will just be a huge mess. 

Johnny knows something is up with you, but he can’t quite put his finger on what. You’re antsy and he’s wondering if you maybe had too much caffeine. You did have three cups of coffee the entire time you’ve been there and he’s thinking maybe that he should cut you off. He doesn’t want to go another night where you don’t sleep. He would hate that for you. 

Reed has suggested that the five of you play a game, but you need to get Johnny home right now and you haven’t had a chance to discuss why you’re acting so strangely. After agreeing to stay for games, he moves to sit next to you after he hands Franklin off to Ben. Your hand lands on his thigh as you scoot closer, your thighs touching. 

“I need you,” you whisper in his ear.

“I’m right here,” he tells you, only understanding what you mean when he pulls back, your eyes boring into his. “Sorry guys,” he turns to face everyone else who’s on the opposite side of the living room. “But y/n’s stomach is upset. I hate to cut this short.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Sue says as she stands up from the couch, following you both to the door like the good hostess she is. “Feel better, y/n,” she tells you as Johnny helps you put on your coat. As you head out the door that Johnny is holding open for you, Sue hands him some leftovers from dinner while leaning close to her brother so you can’t hear what she’s about to say.

“You’re not as slick as you think you are,” she tells him with a glare. “I’d come up with a better lie next time.” With that, she ushers him out the door and slams it in his face when she sees he’s about to try to defend himself. He just shakes his head and helps you get into the car like the gentleman he is. 

He’s definitely going way over the speed limit but he doesn’t care. He probably needs you right now more than you need him, which didn’t seem possible. Those damn pants that you’re wearing have been torturing him all night and he’s very much looking forward to ripping them to absolute shreds as soon as he gets you into the house. He wants lie you on your bed and fuck you until neither of you can take it anymore. He wants to make a mess-to absolutely violate you. His mind is racing with impure thoughts and he’s surprised that he’s able to get you both to your house in one piece. 

You don’t even make it upstairs, your lips on his as soon as you’re in the house and he’s backing you into the living room. Clothing is flying as you undress each other and when you’re both in your underwear, you push him onto the couch, unhooking your bra as you do so. 

Your panties follow and he’s gotta take a second to look at you-to admire the woman who, for whatever reason, chose him. He doesn’t know how the fuck he got so lucky but never takes you for granted. 

“Fuck, I love you,” he sighs. 

“I love you too,” you reply, wondering how you’re going to tell him that you don’t want to use a condom. There was only one time where you didn’t use one and that was only because you were drunk and neither of you could get the packaging open. “I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I saw you with Franklin tonight and it got me thinking…what if we have our own baby?” His eyes widen and you get worried that you’ve fucked everything up. 

“A baby?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Honey,” he pauses and you hold your breath, “I think that’s an amazing idea.” You finally breathe and all either of you can do is smile about the decision you’ve just made. He kisses you again and again as you slide off his underwear then get on top of him. He’s pounding into you as you ride him, the most filthy things he’s ever said coming out of his mouth and that’s making you even more wet. Your hands are scratching down his back as moans pour from your mouth, only encouraging him even more.

“God, you’re gonna be so hot,” he says, his nails digging into your hips, yours scratching down his chest. “I’m gonna lose my mind just thinking about it.” Your pace picks up and he follows, both of you moving so fast and hard that the couch is shaking underneath you. 

“Well, you’re going to be a great dad,” you reply. “I just know it.”

“Shit, sweetheart, are you trying to make me cum?” 

“Yeah, baby, that’s kind of the point,” you laugh. You both move even faster and just by the look on Johnny’s face, you can tell that he’s close. He just needs a little more and then he’ll get there. A few more thrusts from him and he’s at his peak. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whines as he’s coming, fully seated inside you and you can practically feel him in your stomach. You both stay there as he comes down and then you grab a damp washcloth to clean yourselves up. Once you’re done, he carries you up the stairs where you both climb into your bed, snuggling up to each other just like you do every night. You go to sleep with smiles on your faces, hoping that not long from now, you’ll be showing him the positive test.

part two

[ceilidho]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 3 masterlist

-

A shower and thorough scrub after the fact washes away most of the more damning evidence, but paranoia still buzzes under your skin when you rejoin your friends downstairs. They’re sitting beside each other in a row of lounge chairs by the edge of the pool when you reappear, beach bag in hand, waving at you from across the way. You hurry over to join them.

“What—did you fall asleep up there?” one of them asks you, and it takes a second for you to recall the excuse you gave them about going upstairs to look for a book to read. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “I wasn’t feeling too good, so I lied down for a bit.”

“Oh no,” one of them says with a frown, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at you. “You feeling better now? We can go back to the hotel room if you want.”

“Nah, I’m alright now. I had a shower too, so I’m feeling much better.”

You might’ve been better off pretending that you just fell asleep upstairs rather than lying about feeling sick. 

Though still hours from sundown, the sun isn’t anywhere near as thick in the sky anymore; a cloudless expanse of blue as far as the eye can see, stretching from zenith to offing. Despite the slight breeze and the UV index starting to inch back down, you still slather on a fresh layer of sunscreen. 

“So what’d you get?”

You look up from your legs and a glob of sunscreen slips down your calf and onto the chair. “Huh?” 

“Your book,” she repeats, looking at you like it should be obvious. “What book did you go get?”

Your hands freeze over your bag, a cold sweat leaking through you. All that just for you to forget to bring back a fucking book. 

“Oh, I, uh,” you stammer, looking in your bag helplessly like a book might suddenly appear out of nowhere. “I must’ve left it back upstairs. Damn.”

Lucky for you, no one has the energy to care or look past the obvious stutter in your voice, accepting your words as gospel. Your friend closest to you rolls her eyes and pushes her sunglasses back up her nose. “It’s alright—here, I’ve got another in my bag. It would be such a waste of time to go all the way back upstairs.”

“Yeah,” you say, swallowing when you think about heading back into the resort and taking the elevator to the next floor up from your room, following the long hallway back to John’s room, where he’d be waiting for you with a wry smile and open arms, towel still cinched around his waist. “That would suck. Thanks.”

For one singular day, you actually make a concerted effort to steer clear of John. 

That means: no surreptitious glances or orchestrating accidental run-ins. You keep close to your friends the whole day, never more than a couple feet away. 

And for the most part, it works. You’re mostly successful that first day. For a while after your little hookup, you don’t see hide nor hair of him anywhere around the resort. Where before John was seemingly everywhere, now he’s nowhere to be found. 

It’s almost infuriating. Had he been this elusive in the days since you arrived at the resort, you might not have felt as tempted by his constant presence. It was the proximity and blatant invitation that gradually wore away at your resolve. 

You keep deferring responsibility for your actions. That belongs to a future, stronger you, whether or not she’ll ever come to fruition.

“Looking for someone?” your friend asks when you glance around the poolside for the umpteenth time. Her words are laced with a subtle kind of humour, some inside joke that you haven’t caught on to just yet.  

You shake your head. “Nope. Just people watching.”

“Right,” she drawls, only burying her nose in her book again after sending you a sceptical glance.

When her attention is back on her book, you peek around again, searching for any sign of someone in pin-stripped swim trunks. Disappointed when you find nothing. 

The girls insist on going down to the beach and renting jetskis in the afternoon, guaranteeing that you won’t see John for the rest of the day, but at least it gets you out of your head for a while. Air whips by your ears and you scream in delight, your arms cinching around your friend’s waist as she guns the engine.

Afternoon melts into evening, which melts into night. At supper, someone mentions taking a dip in the hot tub and you pounce on the thought, the four of you giggling and tumbling down the stairs on your way back to the pool area. 

The hot tub lights oscillate between purple, pink, and blue at a timed interval, keeping the water bathed in a cool, dark colour as night falls. Dusk ushers in a changed world. Large snails leave slimy trails as they creep out of the potted plants and slither across the furniture. Spiders and moths emerge from dark corners as well, the nocturnal world coming to life around you. 

The three of them get out of the hot tub around nine, someone complaining about still being hungry. As tempted as you are to join the girls for a late bite to eat at the restaurant, the hot water and jets are doing wonders for your sore muscles, especially after the previous day. You can’t exactly explain that to the others though, so when they try to cajole you out of the water, you brush them off and promise that you’ll join them in a few minutes. 

Besides, you’re overdue for some alone time. The more you have, the less likely you’ll be to start fights over nothing, cabin fever finding no foothold in a person aware that it hovers on the periphery. 

Around the complex, the pools glow cyan like bioluminescent glowworms, the floodlights on to keep drunk tourists from falling in on their way back to their rooms. Some angelic-voiced eighties singer croons over the speaker, music still playing around the pool area until it abruptly cuts out and silence rushes in like a wave to fill the emptiness. The silence doesn’t worry you though; it’s almost serene sitting alone in the dark and gazing across the way at the buildings still brightly lit from the inside. 

You don’t realize that you aren’t actually alone until someone joins you in the water. 

The loud splash of his feet entering the water is what alerts you to his presence, the sudden noise causing your heart to jump up into your throat, head snapping to the side when a large body sits down beside you, displacing the volume of the water in the hot tub. 

“Oh shit,” you gasp, heartbeat going wild for a second. You scoot away instinctively and hit the low wall to your left. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” John apologizes, settling in beside you. “You seemed lonely all by yourself, so I thought I’d join you.” 

His body inadvertently crowds you up against the pool wall. Or at least, it feels inadvertent, like he just sat wherever happened to be free, notwithstanding the fact that by doing so, he had trapped you at the edge of the bench. 

John rests an arm behind you, almost tucking you into his side when he slides over a bit more, thigh pressed against yours under the water. Spreading his arms out along the edge of the pool forces his chest to stick out and his shoulders to broaden. 

“Where’d you come from?” you ask, glancing around behind you. 

“Around.” He cocks a thick, dark eyebrow, studying you. “Were you looking for me?” 

“No,” you deny, almost vehemently. More to yourself than to him. “You just caught me off guard. I thought I was alone.”

“Noticed that. Why aren’t you with your friends?”

“I am,” you object. “…I just wanted to be on my own for a bit.”

“Needed some time apart? They give you a hard time for what we did earlier?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks at that. “No,” you hiss, teeth clenched, pitching your voice lower to keep anyone from overhearing. “I didn’t…tell anyone. And we aren’t fighting. They’re getting something to eat and I wasn’t hungry.”

“Seems like I’m always catching you on your own.”

“I like being by myself.”

Your breathing is a little quicker than usual. His presence now is different than the times before, back when he was nothing more than a pretty face to you. You know what his mouth tastes like now, what the bristles of his beard feel like on the delicate flesh of your inner thighs and how deep his fingers can curl inside of you. He isn’t just a stranger across the pool anymore, but a man that knows you intimately. Biblically.

You wrap your arms around yourself to shield your breasts from his eyes. That’s what you tell yourself anyway. Maybe you cross them to make sure that you keep your hands to yourself.

“Why come with them at all then?” John asks, breaking the silence. 

“…I’ve never travelled on my own.”

He nods approvingly. “Good. Smart girl.”

That pisses you off for some reason. Probably the insinuation that there’d be something wrong with you travelling by yourself. Like you couldn’t take care of yourself. “I could if I wanted to.” 

“Didn’t say you couldn’t, but it’s smarter that you don’t. Safety in numbers.”

If he wasn’t so handsome, you’d probably be mildly off-put by the condescension in his voice. It’s part and parcel of him though, that slight arrogance that clings to his skin like the smell of smoke, like dirt wedged into the grooves of his fingers. Old and lived in. 

“Maybe I’ll just ask my husband to come with me the next time I feel like going somewhere,” you say snarkily. 

He doesn’t respond right away. When the weight of his stare gets a bit too heavy, you glance up at him to find his pupils blown wide. 

“Maybe you should,” John rasps. 

The sound of his voice, rough as tire over gravel roads, makes your nipples bead in your damp swimsuit.

For a moment, it feels like there’s nothing else in the world except for the two of you. All of the chatter and music from the nearby buildings drop to a hush. If you shut off your mind, you could almost trick yourself that it’d always been this way. 

Damp, calloused fingers pinch your chin and hold you in place, rooting you in that moment like his hold is the only thing tethering you to the world. 

“I should get back to my friends,” you say. Even though you practically whisper the words, they pierce through the silence, a little nearby lizard scuttling across the damp concrete floor towards a tree, where it disappears into the darkness. 

“They can wait a little longer,” he murmurs, leaning forward until your lips slot with his and your sigh makes your whole body tremble, lips parting when his tongue slips in and he slides a hand in between your thighs under the water. 

It’s torturous to see him around the resort and not be allowed to touch. 

Another day in the scorching heat and you’re on the verge of defeat. You sweat and you sweat until the only thing left to give is your will. It bends like straw, chaff breaking off the closer it comes to snapping. 

At a certain point, you have to accept responsibility for your own actions. You’re a big girl after all. Old enough to understand the weight that each of your choices bear and the consequences they’ll inevitably bring about. Disappoint your friends or disappoint yourself. Simple a choice as has ever been put in front of you. 

And, selfish as you’ve been this entire trip, the choice is easy enough to make in the end. 

In the early morning before the rest of your friends have woken up, you quietly slip out of bed and take the elevator up to John’s floor, knocking twice before he opens the door and pulls you inside with a growl. 

“John—John, fuck, please—”

“I know, honey, I know,” he murmurs into your neck, exhaling heavily when he drops you back down onto his cock, juices running from the base of his shaft to his balls. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Your thighs burn with the effort to bounce on his dick, John having to do most of the work once your muscles begin to give out. 

Not even the pretense of a condom this time. You didn’t say anything when he didn’t make a move to take one out and now it feels a bit too late to bring it up. It’s not the end of the world though; you’ll just tell him to pull out when he’s close to coming. 

“Fuck, honey, Jesus Christ—”

“Sorry,” you whimper, inner muscles suddenly clenched so tight that you nearly come right then and there. Just the thought of him coming in you raw sends a sharp spike of pleasure through your body. 

All you can think of is sticky, messy cum leaking out of you. Thick strands ribboning between your fingers when you pull them apart. It’s a dangerous thought; you’re playing fast and loose with the most dire of consequences. 

“Ohmygodohmygod—” you whimper, tears building on your waterline and spilling over. “Oh f-fuck, I’m gonna—come, John—” 

“Yeah, you are,” he grunts, brow furrowing in concentration, the vein in his forehead more pronounced than ever. “C’mon, honey, give it to me—give me it—”

It rushes over you all at once, inner walls tensing and squeezing around his shaft. Eyes rolling back in your head when you feel him come inside you, a rush of heat flooding against your womb. 

He doesn’t make you wait long after pulling out, immediately ducking his head down to burrow his face between your thighs, running his tongue up the seam of your sex and huffing out in pleasure. Hot breath blows over your clit, and your whole body jolts at the sensation. Your clit is too sensitive, puffy and engorged. Your walls squeeze around his fingers when John shoves a couple in and busies himself with laving his tongue over your clit and sucking it into his mouth. 

“Wait, wait—” you squeal, threading your fingers into his hair and trying to pull him off. “I can’t—I can’t—”

His own cum trickles out down his fingers as he plunges them in and out of your hole, feeling the mess he left inside of you. Heat floods to your cheeks at the lurid squelch of your hole when he presses his fingers back in.

“You can,” John says unsympathetically, the fingers pistoning in and out of your hole punctuating his words. 

And, true to his words, you do. 

When you limp back down to your room an hour later, you turn the knob extra carefully lest someone wake up to you doing the walk of shame. 

You were stupid to ever think this could be a one time thing. That you could have him once and then move on like it never happened, like it scratched that itch of yours permanently instead of waking it up from its slumber. 

Now it buzzes under your skin morning, noon, and night. Insatiable—libido ramped up by a factor of ten and no matter how many times he fucks you senseless, you’re always desperate for more. When you see him from across the pool, it’s all you can do not to swim across and crawl into his lap, wedging his thigh between your legs and grinding down until the pressure tips you over the edge.

From the looks of it, your friends don’t suspect a thing. How could they after all? You leave the hotel room at the crack of dawn and come back before they’ve even turned over in bed. 

John is as subtle in public as ever. A thousand times more discrete than you. He’s so good at ignoring you around the resort that it’s almost infuriating.  It’s your own fault, seeing as how you begged him to keep a low profile. You have no one to blame but yourself for his inattention.

In the privacy of his hotel room, it’s a whole different story. 

Sometimes he says weird shit when you fuck. The pet names you can excuse because they get you all hot and bothered, but it’s harder to ignore the way he laces your fingers and looks deep into your eyes while rocking into you, patting your cheek roughly when you try to close your eyes. It’s too intense. Too intimate. Not the kind of thing you do with a vacation fling.

You’re speaking from limited experience though. A small sample size, if you can even call your love life that. Maybe this is something people do with their flings, the rules of intimacy eschewed with an established understanding of finitude. You are going home at the end of this, after all. Whatever you do in between then and now doesn’t matter. 

You could say or do anything and it wouldn’t matter. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again. 

On the pet name front though, you do test him on the off chance that he actually just forgot your name entirely. It catches you off guard when he remembers not just your first name but your last name as well, murmuring it back to you like he’s memorized it when you ask.

“Oh,” you reply, unsure of what else to say. “…Sorry. I thought…”

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone when he cups your face in one hand. “I know what you thought, honey. Never had anyone pay enough attention to you, have you?”

You don’t know what to say in response to that. He pops his thumb into your mouth when you gape at him for too long, letting it rest on your tongue. The weight of it holding your tongue down is almost soothing and the thoughts in your head fizzle and pop like stars when you close your mouth around it and suck. 

Sometimes though, you’re the one that makes things weird.

“I wish I came here with you,” you admit in a hushed whisper when you’ve been backed into his bed.

“Would’ve been me if I’d found you first,” John grunts, gripping you by your calves and yanking you towards the edge of the bed. 

Big hands scoop up under your ass and lift you into the air to get the angle right. He impales you on his dick inch by inch, the stretch familiar now even though it still takes your breath away. 

“Yeah?” you breathe. 

John doesn’t answer at first, eyes going blank as he draws you off his dick and then plunges back into you. His stare is blank and yet it doesn’t waver. Locked on your face even though he almost stares right through you. 

“Yeah,” he rumbles, snapping his hips forward. “Could’ve made a baby here instead of sneaking around like teenagers.”

Oh—

(fuck)

You know it’s just dirty talk, but you get all tight and tingly anyway, licking the sweat off your upper lip when you repeat, “A baby?” 

His eyes go darker when he hears you say it. Animalistic; mindless. And suddenly all you can think about is the fact that you’ve foregone protection again to let an older, virile man hit it raw. Dirty talk trembling over the edge of make believe and staring down into the abyss because he could

really knock you up right here and now. 

His lip curls up almost into a snarl. “Came enough times in you by now. ‘Be a miracle if you weren’t.”

You lick at the sweat beading on your upper lip. “You want that?”

Dumb question. You know there isn’t a shot that a man his age on vacation is looking to knock up the first girl he comes across, but it gets you so hot that you forget about common sense for a second. It’s irresponsible. Selfish. Stupid. 

He hikes a knee onto the bed to get some leverage before folding his whole body over yours. All however many pounds, enough to take your breath away and make your heart beat faster. A heavy, suffocating presence punctuated by the way he fucks into you even harder, huffing as he chases after it.

“Would’ve used a fuckin’ condom if I didn’t,” John snarls right in your face, and the pleasure that evokes hits you so hard that you nearly pass out when you come. 

Sooner or later, you were bound to slip up. 

Your friend catches you on your way out the door one morning on your way to see John, your hand barely brushing the doorknob when her voice suddenly comes out of nowhere. “Going to get breakfast?”

You flinch at the sound of her voice, head whipping to the left. In your hurry to meet up with John, you hadn’t noticed her standing in the bathroom with the door wide open. Arms crossed and already dressed, staring at you like catching you almost out the door isn’t surprising. 

“Uh, yeah. What’re you doing up?”

She shrugs. “I slept long enough; been up for a while actually. Mind if I come with? I’m starving.”

You do in fact mind, but short of telling her why you’d prefer she didn’t, you have no excuse for why she shouldn’t join you for breakfast. You acquiesce instead, forcing a smile and nodding before following her out the door and in the opposite direction of the elevators. 

Breakfast is awkward, to say the least. The conversation comes strained and stilted, like it’s the first time you’ve ever met the girl sitting opposite you instead of a friend of several years. You can tell that she suspects something, but since she doesn’t bother bringing it up, you don’t either. 

All you can focus on is the fact that somewhere upstairs, John is still in his room waiting for you, and that as more time passes with you downstairs at breakfast, the less time you’ll have with him when you finally make it upstairs to his room. 

“Hey? Are you listening to me?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?” 

The look she levels you with is thoroughly unimpressed. “I asked if you’d finished your book yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I finished it the other day at the beach. Did you want to borrow it?”

“Yeah, that’s why I asked.” She sounds annoyed, and with good reason. You’ve been flighty and inattentive at best; downright neglectful at worst. 

You eat quickly, downing half your plate before a server comes by with coffee, which you very nearly refuse until you catch the way your friend squints across the table at you. Too obvious. Her hackles are already up, suspicions hissing like snakes in her hair. 

The terse conversation that follows only further illustrates that. If she hasn’t already figured it out, she’s at least begun to suspect your frequent absences and the perpetual smell of sex on you. She’s just nice enough to not come right out of the gate and say it. 

A busser comes by as soon as they spot your empty plate, gathering everything up and piling the cutlery on top before hurrying away to bus another table. When the server comes by again to top up your cup, you politely refuse, finishing the rest in a single swallow. 

“What’s the rush?” your friend asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Somewhere else to be?”

“No, I just—” You freeze, half out of your seat, the sound of the chair scraping against the tile underneath abruptly cutting out. Excuses assemble on your tongue but refuse to leap off, choked back by the fact that you just don’t know what to say. “I just…I’m done eating.”

“Right,” she drawls, arms folded on the table, nearly full plate still in front of her. “I guess my conversation was staler than the food.”

“No, look, it’s not—”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, waving you away. “I’ll tell the others you went down to the pool when they wake up. Just be there in an hour.”

You didn’t expect the reprieve. You barely deserve it, as a matter of fact. But her dismissal rings loud and you aren’t about to pass up the opportunity to go up to John, despite the guilt curdling in your belly. 

“Yeah, okay,” you promise. “I’ll be there.”

And you really, truly think you’re in the clear until you turn to walk away and she says her parting words. “Give him my best, by the way.”

Full body cringe. You don’t turn back around though, shame finally catching up to you, and the sound of your flip-flops squeaking against the tile on your way towards the elevators mocks you the whole way up to John’s room.

[girlgenius1111]

not yourself

barcelona x teen reader your first international break does not go how you want it to. you're not yourself when you return, and your teammates make it their business to figure out what happened, and why you're so quiet and withdrawn.

—

You’d never been very good at making friends. You were quiet, and people often took that to mean you were aloof. The only reason you’d made friends at Barça was because you’d been so young when you started there. Young enough that almost everyone made an effort to try to get to know you. And while it took time, they must have decided you were worth knowing. 

Your club teammates would tell anyone who asked that you were the team’s baby. Sweet and kind. Even loud and outgoing around people you were comfortable with. Incredible on the pitch. Your teammates loved you like a younger sister, and had gained your trust. You absolutely couldn’t be described as shy around them anymore. 

So, your club teammates knew you well enough to know that if you were being quiet, it wasn’t because you thought you were better than everyone around you or because you weren’t interested in being social. You just had such anxiety when it came to social situations, especially new ones. 

No situation terrified you more than your first international call up. The weeks leading up to it, everyone kept telling you it would be okay. Whenever you fell quiet and looked like you were thinking too hard, there was always someone there to rest a hand on your shoulder or pull you into a hug and promise that everything would be okay. 

You just had to be yourself, Alexia said, and everyone would like you. 

Kika promised you had nothing to worry about, Cata said she was just a phone call away if she had to fight someone for you. None of them seemed very worried, somehow assured and convinced that you’d have no trouble making friends. 

For the first time in your career, you left when they did for the international break. You were your usual self, bubbly and smiley and excited enough that you could barely sit still. Or maybe that was just the nerves. 

You were yourself when you left, and none of them stopped to consider that you might not be when you got back.

—

Loneliness. It wasn’t a brand new feeling, but it wasn’t one you’d felt in a long time. 

Not since you were a kid, and watched the other kids play together at recess. Easily talking and laughing and having fun. Not since you were a kid and watched your parents joke and laugh with your much older siblings, only pausing to remind you to finish your homework. You’d been the outsider, then. At school and at home. 

The weird girl that tried to play football with the boys at recess, and was promptly shunned by everyone. The baby of the family that no one seemed to have any time for. Your parents had you, and soon after decided they were tired of being real parents. They were tired of spending their time with kids, only they’d realized that too late. You’d spent years eating dinner alone at the kitchen table, wondering if your parents would remember to come check on you when they got home from whatever event they’d gone to. 

So, loneliness was familiar. Perhaps you’d just forgotten how much it ached. 

Yet you were reminded, that first international break. Where once again you were the outsider, the odd one out. You weren’t very sure why. It started with the girl you were assigned to room with acting like you were the strangest, most unpleasant person she’d ever spoken to. Soon, it was everyone else doing the same. 

It was cruel little laughs when you messed up in training, and rolled eyes when you went down with an ankle injury during the match. It was assuredly not whispered overheard conversations. 

“She’s so arrogant, I don’t know how anyone puts up with her.” 

“They probably have to be nice to her at Barça, but it’s all pity, really. No one would actually want to spend time with her.” 

“I wonder if it’s in her contract, that everyone has to pretend to like her.” 

It was trying to keep your sobs silent at night as you buried your face in your pillow. It was ignoring every text you got from your club teammates asking how it was going because you were terrified that they didn’t really like you. It didn’t take much for you to be convinced you were some annoying burden on your teammates. The foundation had been laid throughout your life, and it took just a few perfectly worded comments from some of the meanest girls you’d ever encountered to shatter what little self confidence you’d managed to develop. 

It was the worst two weeks of your life. And now, somehow, you were supposed to go back to Barcelona and act normal, like you didn’t have a million doubts in your head, much more amplified than they ever had been before. 

Now, it wasn’t a small worry in the back of your mind that you were bothering Jana when you asked her to braid your hair before a match, or when Alexia drove you home from training that one evening. It had grown to a shout, drowning out any logical, reasonable competition. 

You were sure. Convinced. You were nothing but a burden. An annoying, arrogant, horrible person who no one actually wanted to be around, let alone your club teammates who had the world at their feet. 

Your lack of response to your teammates' texts was the first of many red flags. Many of them had texted you. First, your closest friends. Vicky, Sydney, Jana, Salma. But when word inevitably got around the Spain camp that you weren’t replying to your friends, more texts arrived. From Irene and Alexia, Patri, Cata, and Claudia. Almost everyone asked you some variation of how is it going, or alternatively, are you doing okay? 

Yet you were too in your head to believe they really wanted to know. This was only reinforced when the texts stopped. Though you didn’t know it, Alexia and Irene had decided you needed space for whatever reason, and told everyone to leave you alone. They didn’t want to suffocate you trying to figure out what was going on, though it was clearly something. 

So, the texts stopped, and any remaining shred of hope you carried that your national teammates were wrong, that your club teammates did care about you, disappeared too. 

—

You were pretty sure you’d never been more anxious than you were the morning you were supposed to return to Barça’s training. Every negative comment, every condescending look, every second you'd spent feeling alone and awful, had built up inside your head.

Every single thing you did prompted a flood of self deprecating thoughts. It didn't feel like you could do anything right. All you wanted was to shrink yourself down, become as small and unnoticeable as possible. If you could get through the day without anyone really looking at you, maybe you could do this.

Of course, your teammates, already worried about you after your unexplained silence, weren't going to let you be invisible.

It started with an arm slung around your shoulders the second you stepped into the locker room. Ona, a bright smile on her face.

"La pequeña is back!" She sang, pinching your cheek.

Her words didn't make you feel loved and cared for. Instead, you heart clenched, thinking she was being patronizing.

You had officially fallen off the deep end, and if you'd been in any less of a state of anxiety and self consciousness, you would have realized how wrong and unfair you were being.

You knew Ona. Ona was a good person. Ona would never hurt a fly, let alone be cruel to one of her teammates. These were all facts. Somehow, though, your sense of self had been so warped, so twisted, that you believed Ona could be a good person who wouldn't hurt a fly, yet she could also still be teasing you.

There was something to be said about how two weeks with a bunch of mean girls had completely destroyed your self confidence. Perhaps it hadn't been very strong to begin with, perhaps this deep hatred you felt towards yourself had always been inside you, just buried deep. Now, though, it had free reign. Logic could no longer control it, and it was left to run rampant through your body and mind.

You were bad. Arrogant, awful, impossible to like or care for. These feelings were the foundation of every thought you had. You were a burdensome disaster, and your teammates didn't need to be bothered with you. It wasn't worth it; you weren't worth their time.

You didn't think you were worth much at all, really.

So, you shrugged out from under Ona's arm, fixing your eyes on your cubby and hurrying over to it. No eye contact, no conversation with anyone else.

Ona was left behind you, confused. Brow furrowed, she looked at you, and then looked around the locker room. It seemed she hadn't been the only one to notice your odd behavior. Jana made eye contact with her, nodding her head slightly.

You were hyper aware of everyone around you, able to see Jana leaning closer from her spot in the cubby next to you out of the corner of your eye.

"Hey." She said quietly.

You managed some mumbled greeting in response, hands trembling where you tried to unfold your training top.

"Are you okay?" Jana inquired.

Immediately, you nodded your head. And immediately, Jana regretted her question. Of course you were going to say yes, even if it was obvious you weren't okay. She should have asked what was wrong, instead.

Someone cleared their throat behind Jana, and you let out a sigh of relief when she stepped away from you.

More concern being shown to you, yet you perceived it so differently. Jana was taking pity on you, probably. You needed to pull it together, take some deep breaths and put on a show, because you had no choice but to be fine today. No choice.

As you composed yourself, Jana and Irene exchanged quiet words.

"Something isn't right." Jana whispered, glancing back at you. Now, you were methodically trying your shoes, even a mere hint of emotion wiped from your face.

Irene was watching you, too, more concerned than she wanted to admit. Your silence while you'd been away had been odd; your behavior now, though, was downright worrying.

Yet taking one look at you told Irene that you were completely shut down. An impenetrable wall had put up, and Irene knew better than to force her way through. This wasn't the time or the place to get you to talk.

"Just leave her be for today. Whatever it is, she'll come to us when she's ready."

And maybe you would have, if it had been anything else. But when you were convinced you were a burden, the last thing you wanted to do was ask the people you felt like you were inconveniencing to reassure you that you weren't an inconvenience.

Those of your teammates that had an understanding of when to push and when not to push seemed to leave you alone. There were little things, pats on the shoulder and water bottles handed to you first before anyone else, that were supposed to send you the message that you were cared for. Yet all you could think was that your teammates saw you as an obligation.

However, some of your other teammates greatly lacked the ability to read the situation. When they saw someone being quiet and acting strangely, it wasn't in their nature to let it go. They pushed.

Teasing comments about being quiet or being too cool for the team followed you around all day. The weren't intentionally cruel, yet you couldn't seem to separate friendly teasing from what you'd endured with your national team.

Everything came to a head in the locker room after training. It was loud, everyone chattering excitedly about their breaks and getting to see their families. So loud that no one really noticed Cata and Vicky appearing on either side of you, pestering you to tell them why you were suddenly way too cool to talk to them.

“Out with it, chica!” Cata said teasingly. Maybe she was trying to lighten the mood, but you felt like she was laughing at you. “You’ve been acting like an alien all day.” 

“Were you abducted? Are you really an alien shape shifter?” Vicky laughed. 

The teasing felt cruel, though you should have known it wasn’t. The echoes of the girls from your national team still rattled around in your head, until you couldn’t tell the difference between their bullying and your teammates’ teasing. 

You shut your locker tightly, blinking hard for a second before turning around. 

“Please just leave me alone.” You said softly, voice cracking in the middle. 

Cata and Vicky froze, surprise flashing across their faces. 

“Chica, we were just–”

“I know, I know, I’ve been weird. Just make your jokes when I’m gone next time.” 

It was the closest you’d probably ever get to standing up for yourself, so maybe you were a bit proud as you headed out of the locker room. Mostly, though, you just felt pathetic. For ever thinking your teammates had cared about you when they had no reason to. For ever thinking you were fun to be around or fun to talk to. 

You’d been trying to be quiet and fade into the background. Not draw attention to yourself. It only confirmed in your head that your teammates saw you as a pitiful charity project they didn’t actually want to be around when they seemed to zero in on this change in your behavior. 

You couldn’t picture it coming from a place of worry or care. The girls your age hated you, and there was no reason why much more successful women wouldn’t feel the same way. 

Hastily, you made your way out of the locker room, ignoring every sideways glance from your teammates. You even ignored Alexia calling your name, not thinking yourself capable of holding it together for much longer. You needed to get home, where you could be pathetic by yourself and not bother anyone with it.

Yet behind you, every single one of your teammates, every single one of your friends, were left bewildered. Something wasn't right. And they were not the type of people to let something like this go.

—

It was Sydney that got to you. She’d clearly had a bad training session, a bad day. It surprised you when your phone lit up with a text from her, asking if she could come over. You said yes immediately, willing to help even while you were convinced you were the perpetual butt of some joke. 

Sydney been near tears when she knocked on your front door, and you didn't hesitate to pull her over to your sofa, wrap a soft cream blanket around her shoulders, and move the box of tissues on the coffee table ever so slightly closer to her.

"What's going on?" You asked, trying to keep your voice even and calm.

Sydney sniffled, burying her face in her hands.

"Everything," she said, voice muffled. "I just… I don't think I'm good enough to be here. Everyday at training, all I can do is doubt myself and rethink my decisions and then I play horribly. It's unbearable. I want to go home, I miss my parents and my sister and cold weather and—"

"Woah, slow down." You urged. "Take a breathe, you're spiraling."

Sydney inhaled shakily, and you reached out, resting a supportive hand on her forearm.

"It's just… really hard, being so far away from home and playing for the best team in the world. I should feel happy and lucky, and I do, but I'm so scared all the time that I'm not good enough."

You knew exactly how she was feeling. It was probably a rough time that every young player at Barcelona felt, a point everyone reached. You weren't even sure that you didn't still feel that way.

In that moment, you were glad you'd felt this way before, if for no other reason than being able to help Sydney more.

"Syd, you wouldn't be here if you weren't good enough. Having a crisis of confidence like this just shows you care, and you have the passion you need to play for this team."

Sydney looked up at you and sniffled, cautiously hopeful. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. What you're feeling is so normal, Syd, I promise. It's an adjustment and you just have to be patient with yourself. It's going to get better, I promise."

This time, Sydney nodded, wiping at her eyes. "Yeah, you're probably right."

You fidgeted with your fingers in your lap, wracking your brain for what else to say, what would have made you feel better when you'd felt like this. Sydney looked comforted, sure, but you knew that your advice was probably not very good, and she deserved more than you were able to give her.

“Do you want me to call one of the older girls, Syd? They can probably help better than me.” You suggested, biting down on your lower lip in worry. 

Sydney shook her head. “No, you’re helping. You always give good advice, and you always know what to say to calm me down. That’s why I’m here. I think I just needed to cry.” 

Her words shocked you, and it was obvious that she could tell.

"I actually didn't just come over here to cry on your couch." Sydney said, no longer looking quite as sad, concern flooding her features. "I wanted to check on you. Something seemed really off today."

You shifted uncomfortably, whole body suddenly tense. "No, I'm—"

"Do not tell me that you are fine. You seem… you seem really not okay. Everyone's noticed, and Irene has insisted we give you space, that you'll talk to someone about whatever is wrong when you're ready, but that doesn't feel right to me. You shouldn't let someone who is clearly hurting isolate themselves."

Sydney spoke with the wisdom of a much older woman. Her hazel eyes, too, seemed to study you in a way that pierced your soul. So much so that you suddenly didn't know how you were going to push this away, how you were going to convince her you were okay.

There was something else, too. The thing about Irene and space and you reaching out when you were ready. It tugged at your chest, maybe some very tiny remaining part of you that remembered how much you trusted your teammates.

Two weeks that felt like an eternity were enough to do a lot of damage on your psyche, that much was obvious. Those weeks, paired with your long standing tendency to fall into a pit of self hatred, were enough to have you questioning everything, your friendships most of all. You'd shrunk yourself down, trying to take up as little space as possible, as you always had when you were younger. When it was clear you were annoying your parents or your siblings, you shut down.

You were shutting down now, but there was some part of you, maybe some healed part of you, that couldn't stop thinking of tight hugs and reassuring words and movie nights and homemade dinners and rides home from training. None of that matched up with the way you were feeling, until all you were sure of in that moment, was that you were confused.

You were so confused. Sydney reaching out and checking on you didn't make sense. Irene telling everyone to give you space, and that you'd talk to someone when you were ready didn't make sense. Sydney saying you were clearly hurting didn't make sense; you weren't hurting, not really. You were just being realistic. Weren't you?

Sydney seemed genuine, though. And that was the thing that really tripped you up. She would have had to go very much out of her way to come over here and check on you, even if she apparently came also because she trusted you to make her feel better about her own terrible day.

Nothing made sense anymore. It hadn't since you'd left for the break two weeks ago, and realized you were existing in a bubble where everyone tolerated your presence because they had to.

"Did something happen over the break?" She probed, carefully watching the shift of your facial expression. Immediately, she knew she'd gotten it right. Your face had fallen for just a moment, before the wall was drawn back up. But she'd seen the devastation in your eyes at the reminder. "Okay, so yes. Tell me what happened."

Sydney could come off as a very quiet, soft spoken person. but when it came to the people she cared about, which you could no longer deny included you, she was a force to be reckoned with, and you found yourself opening your mouth to answer without even trying to fight it very hard.

"It's fine. Some of the girls were… they didn't like me. But it's okay, really. I'm okay."

Sydney raised one eyebrow, like she didn't believe you for a second. "Didn't like you? Why not?"

Her face was so genuinely confused, her tone baffled. She didn't seem to understand the idea of someone not liking you. And, you suppose, that's what made you break. Tears welled in your eyes even as you shook your head, trying to ward the emotions off.

"Because I'm annoying and arrogant and aloof and untalented and undeserving of my spot here." The words tumbled out of you, like you'd been bursting at the seams trying not to let them go until that moment.

"Is that what they said?" Sydney asked, eyes wide and angry.

You nodded, jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

"Is that what you believe?"

This time, you shrugged. Yet, somehow, it was obvious what that shrug meant.

"That's absurd. Obviously they're just jealous of you because you're so much more successful than them."

The issue with that explanation was that you couldn't hear it without picturing a mother telling her spoiled teenage daughter with an awful personality the exact same thing. She didn't have friends because people were jealous of her, not because she was terrible. You couldn't envision yourself as anything other than the terrible one in the situation.

You shrugged again, trying to act like you didn't care, like none of it even mattered anyway. "Yeah, whatever. It's not a big deal."

Sydney looked at you for a long moment, considering. Her eyes were warm, her aura exuding gentleness. Still, you braced yourself for something hurtful.

"It seems like a big deal. It would feel like a big deal for me."

You bit your lip for a moment before shaking your head. "It's not."

It was a lie, and you both knew it. There was no part of you that was willing to let this conversation go any further, though. You couldn't talk about this, or you'd break, and that wouldn't be fair to put on Sydney. So, you changed the subject.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. Do you want to watch a movie? To get your mind off things?" You asked, trying to appear relaxed as you leaned back into the sofa and uncrossed your arms.

Sydney knew she had two options; she could push, insist you talk to her, or she could let you shut the conversation down and watch a movie with you. She was fairly certain that the first option would end with you shutting down even further, and her leaving your apartment. And the second… well, you'd still be shut down, but at least you wouldn't be alone. So, for now, Sydney let you table the conversation, well aware that she had a few people to call on her way home.

"A movie sounds good." She agreed.

Yet even after you'd both agreed on a film, even as the room feel silent as the opening chords of the score flooded out of the speakers, you could feel the concern radiating off Sydney in waves. And you worried she wouldn't let this go.

—

The thing about having no self confidence was that sometimes, you could be really fucking delusional. Over the course of the evening and night, and into the following day, you'd somehow managed to convince yourself that nothing else would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the night before. Because, really, why would anyone care to follow up? It was one thing to be nice to you at training, but your personal issues were no one's responsibility but your own.

Maybe it was your brain trying to take the safe option. Maybe it was some part of you reaching out for help in a very backwards way, knowing that if you convinced yourself there would be no conversation the next day, no worried glances from your teammates, you'd be much more likely to be taken off guard, and much more likely to talk. Whatever it was, you walked into the locker room the next morning, 75% sure that nothing would come of the conversation you'd had with Sydney the day before.

And right back out the locker room you walked, head down, eyes fixed on the floor, following Alexia and Patri. Briefly, you wondered how Patri was chosen for this conversation. Likely, it had been her that Sydney had gone to talk to, finding the youngest captain to be the easiest to approach. If you knew Irene and Marta, though, you knew they'd be itching to talk to you, too.

You followed Alexia and Patri to the room the team used for watching match footage, slumping into a chair as they both pulled ones over to sit in front of you. It felt oddly like some kind of job interview, both of their gazes fixed intently on you. They looked upset, almost, and you honestly weren't sure how this conversation would go.

Maybe it wasn't about the break and what had happened. Maybe you'd actually done something wrong, and gotten yourself into trouble.

Before you could spiral any further, Patri cleared her throat and spoke.

"You haven't been yourself." She said simply, eyes trained on your face, ready to catch even a flicker in your expression.

You opened your mouth, though you weren't quite sure what you were about to say. Alexia spoke before you could, though, shaking her head insistently as if you'd spoken.

"No. Do not deny it. You left for the break normal, smiley and laughing and happy. And you came back sad and quiet and shy. You haven't been this quiet and this withdrawn since you first came here, so something clearly happened while you were gone. And I want to know what happened."

Alexia could come on rather strong when it came to the well being of the people she cared about. This was something Patri knew very well, having been on the receiving end of it enough times. Yet she didn't want Alexia to seem too harsh, and make you think that you were in trouble when they were really just worried about you.

"Why do you want to know? It's not your responsibility, I was away with my national team, it has nothing to do with Barcelona."

Alexia and Patri exchanged a glance, confusion written across both their faces.

"What? It's not about responsibility, chica, it's about you. We want to know because we care about you."

Shockingly, as you'd approached this conversation with such hostility, your lip began to tremble. You bit down on it, hard, looking anywhere but at your captains.

"You do?"

Alexia and Patri were both stunned into silence for a moment. They didn't understand what they could have possibly done to make you doubt that they cared about you. The entire team had spent a long time earning your trust, and now it seemed like that trust had evaporated.

You'd been so young when you arrived at Barcelona, you still were so young. And neither Patri nor Alexia could see anything other than a young girl who needed love and support when they looked at you.

Alexia reached out, putting one hand on your shoulder. She waited until you lifted your gaze to meet hers, eyes filled with tears. She hadn't seen you look this small and this vulnerable in a very long time.

"Of course we do. Of course. We want to know what happened because we want to help."

At this, you shook your head, wiping your tears with the hem of your training top.

"No, this isn't your problem, it's mine. You don't have to fix it for me."

"Well, maybe we want to." Patri said, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Just tell us, chica. Please." Alexia asked, her tone of the verge of begging. They were both looking at you so intently, so pleadingly and so caringly, that you weren't really sure what else to do. Your options seemed like… telling them what happened, or running from the room and never looking back.

"It was just… some of the girls at camp. They didn't like me. They said some stuff I guess I let get in my head."

It was the vaguest, barest bones summary you could have come up with, and you could tell both the older women wanted to ask for more details, insist on names and exactly what was said so they could make it right.

But there you sat in front of them, arms crossed tightly over your chest, looking like you were physically trying to hold yourself together. And they knew they shouldn't push you.

Of course, you were worried that if you told them exactly what was said, they'd agree, however unlikely that was. But more than that, the things that had been said to you and about you weren't things you ever really wanted to repeat again. Even listing them off to Sydney the night before had been painful, like you were hearing them all over again.

"Niña, you understand why the girls were mean, yes?" Patri asked gently.

You shrugged, because you didn't, not really. All you could think was that you deserved it.

"Because you are 17 years old and playing for this team. You are so talented, and so promising, and so humble about it, too. Those girls have no idea how to handle that jealousy without being cruel, without trying to put you down to make themselves feel taller."

You had to admit, when Patri explained it, it made sense. Hearing those words from her took some of the weight off your shoulders, even if it was only a little bit for now.

Alexia hummed her agreement to what Patri said, nudging your foot with hers before she spoke. "We can't fix what happened while you were gone, nena. But we can tell you that you are not alone, and nothing that was said to you was true. You are good and kind and you deserve to be here. Okay?"

Again, all you could do was shrug. But Alexia could see the tears silently sliding down your face, and she knew that what she'd said had mattered, had been what you needed to hear.

"Ven," Alexia said, standing and opening her arms for you. You buried yourself into the hug, letting the warmth from Alexia calm you.

It wasn't magically better. You didn't suddenly, miraculously feel better about yourself and who you were as a person. It just didn't feel as heavy, in that moment.

Your captains had gone out of their way to check on you, to insist you talk to them, just like Sydney had. There was no obligation for them to fulfill, they'd done it because they wanted to. Because they cared about you. And whether or not you thought that care was valid or deserved, it didn't matter. It was there either way.

Patri hugged you, too, after Alexia finally let go, murmuring something about finding those girls and teaching them a lesson, and you laughed. The both smiled at your smile like they'd won a prize, Patri slinging an arm across your shoulders as she walked you out of the film room and back to the locker room.

It was just as loud as ever in there, music blasting from the speaker. Pina had commandeered Patri's phone in her absence, and was playing something that Vicky was calling an abomination. Jana grabbed your wrist as soon as you stepped foot through the door, pulling you over to the bench in front of your cubby and practically shoving you down onto it. She started braiding your hair without you even asking, and you knew then that everyone had noticed something up with you, not just Sydney, and not just your captains.

The volume of the locker room didn't feel like a party happening around you that you weren't invited to, anymore. It felt comfortable, the way it always had before.

You didn't realize you were sitting there, smiling, until Sydney caught your eye from across the room. She looked anxious, and you realized she probably expected you to be angry with her for going to Alexia and Patri about you.

Somehow, though, you weren't upset. You weren't really anything but relieved that your entire team didn't hate you. You smiled wider at Sydney, nodding your head once. Relief flooded her face, turning into amusement as Jana lightly slapped the top of your head, telling you not to move or you'd mess her up.

It really surprised you how much better you felt. How much a few people just caring and reaching out had done. You didn't really feel like questioning it, though. You didn't feel like ruminating in the thoughts and rethinking your every action.

You just felt like being there with your team, without overthinking anything. And that was a massive step in and of itself.

—

i know i throw this around a lot but i truly hate this. could not physically spend any more time on it thought without losing my mind, so i hope it's not too bad. don't tell me if it is thx <3

[juicykvnture]

DANCE, DANCE

Dick Grayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, dubcon, intox/aphrodisiacs, size kink (if u squint) college AU, he’s a little feral, alcohol use

a/n: so uh! yup!

wc: 3.2k | masterlist

“You done drooling over her, man?” Wally’s words snap Dick out of his momentary daze, making him lean back against the speaker with a grumble. His brows are furrowed, messy black hair falling into his eyes. He’s trying to look unfazed, but he’s failing miserably.

Okay, maybe he has been eyeing you for ages, but it’s not Wally’s place to get involved, like at all.

“Go. Talk. To. Her.”

“She’s busy, look!” Dick scoffs, drumming his fingers against his cup as he glances over at you, tapping away at your phone in the corner.

He doesn’t have a problem talking to girls, really! Just you.

“She’s probably texting someone cause she wants to go home. This party sucks ass.” Wally rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his own plastic cup.

“You’re a horrible wingman.” Dick’s words are muffled by the rim of the plastic cup, chewing on it slightly as he tries to be subtle with how he’s staring at you, squinting under his dark lashes.

“Ask her out or I will.” Wally gives him a blank stare, unceremoniously tossing a bottle his way.

That makes him stiffen. No. Wally isn’t allowed to ask you out. Who the hell does he think he is?

Dick catches the bottle with an arched brow, glancing down at the unlabelled booze and then back at Wally.

“Dude, what the fuck is in-”

“Go.”

He’s never letting Wally drag him to a dorm party ever again. The music is awful, the beer tastes like piss and the company is uh.. questionable to say the least.

Dick shuffles through the crowd a little awkwardly, fixing his hair up with one hand as the other grips the bottle a little too tightly.

Thank god he’s got recession pop music to get him through this shit, right?

“This party ain’t your style, I take it?” Dick arches a brow as he takes a step towards where you’re sat on the floor with your phone, his voice snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Huh? No, I’ve been to worse.” You shrug, shifting a little bit on the couch, hesitantly offering him a seat beside you, “I’m just waiting for Kori, she’s running late.”

It’s been a little awkward between the two of you, to say the least, it’s not like you’re avoiding each other per se but it’s been better. Who knew kissing one of your closest friends in the spur of the moment would make it a little weird?

Sensing your hesitation, Dick runs a hand through his hair, letting himself settle down on the couch beside you. He’s making sure to keep a good few inches between the two of you, as badly as he wants to throw his arm around your shoulder he thinks you’d be weirded out, all things considered.

But Wally said he’s just gotta talk to you, right?

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, glancing around the room at the other shitfaced partygoers and then at the bottle in his hand, awkwardly holding it up.

“I have a peace offering?”

That makes you arch your brows, leaning closer to him to hear what he’s saying over the loud thrum of the music.

“What’s in that?” You mumble, incredulous as you stare up at him and then down at the bottle in his grip.

“Uh,” he doesn’t know what to tell you, he doesn’t know. His brain is too preoccupied with the fact that you’re leaning so close to him that he could probably count your eyelashes if he wanted to. He kinda does want to, actually.

He’s lagging for a moment, thinking of what to say to you.

Firstly? It’s probably Wally’s stupid attempt at playing Cupid by getting the two of you grossly inebriated - but he can’t just fucking say that.

Secondly? Dick genuinely has no idea what’s in there. It could be anything from tequila to nail polish remover and he’s none the wiser.

“Wally gave it to me?” He offers sheepishly, glancing across the crowd to where his best friend and total failure of a wingman stands, two thumbs up with a genuinely idiotic grin across his face.

“..right,” you murmur, following his gaze to Wally causing Dick to sputter.

“I’m sorry, he’s being weird. Ignore him.” He blurts out, gripping the bottle tightly in his slightly shaky hand before he feels your fingers brush against his, gently prying it out of his hand.

“It’s fine. Worst case scenario we throw up.” You shrug, cracking the lid open.

Tilting the bottle back, the immediate sweet taste of it makes you grimace, clearing your throat.

You seem far more optimistic than he does. Your worst case scenario is vomming into someone’s sink - his being the fact that he could blurt all of his feelings out in one go and make you ghost him for the rest of his existence.

But.. you live once, right? And maybe if he says something embarrassing neither of you will remember it?

Bracing himself, he takes a sip - letting out a cough the second it hits his tongue.

What the hell did Wally put in this?

If you could go back in time a half hour and tell yourself not to drink whatever the fuck that was, you would. You truly would.

You’ve never claimed to be a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol. But you’re not drunk, you know what drunk feels like - this isn’t it. This is worse, like a sickly heat crawling through your skin.

It’s not just you, Dick can’t keep himself together either.

You’re hunched over in the elevator now, his face pressed into your shoulder as he tries his eyes on the elevator buttons, his head swimming.

“Which floor are we?” He’s hot, far too hot like he needs to crawl out of his own skin completely to cool off, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Uh,” you blink, staring at the buttons, it looks like the numbers keep switching places, moving around up and down and to the side.

Bracing yourself against the metal door with one hand, you reach a shaky hand out, taking a guess when it comes to which floor your dorm is on, you guess the 5th and you can only hope you’re right.

“Fuck,” he hisses as the elevator lurches upwards, causing the two of you to nearly stumble to the floor, his hips bumping against your ass with a shaky groan.

His arms immediately lock around your mid-section, panting into your shoulder as he uses all that’s left of his brain power to keep the two of you upright. You were barely able to drag yourself across the room in your heels, hence you ditched them, opting to stand on the tops of his shoes so your feet don’t touch the floor.

Fuck, it’s hot in here.

“Are you feeling… weird?” He rasps, trying hard to sound stern, but the slur in his words ruins it. He swallows deeply and clears his throat, feeling a drop of sweat slide down from his hairline to the base of his neck. Everything was starting to feel too hot.

“Uh-huh,”

No way someone could’ve spiked either of you, you’ve been talking together for most of the night. Besides, who the hell would want to go after you both?

You’re not sure why you feel like this, sure - you’ve always been a bit of a flirty drunk but you’re sure the two of you had no more than two or three sips each.

“Jesus,” you rasp when it jolts to a halt, gripping onto his sleeve as you stumble out of the elevator. You stare down the hallway in despair, each dorm room looking identical.

“..where we goin again?”

“Uhhhh.. your dorm?” Dick was very, very aware of how his body was pressed up against you, and it was making trying to get to your room even more difficult. His grip on your shoulder was like a vice, holding onto you with much more force than he probably should.

“..5F,” You blink, using up all that’s left of your brain power to try to remember your dorm number.

F? End of the hall, fuck.

Dick almost laughs, but the amusement is quickly replaced with a gasp when he can feel the fabric of your dress slide under his hands a little too well.

His chest pressed firmly into your back, and he kept stumbling with every step you took, accidentally rutting into you.

“Hurry.” He pants. His face practically burning.

“Quit fuckin’ rushin’ meee..” You slur under your breath, not even aware why until you two are halfway down the hall that he keeps bumping against your ass.

It’s not your fault you didn’t notice, it’s probably better for your sanity if you never did but fuck neither of you can take it anymore, like you’re teetering on the edge of a heart attack, breaths heavy and faces flushed.

You’re not rushing fast enough.

His steps falter for a moment when his crotch pressed right against your ass, and he choked on a groan. It was involuntary, but it makes you stop still in the middle of the hallway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs under his breath, trying to get his legs to cooperate so he could keep walking toward your door. The blood in his body has been rushing south for a while, and it’s getting difficult to keep himself upright as it is.

When you two stumble inside, he’s not sure what’s worse - the fact that he hasn’t even asked you out properly or the fact that you don’t even make it to the bed, the two of you ending up a shaky mess on your floor.

“M’sorry,” he’s panting, almost desperate like he doesn’t know what’s possessed him, his hips rutting against yours as he tries to keep himself together, desperately searching for a coherent thought to cling onto.

“No,” you shake your head, trying to stop your back arching up off the floor as you press yourself against him, sweat dripping down your collarbone “Nuh-uh, no I’m sorry, fuck-”

You’re cut off by his face falling into your neck, fingers gripping the bottom of your dress like he’s trying to pull it up and out of his way but isn’t exactly sure how.

“Sorry,” he pants again, dark strands of his hair clinging to his forehead as he tries his best to keep himself together - acting like he’s not humping your thigh at this point with his mouth hovering over yours

“Uhh—fuckk,” His hands move to your ass, lifting you a little to get a better angle for him to grind up against your inner thigh.

“Y-you drunk?” You slur under your breath, clumsily leaning back on the floor to bunch the bottom of your dress up at your hips.

“No,” Dick mumbles, unable to hold back a little whine at the fact he can feel his cock leaking through underwear, desperately fumbling with his jeans “you?”

“No, n-not drunk,” you force out a reply, forehead bumping against his in a daze as your hand finds the back of his neck.

You’re not drunk.

You’ve been to enough college parties to know this isn’t the alcohol talking.

You can’t be drunk. You and Dick only had a couple sips. You didn’t even pre-game tonight.

“Please,” Dick murmured into your neck, needy and practically begging as his fingers tug your underwear every which way. “Need to be closer.”

“You’re on t-top of me,” you argue, brain too offline to actually understand how he could possibly get closer to you.

“No,” His hips moved again, grinding the aching bulge of his cock against your thighs, just to get some sweet, sweet friction. He needs you, needs you so bad, needs this.

“W-want you,” Dick pants. Want doesn’t even cover it.

“God, I need—“ he can’t even finish that sentence, too lost to even think.

“I need to f-fuck you, m’sorry.”

He genuinely is sorry. The rational part deep down in him is guilty. He should be asking you out, planning a date, anything else.

You should be waiting downstairs. Deep down you know Kori is probably waiting for you, fuck only knows where your phone even is.

You can’t be rational right now, no matter how hard you try. The heat between your legs is just too much to ignore.

“S’not your fault.” You swallow, trying to focus enough to kiss him which just ends in an awkward clash of your teeth against his.

Neither of you care, unable to focus on anything other than how badly you just need to fuck as his shaky hands finally manage to pull his boxers down his thighs.

You can’t hide how the sight of him makes your cunt throb, precum already dripping from his tip as his flushed cock slaps up against his abs.

Part of you is still thankful for the fact that he’s stronger than you, even in this state.

You know damn well you wouldn’t be able to coordinate yourself enough to hold your body up if Dick wasn’t there to hold your thighs in place - incoherent and slurred little whines falling from your mouth as you arch your back.

He’s got one hand gripping your thigh, the other behind your head so you don’t crack your skull open on the hardwood floor.

See, it would be sweet in any other scenario, if Dick was panting and babbling and telling you how pretty you are for him, how good you’re taking him.

That’s just not the case right now. He’s fucking you like he genuinely can’t stop himself - his thrusts are sloppy and out of rhythm but so fucking mean to the point your body wants to give out, your half-lidded eyes glassy as you stare up at the ceiling.

“L-look at me,” Dick pants, giving the back of your neck a desperate little squeeze so you meet his gaze, “f-fuck, please look at me,” he groans, each one of his words punctuated by a sloppy thrust into your aching pussy.

“Sorry.” It’s like he’s pleading again when you finally manage to meet his eyes, bottom lip trembling like he’s trying not to whine like a bitch at how good you feel around his cock.

He’s sorry he can’t help himself. He’s sorry he wasn’t able to keep his hands to himself. He’s sorry that it all happened the way it did.

“God,” you manage a rasp, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress to keep it held up “s-stop apologising to me and just fuck me,”

“Huh?” His lips are parted, staring down at you as his brain works to grasp onto what you’re saying - like his head is full of cotton wool.

“F-fuck me harder,” You repeat, trying to coordinate your body enough to lift your hips up to match his thrusts.

“Harder, huh?” Dick pants, like your words have managed to snap him out of his daze for just a split second, a sharp slam of his hips making you cry out as you clench around his cock.

“You want it h-harder?” His chest is heaving, his face is flushed, he doesn’t care - both hands finding your thighs to lift your ass off of the floor to throw both of your legs over his shoulders.

“H-holy fuck,” Dick hisses under his breath, gripping your thighs so hard his knuckles are turning white as he fucks his cock deeper into you, unable to find it in himself to look away from your face.

He was gonna compliment you on your sparkly eyeshadow and everything earlier, but it just looks so much better melting down your cheeks, same goes for the pretty lipstick now smeared across your face.

“Dick-“ you try to pull back, even if it’s a little bit to catch your breath. He’s not having it, one hand grabbing your chin as he presses his thumb down against your tongue, hips stuttering as he slams into you again.

“What?” He breathes, you can’t tell if he’s mocking your desperation or if he’s that out of it himself, your drool around his thumb making his cock twitch inside you.

“Y’wanted it h-harder,” It’s hard to recognise him at this point, just hours ago he was standing around trying to figure out how to even talk to you, making up any excuse to stall.

He’s all over the place now, fucking you on the floor of your dorm like a slut and the worst part is neither of you can tell who’s worse.

And he just can’t help running his stupid, stupid mouth.

“Always thought you were s-so fucking hot,” he whines, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a small string of spit - mouth now hovering over yours.

“Even j-jerked off to your f-fucking instagram,”

Normally, he’d rather curl up and die in a hole than ever admit that. But he just can’t stop.

“Huh?” You pant, barely able to suppress a whimper at the thought of it as your pussy clenches around him.

“M’serious,” he’s digging himself a deeper grave with every word he says, brain almost melting out his ears with every thrust into your sloppy cunt.

“S-shit you’re clenchin’ round me so good,” he mumbles against your mouth, lips meeting yours in more of a mess of spit and teeth than anything else.

“Bet you like it,” Dick breathes out, tongue brushing against yours as he pulls back for a moment, only to slam his cock into you even harder.

“B-bet me bein’ a f-fucking loser for you makes you wet huh?”

“Dick-“ See, you would argue.

If he wasn’t balls deep inside you, that is.

“I’m right aren’t I? S-shit, you won’t deny it.” He’s just babbling to himself at this point, staring at your fucked out face as you whine and writhe beneath him.

“B-bet you probably laugh at me, y’probably think I’m pathetic but you’re still letting me slut you out on the fucking floor, huh?”

Your body aches as the sunlight comes in through the blinds, brows furrowing as you find yourself draped in a black t-shirt that isn’t yours.

In efforts to try be gentlemanly after last night Dick stands shirtless in your kitchen - at a loss as he tries to figure out a breakfast he could conjure up from cabinets upon cabinets of beer and energy drinks and instant noodles.

He jolts a little when he hears a knock at the door, hesitant as he glances towards your bedroom and then back to the door once more.

Dick braces himself for a moment, expecting to be met with the sight of one of your hungover roommates making their way back to bed.

But no. He’s met with something far, far worse.

Wally West, beaming like an idiot with your phone and jacket tucked under his arm, belongings you presumably left downstairs.

“So,” he hums, barely fighting the smug grin curling at his lips as he stares at Dick, taking in his disheveled state.

“..you two have fun?”

Fucker.

a/n: take a shot every time I say “fuck”. You will genuinely end up floored.

(me when I reference my previous writing)

love u thanks for reading!! track suggestions open!

Dick Grayson m.list

[coldestduointhenation]

Pressure - Chapter 1

wnba!Paige x wnba!Azzi

Themes: exes-to-lovers, angst

Warnings: language (I think that's it)

Synopsis: Four years after a messy fallout, Azzi gets traded to the Dallas Wings. On the same team for the first time after four years of no contact, they have to navigate what it's like to exist in the same space again. One of them is more willing to reconcile than the other.

A/N: Been working on this for a while. Chapter 2 is already in the works. I promise it's gonna get really good. Let me know what you thinkkk

Word count: 8.6k

Present Day – 2029 Dallas, Texas

Paige

Paige thought it was a prank.

Not a funny one. She sure as hell wasn’t laughing. But still, it had to be a sick joke. Because what twisted fate of the universe could possibly lead to her being on the same team as Azzi Fudd? The ex-love-of-her-life/ex-best-friend who left a hole in her a long time ago.

“You’re joking, right?” Paige said flatly, staring holes through Curt, the Wings’ GM, from across his desk.

Curt just grinned like this was the best thing that had happened to him all year. “I know, right? I’m still trying to believe it myself. I can’t believe they went for it. I mean, how stupid could you be to reunite the best backcourt in the nation?” Curt cackled.

Paige dropped her head into her hands. When she looked back up, he was furrowing his brows.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be excited about this.” Curt pushed his chair back a little bit to get a better look at Paige and folded his arms across his chest.

Still dazed, Paige nodded the best she could. “Yeah, yeah. This is really great for the team.”

Curt hummed. “I thought you two used to be best friends or something.”

Or something, Paige thought to herself. She nodded her head slowly. Like it hurt to admit. “Yeah… used to be,” she mumbled.

“Well,” Curt said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his desk. “There’s no bad blood or anything, right?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Only a half-lie. Azzi Fudd destroyed Paige in a way she didn’t know was possible all those years ago, yet somewhere inside, Paige knew that Azzi was still that gravitational pull she’d never be able to escape. A flame that burned too pretty but burned her every time she tried to touch it. Part of her hated Azzi for that. The rest of her knew she didn’t actually hate Azzi. She never could. 

She excused herself from Curt’s office at the first opportunity she got and headed straight for the practice court, where it was empty and quiet and hers. To shoot. And think.

One shot at a time. Release. Swish. Reset.

Again. Again. Again.

Paige tried to think forward. About how she was well on her way to her third MVP title in a row. About how Dallas was about to go back-to-back for the first time ever. About how she was getting older and needed to make these last seasons of her prime count.

But no matter how hard Paige tried to stay present, her brain kept dragging her back.

Back to the dorms. Back to late-night film sessions. Back to hotel rooms with one bed, one secret, and one pair of hands that always knew where to touch her.

Back to Azzi.

Azzi, who was her everything, could match her fire and feed it at the same time, but never let Paige in all the way.

And now, somehow, Azzi was coming to Dallas. 

Paige could hardly wrap her head around it. The thought made her chest ache in a way that felt old and familiar and fresh all at once. In a way that reminded Paige of what’s hers.

But Azzi wasn’t hers. She kept forgetting that. 

Someone else was now. Zoey.

Zoey wasn’t the first since Azzi, but she was the first to actually make Paige slow down. Not just some pretty face for headlines and good lighting. Zoey had a mind of her own, a mouth that didn’t take shit, and a kind of patience Paige didn’t realize she needed until it was offered.

Paige didn’t do girlfriends in the traditional sense. She was too busy, and they were too suffocating. Instead, she hooked up with pretty women until the high wore off and routine took over. And if Paige liked them enough, they’d go on dates, let themselves get caught by a fan, maybe go on vacation.

But locking it down? Making it official? Paige never got that far. Never wanted to.

With Zoey… she was getting there. Not all the way, but closer than she’d been with anyone since Azzi.

And now Azzi was moving to the same city. Joining the same team. Living on the same block. Paige didn’t know that part yet.

Not until the next day, when she was on her morning run.

The sun was still low enough for the buildings to cover the street with their shadows. It was too early for most of the city. But not for Paige. For her, it was the only time when things were quiet. Slow.

She was rounding the corner near her building when she saw someone standing by the glass doors of the leasing office. From behind, the figure looked familiar enough to slow her steps.

Thick, curly hair pulled back in a loose, low bun. Oversized sweatshirt. Gray leggings. That specific posture. Too casual to be calculated, but somehow always looking like it was.

Paige’s stomach dipped. Her pace faltered.

No fucking way.

The girl turned slightly, shifting her weight onto one hip as she glanced down at her phone. Paige’s heart climbed into her throat.

It was her.

Azzi.

Just… standing there outside her building. Like it was normal. Like it hadn’t been years. Like she hadn’t left Paige stuck in some loop she could never fully escape.

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

12 years ago – 2017 USA U16 Basketball Camp, Colorado Springs

Paige wasn’t scared. Just aware. Of all the talent in the room. Of who the coaches were paying attention to. Of the sheer intensity of it all. 

She had a great morning. Her shots fell, her footwork was there, her timing on defense was close to perfect. There was no reason to stress. She played her game and played it well.

Paige sat on the bench, one leg pulled up, Gatorade bottle balanced on her knee, sweat still drying on her neck. She’d just finished scrimmaging and was catching her breath while the next group rotated in.

Next to her, Aliyah Boston leaned back on her hands, eyes scanning the floor. “Damn. It’s a tight race this year.”

Paige looked around. She was still riding the edge of that post-game high. Loose muscles, steady heart, confidence simmering under her skin. She was about to agree with Aliyah when something caught her eye.

Someone.

Far end of the court. Red jersey, black shorts. Braided bun. The youngest one on the floor by at least a year. Moving like she didn’t know it. Or didn’t care.

Then she caught a pass. And everything else just… dropped out. Paige didn’t even blink. Couldn’t. Because the girl didn’t hesitate. Didn’t gather. Just rose and released like muscle memory. Like it wasn’t even a choice.

Net.

Paige straightened. Just a little. “Who is that?” she asked without looking away.

Aaliyah followed her gaze. “That’s Azzi Fudd.”

Paige blinked once. “That’s Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah. You heard of her?”

She had. The name was familiar. The highlights, the chatter, the headlines. Something about a phenom. A prodigy. One of those kids who had a clear trajectory. Paige had seen a clip or two. Nothing like this.

Because this? This was fucking art. 

Azzi didn’t just play basketball. She moved through it. Like the game bent around her, not the other way around. There was something impossibly smooth about the way she played. Like she already knew what was going to happen three steps ahead. Like the ball just listened to her.

Paige watched her catch another pass. Watched her pivot, fake, draw two defenders, slip it to the post for the easiest bucket of the day. She didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and jogged back like it was routine.

Paige’s throat went dry. Because it wasn’t just the skill. It was everything else. The way Azzi’s face barely changed, calm like a storm with nowhere to go. The way her shoulders stayed relaxed even when the pressure was high. The way she didn’t seem interested in being liked, or noticed. She just was. Steady. Composed. Sharp. She carried herself like someone who already knew what kind of problem she was about to be.

Something nagged at the corner of Paige’s mind. Like Azzi was about to be her problem. Not the kind of problem that would beat her out for a spot on the roster. The kind that would weave itself into her brain like a parasite and sit there like a rock. 

Paige couldn’t stop watching. She leaned forward. Both feet on the ground now, Gatorade bottle forgotten, eyes wide.

Azzi turned on her heel and jogged back. Her eyes scanned the sideline just once. Just briefly. And Paige swore, for half a second, those eyes landed on her.

She looked away too fast. Heat rising in her cheeks. Something flickering in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to call it yet. All she knew was that she’d never seen anything—anyone—like that.

And she was already in trouble.

**************************

The party wasn’t really for them. Technically, it was for the adults. Coaches, scouts, sponsors, the kind of people who wore suits and passed around business cards like it was currency. But the girls who made the team were invited too. Well, told to come. Told to be on their best behavior, smile if someone important started talking to them, and not to touch the champagne.

Paige stuck close to Aliyah. It was less intimidating that way. Aliyah always had something to say and never looked like she was trying too hard, even in a room full of people who would probably own half the league one day.

The ballroom lights were low and gold, the kind that made everything feel fancier than it was. There were high-top tables and white linen napkins and a string quartet playing a pop song Paige couldn’t quite place.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” Paige asked, swirling her lemonade around in the glass.

Aliyah grinned. “So they can smile at us and say they knew us before the shoe deals.”

Paige snorted. “Right.”

Her eyes drifted, naturally, toward the far side of the room. Toward her.

Azzi was talking to a group of adults. Two women in blazers and a man holding a clipboard. She stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her, posture straight, nodding along as someone spoke. Her eyes flicked up occasionally, steady, unreadable.

Paige watched the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The way she tilted her head when she was listening. The small smile she gave when someone cracked a joke. Polite, but detached.

She looked… grown. Too composed for someone her age. Too calculated. Like she’d been doing this for years already and wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“God,” Paige muttered, almost to herself.

Aliyah followed her gaze. “You’re still staring at her?”

“I’m not—” Paige sighed. “I just think she’s… interesting.”

Aliyah smirked. “Sure.”

Azzi’s group started to split up, one of the women checking her watch and moving toward the bar. The man peeled off in another direction. Azzi stayed where she was, alone now, adjusting the strap of her dress like it had been bothering her all night.

This was her chance. Paige set her glass down and took a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Be right back.”

She crossed the room like she was walking out on a wire, every step just a little more careful than the one before it.

Azzi didn’t look up until Paige was already in front of her.

“It’s Azzi, right?” Paige said like she wasn’t sure. As if she wasn’t the surest she’d ever been. 

Azzi let out a soft chuckle. “You already knew that.”

Paige couldn’t stop the blood rushing to her cheeks. “Well, I’m Paige—“

“I know who you are, Paige,” Azzi cut her off. 

Paige blinked. “You do?”

Azzi looked her over. Not just her face. All of her. Eyes, posture, the way she was standing too straight like she’d rehearsed the approach.

“I know everyone,” Azzi said, voice even.

“Oh. Right.” Paige fumbled for a second. “You played really well today. You were incredible.”

Azzi shrugged, calm as ever. “Not my best performance.”

Paige shook her head. “Coulda fooled me. I mean, you’re perfect.” The word landed heavier than she meant it to. She felt it the second it hung there.

Azzi cocked an eyebrow.

“I mean—your game is perfect,” Paige corrected quickly. “You’re like the perfect basketball player.”

Azzi didn’t let her off the hook. Her lips curled into a slow, amused smirk. “I make you nervous or something, Bueckers?”

“What? No, I just—I guess I’m just awkward.”

Azzi took a slow sip from her water. Shook her head slightly. “No, you’re not. Not on the court. Not talking to any of these other people.”

Paige met her eyes. “Then I guess you’re different.”

Azzi’s smile widened, just a little. “I know.”

There was a beat. One of those in-between silences that wasn’t awkward, but felt charged. Paige shifted her weight, looking around like she needed somewhere to ground herself.

Azzi tilted her head. “So. What’d you come over here to say?”

Paige blinked. “What?”

Azzi shrugged. “I assume you didn’t cross the room just to tell me I’m a good player.”

Paige felt her throat tighten. “No. I mean—yeah. You know, we’re gonna have to play together, so I wanted to say hi and…” Her voice trailed off like she didn’t plan on saying the last part out loud. 

Azzi was still watching her. Eyes a little harder now. Like she wasn’t going to let Paige off the hook. “And?”

Paige had to mean it. So she did. She felt her pulse in her ears. “And… I don’t know. I think you’re…” Paige hesitated, then pushed it out. “Kind of impossible to ignore.”

Azzi studied her. Really studied her. Like she was trying to decide what to do with what she’d just been handed. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “How so?”

Paige swallowed. Thought about giving her some canned answer. Something light. Surface-level. But the look Azzi was giving her—calm and curious, like she already knew—made that impossible.

So Paige just… said it.

“It’s like,” she started, then paused, eyes flicking down for half a second before finding Azzi’s again, “you already know how everything ends.”

Azzi didn’t react right away.

Paige tried not to shrink under her own words. “You move like you have everyone where you want them. Like you’re just waiting for them to catch up.”

Her voice was softer now. Not shy. Just real. “It’s not about your game. I mean—it is. But it’s also not. It’s… you. The way you carry yourself. Honestly… I can’t stop staring.” 

The way Azzi was staring at her made something burn inside Paige. 

“You just met me,” Azzi said, voice curious. “Why would you say that?”

Paige swallowed. Shrugged. “Because I wanted you to know.”

That was the only answer she could come up with. Because she didn’t know why she would say that. Azzi was right. She had just met her. So, why be so bold? Paige chalked it up to the fact that it wasn’t like she saw this girl every day.

Azzi tilted her head and softened her gaze. Like she was considering something. Then a smirk. A real one this time. Like Azzi had just figured something out and was keeping it for later. She stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving Paige’s. Then she turned.

Paige called after her. “Guess I’ll see you around?”

Azzi didn’t look back. Just kept walking.

“You will,” she said over her shoulder.

And she did. God, she saw Azzi everywhere. 

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

Present Day

Azzi didn’t notice Paige right away, too focused on the screen in her hand. But then her head lifted, and those eyes–sharp, unreadable, familiar in a way that made Paige's chest pull tight—landed on her.

For a beat, they just stared at each other.

Azzi’s expression shifted first, mouth tugging into the smallest smile. Like this was funny. Like she knew exactly what kind of chaos she was walking back into.

Paige cursed quietly under her breath. It was her building. It wasn’t like she could turn around and go somewhere else.

“Paige,” Azzi said softly.

Paige swallowed as she came to a stop a few feet away. “You lost?”

Azzi pointed up at the building. “Touring apartments.”

Paige raised a brow, wiping sweat from her forehead with the hem of her shirt. “In this building?”

Azzi shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Yeah, I’ve got a few planned today before… practice.”

It was weird. The word practice. Because all of a sudden, that meant the same thing to both of them.

Paige didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at her. Trying to take her in and shut her out all at once.

Azzi’s eyes flicked over her, then back up. “You look good,” she said, like she wasn’t ripping Paige open with three simple words.

Paige nodded once. “You, too.”

The air between them thickened. Paige popped her knuckles to distract herself from the fact that even after all these years, Azzi could still make something coil tightly in her chest.

Paige cleared her throat. “You know this is my building, right?”

Azzi smirked. “The possibility crossed my mind that one of these buildings was yours. I just didn’t think I’d get it right on the first try.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “So what? You gonna move in down the hall from me?”

Azzi stepped forward, holding her grin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Paige looked away and scoffed. “Don’t start,” she said, shaking her head without looking at Azzi. 

Azzi's smirk softened into something of innocence. She always played that so well. Paige remembered. “I’m not starting anything.”

“So what are you doing?” Paige said with no hesitation, a little snappier than she intended.

Azzi flinched a little bit like she wasn’t expecting Paige to react like that, but never dropped her smile. “I’m here to play ball.”

Paige sighed. “You could do that anywhere.”

“I just got here. Why are you so pressed already?” Azzi asked, sounding a little annoyed.

“I am not pressed,” Paige said firmly as she took a step forward. They were close enough to reach out and touch each other now. 

“Right, because you just look at everyone like that.”

Azzi stepped forward slightly, like she was testing the air. Not close enough to be inappropriate, but close enough that Paige’s breath caught anyway. Their eyes were locked. Like neither of them could look away.

“I meant what I said,” Azzi murmured, tone dipping lower now. “You really do look good.” Her eyes traced back down Paige’s body and back up.

Paige broke their gaze. “I’ll see you later,” she said as she turned and headed for the doors of her building.

By the time Paige got back upstairs, her shirt was clinging to her skin with sweat that had nothing to do with the run. Her hands were still shaking as she fumbled her key into the lock. 

Okay, so maybe there was a problem.

Paige wanted to believe she was over it. She wanted to be mature enough and grown enough to say that was a different time with a different Paige. And a week ago, maybe she was. But as soon as Azzi said her name, something in her shifted. She felt the creep of that Paige. 

Azzi’s Paige.

And dear God, she was not coming out without a fight. 

This Paige stepped into her apartment quietly and pressed her forehead against the door.

She told Curt this wasn’t going to be a problem. She prayed that this wasn’t going to be, but somewhere inside, she knew Azzi could never be something to sweep under the rug.

No one gave her any warning. No one gave her the chance to prepare herself for the love of her life to come barrelling through everything she built without her. Everything she built to spite her. 

“P?”

Paige jumped. She forgot that Zoey was sleeping in her bed during all this. 

She hadn’t told Zoey about the trade yesterday. Didn’t want to. Didn’t know how. She knew Zoey knew who Azzi was. Everyone did. Best friends in college, according to the internet, minus a handful of particularly observant fans who no one paid any mind to. Paige never filled in the gaps. Never wanted to open that door. 

With all of the energy Paige had left, she pushed off the door and made her way to her bedroom. Zoey was propped up on one arm, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the other.

“How was your run?” Zoey asked groggily. 

Paige didn’t meet her eye. Couldn’t. “Uh, it was good. Yeah, it was good.”

Zoey looked at her like she could tell there was more. But she didn’t press. Never did. Paige always appreciated that.

Paige stepped forward to the edge of the bed. Zoey sat up on her knees and shuffled to her. She grabbed Paige’s shirt and pulled her closer. “Did you use up all your energy, or are you gonna come back to bed and get another workout in?”

Before Paige could answer, Zoey placed a kiss right under her earlobe. 

Paige tried to lean into it. Give Zoey what she wanted. What she deserved. But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was her dorm room. And a random hotel room. And the training room that one time. Azzi’s skin under her hands and her name in Azzi’s mouth like honey.

“Zo,” Paige said, gently removing her hands and taking a step back. 

Zoey searched her face. “What’s wrong?”

Paige ran a hand over her hair. “Nothing,” she said a little too quick. “I’m just not feeling it right now. I want a shower.”

Zoey nodded like she didn’t understand, but that was okay. “You go do that, and I’ll make your breakfast before I have to get to the studio.” She planted a kiss on Paige’s cheek like an apology Paige hadn’t earned. 

Paige flashed her a smile back, even though she could tell it was too forced. She turned and headed for the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Eyes red, lips parted like she’d just been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Maybe she had.

She stripped and stepped into a shower so hot it stung. Pressed her forehead to the tile and squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. She let the scalding water fall over her face, her back, her hair. Like if she scrubbed and rinsed hard enough, the unsettling feeling that clinged to her skin might go away.

It shouldn’t hurt anymore. Azzi shouldn’t get this close, not after everything Paige did to scrape her out like rot.

But Paige knew herself better than anyone. She knew exactly how breakable she still was when it came to Azzi Fudd. How she’d spent four years pretending there was no part of her that would always belong to someone who never asked permission to take it.

The water couldn’t wash that part away. She pressed her palms harder to the wall, chest heaving, every muscle locked tight so she wouldn’t say it out loud.

Don’t let her ruin you again.

It sounded pathetic, even in her head. But she said it anyway. Again. Again. Again.

Azzi

Azzi hadn’t really come to terms with it until she saw her. 

Not when her agent called to tell her about a deal in the works. Not when the Mystics’ GM pulled her in to confirm it. Not even when she stepped off the plane. 

It was only when her heart stopped beating at eight in the morning. There was only one person who could ever have that effect on her. And there she was.

Paige. Drenched with sweat and stunning. She almost looked like nothing had changed. She looked just like how she did when they were still everything to each other. But there was something in her face. Azzi couldn’t quite place it. She just seemed… colder. More guarded. As if she weren’t interested in jumping right back into old times. 

Azzi didn’t go to Dallas for Paige. It’s not like she orchestrated the trade herself. She didn’t have a choice. But she would be lying if she said Paige wasn’t the first thing her mind went to when she heard about the move.

Azzi didn’t care that she was about to be on the same side as the best player in the league. Nor did she care that she had just upended her life and moved halfway across the country. All she really cared about was if Paige would still look at her like she used to. 

She didn’t.

It wasn’t a look of hate. That, Azzi could’ve handled. Hate meant passion. It meant there were still feelings there. Good or bad.

But the look Paige gave her was worse. Empty. Distant. Cordial. Like she wasn’t going to let Azzi back through that door.

Azzi would be damned if she didn’t make sure it was locked for good.

So, she kept it light. Made a couple of jokes. Flirted a little bit. Nothing crazy. Just enough to stir the air between them. 

Azzi didn’t expect it to work. Not really. But after Paige looked away when she made that comment about moving in down the hall, she caught it. 

Paige’s face flickered. It was fast. The tiniest tug at the corner of her lips. The faintest glint in her eyes. 

But Azzi saw it. She always did. She knew that expression like the back of her hand. And it was all she needed to know that the door wasn’t locked like Paige would want her to believe. And that was dangerous. 

Because Azzi wasn’t here to pick a fight or to stir up old drama or try to win someone back who didn’t want to be. But if the wall Paige built had a crack big enough for Azzi to slip through, Azzi was going to find it.

She didn’t care how cold Paige wanted to act. She didn’t care how much distance she tried to put between them. Because Paige still felt something. Azzi saw it.

And if Paige thought she could stare her down with those flat eyes and polite words to make Azzi forget what they were?

She had another thing coming.

Azzi tried to pay attention to her tour. She tried to listen to the building manager, who was rambling about new carpeting and granite countertops. But all Azzi could think about was Paige. On those new carpets. On that countertop. Sweaty and breathless and unashamed.

Out of respect and out of fear of taking it too far too soon, Azzi didn’t sign the lease for Paige’s building. Instead, she went with one just as nice, less than a block away. Maybe down the hall was too much, but down the street was excusable. Dallas is only so big. 

As soon as she got her key, she hurried outside to her Uber, stressing about getting to practice on time. She was staring out the window when her phone buzzed in her lap. 

A call from Caroline, who Azzi still talked to regularly. She “kept her in the divorce” according to Carol. Unlike KK and Ice, who Azzi also still talked to here and there, but it was never the same. She answered Caroline without hesitating, pressing the phone to her ear, bracing for what she knew Carol was going to say.

“Hey, Azzi,” she said gently, like she was trying to feel out how this conversation was going to go.

“Hey, Car,” Azzi said.

Caroline paused. “So… did you… are you… in Dallas?”

Azzi could tell Caroline didn’t want to say it. She sighed. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, stunned. “And when do you see… she who shall not be named?”

Azzi paused and considered how much she should share. “I kind of already did.”

“What?” Caroline exclaimed. “So let me get this straight. Your flight got in at 11 last night, it’s like 10 AM now, you haven’t been to the facilities yet… but you still managed to see Paige?”

Azzi tilted her head. “Well, when you put it like that, it almost sounds like I stalked her.”

“Did you?” Caroline asked.

Azzi rolled her eyes, knowing the thought crossed her mind at least a few times over the last couple of days. “No, I did not stalk her. I ran into her a couple of hours ago while I was touring apartments.”

The line went quiet for a moment. “Azzi, please tell me you are not moving into the same building as Paige.”

Azzi scoffed at the lack of trust her friend had in her. “Car, I’m not stupid. I didn’t even end up touring that one.”

She could hear Caroline breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“I went with one right down the street instead,” Azzi said casually.

Caroline groaned. “Jesus Christ, Az. Now that might be a little stalkery. Do I need to be worried about you?”

Azzi sighed. “I mean… no. I swear I don’t have an agenda.”

Caroline was quick to call her out. “Bullshit. Azzi Fudd always has an agenda.”

Azzi bit her lip. “Okay, maybe when I saw her earlier, she wasn’t very friendly, so maybe I tried to get under her skin a little bit.”

There’s a deep breath on the other end. “What do you mean ‘get under her skin’?”

“I flirted. Just a little bit.”

Caroline sighed. The kind disappointed parents do when their kid does something stupid. “This is not going to end well. For either of you.”

“You should’ve seen her. All jaded and closed off. She was acting like I was a stranger,” Azzi said with a little more passion than she intended. 

Caroline paused. “Can you blame her?” she asked gently. “I’m not saying the fallout was either of y’all’s fault, but I know it was heavy. For both of you.”

“Still is,” Azzi added.

“I know.”

“I just wanted to know where we stood,” Azzi said honestly.

“And where do you stand?” Caroline asked.

Azzi took her time to think. “Right where we left it.”

As the Uber pulled up to the front of the gym, Azzi thanked Caroline for calling and hung up. She stepped out of the car and took a second. Just long enough to gather herself before walking into the storm that only she and Paige could feel.

Azzi didn’t get nervous about basketball. She never had. But walking into that gym? Paige’s gym? It was a different kind of nerves. The kind that have nothing to do with performance and everything to do with emotions. 

She took a deep breath, adjusted her face to hide the buzzing under her skin, and pushed open the doors.

Azzi got her key card and directions to the locker room from the lady at the front desk, and started the walk of shame. That’s what it felt like at least. Like crawling back to something she swore off so long ago. Walking right back into her own imminent destruction. If she had anything to say about it, it would be Paige’s too. 

And maybe that was selfish of her. To do everything in her power to reel Paige back in, knowing how it ended the first time around. But somewhere inside, Azzi didn’t care. Because she knew Paige was missing it. Missing her. And if she wasn’t, if Paige had really sealed up that part of herself… Azzi didn’t really want to think about that. 

The locker room was already loud and boisterous. There were two TikToks being filmed on opposite sides of the room, three different conversations being had in the same group, and one silent, stoic blonde point guard lacing up her shoes on the bench at her locker. 

Paige didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge Azzi in any way. Not that Azzi should be surprised. She made it clear she wasn’t interested in falling back into anything resembling what they were before. 

“Oh my god, look who it is!” a familiar voice called out in an annoyingly high-pitched tone.

Azzi’s gaze shifted from Paige to right next to her. It was KK Arnold with the biggest grin on her face.

“It’s Azzi Fudd!” KK said. 

Azzi smiled. “Hey, KK.” They pulled each other into a deep hug. The kind that says I missed you. 

KK pulled away first. “Okay, so boom. This is the locker room,” KK said, gesturing to the whole room. “I’m sure you know of all your teammates already, but just in case, that’s Dijonai, Lyss, Maddy…”

She tried to pay attention to KK going around the room listing off her new teammates, but Azzi’s mind drifted with her gaze. Back to Paige. There’s that same damn pull.

“... Cameron, Sydney, and–” She stopped herself when she landed on Paige. Almost said her name like she was just another teammate. Her tone dropped. “Well, you know her.” 

Understatement of the year. Because Azzi didn’t just know Paige. She memorized her. Every expression. Every mood. Every scar, visible and not. She could pick Paige’s laugh out of a crowded gym. Could still hear it when she wasn’t trying not to.

“Look,” KK said in a more serious tone. “I don’t know whose idea it was, but that’s your locker right there.” She pointed at the empty space right next to Paige’s.

Azzi laughed to herself. Of course. She looked at KK. “It’s really good to see you, KK. I’ve missed you,” she said with all sincerity.

KK returned the smile and put a hand on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s good to have my parents back together.”

Azzi raised her eyebrows.

“I mean–” KK stumbled. “Not like back together together. But like, back together in the same place. You know what I mean. Let me just shut up.” She jogged back to her own locker and left Azzi alone. 

She took her time settling in. Dropped her bag a little too loud. Peeled off her hoodie like she didn’t know Paige could see every motion in her periphery. Unlaced her sneakers slower than necessary. She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Not really. But if Paige was going to act like she wasn’t there, Azzi was going to make damn sure she felt her.

She didn’t say anything at first. Neither did Paige.

The silence between them wasn’t quiet. It was the loudest thing in the room. The kind of silence that’s not absence, but pressure. Weight. Azzi could feel it in her jaw, in her hands, in her chest. It itched at her skin.

She leaned forward to tie her shoes, catching Paige’s posture from the corner of her eye. Tight, shoulders high, back rigid. Tense. Good.

“Not gonna say hi?” Azzi asked without looking at her.

Paige exhaled sharply through her nostrils. “Hi,” she said dryly. 

Azzi sat up, rolled her neck out once, then tilted her head toward her. “It’s that bad, huh?”

Nothing.

Azzi smirked, even though it kind of hurt. “You’re really doing that?”

Paige kept her gaze fixed across the locker room, voice low and even. “Doing what?”

Azzi raised both brows. “This thing where you act like we’ve never met.”

“We haven’t,” Paige said plainly. “Not this version of us.”

Azzi blinked. Okay. That one kind of stung. She laughed under her breath. “Damn. You always this welcoming to new teammates?”

Paige finally turned, just a little. Just enough to meet her eye. “Only the ones who know better.”

Azzi’s chest tightened, but she didn’t let it show. She refused to. “So, what? We’re just gonna be civil and awkward for the rest of the season?”

“I’m gonna hoop,” Paige said. “You do whatever you want.”

Azzi scoffed. “You know, you could be nice. Make this easy for both of us.”

“I don’t owe you easy.”

That one hit. Hard. Paige didn’t even say it with heat. It was calm, too calm. But it landed like a punch. Azzi looked at her for a second, just watched her, like maybe she could still find the Paige she used to know under all that armor.

Then the coach called for them to head to the court. Azzi grabbed her water bottle and stood. Paige moved like she didn’t care if Azzi followed or not. Like she didn’t care, period.

Azzi did. Badly. And that scared her more than anything. 

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

12 years ago – 2017 USA U16 Basketball Camp, Colorado Springs

Azzi didn’t think about much but basketball. Not in the way people expected her to. Not the eat, sleep, breathe type of way. For Azzi, it was much simpler. Show up, put in the work, let your game speak for itself.

And it worked for her. She made the team. Not that she was ever worried. Sure, all of the other girls were talented, but none of them got it. Except for that one girl.

Azzi had heard the name Paige Bueckers a couple of times. Some blonde girl from the Midwest with nasty handles and a mouth that never stopped running. Nothing to write home about. Until she saw her play.

It was day five of camp. Final cut day. It had been drills all week. Now, they were scrimmaging. A final test to see who could handle the pressure and who would choke. Paige seemed to handle the pressure better than anyone.

Azzi didn’t mean to watch the scrimmage before hers. She didn’t want it to get in her head. But when the gym erupted with a collective “Ooooooo,” Azzi had to look up.

Paige had just crossed two defenders at once, snapped the ball behind her back, and pulled up like she didn’t even need to think about it. Net. Then she turned and jogged back on defense with a grin like she already knew what she was about to do the next play.

Azzi sat down slowly, towel still around her neck. She told herself it was to rest. But really, she just... wanted to see what happened next.

And what happened was Paige scored. Again. And again. Five straight possessions. Midrange jumper. Steal and finish. Corner three. Stepback. Hesitation drive with the left.

She wasn’t just good. She took over. Like it was her game and everyone else was lucky to be in it.

Azzi didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. But she watched every move. She could tell a lot from the way someone played ball. It was the easiest way to read someone if you knew what to look for. Paige played loudly. She said something slick after every possession. She celebrated dramatically after every bucket. She was good, and she wanted everyone to know it. 

Azzi could see right through her. Decided it was probably best to stay away. She didn’t want to get involved with that kind of cocky.

But then the party happened.

And Paige walked across the ballroom like she’d been dared to. Said things that didn’t make any sense. Things Azzi couldn’t stop turning over in her head.

Kind of impossible to ignore. You move like you have everyone where you want them. I can’t stop staring. And the one that stuck the most: Because I wanted you to know.

Who says that? 

It was such a strange, unfiltered thing to say. Like Paige wasn’t trying to win points or look cool. Like she didn’t even care how it sounded. She just wanted the words out of her mouth and into Azzi’s hands.

It was audacious. And weird. And… fascinating. Because it wasn’t what Azzi expected. 

She found herself replaying it later, in between exhausting conversations that didn’t feel like they mattered. Just that one sentence, over and over. That look on Paige’s face when she said it. The calm in her voice. The way she wasn’t asking for anything in return.

It wasn’t a pickup line. It wasn’t a play. It was a breadcrumb. And Azzi—against her better judgment—wanted to follow it.

Azzi stood at the bar, eyes fixed on the lineup of sodas and garnishes like she was thinking hard about her options. Really, she was just stalling.

Too many conversations. Too many handshakes. Too many people asking her the same five questions with the same polite smiles, and she was starting to feel like a cardboard cutout of herself.

“Shirley Temple,” she said, finally catching the bartender’s eye.

He gave her a nod and turned to make it.

That’s when Paige slid in beside her.

“Not having fun?” Paige asked, like she already knew the answer.

Azzi didn’t look at her right away. Just exhaled through her nose. “I don’t think we’re supposed to.”

Paige smiled. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Azzi glanced over, finally, and caught the glint in her eye. The same look she had when she called for an iso. That I’ve already decided kind of look.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

They left through the side doors, where the night air was cool and quiet and smelled like the Colorado pines. Neither of them spoke for a minute, the hum of the party fading behind them. Paige walked a little ahead at first, then slowed until their shoulders matched.

“So,” Paige said eventually. “What do you do for fun?”

Azzi gave her a sideways look. “Basketball.”

Paige snorted. “No, I mean outside of basketball.”

“Then… nothing.”

“What? No way. You have to do something. Basketball’s just a game. It can’t be your whole life.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up toward the sky. “Can’t it?”

Paige was quiet.

Azzi kept going. “Basketball’s the one thing that always tells the truth.”

“What truth is there to tell?”

Azzi shrugged. “You can fake a lot of things. Fake being nice. Fake being confident. Fake like you belong. But on the court? You either show up or get exposed. You either have it or you don’t.”

Paige looked over at her. “You definitely have it.”

Azzi smirked. “So do you.” She let a beat pass. “If you could ever learn how to stop running your mouth.”

Paige smiled. “What’s wrong with a little commentary?”

“Nothing,” Azzi said. “It’s just distracting. All that noise. People start listening to you talk instead of watching your game.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “But maybe I want them to hear me.”

Azzi stopped walking. Turned slightly toward her. “That’s your problem.”

“My problem?”

“You’re good,” she said, and it came out steady, like fact. “For our age group? You’re great. But if you want to be one of the greats? I think you need a little ego check.”

Paige gave her a slow blink, like she wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Ouch. You figured all that out after a week?”

Azzi smiled, but there was a bite to it. “Like I said. On the court, everything shows.”

They walked a little farther, past a row of benches where the trees started to thin. The silence this time was different—less empty, more loaded.

“You think I’m dramatic, don’t you?” Azzi asked, not entirely teasing.

Paige tilted her head. “No. I think you’re…” She paused, like she was actually trying to find the word. “Everything.”

Azzi blinked. That one sat in her chest weird.

She turned to face her. “You’re weird, you know that?”

Paige grinned. “Why? ‘Cause I say what I think?”

“No,” Azzi said, “because you keep saying things like that. Things that don’t make sense. Things you’re not supposed to say out loud.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Paige said with a shrug. “I just call things as I see them.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “Is that your thing or something?”

Paige’s grin widened. “It’s like a little game.”

Azzi’s voice dropped slightly. “Well be careful, Bueckers. I don’t play games off the court.”

Paige stopped. Something flickered in her face. Not fear. Something else. Like she’d just lost a round she didn’t even know she was playing.

Azzi smirked and kept walking. It was quiet for a few seconds.

“You know,” Paige called from behind her. “I think we’re gonna be something one day. You and me.”

Azzi slowed her steps. Came to a stop. Turned her head just enough to see Paige in the corner of her eye. “Something?” she echoed.

“Yeah,” Paige nodded. “I don’t know what yet, but… one day, you’ll play my game.”

Paige’s words made Azzi pause. Not in her step, not in her face. But somewhere sharper. Somewhere quieter.

It made her curious. And curiosity was dangerous.

Somewhere inside, Azzi knew that she would play Paige’s game. Somewhere inside, she knew that she wanted to win. 

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

Present Day

Azzi’s first practice with the wings was awkward. Not knowing how her new teammates played, having to learn the staff’s names, trying to ignore the way her ex-everything was on the other side of the court already in it. 

Azzi watched her. Not obviously, but constantly. Paige barked plays with that familiar clipped authority in her voice, pointed teammates to the right spots, called switches before they even developed. She was reading the floor like a language only she understood. It was a painful reminder of who this team belonged to.

Paige had always been a natural leader. Loud. Commanding. But this was different. Paige didn’t play with the energy of a toddler and a slick comment waiting on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t just leading now. She was in full control. Grounded. Sharp.

Azzi had watched her run the floor at least a thousand times before. Never with this level of composure. There was a poise to her now. A maturity Azzi couldn’t quite pin. She had grown up. Grown into this. Traded in the cockiness for confidence. 

It made something twist in Azzi’s chest. Because this version of Paige was dangerous. Not just for their opponents, not just for the league, but for her. Because that composure didn’t make Paige any easier to read. It made her harder to stay away from. 

TWEEEEEET. Coach Leslie blew the whistle to regroup and separated guards from the forwards. She started rattling off pairings for 1-on-1 finishing drills. “Bueckers, Fudd. Over there.”

Azzi couldn’t help but smirk quietly to herself. She turned toward their assigned basket where Paige was already standing at the top of the key, ready to play defense. 

“Bet you’re glad to see me,” Azzi offered sarcastically.

Paige hardly looked at her. “Just check up.”

They didn’t speak for a few reps. Paige was calm. Stoic. It drove Azzi insane the way she had shut down beyond the point of letting Azzi see what was going on inside her head.

Paige finished strong off a spin move and didn’t say a word. 

Azzi caught the rebound, reset at the top. “You’re real quiet,” she said, voice soft now, almost a whisper. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “Is it because I know what you sound like in bed?”

That got her.

Paige’s eyes snapped up. “You’re sick.”

Azzi took a step closer, grinning. “You love it.”

“I really don’t.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well… you were always too gentle to appreciate it.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi went. Drove hard. But Paige was ready this time. She stepped in, planted, and blocked the shot clean.

Their bodies collided.

Azzi lost her balance. She would’ve gone down if Paige hadn’t caught her. One strong arm around her waist, hand gripping her side, steadying her with ridiculous ease.

They froze.

Paige’s breath was warm against her cheek.

Her voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.

“For the record,” she said, letting Azzi down slowly. “I’m not that gentle anymore.” She let her eyes wander down and back up. “Too bad you’ll never get to learn exactly what that means.”

And then she turned. Walked off like she hadn’t just rearranged Azzi’s entire heart.

Azzi stood there for a beat, still reeling, still catching up. Then she smiled. Because oh yeah.

Now Paige was playing the game. 

After practice, Azzi showered and changed in the locker room. She took her time like she was just soaking it all in, but she was actually just stalling. Waiting for Paige. Because she wanted to see her again. Because she didn’t want to go home without getting some stuff off her chest. 

She had finished getting her things together, and still no Paige. So, Azzi went back to the court. Because of course she stayed later to put up extra free throws. 

Other than the quiet bounce of Paige’s ball, the gym was silent. Paige was alone. She had her back to the door, and didn’t turn around when Azzi walked in. But Azzi could tell she knew she was there. She heard it in Paige’s breath.

Azzi stopped at halfcourt. Close enough to use a normal speaking voice, but not close enough to feel the pull. She thought about saying Hi or You played well today to break the ice. It didn’t exactly go well the first two times she tried, so she got straight to the point. 

“Do you remember when we met?” she asked.

Paige didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop shooting. Didn’t turn.

Azzi continued. “At camp. You came up to me at that party, and you told me that I had everyone right where I wanted them. That you couldn’t stop staring–”

“I remember,” Paige snapped, placing the ball on her hip. Like the memory was bitter. Then softer, “I remember everything.” She still didn’t turn around. 

Something inside Azzi ached at that. Because she could tell Paige was hurting. Probably worse than she was. She wanted to stop right there. Run away and leave well enough alone to spare them both the heartache, but she had to see this through.

“Then, you remember when you said that one day, I’d play your game,” Azzi said, matching Paige’s soft tone.

Paige didn’t offer a reaction. Not one that Azzi could see, at least. Just a sharp exhale through her nose.

Azzi swallowed. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything. Not how we left things. Not how I left you. But… it’s all I ever think about. How you were right that night. I did play your game.”

Still nothing.

“And, maybe I don’t have the right to say this either, but… baby, I’m still playing.”

Paige flinched at the word baby. Azzi knew she probably shouldn’t have said that, but she probably shouldn’t have said any of the other stuff either. 

Azzi shrugged. “I don’t even want to win anymore. I just want you to play, too,” she said quietly.

The air remained still. Not a sound or a movement in the entire gym. Azzi turned to leave.

“It’s been four fucking years,” Paige said, finally turning halfway around. Her voice was rough and fiery.

Azzi stopped, turning her head over her shoulder, looking at the ground. “I know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Paige turned around fully. “It’s been four years, two months, eight days, and 16 hours.”

Azzi felt all the air leave her body. She felt the ache. She was frozen. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just stuck staring back at those beautiful blue eyes. Eyes that looked soft and hard all at once. Like the way Paige used to look at her and the way she looked at her now were colliding.

Paige bit her bottom lip. “So, why? Why would you tell me that now?”

Azzi sat with the question for a moment. Let it hang in the air. Looked up to meet Paige’s eyes. Then, she realized she only had one answer.

“Because I wanted you to know.”

[j3llyc4kes]

your knees ache a little from how long you’ve been riding suguru. thighs burning, slick dripping down your inner legs, but you’re not ready to stop. you can’t—not with the way he’s looking up at you, like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

all fucked-out and glowing in the soft purple light of your bedroom. your palms are splayed against his chest, his raven hair down and messy, your body rocking in a slow, syrupy rhythm that makes his breath stutter every time your hips meet.

his hands have been everywhere—gripping your ass, squeezing your thighs, stroking up your sides like he’s memorizing every inch of you. and now, one of them disappears behind your back. you barely notice at first. you’re too caught up in how full you feel, how his thick cock stretches you open with every drag and slide, hitting so deep in your cervix it makes your vision blur.

but then you hear the quiet click of his phone camera, and you glance down in disbelief.

“suguruuu.” you whine, your voice is shaky. breathless from pleasure, but not exactly surprised.

“shhhh,” he says, voice low and thick. “easy, baby…”

his hand is between his legs, phone tilted just behind your ass, the camera catching a full, obscene view of where you’re spread open and sunk down on his cock.

your back arched, his thighs under yours, the soft bounce of your hips in rhythm with your gasps—it’s all right there. all of you. the wet glide of him pushing into you again and again, your body taking it so well. his cock, flushed and glistening with your arousal, stretching you open like you’re made for him.

“lift up a little for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dragging up your body. “just wanna get a better view.”

his palm runs down your spine, soothing, coaxing, and you do it without thinking—rising up on shaky thighs just enough for him to get the shot. your walls clench around him from the shift, and he groans low in his throat.

“fuuuck…look at that. such a pretty pussy.”

he snaps another picture, angling the camera to get the perfect shot of your swollen, soaked pussy hovering just above the base of his cock. dripping, stretched and twitching, his tip barely inside. his other hand slides up to your waist, steadying you while you tremble in his lap, skin flushed, breath catching.

you feel hot all over—your face, your chest, your thighs, even the back of your neck where his fingers had been earlier, wrapped around you like a collar.

“this one is perfect,” he says, voice all honey and filth, the camera lowering back to the mattress while he leans up to kiss your shoulder. “you look so good like this, baby. you belong right here.”

and you most definitely do. right there, with him still buried inside you, phone discarded on the sheets, his hands gripping your hips like he’s never letting go. you drop back down slowly, letting him fill you again, inch by inch, and his head falls back with a broken noise that makes your stomach flutter. he grabs your ass with both hands, thumbs digging in, guiding you into another slow, deep roll of your hips.

“we’re not done,” he murmurs against your skin, lips at your neck now, breath hot. “not till you cum again…”

“…maybe next time we’ll take a video. so you can see how good you look falling apart on my cock.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: if you’re that curious this was inspired by a photo i saw on twt, you have to be logged in to see it :3 also geto has been living in my head rent free FUCK MEEEEE

taglist: @spacebabe02 @raveszn @ha1lstorm @1stqueenofhell @chr1ss1etina @satorupi @besidesjustmyamour @desirehorizon @bistrocatxx

[shy-writer-999]

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝒾𝒾𝒾)

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Prince Luffy has taken a liking to you. If you refuse to be on his crew, he has a different sort of proposal. Are you going to allow yourself to grow closer to him, or will something (or someone) get in the way? 3.2k words.

Part 3 of (?) - (read part 1 here) Pairing: Luffy x reader (she/her pronouns used) CW: SFW! (so far...)

✦ Chapter 3: The night erases all worries ✦

You returned to Prince Luffy’s quarters after a couple of nights. He was happy to see you, immediately treating you as cordially and kindly as he had before. He treated you like an old friend, like there wasn’t any class difference between the pair of you, and it was easy to let your differing statuses fade into the background.

It was a little troubling though, and a hard line to walk, because as much as he treated you like a friend, and as much as you felt like one, you couldn’t shake the glaring fact that he was a prince. It was a fact that was dangerous to forget, and you didn’t want to fly too close to the sun.

When you entered his chambers, he was waiting on the chaise for you, staring at the door. He cracked a grin and got up.

Prince Luffy had been thinking about you ever since he met you. There was something about you that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He was wondering about your personality, your reality, and what you needed. He was determined to get you on his crew someday and he had a nagging feeling that you were better at woodworking than you let out. Of course, he already had someone on the crew who specialized in that, but he figured the more the merrier. Franky could use some help.

He decided that utilizing your services was a good excuse to have you come over, eat dinner with him, and keep him company. That maybe you felt more at ease when you were able to do your job and chat after or during. Maybe you felt on edge (and would be more comfortable talking to him) when you followed the palace protocols, which he knew had been your survival mechanisms.

After coming to this conclusion, the prince wondered what sorts of services you were capable of doing. He didn’t want to risk any more massages, gods forbid that happened again. So, when you came to see him, he eagerly asked you what his options were. “I don’t feel like a massage today. What else do you do?”

“I can do facials, bathing rituals, hot stone treatments, scrubs, manicures, anything like that.”

He thought about it. “How about a facial?”

“Certainly. But I must insist that we do it in the bathing chamber, because there’s too much and clay water involved to risk getting it all over your bed. Is that alright?”

When he agreed, he led you to the huge bathing chamber. It was spectacular—everything was made of marble, there was a bathhouse-style tub in one corner, a shower in another area, a sauna, sinks, you name it. All of this for one person? One person who couldn’t care less about it.

You pulled out a wooden folding table that was tucked away in a corner and set it up. Gesturing to it, you encouraged the prince to lay down.

“Do I keep my clothes on?” He asked quizzically, and you stifled a laugh at how clueless he was before telling him to keep them on.

The facial was nice. You could see each of his dark, long eyelashes, every pore, the shape of his lips. He was pretty.

You moved his hair out of his forehead, wiped his face down, then mixed up a eucalyptus and clay mask, applying it delicately to his skin with a brush.

“That tickles,” he giggled, moving around a bit. His eyes were closed and he scrunched his nose up whenever you brought the brush close to the center of his face.

“Please stay still, prince, so I don’t get this everywhere.”

Pouting, he corrected you. “It’s just Luffy. No prince. You never say my name just as it is.”

“My apologies, Luffy,” you said, realizing that his name minus his status slipped out of your lips with far too much ease. “Now, would you please stop wiggling around?”

Hearing you say his name made him smile and your heart did a thumping thing.

The prince enjoyed the treatment. Your touch was gentle, the clay mask smelled good, and you smelled good too. He opened his eyes once and you were close enough he could have leaned up and—

When the treatment was over, Luffy marveled at his glowing skin in the mirror, thanked you, and then you ate dinner together. A routine was forming, one that you had no qualms against. It was nice to eat dinner with him. He was unassuming, non-threatening, compassionate, and kind.

During the meal you talked about what life was like growing up. You learned that childhood had been rough for him—Luffy didn’t have the attitude that there was anything particularly hard about it, but it sounded twisted and tragic at times. He was put in isolation frequently for misbehaving, for spouting what his father called nonsensical dreams. He fought with his brothers but loved them all the same. He wasn’t allowed to play with toys, wasn’t allowed to have friends other than other nobility (who were horrible company), wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by himself or be by himself much until he was older. He funneled all this frustration into the only thing they would allow him to do—strength and combat training for hours each day, until he got old enough and strong enough to set sailing. No one could stop him from taking to the seas and no one dared to.

As you listened to him talk about his childhood and his attitudes towards the unfreedom that came with being a prince, you started to understand why he was being so kind to you, and why he spent all his time out at sea. The context and sincerity made you trust him more.

All he wanted was to be free. You felt the same. You shared a similar dream. You wanted to be free from the stress of money and labor, and he wanted to be free of the ginormous expectations and suffocating responsibilities foisted upon him by nature of his birth. But for Prince Luffy, achieving his dreams didn’t sound like the most herculean task. Maybe his fate was to be free. But you knew that yours wasn’t. You were stuck. You couldn’t think too much about dreams because this was your life, for good.

When the conversation about your shared dreams and differing circumstances dwindled down, you were both quite touched at how much you seemed to have in common. Dreams and views on life. Understandings of how things should be. Freedom.

Now came the moment the prince had been planning for. “I have a question,” he began, “I know you won’t join my crew yet, but… will you join my waitstaff? So we can hang out more? You’d get paid a lot more too.”

You were caught off guard and flattered, but hesitation flooded your body, twinged in happiness at the gesture.

“I want to say yes, but I need to get permission from the head of my department before I agree to anything,” you said.

“I already did that. She said it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.” He beamed and you felt your stomach flip.

“She did?”

You accepted his offer. He couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

“Your room is all set up,” Luffy said eagerly, “it’s the building next door. I made sure your pay would be tripled. And you get nice new robes too. I don’t want them to work you to the bone really so I told them to take it easy on you, you can just be the resident spa lady and that’s it. Does that all sound okay?”

You were speechless. The generosity was too good to be true. Triple pay. The words rang in your ears for a few seconds. Triple meant that you’d be able to send so much more back to your family. Think of the things they could do, you told yourself. Meat every night. New tools. New bedsheets. Tears started to well in your eyes.

After that, Luffy showed you to your new room. It was spacious with a plush bed. Such a stark difference from the old servant’s quarters. You’d miss some of your coworkers there, your friends, or, well, as close to friends as they could get. But it was worth it for all this.

Luffy was elated—one step closer to convincing you to go to sea with him. He hadn’t known you for long, but he knew that he wanted you on his crew, there was just something about you.

---

Your first couple of days on Luffy’s waitstaff team were uneventful. Luffy disappeared for a little while on palace business, dragged into meetings with his father and preparations for his eldest brother’s return from a long trip. The kingdom was going to throw a festival for Prince Ace, a welcome back party of sorts, since it had been over a year that he was last there. There was only a week until he was expected home.

You were quick to recognize that there had been no festivities for Luffy’s return, but it was not like he would have wanted them anyway.

The rest of the team told you that you didn’t have to help with preparations, since you were there expressly for spa services, but as you had nothing else to do you figured why not. It was easy to get sucked back into the monotonies of palace events, cleaning, etc., and it was a nice way to pass the time.

When Luffy finally summoned you, it had been four days. His presence was always in the back of your head—wondering about him, what he was doing, what he thought of you, why you got along so well, whether he was being sincere in asking you to join him at sea. The offer sounded crazy, considering the fact that he hadn’t known you long and you were just a commoner.

It was nice to see him again. He welcomed you all the same—with a big smile and a laugh. This time you gave him a manicure before you ate dinner. He had never had one before and was absorbed in the process for the first couple minutes, then got distracted and started chattering about other things.

“The doctor on my ship is named Chopper. He’s a reindeer. He’s the best doctor I know.”

You paused. “A reindeer?”

Luffy nodded vigorously. “He can fix anything. I wonder if he could do manicures, too. Do doctors do those?”

You let out a laugh. “Princ—Oh, sorry, Luffy, manicures aren’t something doctors do. They’re cosmetic. But if he’s so amazing, who knows.”

“Do you like giving manicures? Maybe you could teach him when you join my crew.”

He was talking about it like it was a given already. Would he fixate on this for a while and then forget about you? Fear of that is one of the reasons you were holding off on accepting his offer, as well as the fear of being disappointed, over-promised, and left for nothing.

“I do like giving manicures,” you started. “It’s basically just holding hands with a stranger for an hour and getting to make friendly conversation. It’s very repetitive and soothing to follow all the steps, too.”

“A stranger?” Luffy cocked his head. “But I’m not a stranger, right?”

A smile worked its way across your lips and you felt your heart threatening to flutter. Something about his unassuming way of making conversation, of insisting on your familiarity, and looking at you so plainly… it made your feel funny. That doesn’t bode well, you told yourself. You’re starting to like him like him, aren’t you?

“No, Luffy, you’re not a stranger.”

He was pleased with your response, as well as the results of the manicure, telling you that his hands had never looked so clean before. While he was chatting away, you pondered on what it would be like to really hold hands with the prince—his hands were nice. Big, strong, and manly. They’d feel good other places too…

“I said it’s dinner time,” Luffy broke you out of your distracted train of thought. “C’mon.”

The dinner table was set, the meal was enjoyable, and you found yourself feeling genuinely happy. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this happy. It was scary how happy you were.

Luffy was in the middle of a long-winded story about his right-hand man and best friend, Zoro. You learned that everyone on his crew was a member of the commonfolk— some came from countries that didn’t have a monarchy, some came from countries that Luffy had actually liberated from abusive and authoritarian governments.

You started to see that Luffy meant what he said he meant. He was a nobleman by birth but not by attitude. By attitude he was a something of an anarchist, a revolutionary, and a freedom fighter. Contrary to every other member of his family, his immediate friends and chosen family were as far from royalty as could be. He raised them up, fought for them, would die for them, loved them, and cared for them, and they did the same for him.

Maybe you could let yourself dream a little bit more about running away to join his crew. Running away to sail the seas with Luffy, no longer Prince Luffy, to you, but Luffy.

“He uses three swords, one in each hand and then one in his mouth. He bites the hilt and everything. I don’t know how his teeth handle it, and he’s so strong he can cut through—”

The huge wooden door on the other side of the room swung open with a bang. You couldn’t make out right away who was barging in, but you heard him before you saw him.

“LUFFY!”

He was tall with a dark, thick head of hair and sparkling eyes, wearing an all-black, high-collared military general’s uniform and tall black boots, with a sash and cape in the royal colors. There was a golden pin the right side of his chest—the royal crest. Your eyes grew wider.

“ACEEEE!” Luffy jumped up, running towards him, and the two brothers embraced, slapping each other on the back. You could immediately see the sibling dynamic jump out. “You’re back early?! I haven’t seen you in ages, how’ve you been? Have you still been getting your ass kicked?”

Prince Ace laughed and threw it right back in Luffy’s direction. “Yeah? Are you still not king of the pirates, little bro? What have you been up to, just gettin’ injured? Your crew had to drag your ass back home?”

“Pffft, you wish! last I heard they had to escort you out of the general’s meeting because you got your briefs in a twist—"

More bantering happened before the pair realized you were watching the reunion quietly, mere feet away.

Ace paused mid-sentence, spun on his heels, and sauntered over. “Who do we have here?”

Before you had the chance to get up and curtsy, he leaned down and pressed his face close to yours, like he was inspecting you. At this proximity, you could make out freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks. He had gorgeous, long eyelashes just like Luffy’s. His eyes were a deep, dark color; you would have thought they were black except for some residual rays of the sunset shining from the skylight above. His eyes were a rich chocolate, entrancing. It was hard to look away.

“You’re gorgeous,” he pronounced after a second. “The royal colors fit you beautifully. Luffy, I take it this is your fiancée? Have I missed out on yet another secret engagement? You dog!”

“No, she’s—" Luffy started, but Ace cut him off with a raucous laugh.

“I didn’t know you had it in you! C’mere.” He walked over, pulled Luffy’s head down forcefully, and started rubbing his hair with his knuckles.

They play fought for a moment until they were both out of breath before returning to the subject of you.

“So, where are you from?” Prince Ace approached and leaned down again, far too close to your face for comfort. His eyes did the same trailing around your face that Luffy’s had done the first time you met him. They landed on your lips for a second before flashing up to your eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you around before. Which noble family are you from? You’re ravishing.”

“Excuse me, your highness, I’m not—” You tried to speak again but Luffy cut you off to deliver the news.

“She’s not my fiancée, she’s a member of my waitstaff and a friend.”

Prince Ace’s jaw dropped, maintaining how close he was to your face for a second, studying it one more time before straightening up.

“Waitstaff? What’s she doing eating dinner with you?”

“We’re friends,” Luffy arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we eat together?”

Prince Ace exhaled and did a stiff bow in your direction. “Apologies for my impropriety, miss. I did think you were far too pretty for him,” he nudged his elbow in Luffy’s direction. “Not like this idiot could ever pull someone in the first place.”

You weren’t sure how to react. You were comfortable with Luffy at this point but… another prince?

The brothers didn’t waste a second before going back to fighting and catching up; you saw an opportunity to see yourself out and Luffy obliged.

---

When Prince Ace went back to his living quarters late that night, he started to pace.

There was something sick and twisted inside of him. It was tugging at his heart and whispering in his brain. He knew he shouldn’t indulge. He knew he couldn’t be trusted to indulge. But he notoriously lacked self-control when it came to these things.

One time couldn’t hurt, could it? He was just curious.

He wanted to get another glimpse of that woman from earlier.

So, she was a masseuse? Worked in the palace bathhouse before getting promoted (twice), ending up with Luffy, of all people? At first, he just assumed she was his brother’s fiancée because the colors she was wearing and how alluring she was. But afterwards, as he interrogated his own head of staff, Prince Ace learned that those robes were merely a new design for Luffy’s waitstaff and nothing more.

His mind wandered… a pretty woman like that, in private? Let alone one skilled in using her hands?

He hadn’t been touched in over a year. A massage or traditional bathing ritual would be nice. He deserved it.

Prince Ace stood still, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to control himself. But he lasted no more than thirty seconds before he hunted down a scroll and pen, and pinned the following note:

“Masseuse from Prince Luffy’s waitstaff requested at Prince Ace’s chambers tomorrow at dusk.”

Then he pinned another short message to have delivered to his brother:

“Need a massage. Borrowing that pretty servant for a night.”

< previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter >

thanks for reading!! next part out a week from today or sooner if i'm feeling frisky!

taglist: @eggrollforyou @starchild-unnamed @ocean-mochi  @dahl14 @starzbrii @qhevy @midnightbears @divinedolliebun @hrhqueenfox @lonelygirlonblvd @csbnova

[yellowmooncat]

exes, slight angst?, lwk nonchalant yn, suggestive kinda, happy ending ish? i dunno, ooc sukuna ig. I did not proofread don’t come for me.

Thinking abt Ex-boyfriend sukuna who literally is NOT a sensitive person at all but.

It was a rainy day, and you had just discovered that you were pregnant after three days of experiencing morning sickness and tearfully visiting your favorite late-night food spot, only to find they were out of your usual order. Of course, you felt it was his fault, and you had the impression that everyone else knew it too. You arrived at his doorstep, banging on the door impatiently. When he opened it, he was about to curse at whoever had the audacity to knock so late at night, but then he saw you. You were wearing the hoodie he had forgotten he left at your place, and your hands were tucked into its pockets. He laughed at how his piece of clothing almost swallowed your entire frame.

“Came here for makeup sex?” he chuckled so arrogantly. “No i don’t want to get knocked up by you again.” Without thinking twice, you firmly pushed past him to enter the warm house. He froze, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. “Yn what do you mean twice.”He said almost stuttering as he cautiously closed the front door behind him and followed you into the living room.

“Exactly what i just said ryomen.” You sat down comfortably because you had every right to do so.“I’m pregnant.” You mentioned—were you nervous? Honestly, no. You felt quite at ease about everything, perhaps because it had only been four days since the breakup, leaving you little time to cry, apart from when you first found out.He didn't say much after you mentioned that; he simply sat down and stared at your stomach. It was difficult to gauge his feelings since his expression was emotionless. In a way, that was better than the furious outburst you expected him to have.

“Are you keeping it?” He finally looked up at your face, making eye contact. Right then, you noticed a hint of worry or perhaps sadness in his eyes. “I mean yea why not? they didn’t do anything wrong to me, i think i would be a good mother.”You shrugged, accepting your fate. He chuckled softly at your words as if he was picturing you already holding your future kid. “Can i be in their life? or is that out of the question?” He looked nervous almost weary of your answer.

“Ryomen, why do you think I showed up at your door to talk? The breakup wasn’t terrible; I didn’t want you dead. I just wanted you to improve. I’m not asking for us to act like we’re a couple again; I’m simply asking you to be a dad for our child. So please, be better—not for me, but for them.” After you said that, it was as if he saw a glow he had never noticed before—a sign of maturity, as if the reality of motherhood was starting to sink in. He never stopped loving you; he just knew you deserved better. Perhaps this was a sign from the universe to hold on to you. Maybe this was another chance.

lwk lost the plot to this but yea. lol. tag for my sugar momma @junuru

[izzih22]

The Goodbye I Never Gave

CHAPTER SIX — BUILT TO SURVIVE, MADE TO BREAK

Note: I had to get this to move along a bit. You’ll see what I mean. But also… I’m sorry in advance.

The first week of basic training didn’t break her.

It hollowed her.

She barely remembered stepping off the bus just the screaming, the heat, the sweat in her eyes before her feet even hit the gravel. Her muscles weren’t ready. Her lungs weren’t ready. Her heart wasn’t ready.

Not for this.

Not for the pain.

Not for the silence that came after they took her phone. After they stripped away everything she used to be.

They gave her one minute.

One phone call. No more.

She dialed her dad with shaking hands.

“Hello?” His voice was already irritated.

“I made it. I’m here. I’m safe.”

A pause. Then: “Good. You better not screw this up.”

Something snapped.

Her throat burned.

“Fuck you.”

She hung up.

And didn’t look back.

That was the last time she spoke to him.

And the last time she spoke to anyone who loved her out loud.

Except Azzi.

But even that was only through ink.

⸻

She kept a small black journal hidden inside the lining of her duffel. Just like the one she had given Azzi.

The pages were all Azzi. Written in the dark, in the bathroom, under her blanket with a flashlight between drills. When her body ached. When her chest caved in. When she needed something to hold that wasn’t there.

Az,

This place is hell. Everything hurts. I’m bruised, sunburned, and starving. But none of that hurts as much as not hearing your voice. I miss you so bad I feel sick. I dream of you every night and wake up crying into my pillow. I don’t even try to hide it.

I think I’m disappearing without you.

⸻

WEEK TWO

Her hands were torn open from the obstacle course. Her ribs bruised from a fall. Her bunkmate passed out during drills, and Paige had to carry her back to base.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t flinch.

She got back up.

But every night, she wrote like she was bleeding.

Everyone else has someone to call. Someone to wait for them.

All I have is this. This notebook. Your name in my chest. The memory of how you looked the last time I kissed you.

I don’t know how to survive this without turning into someone else.

And I’m scared that by the time I make it back… I won’t be someone you’ll recognize.

⸻

MONTH ONE

She stopped asking for breaks.

Started running harder. Longer. Lifting more than she was told. Holding planks until her elbows bled. Doing extra reps while everyone else collapsed.

Because she had something they didn’t.

She had rage.

And love.

And nowhere to put it.

She’d lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched. Heart pounding. Whispering Azzi’s name like it could keep her together.

They say not to have distractions here. That you have to bury your personal life to survive.

But I can’t bury you. You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I haven’t cracked open.

I miss your hands. I miss your voice in my ear. I miss knowing someone was waiting for me. Wanting me.

So I’m fighting for that. For you.

⸻

MONTH THREE

The transformation started to show.

Her thighs were thick with muscle. Her shoulders were corded steel. Her back rippled beneath her uniform.

But more than that she was getting noticed.

By the instructors. By her squad. By the women around her who started standing behind her in formation like they trusted her to shield them.

They called her “Point.”

Because she always led the charge.

She demanded more. Pushed harder. Took hits without blinking.

She sparred like she wanted to break something.

Sometimes she did.

⸻

She was offered early promotion to squad leader.

She turned it down.

Not yet. Not until she earned it the real way.

Because Paige wasn’t here to survive.

She was here to win.

⸻

MONTH SIX

She led the first night raid drill solo. Executed it flawlessly. Got saluted in the hallway the next morning.

Still, she wasn’t satisfied.

Still, she couldn’t sleep.

It’s your birthday today.

You’re eighteen. You should’ve been waking up to pancakes. To me carrying you into the kitchen and kissing you stupid before you even brushed your teeth.

Instead, I’m in a barracks on a freezing morning trying not to cry in front of my unit.

I kissed your name on my dog tags this morning. Whispered ‘Happy birthday, baby.’ I don’t know if it reached you.

That night, she broke the punching dummy’s head off during drills.

She was bleeding from her knuckles and smiling.

The sergeant just nodded.

“Get her a promotion packet,” he said.

⸻

YEAR ONE — DEPLOYMENT

They sent her to Eastern Europe.

Combat zone. Real firefights. Real loss.

She didn’t blink.

She volunteered for every mission. Every outpost. Every godforsaken mile of terrain.

She was the first to move when the bullets started flying.

She was the last one out when the dust settled.

Her heart beat for one thing: getting home strong enough to deserve the girl she left behind.

Az, I saw a baby today. Wrapped in a pink blanket. Her mom was crying and I don’t know if it was out of joy or grief.

All I could think was, if we ever had one…

Would she have your eyes? Would she say “Mama” first and point to you?

I ache for that future like it’s a person I lost. Like she was real and I killed her when I walked away.

⸻

YEAR TWO — PAIGE THE MACHINE

She wasn’t point anymore.

Now they called her Reaper.

She never missed. She never wavered.

Tactical lead. Clearance specialist. One of the youngest soldiers in her company to be certified for high-risk extractions.

Her eyes were cold.

But inside?

She was still that girl in Azzi’s bed, whispering “I love you” into the dark.

They gave me another medal. Everyone clapped. I didn’t.

I don’t care about the ribbons. I don’t care about the stripes.

I care about the way my body breaks down every night without your touch.

I care about the sound of your voice, and how it’s getting harder to remember.

I care that I’ve become everything my dad wanted.

Except I don’t have the one thing I ever wanted.

You.

⸻

THE AMBUSH

The air was too still.

That was the first sign.

Paige stepped through the narrow alleyway, weapon tight against her shoulder, breath steady, spine straight. Her muscles flexed beneath the weight of her gear, thighs solid, arms sharp, every inch of her carved from the training that had re-shaped her into someone unbreakable.

Or so she thought.

She scanned the rooftops, then the windows. Nothing moved. No birds. No wind. Just a silence so thick it pressed against her eardrums.

“Something’s off,” she muttered into comms.

The moment the words left her mouth—

Hell broke open.

A rocket tore through the sky and hit the convoy behind them. The force knocked her forward, gravel tearing through her palms as flames shot up where the lead vehicle had been.

Gunfire cracked from every direction.

Paige rolled, eyes locking on her team behind her. One was down. Another was pinned behind a supply crate. The third was frozen, shell-shocked, blood running from a cut above his eye.

She didn’t wait for orders.

She sprang up, crouched low, and returned fire precise, controlled, lethal. One shot. Two. A third. Targets down. Her aim was perfect. Her breathing didn’t stutter.

She was Reaper now. And Reaper didn’t flinch.

“Move!” she shouted, covering her teammates as they crawled behind the wreckage of the vehicle.

Another explosion hit close way too close. Her ears rang. Blood hit her cheek. She didn’t know whose.

She didn’t stop.

She slung her rifle to her back, sprinted toward the downed soldier, and hauled him up over her shoulder dead weight, screaming pain in her side, but she didn’t falter.

“You’re not dying here,” she growled, half to him, half to herself.

She didn’t feel the bullet that tore through her thigh.

Or the second one that grazed her ribs.

She just kept moving.

They made it to the evac point. Paige dragging the soldier with one arm, firing with the other, every step carved out of fury and survival and something deeper than either.

“Helicopter inbound in sixty seconds,” crackled the voice in her ear.

Sixty seconds.

She could make it.

She had to make it.

She turned to cover the rear just as another round of gunfire ripped through the street. She ducked, fired back, emptied her clip, slammed in a new one.

She was bleeding now. From her leg. From her side. But she didn’t let it slow her.

Not yet.

“Ten seconds out,” came the voice.

She waved her team toward the LZ, backing up with her gun raised, blood running down her neck now.

The helicopter blades roared overhead.

She saw the last of her team leap into the open hatch.

Then—

Pain.

Blinding, searing, screaming pain.

A bullet tore through her shoulder and spun her sideways, throwing her to the ground.

Her head cracked against concrete.

Her gun skidded out of reach.

The sky above her spun.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Her ears were ringing again. Or maybe that was her brain.

She blinked up at the sky and thought… this is it.

And the first thing her mind reached for wasn’t God. Or her squad.

It was Azzi.

Azzi’s laugh. Azzi’s hand in hers. Azzi curled up in her sweatshirt with popcorn in her lap and love in her eyes.

“Az,” she whispered, voice cracked and dry.

Her vision blurred.

She saw Azzi kneeling beside her… not really, but it felt real. Azzi’s face pale with worry, her hands pressing down on Paige’s side, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re okay, baby,” the hallucination said. “You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

Paige let out a sob, sharp and ugly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I left you.”

The medic dropped to her side… the real one and started yelling something she couldn’t hear. Everything was muffled now. Far away.

They were lifting her onto the stretcher. She tried to resist. Her body convulsed.

“I can’t—” she gasped. “I didn’t say goodbye.”

Her hands clawed at the air, trying to reach Azzi.

“Please—tell her—tell her I tried. I was gonna come back. I swear—”

Her voice cracked.

The world dimmed.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Her fingers twitched. Searching for Azzi’s hand in a world that didn’t have it.

Then everything went black.

And even in the dark…

She was still whispering Azzi’s name.

[majesticaldiscomfort]

Can confirm, I was barbed-wire-birdcage sheltered, thought "sex" was a swear, and never said a single fuckword until I was 17, but I was immensely bitchy because I wasn't allowed to learn about the world through popular books and similar media.

If it wasn't bargain bin or free, it wasn't happening. Library only, and even then, could only access the library at school because going to the city one required me to ask my mom to drive me, which would probably just instigate her into calling me a spoiled brat.

I've spent several years of my adult life trying to do the growing up that my parents never could, and I still to this day learn new things about how to be a mature person.

My first fandom was Undertale, because I was too scared of being bullied by my mom for liking anything up until my late teens, when I knew that I'd be leaving for college where she couldn't pick on me for enjoying something.

Still, though, much of what I've learned in regards to internet etiquette took a lot of trial-and-error, and I made a lot of errors. My ability to think critically didn't develop until my early 20s, despite my good academic history.

I wasn't raised in a religious cult, so much as raised by people who wanted cults who followed them. They settled by remarrying to enablers instead.

...

I don't remember the specifics of what I used to be like to people, but every time I find an ancient DM or relic screenshot, I'm a bit horrified at how I used to talk to people.

It's like finding out the morning after a party that you impulsively got a tattoo while drunk, except instead of being drunk you were just raised to be ignorant and toxic, and instead of getting a tattoo, you burned every bridge you could have had without even realizing you were doing it.

For years I've said that I wished people would just tell me what I was doing wrong, but lately I've been wondering if maybe they did, and I just dismissed them because it didn't fit whatever delusion I held at the time?

Talking to my family over the phone, all these years later, is a headache and heartache nearly every time. There are some good calls, but there are also some calls that ruin my entire week.

I've been studying them through the context of psychology, and comparing them to my present and past behavior, trying to understand why they are the way they are so I can help them get better, too.

And.... god, I know where I got it from, and I feel awful at the thought of having inflicted that on anyone else. I think my parents are too far gone, but I might be able to save my brother, if I could just get him away from their influence.

I realize in hindsight that this post was initially about NSFW fanfics, but I feel that the concept of [limiting access to media being harmful] vaguely applies to [the harm against {learning healthy interpersonal interactions} caused by media censorship] as well.

I mean, reading a critique of a fanfic and seeing how the author responds, as well as seeing how others respond to the author's response, is a good way to learn from other peoples' examples of what to do (or not do)

Needless to say, I missed out on that as a kid. I missed out on a lot of things.

I both hope to prevent anyone else from growing up the same way I did, as well as prevent anyone from suffering from the pain that I reflected onto the world during those awful years.

I doubt anyone from back then would recognize me now, and I honestly don't remember much. I just hope everyone's in a better place now than they were when they had to put up with me.

[kentblvd]

tutor!clark kent x reader walk with me please… [nsfw + sfw]

sfw

tutor!clark kent . . . who listens to you vent to your friends after class on how you’re struggling in your linguistics class and takes and takes it upon himself to approach you and offer some help.

tutor!clark kent . . . who invites you over to his place just a small walk off campus where he starts a bit of small talk just to get you familiarized with him, the last thing he wants to do is scare you away. it’s so sweet oh his golden hearted self, always willing to help everyone. you were shocked to find out through conversation he wasn’t already taken, such a shame for a good guy like him :((

tutor!clark kent . . . who writes out detailed notes in perfect handwriting, color-codes them for you, and shows up to study sessions prepared with flashcards, snacks, and tea. he leans in close when explaining concepts, his voice low and calm, brushing against your shoulder accidentally-on-purpose every time he points something out. “no pressure,” he says with a grin, “but I know you can get this.”

tutor!clark kent . . . whose lectures you want to focus on and you try so very hard to, but he is soooo close, so warm, and every time he praises you—“that’s my girl.”—your heart races. you drop your pencil more than once just to watch him pick it up, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, lips parted as he glances at your notes. neither of you say anything, but the air is thick with something.

nsfw

tutor!clark kent . . . who takes it upon himself to ‘help you out’ when you really can’t focus. he takes charge. it happens during particularly rough sessions. you mix up verb morphology for the third time, groaning in frustration. clark leans back in his chair, sighs, and says, “alright. ne method.” he pulls you over his lap, your skirt riding up. “every mistake gets a punishment. think you can handle that?” your breath catches. “y-yeah…” smack. “good. let’s begin.”

tutor!clark kent . . . who spanks for wrong answers, but gives kisses and so much more for the right ones. it becomes a system for you guys. one wrong answer? a sharp, smack on your ass, his hand firm, warm, his voice rough in your ear giving you the most gentle scold. get even just one right answer and his mouth on yours, hungry, rewarding. and if you get all of it, clark would lay you back across the couch and show you just how proud he is—his fingers deep inside you, his mouth worshipping every inch. “see? you can learn, did just fine” he growls, thrusting into you, “just needed the right motivation.”

tutor!clark kent . . . who fucks you mid-session to help you “focus.” you’re bent over the desk, books shoved aside, clark deep inside you, holding your waist tight. “you wanna remember the difference between inflection and derivation?” he pants, thrusting harder. “every time i fuck you like this, i want you to think about it. say it—say the definition.” you whimper it out between moans, and he praises you, hips snapping, cock filling you until all you can think about is him.

bonus

you start passing from then on, acing every quiz. your professor is impressed, praising clark for taking it upon himself to help. and you’re just blissfully exhausted, constantly glowing, always sore in the best way. clark grins as he picks you up for study dates, hand resting low on your back. “told you you could learn,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “now… about next week’s test. better start preparing.” you shiver, thighs clenching, your boyfriend has never been so motivating.

taglist [dm or comment to be added!] @jimmys-tiara @dolleciita @budgiefeatherboa @flixpii @redhairedgardenfairy @faestunna

© kentblvd | don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work

[aleskie]

With The Rain | Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Jack Hughes was never supposed to be yours forever. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. This is the story of the boy who drifted away and found his way back—over city lines, through missed calls, and into every quiet corner of your life. Until you both realized maybe the timing had been right all along. Maybe some people are meant to come back. Maybe some people are meant to stay.

Warnings: None :) Author's Note: Coup de foudre -> "Bolt of Lightning" or "Thunderbolt." It can also mean love at first sight.

KINDERGARTEN 5 Years Old

The first time you saw Jack Hughes, it was raining. The kind of Sunday morning where the winds blew harsher than normal and the clouds hung so heavy and dark you couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. The streetlights stayed on longer than usual, casting pale pools of light on the wet pavement as the winds rustled through the trees outside your house.

You’d taken note of their moving truck, peeking from the corner of your curtains as your parents crossed the driveway to greet the new neighbors. They seemed like a normal family—a mother, a father, and their three kids. The two older boys chased each other around the front lawn, their sneakers splashing through the damp grass and rain puddles, while their dad carried the youngest in his arms. They laughed a lot as their breaths came out in clouds in the cool Toronto air. They seemed fun. Nice, even.

“Are you spying on the new neighbors?” 

Your brother’s voice made you jump. He’d appeared behind you like he always did—quietly, like some kind of magician. Leaning closer to the window, he narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look.

He was older than you—already in elementary—which meant he was cool. All the older kids were cool. They could go out without their parents, ride the school bus, and trade toys and snacks at recess. Their homework was hard too—some of it even had letters in the equations, which made no sense to you. Your brother complained about it constantly, which only made him seem cooler. Like he was closer to being an adult and had real, life altering problems.

“‘M not spying,” you said, pouting as you shuffled away from the window. You flopped onto the couch and crossed your arms. “Just…curious.”

Your brother shot you a look. Quizzical. Amused. But he didn’t push. Instead, he sat next to you, pulled out his console, and the little beeps of his game filled the room.

“Mom and Dad are probably gonna set up a playdate with the new kids,” he said after a while, his tone maddeningly casual, like he knew something you didn’t. A tiny smirk tugged at his lips. “Bet they’re already thinking about setting you up with one of ’em.”

You made a face. “That’s weird. Boys are weird.”

“I’m a boy.”

“I know.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, and he didn’t press you for more. But when you glanced out the window again, you caught sight of one of the older boys—the younger one, with messy dirty blond hair sticking up from the wind and running around. He stood still while his family rushed around him, probably getting the new house ready—the older brother helping carry some of the lighter boxes. 

Thunder and lightning strike, and he tilts his head towards the sky as if he were listening to some message hidden in the sounds of the wind.

That was Jack Hughes. And you didn’t know it yet, but he was going to ruin your life.

A few days later, just like your brother said, your mom set up a playdate for you and the boys.

“They’re good kids,” she said as she gently tugged a brush through your hair, smoothing it down even though you insisted it didn’t matter. “They seem good for you. And it’ll be nice to know people when the school year starts, yeah?”

You just nodded. It would be nice to have some new friends before school started, even if the idea of a “playdate” felt babyish. You were almost in elementary. That wasn’t a baby at all.

When the doorbell rang, you were sitting criss-crossed on the couch next to your dad, pretending to be busy with your toys. 

“Coming!” Your mom cheerfully calls out as she hurries to answer. Your dad helps you up, fixing your clothes and brushing invisible lint off your shorts.

The Hughes family came in all at once, flooding the doorway with noise and activity. Their mom—Ellen, you remembered your parents telling you—had their youngest balanced on her hip, his eyes wide and little hands clutching her shirt. Their dad—Jim, they said—carried a tray of pastries your mom immediately fussed over. 

“Come in, come in!” your mom said, ushering them inside.

The two older boys followed behind, hair messy from their hoods and a little damp from the drizzle. They glanced around curiously, carefully, like they didn’t know what else to do but try and memorize the layout of the house. The youngest looked at you first, grinning like you’d been friends your entire lives. 

But it was the middle child who caught your attention, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flickering towards you for just a second before quickly darting away. His hair dripped at the ends, his eyes bright and curious, wearing that same look he had the other day in the rain. The one that looked like his mind was filled with thoughts no one else could understand.

“Why don’t you kids head to the den?” your mom suggested, already leading the adults toward the kitchen.

The youngest boy brightened immediately. “Come!” he said, his voice high and eager as he grabbed both his brothers by the wrists and tugged them along. His enthusiasm was almost enough to make you laugh.

You chuckled anyway, trailing after them, your steps slower and more hesitant. For a moment, you just watched the three boys—one practically bouncing with energy, the other moving only because he was being pulled along, and the middle one grinning and trying to keep up. This might have been the happiest you’d seen him—though, admittedly, you haven’t seen much of him.

You soon followed, feeling a strange little flutter in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

The three were already happily chatting in the den when you made your way in. You didn’t really know what they were talking about—just caught scattered words about goals and sticks and some kind of gear they wanted. Hockey, maybe. Or soccer. Something loud and fast.

“Um,” you began, feet shifting nervously against the carpet, “Hi.” You managed a quiet smile, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt.

The youngest boy was the first to notice you. His entire face lit up, cute cheeks spreading wide as he waved enthusiastically. “Hi!” he said, his voice bright and unfiltered. He was small, with messy blonde hair and light eyes that seemed to sparkle when he grinned.

The eldest chuckled at his little brother’s enthusiasm. “Hey,” he greeted, offering you an easy smile. “That was Luke. And I’m Quinn.” He was the tallest of the three, with brown hair that fell into his eyes. He jerked his chin toward the boy sitting next to him. “That’s Jack.”

Jack—the middle child you’d been so fixated on since you first saw him in the rain. There was finally a name to the face. But now he was smiling at you, and it was warm in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Hi!” Jack said, hopping up and walking over to where you stood. He held out a hand like you were grown-ups meeting for the first time. “Nice to meet you!”

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm despite the dampness at his cuffs. “Hi! I’m Y/N!”

“Y/N…” he repeated, his brows furrowing slightly like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. After a second, his face brightened. “That’s a pretty name!” he declared, as if he’d made an important decision.

Your cheeks flushed. No one had ever called your name pretty before.

“Y/N,” he said again, this time with a grin, before patting the empty spot next to him on the couch. “Did you know Quinn is seven?”

Your eyes widened as you sat down beside him. “Seven?” you echoed. That was almost as old as your older brother.

Quinn just shrugged and went back to playing with Luke. He was pretending to be unfazed, but there was a faint, proud smirk tugging at his lips.

Jack leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, like he was about to share a secret only you were allowed to hear. “He’s in elementary,” he whispered, nodding toward Quinn.

“Woah…” you breathed, your eyes widening. Elementary school kids always felt like creatures from another planet—older, cooler, doing things you couldn’t even imagine yet.

“My older brother is in elementary too,” you offered back in the same hushed, important tone. “He’s ten.”

Jack’s eyes went huge. “Ten?!” he exclaimed, sitting up straighter. “He has two numbers…woah.”

You nodded seriously, as if you were both discussing something very scientific. “Yeah. He takes the school bus. And mom says because he’s in the smart class, his homework has letters in it.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open a little, like you’d just told him your brother had been to the moon. “Letters? Like, real ones?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed solemnly. “Like…X and Y.”

“Woah,” Jack said again, clearly impressed. He looked like he might ask more about your brother, but Quinn groaned from the other end of the couch, rolling his eyes.

“You guys are acting like being in elementary is, like, super amazing,” Quinn muttered, though his cheeks were pink.

“It is amazing!” Jack shot back, grinning. “You get recess and real desks and everything.”

Luke—still perched on the rug, fiddling with a toy hockey stick—nodded eagerly. “I wanna go to elementary too!”

Jack just laughed, turning back to you like the other two didn’t matter anymore. “When I’m in elementary, I’m gonna play hockey every day after school,” he said confidently.

“Hockey?” you echoed, tilting your head.

Jack’s grin widened, his eyes bright with excitement. “Y/N, do you like hockey?”

You tilted your head, thinking very seriously about his question. “I don’t know.” You shrugged, lips tugging to the side. “I don’t think so.”

“What!” Jack practically shot upright, staring at you like you’d just said you didn’t like birthdays. “But it’s literally the best sport in the world! How could you not like it? You’re from Toronto! Born and Raised! With the Maple Leafs and everything!”

“Are they the blue team?” you asked cautiously.

“They’re one of ’em!” Jack said, still sounding completely scandalized. “Look, Y/N, hockey is the best sport in the world. It’s fast and it’s fun and when you’re older you can get hit—”

“They hit people?” you interrupted, eyes widening.

Jack waved off your shock like it wasn’t important. “Y/N, I promise to make sure hockey is a sport you’ll never forget,” he said determinedly, his voice lowering like he was about to make the most important declaration of his life. Then he lifted his pinky finger, holding it out to you. “Swear it with me.”

You frowned. “You’re the one promising. Why should I have to swear too?”

“Because now this means we’ll be friends forever.” His grin widened, warm and bright and just a little mischievous. “Swear it!”

For a second, you hesitated—because forever was a big word. But then, slowly, you lifted your own pinky and linked it with his.

“It’s a promise!” you said, beaming despite yourself.

Jack grinned back, squeezing your pinky like that sealed it. “Forever,” he repeated, like he meant it.

“I’m so glad we’re in the same class!” Jack said one Saturday, his voice bright with the kind of excitement only kids could have.

The two of you were sprawled out on your front lawn, sitting underneath the big tree on a makeshift picnic mat you’d fashioned from a blanket you’d dragged out of your room. The late summer sun dappled through the leaves above, casting speckled shadows over Jack’s face as he sat cross-legged, fiddling with a small pile of leaves he’d collected.

True to his promise, Jack had made sure to come see you every single day. It helped that you’d ended up in the same class when school started, but he acted like it was fate. He even asked your teacher if he could sit next to you—she’d said no, probably already knowing the two of you wouldn’t get anything done, but the fact that he tried had made your chest feel warm in a way you didn’t quite understand yet.

“You’re my best friend,” Jack said suddenly, his tone more serious than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t look at you right away, just kept weaving the leaves together in his lap like the words had been sitting in him for a while, waiting to come out.

You blinked at him, surprised. “Why me? We haven’t even known each other that long, you know?”

It wasn’t that you disagreed—you felt the same way, though you didn’t understand it. Best friendship seemed like something that took years, not weeks. How could someone just… decide?

Jack finally looked up, his grin spreading easily, like the answer was obvious. “Because you’re cool!”

You snorted. “Me?”

“Yeah!” Jack nodded firmly. “I mean, yeah, you’re kinda quiet…and you’re weirdly competitive about grades…and you don’t even really care about hockey…” He tilted his head, squinting like he was cataloging everything in his mind. “But you still play street hockey with us. And you help me with the hard words in class. And you always listen to me. And you always agree to play goalie for me even though you say you hate it and—”

“Okay, okay! I get it!” you laughed, cutting him off before his list got too long. Your cheeks felt warm, but you smiled anyway. “You’re my best friend too, Jack.”

“Obviously!” Jack grinned, puffing up a little like he’d been expecting you to say that. “But you can’t be best friends with anyone else now, okay? This is a special thing. Just for us.”

“I promise,” you said, the word slipping out easily, like you meant it more than anything.

“Good.” Jack’s grin softened into something almost shy for just a second before he cleared his throat and held up his latest creation—a leaf chain, uneven and clumsy, but carefully made. “Here. It’s a crown. Because you’re my best friend, you get to be my queen too.”

You laughed as he gently placed it on your head, the leaves tickling your hair. “Queen Y/N,” you declared, trying to sound grand. “Will you teach me how to make it?” you asked, fingers brushing the leaf crown perched delicately on your head.

“Of course!” Jack said immediately, sitting up straighter with an eager grin. Then his face grew serious, almost comically so. “But you can’t give it to anyone else but me and our families, okay? Promise me! And definitely not Quinn!”

“Why not Quinn?” you tilted your head, confused.

Jack shook his head firmly, his dark blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “He’s too old and you don’t have anything in common and…you know…”

There was something in his voice then—something you didn’t understand, something you didn’t have the words for yet. But you nodded anyway because it seemed important to him.

“I promise I won’t give it to anyone else but you and our families—minus Quinn!” you said, matching his seriousness with your own.

Jack’s face lit up, his grin returning full force.

“It was for you anyway,” you added, smiling softly. “Because we’re best friends, and I’m the queen, I’m going to make you my king!”

“Yeah!” Jack shouted, practically bouncing where he sat as he pumped a fist in the air. “We can play rulers after! We’ll take care of a kingdom together!”

You laughed, watching his excitement with a warmth you didn’t quite understand yet. But you smiled anyway, because right then, sitting under the tree with leaf crowns and promises, it felt like you really could rule the world together. 

Because, as you’d come to realize, being best friends with someone wasn’t about how long you’d known them. It was a feeling—a quiet, certain thing that settled in your chest, warm and unshakable and filled with hope.

And Jack Hughes made you feel everything the world had to give.

The end of the school year was marked with a sports day, held on the big grassy field behind the school. A cool breeze rustled through the colorful flags strung up around the area, making them flutter like little bursts of confetti. Parents and guardians sat along the edges on picnic blankets, iced coffees in hand, surrounded by neatly packed snacks and extra clothes for the kids who were bound to get messy.

Teachers wore wide sun hats and matching school T-shirts, clipboards tucked under their arms as they guided clusters of excited five- and six-year-olds from station to station. There was a bubble-blowing corner where kids squealed every time their bubbles popped, and a quieter reading-and-coloring station for those who wanted a break from running around.

But you and Jack weren’t anywhere near the quiet stations.

Instead, you paired up for the three-legged race, and Jack’s competitiveness was through the roof. He’d been coming over to your house almost every afternoon for “practice sessions,” which usually started with him insisting you figure out a “race strategy” and ended with the two of you abandoning the idea altogether to play with sidewalk chalk or make leaf crowns instead.

Still, Jack was serious about winning. He tied the rope around both your legs with extreme focus, double-checking the knot like it might decide your fate.

You didn’t really understand why he cared so much about winning—it was just a school sports day—but you chalked it up to him being a natural athlete. Athletes were competitive about these kinds of things, right?

“Okay,” Jack said now, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tested the rope’s tightness. “If we move at the exact same time, we’ll be faster than everyone else. Just copy me, okay?”

You nodded, biting back a smile at how serious he looked.

Jack Hughes always took things seriously when it mattered to him. And apparently, winning a three-legged race with you mattered a lot.

Behind the starting line, as the countdown began, you linked your arm with Jack’s, the two of you pressed close together.

And then the whistle blew.

One foot after the other, you moved in perfect sync, nearly fast enough to be running outright. The world blurred around you—cheering parents, colorful flags fluttering, the sound of kids laughing—but all you focused on was the finish line and Jack’s determined face beside you.

You were neck and neck with another pair, and you felt a fierce spark of determination bubble up inside you.

“Let’s pick up some speed!” Jack grinned, excitement bright in his voice. “We’re gonna win this, Y/N!”

You clutched each other tighter, so close it felt like you were melting into one another, your steps pounding in time as you rushed forward. One step, then another, then another—

And then you stumbled across the finish line where a teacher blew the whistle again and called out, “Second place!”

“We did it, Jack!” you beamed as a teacher crouched down to untie the rope from your legs. “We got second place! Isn’t that so cool?”

You were bouncing with excitement, already planning to tell your mom about it later, but when Jack lifted his head, your smile faltered.

There were tears in his eyes, clinging stubbornly to his lashes, threatening to spill at any moment.

“Jack?” you said softly, concerned. “What’s wrong? We did so well.”

But Jack shook his head, his lip trembling. “We were supposed to win, Y/N!” he burst out, his voice cracking as he stomped away from the crowd. “We were supposed to win and we didn’t!”

You frowned, furrowing your brows as you hurried after him. You didn’t like being spoken to like that, especially not by Jack. “It was just a game,” you muttered, a little defensive. “It’s not like we actually win anything.”

Jack whipped around to face you, his cheeks red and his fists clenched. “But we do!” he cried, his voice wobbling. “Miss Blossom said we were supposed to get a reward for winning, and now we don’t!”

You blinked at him, confused. 

Jack’s lip quivered harder as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, smudging the tears that finally slipped free. “I was gonna ask to be classmates with you again if we won,” he admitted, voice small now, almost breaking. “I thought…if we won, she’d say yes.”

“Who would?” you asked gently, stepping closer.

Jack sniffled, his gaze dropping to the grass. “Anyone,” he whispered. “I was gonna ask if we could be in the same class again next year. But we lost…and now we won’t be classmates ever again.”

The way he said it—like it was the end of the world—made something squeeze in your chest.

You didn’t even think about it—you just wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly as he stood there sniffling. Jack stiffened for a second, surprised, before sinking into the hug, his fists unclenching at his sides.

“You don’t know that,” you said gently as you pulled back, keeping your hands on his shoulders. “And if we aren’t classmates, so what?”

Jack’s brows furrowed, his voice cracking again. “So, everything! We won’t be best friends anymore…”

You shook your head firmly, meeting his teary eyes with all the seriousness you could muster. “But we will!”

He blinked, confused.

“If we aren’t classmates,” you continued, “Then we can still go home together—we’re neighbors, remember? And we can still play on the weekends, and after school too. And we’ll see each other at recess and we’ll still do our homework together. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Jack hesitated, his lip still trembling. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said with a determined nod.

For a moment, he just stared at you like he was testing whether you meant it. Then, slowly, a small smile crept across his face, soft and shy, the kind of smile he only gave you.

“Okay,” he whispered, his shoulders finally relaxing.

You grinned back, relieved, and without thinking, you held out your pinky. Jack’s smile grew, and he linked his pinky with yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

Because best friends weren’t held together by proximity. They were held together by choice.

And you and Jack Hughes had already chosen each other.

ELEMENTARY 4th Grade

“I cursed us,” Jack pouted as he read over the classroom assignments on his mom’s phone. You were curled up on the floor of his room, halfway through a bag of chips, when Ellen had called out that the class list had just been posted—something Jack fixated on every year since the first time you weren’t in the same class.

Because after that magical kindergarten year together, you and Jack had never ended up as classmates again.

“It’s my fault we’re not classmates,” he insisted, flopping dramatically onto the carpet beside you, “I jinxed us.”

“Jinxes and curses don’t exist, Jack.”

“You say that because you’re not the one who jinxed us.”

“We were five!” You laughed, reaching over to pat his head like a particularly sulky puppy. “And it’s not like you physically made the class lists. So don’t worry about it. What’s one more year without being classmates, right? We’ve already survived five.”

“Ughhhhhh…..” he groaned, stretching the sound into a whine, “But I like being near you.” He looked up at you, bottom lip jutting out slightly. “You make life fun.”

You snorted, nudging his knee with yours. “We’ll be, like, twenty feet away. We’ll still have recess and lunch together, and we can walk each other to class.”

You smiled, as if that settled it. “See? We’ll still have tons of time.”

“I mean, I guess...” he muttered, eyes wandering back to the phone screen. The pout lingered, but his eyes were brighter now, hope tugging at the edges of his frown. “And since we both have clubs, we can even go home together…”

“Exactly. Everything will be fine, Jack. We’re still best friends.”

“Just a few feet away?”

“Better.” You pointed toward the class list, where the homeroom section labels sat one after another. “I’m right next door.”

It was no secret to anyone that you and Jack were very different people.

While he’d grown into someone witty and charismatic, the kind of person who could light up a room just by walking into it, you’d stayed more reserved. Not shy—definitely not—but quieter in ways that didn’t ask to be noticed. Jack made friends with everyone, effortlessly weaving his way through every clique and social group. You preferred to keep your circle small and familiar.

Those differences showed in the clubs you each joined, too.

Jack, of course, ended up on the school’s hockey team. That was always a given. His love for the sport had been unwavering for as long as you could remember. You, on the other hand, somehow found yourself on the school paper—and, to most people’s surprise, drama club. You still weren’t entirely sure what made you sign up for either. If you were being honest, they were just the ones that still had open slots during sign-ups. But they’d turned out to be fun, in a way that caught you off guard.

Club activities usually meant your afternoons ended a little later than most. The school bus did a second trip for those with late dismissals, and you and Jack almost always took it together. Some days, he’d pick you up from your classroom. Other days, you’d show up at the rink. The routine didn’t really matter. What mattered was that neither of you left school without the other.

Just like you’d promised.

Drama club let out early today—your teacher had a last-minute doctor’s appointment—which left you with time to spare and a giddy sort of excitement bubbling in your chest. You slung your bag over your shoulder, smile already forming. If you timed it right, you could make it to the rink just as Jack’s practice wrapped up.

You expected to wait when you got there, maybe even crack open that book you’d been meaning to finish for weeks.

But instead, you found Jack already sitting in the stands.

His gear was half-haphazardly shoved into his duffel bag, sticks and pads peeking out from the open zipper. He was hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, hair damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. He was breathing heavier than you’d ever seen him—shoulders rising and falling in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

This wasn’t normal.

“Jack?” you call out, hurrying toward him. “Jack, what happened?”

He looks up quickly, startled, like he didn’t expect anyone—let alone you—to be there. And that’s when you see it. A dark red splotch blooming across his cheekbone, angry and raw-looking. Definitely something that would bruise later.

“Wha—” You sit beside him, leaning in instinctively. Your hand reaches up, thumb brushing carefully over the mark. He winces and you pull back right away—but he catches your hand before it can fall away, lacing his fingers through yours.

“One of the bigger kids got rough with me,” he says with a crooked smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. But you can see right through it. It bothers him, even if he’s trying to act like it doesn’t. “Coach gave him a talking-to, though, so…it’s fine. Yeah? It’s…fine.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him—really look. At the bruise forming on his face, the way his shoulders are still tense, the way he’s hunched in on himself in a way that feels foreign. He looks hurt. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper—something you don’t know how to reach.

You don’t know much about hockey—never quite got it, no matter how many times he tried to explain off-sides or line changes. You don’t know how to fix this. But you want so badly to make it better. To bring him back.

So before you can think about it too long, you lean in and press a featherlight kiss to his bruised cheek.

“Y/N—wha—?” His voice jumps a pitch as his eyes widen. “What…what was that for?”

You sit back just a little, cheeks warm. “I didn’t know how else to make you feel better…” you admit softly. “It’s what my mom always does when I get hurt, so…I thought maybe it would work here, too.”

You meet his gaze—your own wide for a completely different reason. “Did it?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he takes a breath—deep and steady—before a slow grin tugs at his lips. A real one this time.

And then he laughs, light and bright in that familiar Jack way that makes your chest loosen just a little.

“It did,” he says finally. “You always know how to make me feel better.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Thanks.”

You hum in response, your fingers still tangled in his.

“Are you allowed to go home now?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Coach said I could skip cooldowns today.”

You stand up together. He swings his bag over his shoulder, and you fall into step beside him.

“Shall we?”

You smile. “Let’s go home.”

The truth was…you’d been hiding a very big secret from your best friend for a few days now.

Jack knew something was off—you could tell by the way he looked at you when you went quiet in the middle of conversations, the way he lingered a little longer at your side during lunch. But he never pushed. He just gave you that signature Jack Hughes grin and told you to “cheer up” and that “everything will be alright.”

He was optimistic like that.

But you knew better than anyone that this wasn’t something you could just cheer up from. No, this was life-changing. Life-ruining.

“Okay, you’ve been quiet for dayyysss,” Jack whines beside you, “What’s going on?”

The two of you are sitting on the steps of his front porch, the sun dipping low in the sky, bathing everything in a warm golden haze. He’s talking about anything and everything—old inside jokes, what flavor popsicle tastes like soap, how he’s sure you’ll both end up in the same club again next year. 

Or at least, he talks. You sit there, chewing on your lip, trying to find the right words.

“Noth—”

“I know it’s not nothing,” he interrupts, frowning now. He shifts to face you, placing both hands firmly on your shoulders. “Come on. If you tell me what’s wrong, we can fix it.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “I don’t think this is something we can fix…”

“So we’ll deal with it together anyway!” he says, undeterred. His smile is so earnest, so sure—and for a moment, you almost believe him. Almost.

But then the tears start to fall.

One slips down your cheek before you can stop it. Then another. You sniff and try to turn your head away, but he’s already reaching out.

“Hey, wait—” Jack fumbles, clumsily trying to wipe your tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“Because—because we can’t be friends anymore!” you sob, voice cracking as the dam fully breaks. “We can’t—”

“What?” he blurts out, stunned. “Who told you that?!”

“I heard my parents talking a few nights ago,” you sniffle, rubbing your eyes. “They said…they said we were going away.”

“Wha—what do you mean you’re going away?”

“I mean…” You hiccup, chest tightening. “I mean we’re selling the house. We’re moving. Somewhere far. I don’t know where yet. Just…not here.”

Your voice is small now, fragile like glass.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Jack doesn’t say anything.

He just stares at you, eyes wide and full of something you couldn’t place. Shock, maybe. Sadness. Fear.

Then, without a single word, he pulls you into him—arms wrapped tightly around you, firm and grounding like he was reminding you that, at least right now, you were exactly where you were meant to be. With him. 

You collapse yourself into his chest and let yourself fall apart, burying your face into the soft fabric just above his heart, crying harder than you’d cried before—the kind that shook your body and left your throat raw and hoarse and your chest aching.

Jack held you through it all, softly crying but still holding you together—holding you both together.

He didn’t say much—just hushed whispers of “I’m here,” and “It’s okay,” and “I’ve got you.” But he held you like he meant every word. Like holding you was the only thing that made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.

And when your sobs finally started to slow and your fists loosened from his hoodie, he pressed his cheek gently to the top of your head, voice barely above a whisper.

“We’re always going to be best friends,” he said, “It doesn’t matter where you go. That fact doesn’t change.”

The day you left was gray. No storms, no rain—just a heavy, overcast sky caught somewhere between holding back and letting go. Like it didn’t know whether it wanted to cry or not. Like it was trying to stay strong for you. Like Jack was. It was the type of sky to make everything feel heavier than it already was.

You sat in the backseat of your family’s car, window rolled down, arms stretched out toward Jack one last time. He stood at the curb with his family, hair still messy from sleep, hands clenched tightly at his sides, eyes blinking too fast to stop the tears from falling. 

“Jack, you can’t forget me, alright?” you shouted, voice cracking just a little as you waved.

“I won’t!” he called back, forcing a smile that trembled at the corners and didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then the car lurched forward. Your dad had started the engine.

Jack ran after it—after you. A few desperate, stumbling steps before he stopped in the middle of the road, breath ragged, chest heaving.

He didn’t chase far. Maybe because he knew he couldn’t catch up. Maybe because he knew there wasn’t anything he could do to make you stay.

He just stood there and watched as the car grew smaller and smaller until it turned the corner and disappeared completely from view.

He didn’t move.

The tears came freely now—hot, silent, relentless. But he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He just stood there, staring at the empty road, then across to your old house—the place where it all began.

Where you met.

Where you played tag on summer afternoons and built snow forts in the winter. Where you sat on the front steps and talked for hours about everything and nothing. Where you made promises in whispers and laughter and pinky swears.

Where, somewhere along the way, Jack realized that while his brothers were his best friends…you were the best of them all.

But now you were gone.

And all he could do was keep staring at the memories you left behind.

Hoping—no, wishing—that maybe if he stood there long enough, if he waited just a little more…You’d come back.

MIDDLE SCHOOL 8th Grade

Somehow…you realize you’ve managed to build a life outside of Jack Hughes.

You’re on the yearbook committee and on school paper, and you’re a presenter for the school radio. It’s a lot, sure, but it keeps you busy—and maybe that’s the point. Maybe keeping busy was the only way you could quiet the ache in your heart.

The first year was hard. Miserable, even.

Because how do you learn to exist without someone who’s been a part of you for as long as you can remember?

You remember crying to your parents late at night, asking why you had to leave—why it had to be you, why it had to be 400 miles away in Michigan. You think there were some phone calls with Jack too, short ones filled with awkward silences and nervous laughter. But eventually, those dwindled amidst new schedules and friends and interests. You’re not even sure when the last one happened, or what you talked about. Only that it ended.

But somewhere along the sleepless nights and silent tears, you pulled yourself back together.

You studied harder. You joined clubs that you actually enjoyed. You worked—really worked—to prove to yourself that you could do more than just survive the loss of that friendship.

You were still reserved, still selective with who you let in, but you found out that public speaking came easier than you thought. You weren’t part of the popular crowd or any of the main cliques. You weren’t the type of person to have a group chat with everyone in school. But you knew how to make friends where it counted. You knew how to present yourself. You had a voice and, to your surprise, people started listening to it.

At some point, you realized that maybe Jack wasn’t someone who was meant to stay in your life for a long period of time. And for the most part, you learned to be okay with that.

Until one day, you come home from school and freeze in your doorway.

Because there they are.

The Hughes family. All of them. Sitting in your living room like no time has passed at all, like you hadn’t spent the last few years trying to erase the hollow part of your chest where Jack used to live.

They’re laughing with your parents—your brother is notably absent and probably with friends—catching up like nothing has changed, like everything’s fine.

And there he is.

Jack.

Sitting with his brothers, talking animatedly about some game or whatever else.

His voice is deeper now, but his laugh is the same—easy and warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s taller. His hair’s longer, a little messier. His features sharper.

He looks…Pretty.

Not in the way you remember. Not in the “mud on his face and skinned knees” kind of way. Not in the “that’s my best friend” kind of way.

But pretty in a way that makes your breath catch.

Pretty in the way the most popular boys at school are—confident, put-together, magnetic.

Pretty in the way you’ve never really seen him before.

Pretty in the way that makes you think, Oh.

And suddenly, you don’t feel like you’ve moved on anymore.

You just feel like a girl who hasn’t quite figured out what to do when the past walks back in and makes your heart remember everything it worked so hard to forget.

“Y/N, look who’s here!” your mom calls out brightly, gesturing toward the all-too-familiar family seated in your living room. “They just moved in next door again—can you believe it? Isn’t that great? It’ll be just like old times!” She beams, like the universe has just aligned itself.

But nothing can bring back the old times.

Not really.

You don’t say that, of course. You just offer a polite smile and wave, bowing your head slightly in greeting. Your voice stays light when you say hello, but your hands twist in the hem of your skirt. You murmur something about having schoolwork to finish and excuse yourself as casually as you can.

“Jack, why don’t you go with her?” your mom suggests far too cheerfully.

You blink. 

Too stunned to form words, too distracted watching everyone else’s reactions.

Your dad, Ellen, and Jim all look hopeful, like this is some touching reunion scene in a movie. Like maybe, if the two of you are alone together, the years will melt away and you’ll be back to the kids you used to be—inseparable and smiling.

But three years is a long time.

And Jack doesn’t look entirely sure either. He glances at his brothers, who are clearly trying to hide their smirks, and there’s something tight and unreadable in his jaw. You wonder if he’s nervous too. If he remembers everything the way you do.

“He can if he wants to,” you say quietly, finally meeting his gaze.

It’s the first time you’ve properly looked at him since he came back.

The boy in front of you isn’t quite the one you remember—he’s grown into himself, taller, more sure. But his eyes are still Jack’s. Familiar and unreadable all at once.

“I’ll go,” he says after a second, standing up and brushing invisible dust off his jeans. “Lead the way.”

You nod.

Then turn around, heading upstairs to your room, acutely aware of the knowing looks being exchanged behind you—shared glances between parents and siblings, nudging smiles and hopeful eyes.

But you don’t look back. You just climb the stairs, Jack’s footsteps echoing behind yours.

“Huh,” he says when you let him in—eyes flicking around the room like he’s trying to memorize every corner. It’s the same look he had when you first met him all those years ago, cautious but curious, like he was memorizing every last detail. 

“It looks different,” he says after a moment, “Good different.”

“New house, new me, I guess.” You shrug lightly, offering a small smile as you drop your bag by the desk. “Sit wherever you want, I’ll just fix up a few things.” You start unpacking a few pens and notebooks from your bag, lining them up neatly for later.

He nods and makes a beeline for the bed, flopping down with zero hesitation.

You snort.

“What?” he says, mock-offended. But you can hear the smirk in his voice even before you glance over your shoulder.

“Some things never change,” you say with a quiet laugh, turning to face him. “You still aim for the bed every time someone says ‘sit wherever.’”

“It’s the comfiest place in the room,” he replies with a lazy grin, arms folded behind his head like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Well, most well-mannered guests pick the chair or the rug, y’know?”

“I am well-mannered.” He lifts his hands to make air quotes. “Being well-mannered doesn’t mean being uncomfortable.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well where am I gonna sit now, hm?”

His grin grows like he was waiting for that.

He shifts over, scooting toward the wall to make space, then pats the spot beside him with exaggerated politeness.

“You can sit over here,” he says, all faux-gentleman charm, “Right next to me.”

You stare at him for a second, then laugh under your breath.

Figures.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it—just something soft and playful. Then you make your way to the bed, settling into the spot beside him and stretching your legs out until your ankles bump.

For a while, neither of you says anything. It’s not awkward, not exactly—more like a quiet, tentative return to something once familiar. You sit in the silence together, letting it fill the space between you, like dust settling into place.

Every so often, Jack nudges your ankle with his, and you respond in kind. It turns into a series of light jabs and playful hits, escalating into half-hearted wrestling and muffled laughter. Your giggles bounce off the walls and dissolve some of the weight in the room.

He always knew how to break down your walls, always had that way of making you feel like things were simple, even when they weren’t.

But then the laughter fades, and the room stills again.

“So,” he says, voice softer now, more careful. “Why’d you stop calling?”

You pause, blink. His tone isn’t accusing, not really—but there’s something raw in it, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer in case it hurts.

“What do you mean I stopped calling?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “I think you mean you stopped picking up.”

He looks away, jaw tightening slightly. “So, what—you just moved on?” he mutters, almost like it offends him. “Because most friends would still try. A happy birthday. A random message. I would've been fine with a Merry Christmas or something. But you…” He trails off. Doesn’t finish. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

You shift, folding your legs under you so you’re facing him squarely now.

“So what did you want me to do, Jack?” you ask, quietly but firmly. “Did you want me to sit around being miserable that my best friend never answered any of my calls anymore?”

His lips part like he wants to reply, but no words come out.

You don’t say anything either—not yet. You just sit there, breathing in the tension that had been waiting, simmering, under all that laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he says under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear it. His voice is soft—barely more than a whisper—but it lands heavy, and when you look at him, his eyes are already on you, guilt written across his face, brows drawn together.

“Talking on the phone just… wasn’t the same,” he continues, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on your blanket. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I made all that talk about still being best friends, even with you in Michigan and me in Toronto—but when you weren’t actually there…”

He bites the inside of his cheek and trails off, the sentence unfinished but understood.

You don’t speak right away. Instead, you listen—to him, to the space between you, to the soft pitter-patter of rain beginning to tap against your window like it, too, had something to say.

Finally, you take a breath.

“I’m sorry for not trying harder,” you say, voice just as quiet. “It was easier to just… let go than to keep hoping something would change. I guess we both gave up in our own ways.”

You offer him a small, forgiving smile. “I think that makes us even.”

He chuckles, that familiar crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he extends his hand toward you.

“Fresh start?”

You glance down at his open palm, then back up at his face—older now, but still the same boy who once swore you’d be best friends forever—and take it.

“Brand new,” you say.

And then, like the universe was holding its breath this whole time, lightning cracks outside your window, followed immediately by a low, rolling thunder. You both gasp at the same time—instinctive, startled—and without thinking, you fling yourselves toward each other, colliding in a half-panicked embrace.

His arms wrap around you fast, warm and grounding. Yours around him, just as tight.

The kind of hug that feels like home—even in the middle of a storm.

For a while, neither of you move. The thunder fades into the distance, the rain steady but soft now, like a lullaby instead of a warning. His heartbeat thuds gently against yours, and you let yourself breathe a little easier, tucked into the quiet comfort of his arms.

Then, Jack shifts slightly—just enough to rest his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs, voice muffled, like the words were meant for him more than you.

You feel your chest tighten, but not in a painful way. More like the kind of tight that comes with something familiar finding its way back to you.

You don’t say anything at first. You just smile.

“So are you,” you chuckle, resting your cheek lightly against his hair.

And in that moment, with the rain tapping gently outside and the weight of the years quietly falling away, it almost feels like you were never separated at all.

“So, you guys just moved to another country for hockey?” you ask, brows furrowed. “Like—why move to the States when Canada is literally the land of hockey?”

It’s a bright, sunny day, and the two of you are sitting out front of the Hughes’ new place, sprawled out on the curb. Jack’s hunched over a piece of blue chalk, drawing suns and stars and something vaguely resembling a dinosaur in the middle of the driveway.

“Because Quinn’s in the NTDP,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You squint at him. “I’m gonna need you to unpack that for me.” You cross your arms. “Use words, Jacky, not letters.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “God, you’ve spent years being friends with me and you still know nothing about hockey.”

“I know plenty,” you shoot back. “I know Sidney Crosby. And I know the Maple Leafs have broken your heart for years.”

Jack snorts, nearly smudging his dinosaur. “Okay, fair.” 

He sits up, chalk dust smudged on his fingers. “It’s the National Team Development Program. It’s, like, the junior national team for the States. They’re based here in Michigan. That’s why we moved. Quinn made the team.”

You hum in response, letting it sink in. “That’s…kinda cool.”

“Just kinda?” he smirks.

“Okay, okay—really cool.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a great player.” Jack’s grin turns a little softer, full of pride for his older brother. “Do you remember what position he plays?”

“Defense, right?”

“Yeah!” he says, visibly pleased. “And me?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think hard. “The other one?”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Wow. You’ve clearly spent too much time away from me. I’m gonna have to re-teach hockey to you.”

“Oh nooooo,” you say in a flat monotone, “I get to spend more time with you? The horror!”

You both burst into laughter again, Jack nearly doubling over as he clutches his stomach.

“Come look,” he says through lingering giggles, “My masterpiece is complete.”

You get up from the curb and walk over, catching a full glimpse of his chalk drawing for the first time.

Colorful scribbles fill the driveway—doodles of stars, hearts, and an absolutely terrible stick-figure dog—but at the center, outlined in bold, shaky block letters, are your names: Jack & Y/N

You beam. Your name next to his. His name next to yours. Right where they were meant to be.

“I think it belongs in a museum,” you say, pretending to analyze it like fine art. “I’ll even help them dig it out. I bet the Louvre would love this.”

He laughs, the sunlight catching in his hair and casting a golden hue around him.

You both stand there a moment longer, letting the quiet admiration settle between you.

Then Jack glances at you. “Hey…do you think we’ll finally be classmates when I start school next week?”

You grin. “If we win a three-legged race, maybe we will.”

His cheeks flush a familiar pink. “We were five!”

“And yet the trauma lives on,” you tease, “You’re still obsessed with being my classmate.”

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?” He groans dramatically. 

“Never.” You giggle, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

He groans again, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was five and loyal.”

“Still are,” you add softly, almost quietly—just loud enough for it to be lost in the sounds of the wind.

You glance down at the chalk drawing, the colors already softening under the heat of the sun. His name next to yours. Yours next to his.

“Some things really don’t change,” you say quietly.

He looks at you then, a little softer. “Maybe some things aren’t supposed to.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believe it.

Because best friends aren’t held together by distance or time. They’re held together by choice.

And you’re both still choosing each other.

Just like he’d hoped and wished and prayed for every year since elementary, the two of you were finally classmates. He wasn’t seated beside you, unfortunately, but he was right behind you, which was close enough in his opinion. Close enough to pass notes, nudge your chair with his foot, and whisper sarcastic commentary under his breath during boring lectures.

Still, he pouted a little when he realized you wouldn’t be going home together anymore. Your afternoons were packed with your usual rotation of club commitments, and the school didn’t have a hockey program, so he ended up joining a team outside of school.

“We’ll still end at similar times,” you told him one afternoon, in an attempt to console him. “So we can still hang out for a few hours before dinner.”

That seemed to placate him. For now.

Despite your separate after-school schedules, Jack settled in fast. Too fast, if you were honest. He made friends easily, his personality loud and easygoing, his smile disarming. And he charmed the girls in your grade just as effortlessly—something you noticed more and more when you suddenly had more people wanting to be your friend. Even some of the popular girls, who were always kind to you but never made much effort to get to know you, suddenly wanted to walk with you between classes or sit with you at lunch.

It wasn’t surprising. Jack had always been pretty. But now he was older, and somehow even prettier—his confidence translating well to hallways and classrooms and everywhere in between.

You were happy for him. 

Really.

But still…There was this strange feeling twisting quietly in your aching chest.

Because now that everyone else was seeing what you’d always seen in him, you couldn’t help but wonder: aside from growing up together, what separated you from them anymore?

Feelings like that had been quietly building for weeks—restless, confusing, and hard to name. Feelings that only built up when he smiled at you like you were still the only person in the room, or when his hand would linger just a second too long after passing you a pen.

Feelings that only grew when the nights got quieter and your thoughts got louder.

“Y/N…” Someone says late at night, voice hushed as they lightly shake you awake. “Y/N, wake up.”

You groan, swatting off the hand, not in the mood to deal with anything this late at night.

“Y/N, c’mon, this is important.”

They shake you harder this time, jolting you fully awake. You sit up abruptly, rubbing your eyes as you squint at the glow of your lamp—one you’re almost certain you turned off before bed.

“Good!” the familiar voice says, breathless with relief. “You’re up. This is great.”

“Jack?” you croak out, still half-asleep. “Wha—why are you in my room? How did you even get in?”

“I climbed through your window,” he says casually, like it’s the most reasonable answer in the world. “You really need to start locking that thing, by the way. Who knows what kind of creep could get in?”

You stare at him, unamused. Flat.

“You realize you’re the creep in this situation, right?”

“Okay, rude,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “We’re best friends.”

You raise a brow.

“And also,” he adds, holding up his phone, “You weren’t answering my calls. This is urgent business.”

“This couldn’t have waited ‘til there was sun?” you groan, grabbing your own phone to check the time—3:07 a.m.—and the flood of notifications from him. “It’s literally three in the morning, Jack.”

“Nope. Absolutely not,” he says, already making his way around your bed. “Scoot. This is serious.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you make space for him—like he’s asking the biggest favor in the world, even though both of you know it’s not unusual for him to end up here. It never has been.

He chuckles and flops down beside you, sitting cross-legged as he turns to face you, eyes bright despite the hour.

“Okay,” he begins, drawing a deep breath. “So…there’s this girl.”

Oh. Okay. Great.

“I really like her,” he says, the kind of smile spreading across his face that makes your stomach twist, “And I think I wanna ask her out.” His voice is warm and sure, cheeks flushing pink at the thought. “What do you think?”

You think your heart is breaking. Quietly. Silently. Right here beside him.

It was strange to think that there was another girl he was going to treat the way he treated you—maybe even better. A different kind of softness. A different kind of attention. You hated it. More than you’d ever hated anything before.

“I think you should go for it,” you say, voice low but steady. You run your fingers through his hair, letting yourself have that one small comfort. He leans into your touch like he always does, and there’s something achingly satisfying about that.

“If you really like her, then take a shot at it.”

“You think so?” he beams. “How do I do it? Should it be big? What do you think I should do?”

“That depends,” you say, shrugging as casually as you can manage, trying to fish. “Who is it?”

“It’s Clara,” he says, and this time, his smile is different—softer, warmer, quieter. It lands like a rock in your stomach.

“Ahhh…” you say, nodding like it all makes sense. Clara from Drama Club. Pretty, charismatic, bubbly. The kind of girl who lit up a room just by walking in. The kind of girl who was everything you weren’t.

“Just keep it simple, I think,” you say.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You force a smile. “Just approach her after class or something. Ask her on a date. No big gestures. Just...be sincere. Really mean it.”

“Okay…okay…” He nods, clearly thinking it over. “You’re the best. Really.”

“I try,” you say, the laugh that leaves you a little too dry.

He hesitates for a second, eyes flicking back to yours. “Do you…have you…?” He gestures vaguely, as if trying to conjure the right words from the air. “You seem to know a lot about these kinds of things.”

You shrug. “I just figured I wouldn’t want to be asked out in a huge, public way, is all.”

“I’ve never dated, though.” You smile faintly. “You’ve got me beat on that front.”

“Never?” His brows raise, interest piqued. “What about…liking someone? Like…in that way?”

“I don’t know.” You think about it—really try—but you can’t land on anyone specific. Not from the past. Not even from now. “I’m not sure, actually.”

He stares at you then, really stares, his eyes turning a deep shade of seagreen under the yellow lamp glow. The soft shadows play across his cheekbones, and something in his gaze makes your breath catch.

“Well…Actually…” you start, barely above a whisper.

His body stills, and he leans in closer, like your words might run from him if he doesn’t catch them fast enough.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Maybe I was close.”

“Close?”

You nod slowly, eyes dropping to the space between you. 

“I don’t think I got the chance to.”

HIGH SCHOOL Junior Year

Jack and Clara dated for three months. Which, in middle school time, was basically three years.

“She wasn’t really it for me anyway,” he told you the day she ended things, trying to sound nonchalant. “There was just…something missing.”

Then came Jane when you were both fourteen. They lasted five months—his longest relationship so far.

“She was so familiar—kinda like you are, I guess. It felt so right. I swear,” he said over the phone the night he ended it, voice tired. “Until it wasn’t.”

At fifteen, there was Beatrice. Over in two months.

“Okay, she’s insane,” he said, pacing the room as you sat on his bed, holding an ice pack to your cheek. “I can’t believe she slapped you.”

“I can.” You shrugged. “You ditched her.”

“It was your birthday!” he snapped, turning to you. “I told her she could come to the party with me instead!”

You sighed. “The point is, Jacky, that you canceled a date for another girl.”

“But you’re not just ‘another girl.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Well…slapping me was a bit much.”

You both laughed, but the sting in your cheek—and somewhere deeper—lingered.

“Did you not tell her I had a boyfriend?”

He scoffs at the mention of Walker—your boyfriend of seven months. Your first ever. He was tall and kind and on the yearbook committee with you.

“You can barely call him a boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes.

“I already told you he was leaving for his grandmother’s place on my birthday. What was he supposed to do?”

“Well, Cole, Trevor, and I were supposed to leave for camp that day too—but we still went.”

You smile faintly at the mention of your new friends. Jack had gotten into the USNTDP this year and wasted no time making more friends on the team—friends who, by extension, became yours too. Suddenly, your world was louder and rowdier, filled with two more chaotic boys crashing into your space like they’d always belonged there.

“And I appreciate it,” you say, placing the ice pack down beside you. “Really. But those are two different situations, Jack. You and the guys had more control over when you left. Walker didn’t.”

He says nothing, just stares at you. You’re not sure if it’s irritation or disappointment behind his eyes—maybe both.

You shift. “Relationships aren’t always about who shows up to stuff like that anyway.”

“It kind of always is,” he mutters.

“What do you mean by that?” You stand up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Because I don’t recall you making it to every one of your girlfriends’ events either.”

“That’s different and you know it.”

“How, Jack?” You inhale slowly, trying to calm yourself before your words twist too sharp. “Make me understand.”

“Because it’s you.”

The room goes still. Air thick with something heavy and unsaid.

“I would never miss out on you,” he says finally, voice lower now—softer, but strained. “I don’t think I could.”

His brows draw together like he’s just now realizing the weight of what he’s saying. Or maybe that he’s always known.

“I—It’s not just about your birthday, okay? It’s about the way he talks to you. When he says shit about your articles in the paper—”

“He’s a writer too, Jack. He’s allowed to have opinions.”

“Or when he says you sound weird on the radio—”

“Who even sounds good on an ancient school intercom?”

“And when he talks crap about the photos you take for the yearbook, or when he basically calls you stupid for nearly failing AP History—” He throws his hands up. “You got a perfect score on the exam anyways! So why the hell does he think he can say that shit about you?”

His voice cracks a little at the end. Not out of anger, but something else—something that feels a lot like heartbreak on your behalf. You’re not even sure he realizes it. But you do.

And suddenly, it’s harder to breathe.

“I know I’m not the best boyfriend—I’m pretty shit at the whole relationship thing, honestly. But I don’t pretend that I’m not.”

A moment passes. The room settles into a soft kind of quiet.

“You’re not bad at relationships,” you say gently, like you mean it. “You’re just young. We’re just young.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the look you give him stops him.

“We’re young and stupid and we’re gonna make mistakes, and we’re gonna let things slide even when we shouldn’t.” You sigh and drop back down onto the bed, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, sit.”

He does, sinking down next to you, shoulders brushing.

“Not every relationship in high school lasts,” you say honestly, the words slipping out like they’ve been sitting on your chest for weeks. “Walker and I are one of those. We’re gonna break up, and things are gonna be awkward at the yearbook office for a while. But we’ll be fine. We’re off to university soon and we’re probably never gonna see each other again.”

You glance over and see the stunned look on his face.

“What?” you chuckle. “I was never gonna marry him.”

That makes him scoff, rolling his eyes as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“You better not. Or I’m gonna object at your wedding.”

There’s something else in his voice when he says it. Something quiet and buried and almost too tender to name. But you don’t push. You let it sit between you.

“The man of honor objecting?” You grin. “That’s a new one. People might talk.”

“Exactly.” He turns to face you more fully now. “So you need to find the right person. The one. So you’ll be happy…and I’ll be happy that I won’t have to worry about you.”

His words land heavier than you expect.

You don’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch, soft and warm. You don’t know if he realizes it, but what he’s asking for doesn’t sound like something a friend says.

And maybe that’s the problem.

You’re quiet for a moment, your eyes fixed on the space between you—the small stretch of mattress that feels impossibly wide all of a sudden.

“You always say that,” you murmur, almost like you’re talking to yourself.

Jack tilts his head slightly. “Say what?”

“That you don’t want to worry about me. That I should only do the things that make me happy, be with people who’ll make me happy.” You pause, the words fragile on your tongue. “But Jack…I’m already here.”

You offer a small, tired smile—bittersweet and quiet.

“I’m leading clubs I care about. I’m applying to schools I’m excited about, not just the ones that look good on paper. I’ve got a good family, friends who love me. And…” You pause, taking a quick breath. “And you’re right here.”

Your voice drops into something even softer. “What more could I ask for?”

His body stills beneath your head like he’s holding his breath. Like the moment might break if he moves.

When you look up at him, your eyes meet—and everything shifts.

The space between you buzzes with something electric. The silence isn’t empty; it’s thick with unsaid things, with glances that linger too long and feelings that have no name yet. His eyes, a deep ocean-blue in the golden cast of your bedroom lamp, flicker down to your lips, just for a second.

Your heart skips a beat.

Your breath catches.

There’s a moment—brief and infinite—where it feels like the entire universe narrows to this: the curve of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist without even realizing it.

Then he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

He lifts a hand and cups your face with both palms, warm and careful like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop.

And he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Almost unsure. But then it deepens—slow and certain and real in a way that makes your stomach turn inside out.

It’s the kind of kiss you don’t forget.

The kind that redefines everything that came before it. The kind that says, this was always going to happen.

And for one suspended moment, you kiss him back.

Because you want to. Because part of you always has.

But you have a boyfriend. And Jack is your best friend.

You pull away slowly, your lips still tingling, your pulse thrumming in your ears. The moment catches up to you all at once, crashing over you like a wave, leaving you breathless and unsteady.

Your eyes are wide. So are his.

You stand up quickly, too quickly. “Um...I should head home. For dinner.”

He stays frozen on the bed, blinking like he’s only now waking up.

“Yeah… yeah. I get it.”

A beat of silence stretches between you again.

You shift awkwardly, keys already in your hand. “See you around?” Your voice is quiet, trying not to crack.

He gives you a small smile—soft and more unsure than you’d ever seen him.

“Always.”

SENIOR YEAR | UNIVERSITY

You break up with Walker the next time you see him. It’s quiet and short. You think he knew it was coming. Maybe he’d known for a while.

But you and Jack are back to normal the very next day. Like it never happened.

No one mentions the kiss.

Not even in passing.

It’s as if the moment folded itself into a corner of the universe and disappeared—tucked away, unspoken, but not forgotten.

Life moves on.

Jack competes at the world championships, and you’re cheering from the couch back home, eyes glued to the screen like your life depends on it—even though the only thing you really know about hockey is that the puck is small and Jack is fast.

You win an award for your article about the commodification of climate change, and Jack’s posting about it like he’s the one who wrote it. He retweets it, posts it on his Instagram story, tells his teammates until they all know your name.

He’s never subtle.

You start hanging out with Trevor and Cole more, and they all end up tagging along to your club meet-ups. Somewhere along the way, your friend groups merge into one loud, chaotic mess that does everything together—movie nights, lake trips, late-night food runs, parties that end with everyone crashing on someone’s basement floor.

It’s good.

For a while, it’s really good.

But senior year has a way of rearranging things.

There are deadlines and decisions, commitments that pull people in different directions.

Everyone’s thinking about the future—what comes next, where they’ll end up, who they’ll still talk to.

Jack, Cole, and Trevor are all eligible for the next draft, so they throw themselves into it completely—grueling workouts, endless hours on the ice, polishing every answer for team interviews, all to catch the eye of the right scout, the right GM. Every part of them wound tight with the urgency of ambition.

Meanwhile, you and your friends dive headfirst into your own chaos. SAT prep, AP classes, college apps, portfolios, interviews—you’re chasing deadlines the way they chase goals. Your calendar is a war zone, your desk a battlefield of highlighters and coffee cups and practice tests.

And somehow, without either of you really noticing, three months pass.

No texts. No calls. No random memes at 2 a.m. No sneaking around at dawn. No Jack.

The realization hits late one night, right as you’re brushing your hair and moving to close the window. That’s when you hear it: the soft, familiar rustling of sneakers on the trellis outside.

You freeze. And then you smile.

Jack slips into your room like he’s done it a thousand times—which, of course, he has. He’s careful on the dresser, dodging the clutter like it’s muscle memory. He barely makes a sound.

“Hey, stranger,” he grins, voice low and teasing. His hair’s longer, you notice, falling just slightly into his eyes. “You’ve been gone a while, y’know?”

You raise a brow. “I could say the same about you, Mr. Projected Number One Overall Draft Pick.”

You pause. Then quietly, honestly: “I missed you too.”

He pulls you into a hug—easy, like no time has passed—and you let yourself fall into it. His arms are warm and strong, and they wrap around you like a place you’ve been homesick for.

You exhale into his shoulder.

It feels like breathing again.

He runs his fingers through your hair, carefully feeling out the tangles. “Let me help you out here.”

You don’t protest. He sits you down in front of your mirror like it’s something he’s always done, and you laugh as he methodically works the brush through your hair, each stroke deliberate and gentle, like he’s afraid to hurt you. Like he’s making up for lost time.

“Stop laughing,” he pouts, narrowing his eyes in the mirror. “You’re gonna make more.”

You chuckle out an apology, still smiling, and try to sit still, your shoulders relaxing under his touch.

It’s familiar. Comforting. The kind of closeness you didn’t realize you missed until it came back.

“There ya go.” He sets the brush down with a small flourish. “All pretty again.”

You scoff. “I’m always pretty.”

He laughs, a real one this time, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah, you are.” His voice is quieter now—gentler, raw in a way that makes your chest tighten. Like he means every word but doesn’t quite know if he’s allowed to say it.

There’s a beat of silence, weighty and unspoken.

“Well,” you say, carefully shifting the moment, “What brings you here tonight?”

You slide under the covers, trying to ignore the pull in your chest—the ache of distance, the tension of things left unsaid.

“I missed you, obviously.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it clearly is. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

You smile softly and make space for him beside you like it’s second nature. He slips under the blanket and into your orbit.

“We’ve been so busy.”

“I knowwww,” he whines dramatically, drawing out the word as he nestles in closer. “But I swear it’ll be worth it. When I make it, I’m gonna be calling you first.”

He shifts and lays his head on your chest, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist. You can feel him exhale against your side, like your heartbeat is something he needs to hear to feel grounded.

“And then I’m calling you every day after that.”

You laugh quietly, your fingers moving through his hair without thinking. “Well, I’ll have class, so every day might be a little…”

“Every. Fucking. Day.” His voice is stubborn, but his eyes are closed now, and he says it like a promise.

You hum. “You could text me too, you know.”

“I don’t wanna forget what your voice sounds like,” he murmurs.

It’s soft—so soft you almost miss it. Like it wasn’t meant for you to hear.

But you do.

Because when it comes to him, you always do.

“You won’t,” you say sincerely, voice low but certain. “Because I’ll pick up. Every time.”

“No you won’t,” he says, eyes still closed, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh quietly. “Okay, maybe not every time. But I’ll always call you back.”

“And if I’m too busy to answer?”

“Then I’ll send you voice messages,” you reply, gently threading your fingers through his hair again. “So you’ll never forget.”

You feel him smile against your side, the quiet rumble of his shoulders as he chuckles sending a warm, familiar flutter through your chest.

“I won’t forget you,” he says softly, a little more serious this time. “I literally can’t.”

You take a deep breath. “Me too.”

He shifts, sitting up beside you so you’re face-to-face in the soft glow of your bedside lamp. His expression is open—unguarded in a way that makes your heart ache.

“You’re always going to be my best friend,” he says, eyes locked with yours. “No matter where we are or what we’re doing, that spot always belongs to you.”

You nod, your throat tight, and lift your pinky toward him.

“Forever, right?”

He chuckles, the sound fond and filled with memory, and without hesitation, links his pinky with yours—just like the first time.

“Forever.”

[DIVIDER]

Jack is the only one in your room when you open your acceptance letters, opening each one with you and holding your hand as you read them aloud. He beams even wider than you do at every “Congratulations,” like it’s his future too.

He’s there when you shop for your dorm—armed with a list he got from Quinn and, in his words, his “strong arms to do all the heavy lifting.”

“It’s like bonus weight training,” he grins, flexing dramatically in the shampoo aisle. 

You laugh the entire trip.

At graduation, you take all the pictures together—even the cheesy ones by the little photo booth setup your school arranged with the big numbers and school logo. Caps crooked, gowns wrinkled, grins too big.

When the draft happens, you watch from your living room as he gets selected first overall. You cheer so loudly, your neighbor actually checks in to see if you’re okay.

He calls you first, like he promised—breathless, thrilled, still in his suit.

“Oh my god,” he says, excitement seeping through his voice. “This is really happening.”

He helps you move into your dorm. Carries your mini-fridge like it’s nothing, then arranges your books in rainbow order just to make you laugh.

“You’re gonna crush it here,” he tells you, sitting on your twin bed with his hands in his lap, not quite ready to leave.

You spend the summer before that by the lake—just the two of you, dangling your legs off the dock, skipping stones until the sky fades pink. He brings you your favorite ice cream from the next town over. You bring him sandwiches from your dad’s deli. It’s quiet, peaceful. One of those places that feels like it’s holding something sacred.

You go hiking, play old video games, get slushies at midnight, crash small-town parties, and lie on the roof of your garage naming stars you’ll forget the names of by morning.

It feels endless. But of course it’s not.

When move-in day finally comes, you hug him goodbye on the curb, your bag half-zipped and your eyes a little misty.

“Don’t forget to call me,” you say.

“Every day,” he reminds you.

And he does.

Until the first time he doesn’t.

A week passes. Then two. You get busy, he gets busier. The silence stretches between you.

Then, one night, your phone rings.

“Hey,” he says. You can hear the crowd behind him, the echo of an arena.

“It’s my first game tomorrow.”

Your heart skips and you hum in response.

He laughs, nervous and excited and a little breathless.

“I just wanted to hear your voice before I went out there.”

Because no matter what, you’re still the voice he wants to hear in moments like this.

And that was the last time you heard from him.

Not because anything bad happened. But because life got loud.

The season kicked off. Interviews, flights, training, games.

You started university. Exams, deadlines, projects, clubs.

You kept meaning to text. He probably did too.

But days slipped into weeks, and weeks into months.

His name still popped up sometimes—on sports channels, in highlight reels, in conversations with friends and family who asked, "Didn’t you used to be close?"

You’d smile. Nod. Say, “Yeah. We were.”

But you never unfollowed him. Never deleted the voicemails.

Never stopped watching his games when you could.

Never stopped hearing him in your head when things got hard, cheering you on like always.

It’s strange how people can feel so near and so far all at once.

Like ghosts that live in your favorite memories.

Because how do you forget a stranger you know everything about?

PRESENT DAY

You graduated from university with a double degree in journalism and communications, with a lead spot on the campus news and radio station and a stellar internship at the local news station on your resume.

You stayed out of Michigan after college and landed a gig as a radio host for one of the local stations.

Then a promotion to TV came soon after—lifestyle pieces, soft features, the occasional on-location report with your signature charm.

Life was good. Simple.

You had a cozy little apartment a walk away from the city’s heart. You had friends to drink wine with on Friday nights and brunch with on Sundays. You went on dates—some decent, most forgettable.

You built a rhythm. A routine.

And slowly…you forgot what it felt like to miss Jack Hughes.

No more catching up on Devils games. No more refreshing his stats after every win. No more looking him up on Instagram—not that he ever posted. No more wondering if he’d come home for the summer, or if you'd run into each other somehow.

You let it all go, piece by piece.

Until the ache dulled and the silence settled in like an old friend.

And then—New Jersey.

A bigger network. A better gig. A massive step forward.

How do you refuse that?

How do you say no when your boss says “We think you’re ready for the next market” with that glimmer of pride in her eyes?

You don’t.

So you pack up your life and your books and your favorite mugs, say goodbye to the safe little world you built, and move to the city where your ghost lives.

Your heels are a little wet from the rain outside the bar your new coworkers have dragged you into.

“We’re gonna show you around the fun parts of Jersey tonight,” they said, leaving little room for you to say no. 

So you say yes.

They take you to this little bar downtown—not too packed, just the right kind of busy. The lights are low, the drinks are cheap, and the music is loud enough to make you shout a little when you talk.

You dance.

You sing along to throwbacks and remixes, drinks sloshing slightly in your hand as your other arm waves up in the air.

You laugh over office gossip, swap stories about your hometowns, and dissect relationships past, present, and the nearly-but-not-quite.

You’re mid-sip of your cocktail, halfway through a ridiculous story about an intern mistaking a client for someone’s dad, when your eyes drift toward the bar.

And then you see him.

Him.

Jack.

In the flesh.

He’s perched on a high stool, flanked by a few other guys—his teammates, probably—beer in hand, head tilted back in a laugh that sends a jolt down your spine.

Same grin.

Same face you used to see more often than your own reflection.

For a second, you can’t move.

Because suddenly you’re eighteen again, staring at your phone wondering why he stopped calling.

Because you’re thirteen again, waiting by your window for his knock.

Because you’re ten and waiting for him to send any sign that you two were still friends.

Because maybe, just maybe, you never really stopped waiting.

Someone next to him leans in and says something. Jack turns his head—

And spots you.

He freezes.

Beer paused halfway to his mouth.

His eyes widen, blinking once, twice—like he’s trying to make sure it’s real.

Then the disbelief softens.

His face settles into a soft smile.

That same smile he always gave you—the one meant only for you.

Your breath catches.

He stands. Excuses himself from the table. Starts weaving through the crowd like it’s instinct. Like his body still remembers how to get to you.

Panic surges.

You turn back to your coworkers, mumble something about feeling tired, about an early shoot tomorrow.

They don’t question it.

You gather your things and slip out as quickly as you can, heart pounding.

You hear your name—faint, familiar—floating behind you, barely cutting through the thrum of bass.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because you don’t know if you’ll cry.

Or run to him.

And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

Outside, the rain keeps pouring, and all you can do is hope your ride’s close enough that you won’t have to see him again—won’t have to talk to him, or hear his voice, or feel everything you’ve worked so hard to bury come rushing back.

But of course, with your luck, that doesn’t happen.

Because he catches up with you.

“Why were you running away?” he asks, a little out of breath, hair damp and shirt sticking slightly to his back from the heat of the bar.

“Maybe I was avoiding someone,” you snap, arms crossed tightly across your chest, voice clipped.

If there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, he hides it well. Too well.

“C’mon, don’t be like this.” He gives you a soft, coaxing smile. The kind he used to use on you when you were ten and mad at him for cheating at Monopoly. “We haven’t seen each other in so long.”

“And whose fault is that?” The words come out sharper than you meant—but not untrue. Not undeserved.

Your voice cracks, your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

“You said you’d call. Every day. Remember that?” Your voice shakes despite your best efforts. “So I waited. I waited every fucking day.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep the storm at bay. “And nothing.”

“I can explain—”

“No,” you cut him off, louder than intended. The music inside masks it, but out here, the words still echo. “I get it. We were both busy. You had your dream to chase and I had mine. But I called. I texted. I tried. And you gave me nothing. Not even a goodbye.”

You shake your head, lips trembling.

“Do you know how stupid I felt? Leaving voicemails to a number that didn’t exist anymore?”

There’s a pause.

His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but you beat him to it.

“Do you know how I found out? That your number changed?” You laugh, bitter. “Cole told me. Trevor confirmed it. Said you had to switch because fans kept blowing it up.”

You let the silence sit there for a second. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

“At least they still checked in,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “And they were busy too.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

You look him in the eye—for the first time in years.

And you see the same boy who used to braid your hair and sneak into your room and promise you forever.

But you don’t feel like that girl anymore. Not with everything he left behind.

“You can’t talk yourself out of this, Jack.”

You breathe in, steadying yourself.

“I’m done.”

A beat passes. And under the dim lighting of the bar’s entrance, with the low thrum of bass and laughter bleeding through the door, you finally feel grown up. Like you’d just said something you should have admitted years ago.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, “I was stupid. And I hurt you.”

He reaches out, tentative, his hand brushing your shoulder. It’s hesitant and cautious—like he’s expecting you to pull away—but not totally unwelcome.

“Nothing I say can undo what I did,” he continues, eyes locked on yours. “But please…please let me back in.”

His voice cracks just a little. And his eyes—soft, wide, real—are sincere in a way that makes your chest ache.

Because it’s real. 

And it’s too late.

“Let me make this right,” he says again. “Please.”

You glance away, staring at the wet pavement, at the puddles scattering reflections of headlights and passing cars.

“How are you possibly gonna fix this?” You ask it quietly, like you already know the answer. You swallow, blinking fast. “How am I supposed to trust you again?”

“I don’t know.” He says it without hesitation. “But let me try.”

You shake your head, not out of anger—just…worn down. You gently move his hand off your shoulder and lean against the cool wall behind you, arms crossed.

The night feels still for a moment. Like the world’s waiting on your answer.

“I don’t know if we’re ever going to be okay again, Jacky.” 

It’s the nickname that makes him flinch this time. Like it hits somewhere deeper.

You let a tear fall and wipe it away before he can notice. But he notices. He always did.

“Maybe we won’t,” he says softly, leaning beside you against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes still on you like you’re a map he’s trying to memorize. “But I want to make it happen.”

And for the first time in years, you don’t feel like strangers.

Just two people with a lot of history and even more unspoken words.

Lightning strikes and thunder claps overhead, and you reach for him instinctively—fingers closing around his wrist before you even realize it.

Because even after all these years, even after the silence, your body still remembers how to reach for him.

You look at him again. Really look at him.

He’s grown up now. His blonde hair has deepened to brown, longer and messier than before. His frame is broader, his shoulders wider—he’s stronger, sharper, somehow steadier. But his eyes… they’re still the same.

Still the color of the lake in summer when the sun hits it just right.

Still the color of the sky on a clear, happy day.

You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about you—that you’ve changed too. That you’ve grown up too.

Because you have.

You’re not the same people you were all those years ago.

A moment passes, thick with rain and memory.

“We aren’t best friends anymore,” you say quietly, loosening your grip.

You let go.

“No. We’re not.” His voice is steady. Eyes never leave yours. “But we could start again.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. Dry. Tired.

“Another start?”

“Brand new.”

He reaches out his hand, palm open to you.

“Hi, I’m Jack,” he says with a small smile. One that’s warm and familiar and dangerous in the way it makes you want to forgive him. “I play hockey.”

You pause. Then, gently, you place your hand in his.

“I’m Y/N,” you reply, matching his tone. “I’m on the news.”

You shake his hand like strangers meeting for the first time.

Because that’s what you are now.

Not best friends.

Not yet anything else.

Just two people—maybe at the start of something

He texts you first. It’s the next night, right after you get off the air.

Unknown NumberI still have ur number btw I was just a self absorbed asshole

​​You laugh out loud in the dressing room, still half in your blazer, makeup barely wiped off.

Y/NLoving the self awareness :) 

Jack Least i could do :p soooo…

You see the typing bubble. Then it disappears.

Then it comes back again. Then disappears. He’s nervous. Good.

JackWanna grab dinner?

Y/N It’s 11 p.m. ://

JackAnd I know ur on the late news and just finished I know this place I’ll pick u up if u want

You hesitate. A beat. But your grumbling stomach and unspoken curiosity answer for you.

Y/N It better be good

You send him the address.

He replies with a 👍.

You wait.

Thirty minutes later, headlights flash at the station gates. A G-Wagon rolls up to the curb, window lowering smoothly.

Jack leans over from the driver’s seat, flashing you a grin.

“Jump in!”

You eye the car, then him.

“You drive a G-Wagon now?” you tease, tugging your coat tighter around you as you step closer.

He shrugs. “Perks of getting beat up for a living.”

You shake your head, chuckling softly despite yourself, and climb in.

The seat’s warm. The car smells like cologne and something citrusy. Familiar.

You glance at him. He’s already pulling away from the curb, music playing low.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways, “You still into 2 a.m. escapades with questionable choices?”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “How could I not be?”

“Good,” he grins, eyes on the road. “That’s kinda my bread and butter in these parts.”

Your laugh—sharp, familiar, a little disbelieving—fills the car, and he can’t help the proud smile that spreads across his face. Like he’s been waiting to hear that sound again for years.

You roll your eyes at the look on his face, choosing to ignore the stupidly satisfied grin he’s trying to hide. Instead, you lean your head back against the seat and glance out at the quiet streets of New Jersey lit up by streetlights and neon signs.

Maybe it’s a bad idea. Maybe it’s dangerous to start this again.

But you don’t say anything.

You just settle into the seat and let the night take you wherever it’s going.

“This is amazing,” you say around a mouthful of pancakes, barely managing to swallow before diving in for another bite.

He grins across the booth, his own plate half-touched, more focused on watching your reaction than finishing his food. “Told you. They have the best pancakes in Jersey.”

The place is tiny—just a handful of booths, a buzzing neon sign in the window, and a jukebox playing low oldies in the corner. The kind of spot you’d only find if someone brought you there.

Which he did.

And of course he knows the waitress by name.

“You’ve clearly been here a few too many times,” you tease.

He shrugs, unconcerned. “It’s tradition now. Win or lose, I end up here. Sometimes with the guys, sometimes alone.”

He pauses, watching you eat.

“Been weird doing it alone lately.”

You glance up at that, chewing slower. There’s weight in his voice—soft, unsure, almost careful.

But he doesn’t press the moment. Just keeps sipping his coffee like he didn’t just say something that made your heart twist a little.

You look around the diner, then back at him.

“Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

His brows furrow, eyes softening into something you don’t quite recognize—something heavy and unspoken—as a quiet stretches between you, thick enough to sit in.

“I’m out for the season,” he finally says, voice low. “Shoulder’s fucked.”

He tries to chuckle, but it comes out hollow—more of a deflection than amusement. Like saying it out loud makes it real, and he still isn’t used to that.

Your fork pauses mid-air.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, unsure what else to offer. You know what hockey means to him—how it's always been the dream. How it’s the thing he’s worked for his entire life. And now it’s just...paused. Maybe broken.

“I just finished the surgery,” he says, staring down into his coffee like it holds answers. “In recovery now though. PT and all that. So...all good, I guess.”

You frown, setting your fork down. “It’s not all good and you know it.”

He looks up.

“Don’t pretend it’s fine when I can see it’s not. You’re allowed to be upset,” you say, voice firmer now, emotion bleeding through. “You love that game. Let yourself feel shitty about it.”

His lips twitch into a small, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “It’s part of the job,” he shrugs, “Shit happens.”

“And you’re still allowed to be mad about the shit happening,” you counter, eyebrows raised as you point at him with a piece of syrup-soaked pancake like a weapon. “You don’t always have to wear the ‘cool guy’ mask. It’s exhausting.”

He smiles again—softer this time—and leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Maybe. But hey…more time to win you over. Be friends again.”

You don’t miss the way he glances at you when he says it. The unspoken hope laced beneath it.

You could press the issue—pry at the way he changes the subject—but you let it slide, just this once.

“Well,” you say, lifting your fork again, “Keep taking me to all the good spots and I might consider letting you back into my inner circle.”

His grin returns, that familiar spark lighting in his eyes. “Good. I’ll even pay.”

“You better,” you reply, around a mouthful of pancake. “You make, like, ten times more than I do.”

He laughs—real and boyish, shoulders finally loosening a bit as the sound rings out into the quiet diner. And something between you settles into comfort.

Maybe not the past.

But maybe something new.

The next night, he takes you to this food truck that sells, in his words, the best salads in the area. You side-eye him the entire time, but one bite in and you’re reluctantly impressed.

After that, it’s a sports bar tucked in the corner of a strip mall—grungy, loud, and somehow always showing the perfect game. They serve nachos stacked so high you need strategy to eat them.

Then comes the tiny pizza joint. A hole-in-the-wall tucked in an alleyway where the pepperoni slice is greasy perfection and the vending machine hasn’t worked since the ‘90s. You both agree that’s part of the charm.

As the weeks pass, you build a routine. A rhythm. A quiet pattern of almosts and maybes. Every place becomes “yours”—an unspoken rotation you both fall into.

But Monday nights are for the diner. Always.

It’s late, the windows fogged from the warmth inside and the chill outside, rain tapping gently against the glass like a lullaby.

“I think I’m gonna take you somewhere after this tonight,” you say casually, fork in hand, a syrup-soaked pancake disappearing into your mouth.

Jack raises an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Oh? We’re at special place level now?”

You smirk, swallowing your bite. “Consider it a childhood friend fastpass.”

He chuckles, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you across the table. “I’d let you drive my car, but...can you even drive still?”

You glare. “God, you fail your driver’s test one time and he never lets you forget it.”

“Just once?” he laughs. “Y/N, you cried at the DMV all three times and made me swear to never bring it up again.”

“Yes and you’re breaking the oath.” You point at him with your fork. “Dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow.”

He’s still laughing as you toss some bills on the table and shrug into your coat.

You leave the diner full, warm, and just the right amount of nostalgic. The rain’s cleared up, and the air is crisp as you both walk side by side through the quiet streets. You take him to the park, the one tucked away and almost forgotten, hidden behind old trees and winding paths.

“I come here before work sometimes,” you say, settling onto the bench with a soft sigh. “I found it on my first day here. Just… wandering around, trying to get my bearings.”

Your eyes drift toward the small pond, where the moonlight stretches across the water like spilled silver. “I come here when I need to cool down before going on air. Clear my head. The pond reminded me of the lake.”

You don’t have to say which lake. You know he knows.

Jack stands beside you for a beat longer, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Then, quietly, he sinks down next to you on the bench, mirroring your stillness.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, letting the wind rustle through the trees, letting the quiet fill in the gaps that words never quite could.

He breaks it first, voice low. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

You don’t answer with words. Just glance over and nudge his shoulder with your own, a small smile pulling at your lips.

Some moments don’t need more than that.

You and Jack fall into place as naturally as fall turns into winter.

It’s seamless, really—the way you slip back into each other’s lives, but older now. Softer. Wiser. You still argue, still tease, but there’s something gentler beneath it now. Something unspoken that neither of you is quite ready to say out loud.

One snowy evening, you’re curled up on the couch of his and Luke’s apartment, wrapped in a blanket you suspect he bought just because it looked “your vibe.” He walks in from the kitchen, two mismatched mugs in hand, steam curling upward from the cocoa like warm breath on a cold day.

“Extra marshmallows,” he says, offering you the pink mug. “Because I know you judge me if I forget.”

You take it, fingers brushing his as you do. “Finally learning. Proud of you.”

He settles beside you, leg pressing gently against yours as he sips from his own cup. “It only took a decade and a second chance.”

You hum, blowing on your cocoa before taking a sip. “You’re lucky I’m generous with second chances.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, turning to face you more fully. “I’m walking on thin ice every time I forget your snack preferences.”

“You forgot my chips last week,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

“I was testing you. Making sure you still loved me.”

You shoot him a look, though your cheeks flush warmer than your cocoa. “Loved?”

He grins, shameless. “Past tense, obviously. You’ve moved on. Found better cocoa elsewhere.”

“Mm. Maybe. But their marshmallow game? Weak.”

“Tragic,” he deadpans, then softens. “Guess I’ll have to keep making it for you.”

A beat passes, heavy with something neither of you wants to break.

“You’re different now,” you say quietly.

“So are you.” His voice drops, gaze lingering on your face. “But I like this version. She’s confident. Louder. Funny. Still gives me hell, though.”

“You say that like you didn’t deserve it.”

“I did,” he admits, eyes never leaving yours. “But I’d take all of it again if it meant I got to sit here with you now.”

You hold his gaze, heart fluttering against your ribs like it’s trying to tell you something.

“I don’t remember you being this smooth,” you murmur.

“I don’t remember you being this beautiful,” he replies, no smirk this time—just quiet, unfiltered honesty.

The silence that stretches between you is no longer awkward, but charged. Fragile. Like if either of you moves too fast, the moment might shatter.

“Flatterer,” you say softly, after a beat.

“I mean it,” he replies, steady and sincere. “All of it.”

“Jack—”

“My first season was hell,” he cuts in, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink. “It was a shitty season and people were calling me a bust.”

You remember. Too well. You’d defended him on Twitter using a burner account more times than you’d like to admit—starting arguments in the replies, downvoting hateful threads. You didn’t even care if he knew. You just needed him to know someone still believed in him.

“I don’t know why I stopped calling,” he says, leaning his head back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “Why I stopped trying. Maybe it was pride. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe I just didn’t wanna let you down.”

“You have never let me down,” you say immediately, your voice firmer than you expect.

He lifts a brow, giving you a look.

“You only let me down when you stopped being my friend.” You place your own mug down beside his. “But everything else? You could never. I will always be proud of you.” You pause, smiling gently. “You made it, Jack. You’re living your dream.”

“The game is a dream,” he says, smiling faintly, though his eyes drift to something far away—somewhere you can’t quite follow. “Everything else is…”

You reach for his hand, slowly, letting your fingers brush against his before lacing them together. His hand is warm, solid, familiar. Like home.

He doesn’t hesitate. He tightens his hold on yours like he’s been waiting for permission.

“The pressure’s horrible,” he admits. “Still is.”

You draw slow, soothing circles on the back of his hand with your thumb. “I can imagine.”

“I’m supposed to be a leader on the team—”

“And you are,” you interrupt gently. “You were named alternate for a reason.”

“But what good is a leader who can’t even be there?” he says, barely above a whisper. His eyes flick to yours, and you see it then—the fear behind the frustration. The weight he’s been carrying on his own.

You squeeze his hand. “Still a good one,” you whisper. “Because leadership isn’t just about games played, Jack. It’s about how you carry yourself. How you show up. And you always show up.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing something he forgot existed. Something he thought he’d lost.

“Even now?” He asks. “When I’m like this?”

You lean in just a little, forehead nearly touching his. “Especially now. When you show everyone exactly how to handle a setback: By rising above it and making things right.”

And for a moment, everything else fades—the team, the pressure, the years lost between you. All that’s left is this: two people who once meant the world to each other, quietly finding their way back.

When summer comes, you take a short leave from work to go back home.

Jack picks you up from the airport, sunglasses perched on his nose and a stupid grin on his face as he loads your suitcase into the trunk.

He drives you to your childhood home, casually chatting about how weird it feels to be back—and then casually follows you inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Jacky-boy!” your dad booms, slapping him on the back like no time has passed.

Your mom pulls him into a hug, her voice soft with fondness. “We’ve missed seeing you around, sweetheart.”

Your brother offers him a nod—cool, collected—but from the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping your dad a folded fifty. You don’t want to know what that was for.

Jack helps carry your luggage up the stairs like it’s still 2014, settling into your room with you while you unpack. The conversation flows like it always does, light teasing and small confessions tucked into the in-between moments.

Later, you head over to his place to say hi to his family.

Ellen wraps you in a hug the second she opens the door. “You need to come around more often. You know you’re always welcome, even when Jack’s not here!”

Jim gives you a firm squeeze on the shoulder. “We’ve missed this, Y/N.”

Quinn pulls you into a side hug. “You know, Vancouver’s beautiful. You should come out sometime. See how we do things up there.”

You don’t see the warning glare Jack shoots him.

Luke hugs you like he’s thirteen again and says, “Jack and I decided our apartment is yours now too. So you can’t leave.”

You laugh—but your chest tugs a little at how sincere he sounds.

Meanwhile, behind you, Ellen casually accepts a folded fifty from Jim and Luke like it’s part of some silent, ongoing bet.

You pretend not to notice.

“So, they all totally have some sort of weird bet going on, right?”

You swing gently back and forth, your sneakers dragging lines in the dirt beneath you.

“Totally,” Jack says, rocking slightly beside you. “I think it’s our moms versus everyone else.”

You laugh, the sound echoing into the quiet summer night.

“Definitely.”

The playground’s old metal chains creak as the wind brushes past, and for a while, neither of you says anything. The kind of silence that’s easy, familiar. Comfortable.

“I used to think I was gonna have to live the rest of my life just watching you on a screen.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the quiet like a thread pulled gently loose. Low. Careful. Like he’s afraid saying it out loud might ruin everything.

Your swing slows. You glance over at him.

“Weird, right?” he continues, eyes on the horizon. “I was the one who didn’t call. But even then, I kept hoping.”

You press your lips together, fighting the ache rising in your chest.

“I kept thinking maybe—if I wished hard enough—the universe would take pity on me. That you’d just show up. And we’d be okay again.”

The silence between you shifts—heavier now, but not unbearable. Charged. Fragile in a way that makes you afraid to move too fast or speak too loud.

You turn toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

In his eyes—steady, soft, and unguarded—you see everything he can’t quite say. And he doesn’t have to.

“Well… I did,” you murmur.

“You did.”

A drizzle begins, thin and cold, but neither of you moves. Like leaving would shatter whatever spell the moment has cast over you.

“I don’t know how I lived the past few years without you,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t alone or even lonely, but it always felt like something was missing.”

He smiles—gentle, a little sad. “It was you.”

You rise from the swing and step closer, slowly, like gravity is pulling you toward him.

“Say it,” you whisper. “Whatever it is you’re holding back. Just say it.”

He stands, facing you now, his eyes searching yours.

“You already know,” he says, voice low and strained. “I just—It feels too early. And too late. All at the same time.”

“So what?” you counter, your voice steadier than you feel. “So what if timing’s never been on our side?”

You take another step. Your breath mingles with his.

“So what if we’re not meant to last forever?” you say, softer now. “We’re here. That’s enough for me.”

“Y/N—”

“At least we tried,” you finish. “And we can try again. Over and over. Until we get it right.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it for years. “If I hurt you again…I couldn’t forgive myself.”

“Then I’ll forgive you,” you say simply. Your eyes don’t leave his. “This is me letting you in, Jack. So let me in too.”

Lightning flashes somewhere behind you, and thunder rumbles across the sky.

And then—

He kisses you.

His lips are warm against yours, a little hesitant at first—like he’s checking to make sure this is real. That you’re real. That the version of you who kissed him back exists outside of the memory he’s replayed a hundred times in his head.

But then your hand slides to the side of his face, and he smiles against your mouth like something in him’s finally relaxing.

You deepen the kiss just slightly, slow and unhurried, like there’s no rush. Like this doesn’t have to mean everything all at once. It just has to be honest.

When you finally part, you’re both grinning, breaths still mingling in the soft hush of the rain.

You smile, lips brushing his. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckles, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “I didn’t know if I still had a place in your life,” he says softly.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look at him. His hair damp from the rain, his eyes clear and steady like he’s finally stopped running from something.

“You never had to earn that.”

His gaze softens again, and this time, he leans in just to press a kiss to your cheek. Like he wants to make up for every second he missed. Every word he didn’t say.

The rain picks up a little, and you finally laugh, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head.

“Okay…Okay…We’re getting soaked.”

“Wanna make a run for it?” he asks, glancing toward the car.

You nod, still beaming.

You both take off down the path, rain falling harder now, laughter echoing through the empty park. The same laughter you both heard as kids, as teenagers.

But this time, everything feels new.

And this time, neither of you is running away.

Because love isn’t about time. Or distance. Or the past.

It’s about choice. 

And you’ve chosen each other.

You’ve chosen the future.

EPILOGUE

You’re at the station, sitting in front of the well-lit mirror in the makeup room, blending concealer beneath your eyes with practiced fingers. The studio is buzzing around you—camera crews prepping, producers barking final rundowns, the low hum of monitors and countdown clocks ticking toward airtime.

Tonight’s your first week as prime time anchor. You still haven’t fully wrapped your head around it.

Your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

You don’t hesitate.

“This is my regularly scheduled pre-game call,” Jack says, his voice warm and teasing, like he’s smiling with every word. “How’s my girl?”

You smile instantly, the kind that tugs at your cheeks and softens your whole face. “Your girl is currently preparing to deliver devastating news about the state of the world,” you reply, sweeping highlighter across your cheekbones.

He chuckles—low and amused. “Ouch.”

“That’s what you’ll be saying later when you get slammed into the boards,” you tease, dabbing at your lips with your go-to shade of red.

You hear him exhale a laugh, and you can picture it perfectly: the tilt of his head, that small shake he does when you catch him off guard. “What can I say? They target good players.”

You pause, your smile growing softer. “Well, tell them not to overdo it—because the good player in question still has to help me plan a wedding.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs—a deep, joyful sound that fills your chest with something warm and bright and steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

You lean back in your chair, eyes meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look composed, professional, poised for the camera.

But inside, you feel lit up. Peaceful. Sure.

Because here you are—doing what you love, building a life that feels more like home than anything ever has. And he’s right there beside you. Exactly where he’s meant to be. 

Not as someone you used to know, but as someone who showed up. Who stayed.

Because, in the end, you chose each other.

And this time?

You’re not just holding on.

You’re holding each other steady—for all the days to come.

[bistrocatxx]

toji loves making his girl cry ✮⋆˙ 18+ mdni

you're not sure how you got here. fingernails digging into the counter top, holding on like your life depends on it, because truly, you think it might. toji has a hand wrapped snug around your throat, pulling back, forcing you into an almost painful arch as he pounds into your poor pussy from behind. his other hand has a bruising grip on your waist and each snap of his hips is fucking brutal, like he's trying to permanently mold the shape of himself into your walls so he can ruin you for anyone else. they'd never be able to fill the space left behind if he did.

stars cloud your vision and you're sputtering pathetically when he tightens the grip on your neck. a strangled cry escapes you, something between a broken sob and the first half of his name.

"what's that?" he mocks, flexing his fingers against you, forcing another gag, another haggard gasp for air as saliva begins to pool in your mouth before trickling out the sides.

the sounds that fill the kitchen and echo off the tiles are completely and utterly obscene. you're sloshing around toji's cock as he splits you open, your arousal coating the insides of your thighs, and more slick just gets pushed out of you each time he shoves his length back into your tight cunt. the way you squeeze him, god, it’s addictive. it always feels like your walls are practically strangling him, unable to let go, and it never matters how much he preps you. your broken moans and his rugged grunts blend together, but above all, there's the lewd sound of skin on skin. each time his hips slam back into you it makes the fat of your ass jiggle, your skin rippling in the way that drives him absolutely insane. fucking you from behind has always been his favorite.

you try and fail again to get a word out, his hold on you unrelenting like his thrusts. you don't even know what you're trying to say — if you're trying to beg him to slow down, beg for more, beg to cum.

"speak up, doll, can’t hear ya."

you're going to kill him, is what you would have thought if you could form a coherent one. instead, your mind is a jumbled mess, an inward reflection of the fucking state you're in. shorts around your ankles, shirt pulled up just enough for your breasts to spill out, making them bounce whenever toji sheathes himself inside you. the tears that were sitting pretty in your waterline start to fall, forming delicate rivers along your cheeks. everything was just so wet. your sweat-slicked skin, your drooling mouth, your crying eyes, your crying cunt.

and when black begins to creep into your periphery, he loosens his grip, finally allowing a sweet, sweet, rush of air to flood your lungs, bringing a wave of ecstasy with it that's unlike anything else. it makes your legs shake, a pornographic moan ripped from your now open throat. toji knows your body, your limits, better than you do at this point, and it’s almost unfair.

"a-ah, toji! p-please, more— i can't-hah-" the words that tumble from your lips are strung together haphazardly but you're too much of a mess to care or even notice.

"so pretty when you're dumb on my cock.” he’s leaning over you, chest pressed into your back, voice low and husky as he talks in your ear, “you gonna cum?"

toji gives your throat one last squeeze, cutting off the ‘yes’ you were rasping out. his hand moves to grip your jaw, forcing your head to the side so he can get a good look at you, and fuck, if he could get any harder… you look just pitiful. red rimmed eyes, mascara running as you sob out his name, over and over, because it's the only thing left that you know how to say as he keeps abusing your overstimulated cunt.

"fuuuck, love it when you cry f'me, baby doll.”

likes, comments, reblogs always appreciated ! i have more works here ♡

a/n: stargirl interlude played while i wrote this ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ tags: @j3llyc4kes, @besidesjustmyamour, @satorupi, @ha1lstorm, @lisafrankgojo

[whirlwindsworld]

I cannot believe I have to explain that no, some material is actually not appropriate for young children. It really is quite that simple. My parents often didn’t understand what I was reading and left me to my own devices. (These examples all from before I turned 12) Sometimes that was a fine. One John Grishman novel about football? Totally chill. Flowers for Algernon? Starting to be less chill. A Boy Called It? I will never forget it and I think it still informs the way I seek similar stories in fanfiction, for better or for worse. The one book my parents didn’t let me read was Dustbin Baby.

I thought that because I could read it and understand most of it that meant I could handle it. But the truth is my parents should have been more involved in what I was reading and helping me comprehend more of it. That would have also given them the opportunity to talk to me about why some of these books could have waited till i was older.

There is nothing lost if a child simply waits to read a book. It’s not censorship, its responsibility and appropriate supervision. This includes looking at the book that might be currently inappropriate, seeing what its about, asking the kid what about it is interesting to them, and then looking for a more age appropriate version that tackles some of the same topic and appeals to the child.

There are tons of mature topics that can begin to be touched on young, through specific books meant to introduce gradually to children. You don’t have to have the child starting out with Night by Elie Wiesel. You can help them read Number the Stars.

I loved Jacqueline Wilson’s books because they touched on mature topics. I didn’t realize that Dustbin Baby was intended for an older audience than Lola Rose. But there were more books like Lola Rose I could be reading and I am still thankful to my mum for getting me to wait till I was older to read Dustbin Baby.

Addendum: libraries shouldn’t be snitching to anybody. I’m pro good parenting, but sometimes parents or other adults suck and reading whatever you can get is invaluable. I’m saying parents should be helping kids regulate and be safe to turn to about stuff they read. That’s not everyone’s reality unfortunately. So yeah, no snitching on kids.

one of my most firmly held beliefs is there's no such thing as an inappropriate book for a kid and people try to debate me saying like buhhhhhh I shouldnt have been reading the things I did when I was a kid and it's like cool but did you die??? did anything bad happen to you?? or were you allowed to think about what you did and didn't know and walk away when something got too intense or whatever.