ᴄʜʀɪꜱ ᴀʟᴏɴꜱᴏ X ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ : ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇꜱ -

don’t mind me just trying to fill the act 2 sized void in my heart

A lil comic about… BATHS

Full, uncensored version on my patreon 😊

I’m searching for comfort in cute caitvi comics after the heartbreak that was act 2

What do you think Caitlyn's message was...? Would you dare to leave her on read too? 👀

😩😩

This Isn’t About You // Van Palmer x Reader

summary: you give van head for the first time.

notes: established dynamic. butch4butch. no specified pronouns for reader. soft!dom van and switch reader. oral (van receiving). praise. light possessiveness. light scent kink (i think?). 18+

do let me know if i missed anything and feel free to let me know what you think!!!!!!

—

“No.”

“Is something wrong?”

Your hand squeezes hers instinctively, reassuringly, as you shake your head no, tongue wetting your bottom lip as you focus on not stumbling over your words. “I want to make you feel good.”

Van’s eyes flicker over your face, her thumb twitching against your stomach. Her hesitation subtle, though you sense it.

“I don’t have to, if you don’t—“

“— Shh,” her eyes close as she shakes her head,”I’m thinking.”

There’s a … feeling reminiscent of a hot air balloon expanding in preparation for flight, that happens in your chest at the sight, the hand not holding her wrist finding her cheek. The tip of your thumb brushes against the scarred flesh there as you stroke at her skin. You see as well as feel how a muscle twitches in her face at the touch. Her eyes open, such a heaviness mixed with her desire.

“You’ll do it exactly,” her thumb is stroking at your skin, breath ghosting over your jaw,”how I want you to. You understand?”

You nod, a flush falling over your face, Van’s smile is almost sharp when it brushes against your lips.

“Good,” she gives you a short kiss, swallowing the quiet whine that slips from you at the praise,”I’m still going to use your thigh. I’ll stop when I want you to make me cum. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you?” Her eyebrow twitches up as she straddles your thigh. You nod again, releasing a deep breath at the feeling of her weight on top of you, the delightful pressure of it. “That’s because you belong to…” Her head tilts as she trails off, eyes flickering down your body, getting stuck on where your shirt has ridden up, something that cause your breath to hitch. When her eyes find yours once more, you remember yourself. What’s expected from you.

“You.”

The right corner of her lip twitches up into a quick smirk, her palms pressing into either side of your waist as she slowly drags herself up your thigh,”That’s right, handsome. You belong to me.” Her eyes shut, she licks at her bottom lip, a shallow waver in her breathing making itself known as she rolls her hips once more,”Fuck,” she bites at her lip, shaking her head before she meets your gaze once more,”I want your mouth.”

You’d managed to stop yourself from letting out moans at the sight of her on top of you, all strong arms on display in her self-made cut off, the metal on the black leather belt looped through her dark denim jeans — you do not manage to stop the one that leaves you at the words. It’s quiet though no less embarrassing, your teeth finding the inside of your cheek as your eyes focus on the collar of her shirt.

“How do you feel about that, baby? Hm?” You whimper, she’s moving against you so fucking slowly but you can feel the heat of her, can see her knowing look behind your closed eyelids. “I think you’ve earned it, don’t you?”

You nod, so fucking eager, braving her face once more. She’s watching you in that way that sends a prickle up your spine, a chill across the back of your neck, one that makes you wonder if there’s any real merit to the rumors surrounding her past. Not in a way that frightens you, no, in a way that intrigues you. One that has you nearly … envious, if so, of any of the ones she had possibly hunted down, held a knife to, if this is how she had looked at them, just before —

You sit yourself up best as you can, something that has Van’s knee pressing against you through your boxers, the contact mixed with your train of thought causing you to cry out into her mouth as you kiss her something certainly fucked up, considering the cause of your sudden burst in such overwhelming desperation. Her teeth sink into your bottom lip in a delicious bite of pain, your thigh tensing up as her knee brushes against you yet again,”Van.”

That earns you a soft moan. She loves it, you moaning her name, whispering it out helplessly into her ear when she’s inside of you. Loves it when you use it to plead with her.

She presses a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Uh-uh, this isn’t about you, remember? You want to make me feel good. You said it yourself.”

“Please let me,” you tug at her hair, lip jutting out in a pout, the scent of sandalwood and pine flooding your nose, not helping with your desperation to pleasure her. To smell her cologne mixed with the scent of her sex, mixed with her sweat as you finally get to acquaint yourself with the taste of her arousal. Because you’ve earned it. “Please, Van.”

“‘Please, Van,’ what?” She pushes you back down against the bed, your head once more finding the pillows, leaving you to stare up at her with heavy breathing. The weight of her palm pressed against the center of your chest through your shirt has you wanting to squirm at how fucking good it feels. “Use your words.”

Your left hand finds her outer thigh, squeezing the muscle through her jeans, desperate to have your hands on any parts of her you can get.

“Please let me eat you out.”

Van stills on top of you, her hand slipping down your abdomen, settling just above the band of your underwear, her tongue wetting her lip.

“That’s my baby,” her voice is quiet, sends warmth coursing through you in more ways than one, as she applies more weight to your stomach, because she knows what it does to you,”good job.”

You blink up at her, your heartbeat catching your attention, a steady, fast paced, thump within the confines of your chest. You wonder if she can hear it. Van’s eyes sweep over your mostly-clothed (though no less desirable) frame, setting everything within you alight when she shifts off your thigh and starts working on the buckle of her belt while between your legs.

The gentle clinks of it seem to fill the quiet of your bedroom. Amplified by your desire. It takes all of your self control not to whimper at the way her fingers flex and curl as she pulls the leather free from her jeans. It hits the floor and Van moves, settles down beside your right side, button undone, zipper in the act of being pulled.

You shift onto your side, cheek propped up on your knuckles, eyes transfixed on the sight of Van getting her jeans off, turquoise boy shorts and pale thighs coming into view. Delicious, delicious thighs. God, you want to feel them around your face. Be enveloped in their warmth.

Van leans into you, not quite mirroring your position as her lips find yours for a slow, heated kiss. Her hand finding your waist has you shaking, such a simple action, yet it’s though you’ve never felt anything like it before. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to the feeling of Van’s hands. How certain they are. How she touches you without hesitation, confident that her contact with your body is a welcome one.

And it is.

She sucks on your bottom lip and grins against your chin at the whine you let out, before her tongue licks along the length of your jaw, breath puffing against the lobe of your ear,”Better get to it, handsome. I don’t have all day.”

You kiss her, desperately, sloppily, teeth knocking together in your eagerness but it doesn’t deter her. She lets you hover above her, lets you deny her full breaks for air, lets you kiss her until you well and truly have gone and made your head spin from a lack of proper oxygen. Her hands are everywhere, while she does so, while she returns your kisses with matching hunger. Groping your ass, slipping beneath your shirt to scratch her dull nails down your back, fisting the hair at the nape of your neck. It’s all so good that by the time you part from her, your head flops down to her collarbone as you try to ground yourself.

Her hands rub at your back with ease, thighs flexing as they press firmly against your own.

“You’re so lovely, Van,” you murmur as you start planting kisses down her body, the fabric of her shirt doing nothing to conceal the heat radiating from her skin. “I wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else.”

Your fingertips hook beneath the band of her boy shorts, mouth planting kisses to the revealed hair that follows, a hum of appreciation leaving you as her scent floods your nostrils, all heady and Van. You avoid making contact with her slick just yet, instead peppering kisses to her inner thighs as she kicks her boyshorts off the rest of the way.

“No wasting my time, sweetheart,” Van’s fingers stroke at your hair before she grips and firmly redirects you. “I told you I don’t have all day.”

You grip her thighs, something very close to glee shooting through you at the feeling of her knees falling over your shoulders, your tongue wasting no time in making contact with her cunt. Your fingertips dig into her skin, the soft whimper that leaves you muffled by your current position. Van grips your hair tightly enough to make you wince—

“Don’t do circles like that. Flatten your tongue and work it like a cock. That’s it,” the hand in your hair eases up, fingertips now petting at you,”fuck, you’re doing so good for me.”

She’s all low moans and sharp, shaky, inhales and exhales, thighs flexing and trembling around your head, her heels digging into your back. Her fingertips alternating between petting and pulling at your hair, other hand clutching at the blankets beneath her. Each swear and mumbled out mutter of praise, each moan of your name, it only encourages you, only spurs you on to work her up exactly how she’s told you to do it. Exactly how she wants it. Your jaw is only halfway to numb when she grips your hair, back arching, thighs trapping your head, and cums all over your chin.

It’s fucking glorious. You relish in it. One of your favorite places to be on the planet — between a woman’s legs, the fact that they are Van’s legs in particular is just … a sweetener to the act.

You plant kisses to her thighs once she’s calmed enough for you slip them off your shoulders, the smile she fixes you with beyond bright.

“Get up here,” she tugs at your hair, panting, all flushed and shiny with a light sheen of sweat,”I want you close.”

You bury your face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent in its purest form, tasting the salt of her skin on your lips. Her arms wraps around you all tight and strong, ensuring your pressed firmly up against her with nowhere to go.

As if you’d ever want to.

Ｍａｓｔｅｒｌｉｓｔ

Fandoms:

SWAT

Chris Alonso

- Late Night Cuddles

Dominic Luca

Legend of Korra + Avatar the last Airbender

Korra

Asami

Katara

Sue (Suyin)

Lin

Kya

Aang

Toph

Zuko

Outer Banks 

JJ Maybank 

Riverdale

Archie Andrews

Jughead Jones

Sweet Pea

Seven Deadly Sins

Meliodas

Ban

Diane

Zeldris

Elizabeth

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

Steve Rogers

Wanda Maximoff

Yelena Belova 

Steven Strange 

Sam Wilson

I can die happy now

Bumbleby week 2024

DAY 1-2: Bumblebaby - Jock&Nerd

DAY 3: Soulmate - Blake and Yang's reincarnate past that explain Yang's hair obsession in early volumes.

DAY 4: Nomad x Farmgirl (lesbian farmers sister)

DAY 5: Villain x Villain (Y4n#g x negBlake)

DAY 6: Comfort

DAY 7: AU day but I'll have another collection for it. so have some bonus bees instead:

nsfw arts are on twitter btw [ go find them ]

SAY IT LOUDER FOR THOSE IN THE BACK. 🙌 PREACH.

Once again back on my yearly bullshit to stress how important Bumbleby really is for sapphics in media

Bumbleby is a slow burn, opposites attract, golden retriever/black cat romance. Individually Blake and Yang are both well written female characters, and not to mention their two of the four titular characters.

It wasn’t rushed, they aren’t badly written and they’re not random side characters.

It’s to easy to forget that Lexa died in Clarke’s arms, that Korra and Asami had to walk into the light, and that so many other shows have been cancelled or one of them died.

Bumbleby is a win

This is making me feel things I DIDNT CONSENT TO.

The Prophecy | Part 2

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two (you're here)

Description: A weekend in Connecticut changes everything. On the court, you and Paige Bueckers are rivals, a clash of titans in a game where perfection is the only currency. Off the court, it’s different. Walls come down, secrets spill, and for a fleeting moment, hearts connect in ways you never thought possible.

But nothing perfect lasts.

WC: 7.9k

Authors Notes: heavy angst, heavy smut, heavy romance n fluff...... somehow all in one. i'm sorry have not proof read as usual

You wake up slowly, sunlight creeping through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, disorientation fogs your mind. Then it clicks: Paige's room. Paige's bed. Paige’s sweatshirt draped over your shoulders, soft and impossibly warm. It smells like her—clean and fresh, a little bit like lavender, a little bit like something uniquely Paige.

Your eyes drift to the floor, and there she is, stretched out on her makeshift bed. Her face is half-buried in her pillow, hair spilled in golden waves, catching the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. There’s something unguarded about her, something soft and peaceful that tugs at a place deep in your chest.

She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and for a moment, they’re hazy, unfocused. Then they land on you. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and suddenly it feels like the morning itself is holding its breath.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whisper back, your own voice quieter than you expect.

Her gaze flickers to the sweatshirt, oversized and worn, hanging loosely on you. “You’re wearing my sweatshirt.”

“You gave it to me,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm.

"Looks better on you."

Her smile grows a little, and it’s devastating—soft and genuine, with just the faintest edge of teasing. Your heart stumbles, unsure whether to run away or fall forward.

She pushes herself upright, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a crease from the pillow on her cheek, and yet she still manages to make the simple act of waking up feel like poetry.

“I should, um, ” You start to move, unsure of where to go, just knowing the air between you feels suddenly electric.

"Wait," she says softly. You freeze, half-sitting.

Paige hesitates, like she’s searching for the right words, then sits on the edge of the bed. Her knee brushes yours lightly, and it sends a ripple of awareness through you. She’s close—so close you can see the faint freckles across her nose, the tiny scar just above her eyebrow, the way her eyes hold flecks of amber that catch the light.

“I just, ” She starts, then falters, her gaze dropping for a moment. When she looks back up, it lingers on your lips, just briefly, just enough to make your breath catch.

"Paige?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Her eyes widen slightly, and her breath hitches. “I was thinking about it.”

You lean forward just a fraction, feeling your pulse quicken. “Just thinking?”

“Well,” her voice drops to a near whisper, “I’m also thinking about how complicated this could get.”

Your heart pounds. “What else?”

“I’m thinking,” she leans in the tiniest bit closer, her lips nearly brushing yours, “about how none of that feels as important as this does right now.”

The tension between you is thick enough to drown in, and the world outside fades until it’s just her—the warmth of her body so close to yours, the hitch in her breathing, the slight tremble of her hand as she lets it rest near yours.

“So?” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

“So,” she says, her lips curving faintly, “I’m thinking I really want to kiss you.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing her wrist, and feel the quick, fluttering rhythm of her pulse. “Then why haven’t you?”

Her smile turns soft, almost nervous. “Because once I do, everything changes.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, leaning just close enough to feel her breath, “it already has.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s both of you at once. But suddenly her lips are on yours, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The kiss is tentative at first, gentle and searching, like you’re both testing the waters of something impossibly fragile. Then her hand comes up to cup your face, her thumb brushing your cheek, and you melt into the touch, letting the moment deepen.

She sighs softly against your lips, a sound so intimate it makes your chest ache. Your hands slide into her hair, tangling in the soft strands, and she responds by kissing you harder, deeper.

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. She tastes like hope and possibility and a thousand stolen glances finally realized. Your heartbeat feels like it’s trying to escape your chest, your breath comes faster, and all you can think is more, more, more.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against yours, her eyes still closed, and you feel the faintest smile ghost across her lips.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.

"Yeah," you manage, equally breathless.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, and the way she looks at you—soft, hopeful, like you’re something worth believing in—makes your heart stumble all over again.

“You okay?” she asks, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You laugh quietly, still trying to catch your breath. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“Yeah?” Her smile widens, playful now. “How long is a while?”

You hesitate, then grin sheepishly. “Remember that coffee story you posted?”

She groans, burying her face against your shoulder. “That long?”

“Maybe longer.”

You feel her smile against your skin, and she lifts her head to look at you again, her eyes sparkling. “So what you’re saying is I affect your perfect shot percentage?”

“Shut up.”

She laughs, and it’s warm and familiar, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing her again.

When you finally pull back, she’s grinning, looking thoroughly disheveled in the best way.

“Still think you affect my game?” you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, her fingers trailing lightly against the collar of her sweatshirt you’re wearing. “Guess we’ll find out in March."

And there it is—the future neither of you wants to think about right now. But before you can spiral, she's kissing you again, soft and sure, like a promise.

"But that's not today," she whispers against your lips.

"No," you agree, pulling her closer. "It's not."

Outside, the campus is waking up. Soon you'll have to deal with reality—practice, teammates, the complicated dance of being rivals and whatever this is becoming. But right now, in the soft morning light of her room, with her lips on yours and her hands in your hair, there's only this:

The way she sighs your name.

The flutter of her pulse under your fingertips.

The feeling that maybe, just maybe, some things are worth the risk.

You kiss her again, and again, each one feeling like a new discovery. Like solving an equation you didn't know needed solving. Like hitting a shot you were always meant to make.

Perfect.

You meant to head back to your hotel after breakfast. Really. But then Paige asked if you wanted to see UConn's practice facility ("Just to check out the competition"), and suddenly you're walking into the most storied gym in women's basketball, her fingers brushing yours every few steps.

The team's already warming up when you enter. The balls stop bouncing one by one as players notice you. Even in practice gear—borrowed from Paige, which is definitely not making you feel things—you command attention.

"Well," a familiar voice echoes through the gym. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Geno Auriemma. The legend himself.

"Coach," you nod respectfully.

He looks you up and down, that famous half-smile playing at his lips. "You know, when we tried to recruit you, I told your parents you'd look good in UConn blue."

"Still trying to recruit me, Coach?"

"Can you blame me?" He gestures to the banners overhead. “Though, word is you're making quite a legacy at Harvard."

You catch Paige trying not to smile. "Just trying to keep up with your squad, sir."

"Show us," he says suddenly. "What all the fuss is about."

The gym goes silent. Even the assistants stop what they're doing.

"Coach," Paige starts, but you're already grabbing a ball.

"Any particular spot?" you ask innocently.

Geno's eyes glint. "Surprise me."

You bounce the ball once, twice. The rhythm settles into your bones like it always does. The physics of it all unfolds in your mind—force vectors, arc trajectories, air resistance.

Then you close your eyes.

The gasps echo through the gym before the ball even hits the net. Perfect swish from half-court.

"Again," Geno says quietly.

You hit from the corner. From the logo. Behind the backboard. Each shot more impossible than the last, each one pure silk. The team's not even pretending to practice anymore, just watching in awe.

"One more," Geno calls out. “Make it interesting.” He calls you by your last name.

You lock eyes with Paige, and something passes between you. A challenge. A promise.

"Anyone want to play defense?" you ask.

The gym erupts. Five players step up immediately—all starters except Paige, who's watching you with something that makes your skin buzz.

"Five on one?" Geno raises an eyebrow. "Bold."

You just smile.

What happens next will probably end up on Twitter within the hour. You move like water through their defense, each dribble calculated, each step precise. A behind-the-back that sends Caroline spinning. A crossover that nearly breaks Tessa's ankles. By the time you rise up for the shot, the defense is scattered like bowling pins.

Nothing but net.

The gym explodes. Players are screaming, filming, shaking their heads in disbelief. But you only register Paige's expression—proud and hungry all at once.

"Happy?" you ask Geno.

He's trying not to look impressed. Failing. "You sure I can't convince you to transfer?"

"Sorry, Coach. My heart's already spoken for." Your eyes flick to Paige for a fraction of a second. "Harvard's home."

The practice continues, and somehow you get roped into running drills with them. It's surreal—playing alongside these girls instead of against them. Especially Paige. The way you move together on court, like you can read each other's minds, has even Geno shaking his head.

"God really did create a perfect basketball player," you hear him mutter after you and Paige execute a no-look give-and-go that ends in a reverse layup.

After practice, you're all sprawled on the court, exhausted but buzzing. Your head's in Paige's lap—friendly enough to seem casual, intimate enough to make your heart race. The team's arguing about dinner plans when your phone buzzes.

"Rocket," Sierra's text reads, "stop breaking ankles at UConn and call me. I need details 👀"

Paige reads it over your shoulder and laughs. Her fingers are playing absently with your hair, and you wonder if everyone can hear your heart pounding.

"You know," Caroline says thoughtfully, "you two are either gonna be the greatest rivalry in college basketball."

"Or?" Paige asks, her hand stilling in your hair.

Caroline grins. "Or something else entirely."

Later that night, back in Paige's room, the energy shifts. You're both aware that tomorrow you head back to Harvard. Back to being rivals instead of whatever this is.

"Stay," she whispers against your lips, and this time you don't even pretend to argue about sleeping arrangements.

Her bed is small, forcing you to tangle together, every point of contact electric. You talk in whispers even though there's no one to hear—about basketball, about dreams, about the way this thing between you feels both impossible and inevitable.

"What are we doing?" she asks softly, tracing patterns on your skin.

"Getting into trouble," you murmur back, but you're smiling.

She kisses you then, slow and deep, like she's trying to memorize the feel of it. Like she knows these moments are stolen, precious because they're forbidden.

"Worth it," she breathes against your mouth.

Her lips linger on yours, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, but it’s her hands that steal your breath entirely. One traces the curve of your hip, a teasing promise of what’s to come, while the other dips lower, testing the heat between your thighs. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice low, husky, vibrating against your collarbone as she kisses her way down, each touch deliberate, reverent.

You can’t answer, not in words. The way your body arches into her touch, the hitch in your breath, the soft sound that escapes your lips—those are your answers, undeniable and raw.

“Good,” she breathes, her fingers curling around the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, almost torturously. The air feels cold against your bare skin, but then she’s there, her breath warm, her hands firm and sure as they spread your thighs wider.

The first press of her tongue is electric, like lightning racing up your spine. She moves with precision, her fingers parting you as her tongue explores every sensitive inch, coaxing moans from you that you didn’t know you could make. She hums in satisfaction, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure that makes your hips buck against her.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, though the command is half-lost in the mess of you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as she dives deeper, her tongue swirling, teasing, her lips closing around your most sensitive spot to suck gently before flicking it again. The rhythm she sets is maddening, relentless, a perfect balance of pressure and pace.

Your hands find her hair, tangling in the golden waves as you try to ground yourself against the rising tide of sensation. She takes it as encouragement, slipping a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. She moans against you, the sound guttural and raw, and it’s too much, too good.

“Paige,” you gasp, her name a prayer, a plea, as you shatter beneath her, your body trembling, every nerve alight. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your release until you’re panting, boneless, completely undone.

Her mouth lingers, slow and insistent, drinking in every gasp and tremor she pulls from you. Paige is relentless, her tongue working you with precision, her fingers curling just right inside you as if she’s memorized every little sound you make, every shift of your hips. When she finally eases up, her lips leaving a final, teasing kiss against your trembling heat, she doesn’t pull away completely. Instead, she slides up your body, her fingers tracing a path up your thighs, over your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

She’s grinning, a little smug, her lips glistening, her eyes dark and wild. “You know,” she murmurs, her voice low and rasping, “you’re so goddamn sexy when you play. The way you move… the way you take control.”

Her words are a spark, reigniting the fire already coursing through you. You pull her down, kissing her fiercely, tasting yourself on her tongue, a mix of sweetness and salt and Paige. It’s intoxicating, like she’s everywhere, filling every corner of your senses.

“I could say the same about you,” you breathe between kisses, your hands sliding under her shirt, finding the warmth of her skin. “The way you take the court, like it’s yours… fuck, Paige.”

Her laugh is low, breathy, against your lips. “Show me, then. Show me how much you like it.”

You flip her gently, taking her by surprise as she falls back against the sheets, her golden hair fanned out like a halo. She’s stunning, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she gazes up at you with a hunger that mirrors your own. You kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the way she melts under you, the way her body arches to meet yours, desperate for contact.

Your lips leave hers to trail down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss draws a shiver from her, her hands gripping your back, nails digging into your skin as you take your time exploring her. You pull her shirt up and over her head, baring her to the soft light spilling through the window.

“God,” you murmur, your voice thick, your hands tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, the strength in her arms. “You’re perfect.”

She groans softly, pulling you down to her, her legs tangling with yours. “Stop looking at me like that and do something about it.”

You grin, pressing a kiss just below her ear, then lower, your lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot as you work your way down. Her body responds to you like music, every sigh and gasp and moan drawing you further, making you crave more. When your lips finally find her, the sound she makes—half gasp, half cry—is enough to send a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Shit,” she whispers, her hips bucking against you as your tongue moves, deliberate and slow. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way her body shakes under your touch, her breath coming faster, her voice breaking as she pleads for more.

You give it to her, taking your time, savoring the way she falls apart for you, how her voice grows louder, her grip tighter, until she finally comes undone, her body trembling, her cries echoing in your ears like a song.

You kiss your way back up her body, slow and deliberate, her skin warm and flushed beneath your lips. When you reach her mouth, she pulls you into a kiss so deep it feels like she’s trying to claim you, her hands roaming over you, pulling you closer, needing you like air.

“I’m not done with you,” she murmurs, her voice rough but soft, her hands slipping between your thighs, finding you already aching for her again.

“Paige," you whisper, but she silences you with a kiss, her touch unrelenting as she presses you back into the sheets.

Her body moves against yours, perfectly in sync, her touch everywhere at once—gentle and firm, teasing and demanding. The world narrows to just her, the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the way her body feels pressed against yours as she takes you apart piece by piece, only to put you back together again with her hands, her lips, her love.

And when you both finally collapse, spent and tangled together, her head resting on your chest, the room feels impossibly still, the air thick with everything unsaid but understood. You stroke her hair absently, your breathing slowing, your heart still racing in tandem with hers.

“Still think I’m sexy when I play?” she teases softly, her voice muffled against your skin.

You laugh, pulling her closer. “I think you’re sexy all the time.”

Her lips curve against your chest in a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it.”

Her breath evens out against your shoulder, her body soft and pliant as she molds herself to your side. The room is quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of the campus stirring to life outside. You stroke her hair absentmindedly, the golden strands slipping like silk through your fingers, and she hums softly, her hand draped across your stomach, anchoring you to the moment.

But as the heat of the night begins to fade, something else creeps in—a faint, nagging ache in your chest that you can’t quite ignore. You close your eyes, trying to push it away, to focus on the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her skin against yours. But it’s there, stubborn and persistent: the thought of March, of bright lights and roaring crowds, of her on the other side of the court, no longer your lover but your rival.

She stirs, tilting her head up to look at you, her eyes soft and half-lidded, her lips swollen from your kisses. “What’s on your mind?” she murmurs, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

You hesitate, your fingers stilling in her hair. “Just thinking.”

“About?” she prompts, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

“March,” you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper. The word feels heavy in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water.

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your chest, just above your heart. “It’s just a game,” she says softly, but there’s something in her tone that tells you she knows it’s more than that.

You shake your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not to me. Not to you, either.”

She doesn’t deny it, her silence speaking louder than words. For a moment, you’re both quiet, the weight of what’s coming settling between you. It’s a strange, bittersweet ache—the knowledge that this, whatever it is, will be tested, challenged by the world beyond this room.

But then she lifts her head, her eyes locking with yours, and there’s something fierce in her gaze, something unshakable. “When we’re out there, I’ll play to win. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, your voice steady, even as your chest tightens. “And I’ll do the same.”

Her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, and she leans up to kiss you, slow and lingering, like she’s trying to hold onto this moment as tightly as you are. “Good,” she whispers against your lips. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

When she settles back down, her head resting on your chest once more, you let yourself relax, let the tension bleed away, if only for a little while. There’s still time before March, before the lights and the pressure and the impossible stakes. For now, there’s only her, her hand in yours, her body warm and safe against your own.

And as sleep begins to pull you under, you can’t help but think that whatever happens—whatever the game brings, whatever the world throws at you—it’ll be worth it. Because for all the risks, all the complications, all the things that might break you, there’s one thing you know for sure: she’s worth it. She always will be.

Sunday morning comes too fast, the sunlight pooling around you, unforgiving in its insistence that the world outside Paige’s room still exists. You stir under the blanket, her warmth pressed against your side, her hand resting on your stomach. You don’t want to move; if you’re honest, you don’t want the day to come at all.

She sighs softly in her sleep, her breath feathering against your shoulder, and it hits you again—how impossibly beautiful she looks like this, messy and undone, tangled in sheets that still carry the weight of last night. You turn your head slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead, the act so natural it startles you.

Her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, but the corner of her mouth curves when she sees you. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice rough and slow, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

“Morning,” you reply, your hand brushing the wild strands of hair from her face.

Neither of you moves, the silence stretching out, too fragile to break. But it’s there—the inevitable pull of the day, dragging you closer to the goodbye you’re not ready to say. You try to ignore it, try to focus on the way her fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, the way her body fits so perfectly against yours.

“Do you have to go?” she asks finally, her voice soft, but there’s a weight behind it, a quiet desperation that pulls at your chest.

You hesitate, because the truth feels too heavy to say out loud. “Jasmine’s waiting for me.”

She doesn’t argue, just presses her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin. “Five more minutes.”

You laugh softly, your arms tightening around her. “We said that an hour ago.”

“And yet, here we are,” she teases, but her smile falters as she pulls back to look at you. “Stay.”

Her voice is a whisper, but it carries the force of a command, and for a moment, you’re tempted to throw everything to the wind. Forget Harvard, forget practice, forget the looming storm of March Madness. But reality claws at the edges of the moment, a reminder you can’t ignore.

“I can’t,” you say quietly, and it feels like the words cut both of you.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of your (her) hoodie, and for a second, you think she’s going to argue, but instead, she leans up, her lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like it might shatter. It lingers, slow and tender, like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold onto something she knows she can’t keep.

When you finally pull away, her eyes are bright, a mix of emotions you can’t untangle. “Promise me something,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.

“Anything.”

“Don’t let this scare you,” she whispers. “Not what people think, not what’s coming. Don’t let it ruin this.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I won’t,” you say, and you mean it, even if you don’t know how.

She nods, her smile small but real, and when you kiss her one last time, it feels like a promise.

Later, as you stand in the doorway, your bag slung over your shoulder, the goodbye feels heavier than you expected. Paige leans against the doorframe, her hair a mess, her lips still pink from your kisses, and it takes everything in you not to turn back.

“Text me when you get home,” she says, her attempt at casual missing by miles.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I will.”

You make it three steps before you stop, turning back. She’s still there, still watching, and you close the distance in two strides, your lips meeting hers in one last, desperate kiss. When you pull away, her hand lingers on your arm, and for a moment, you’re certain you’ll never want anything as much as you want her.

“Bye,” you whisper, and it feels like the hardest word you’ve ever said.

“Bye, Rocket,” she replies, her smile bittersweet.

You leave before you can change your mind, the burning in your chest growing stronger with every step. The train ride back to Harvard is a blur, your mind replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance. By the time you walk into your apartment, Sierra is already waiting, her face lighting up with a mix of excitement and disbelief when she sees you.

But you barely hear her questions, barely register Jasmine showing you the Twitter feeds and SportsCenter highlights. All you can think about is Paige—her laugh, her touch, the way she said your name like it was something sacred.

And as you lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, you can’t shake the thought that March is coming too fast. The court will be the same, the stakes higher than ever, but everything feels different now. Because you know, deep down, that every pass, every drive, every shot will carry the weight of her eyes on you, her voice in your head, her heart in your hands.

And you can’t decide if that makes you stronger—or breaks you completely.

Monday’s practice doesn’t do you any favors. You walk in wearing a neutral hoodie—because you’re not that reckless—but Coach Matthews still gives you a pointed once-over.

“Nice sweatshirt,” she says, her tone dry as Arizona in July.

You open your mouth to deny, deflect, anything—but Sierra beats you to it. “She’s just branching out,” she quips, smirking. “UConn blue really brings out her eyes.”

You’re going to kill her. Slowly. Later. For now, you bury yourself in drills, sinking three after three like muscle memory is your only salvation. Except it’s not, because every damn movement feels like Paige. The way she drives to the basket. The way her passes always find the perfect angle. The way her eyes tracked you during that stupid, unforgettable practice.

The team, bless their nosy little hearts, doesn’t let up either. “Is it true you took on UConn’s starting five?” one asks.

“Did Geno actually try to steal you? Again?”

“Are you and Paige…?”

You hit another three, harder than necessary, and stalk to the water cooler. Sierra sidles up, because of course she does.

“Hey,” she says, not unkindly. “You good?”

“Define good,” you reply, sarcasm sharp enough to cut.

Sierra, annoyingly perceptive, just shrugs. “The team’s just curious. You’re their golden girl, and now you’re maybe-sorta-kinda in love with your biggest rival. It’s a lot.”

“I’m not—” you start, but your phone lights up, and your face does the thing again. The soft, stupid, smiley thing.

“Sure,” Sierra says, smirking. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The texts come later that night. Paige, as usual, doesn’t mince words.

so, how much trouble are we in?

You smirk at your phone, typing back.

none, if you keep your team’s mouths shut.

i can handle them. Can you handle yours?

You glance at Sierra’s empty room, Jasmine’s closed door.

yeah. for now.

Three dots. Then:

good. because i’m not letting this go.

The words make your chest ache, in a good way. In a dangerous way. But for now, it’s just a secret. A sweatshirt in your bag, a name on your screen, a quiet understanding that some things are better kept out of the spotlight.

And if the storm comes anyway? You’ll handle it when it does. Together.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, a backdrop to the swirling haze of your thoughts. The sweatshirt Paige gave you is folded neatly on your lap, its scent still faintly there—lavender, sharp cedar, and something else that you can’t quite name but know you’d recognize in a heartbeat.

You should be sleeping. Or staring out the window at the blurred winter landscape, pretending to be reflective and moody, but instead, you’re staring at your phone like a lovesick teenager. Which, technically, you are.

Her last text sits at the top of the screen, smug in its simplicity. 

miss you already. text me when you get home.

You’ve read it so many times, the words have started to blur. Miss you already. Like you’re something worth missing. Like the weekend hadn’t just been everything.

The old lady across the aisle glances at you, her eyebrows furrowing like she can smell the heart eyes from her seat. You flip your phone facedown and pretend to be fascinated by the guy three rows ahead eating a tuna sandwich like it’s his last meal. Anything to stop replaying the way Paige had kissed you goodbye—slow, deep, like she was trying to memorize it.

But then the phone buzzes again, and you’re quick, too quick, fumbling it upright.

also, if you don’t tell Sierra where you were this weekend, i will. and I’ll make it sound worse than it was. or better. depends on the mood i’m in.

You snort, the sound startling the old lady. Her scowl deepens. You type back without thinking:

what, you’re not gonna give me a chance to come up with a good lie?

The reply is instant.

you’re terrible at lying, rocket. stick to shooting.

It’s not fair, how easily she does this—makes you grin like an idiot in the middle of a public space. The train announces your stop, the crackling intercom pulling you out of whatever spell Paige had you under, and you tuck your phone away, the sweatshirt pressed tightly under your arm.

Sierra greets you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow when you walk into the apartment. “You look disgustingly happy.”

“I am happy,” you reply, trying to fight the smile creeping up your face.

“That’s what worries me.” She leans against the counter, studying you. “How was your little rivalry trip?”

“Fine,” you say, brushing past her and heading for your room.

She laughs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever you say, Rocket.”

Inside your room, you toss your bag onto the bed and pull out your phone. Paige’s name stares back at you from the screen, your last conversation still open. You hesitate, wondering if texting too soon makes you seem clingy, then roll your eyes at yourself and type:

made it back. already miss that sweaty gym smell.

Her reply comes almost instantly.

liar. you loved it. miss you more.

You can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across your face, the warmth it brings despite the cold draft creeping through your window. This feels easy. Natural. Like she’s right there with you instead of miles away in Storrs.

You slide onto your bed, fingers poised to type something clever back, but instead, you pause. The sweatshirt is still in your lap, soft and worn, and you tug it over your head without thinking. It’s oversized, hanging loose on your frame, but it feels good. It feels like her.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

don’t sleep in my hoodie. you’ll ruin it.

You snort, typing back:

already wearing it.

Her reply is almost instant:

figures. good night, rocket. dream of me.

always.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until your alarm wakes you the next morning, the phone still clutched in your hand and Paige’s name still glowing on the screen.

For the first week, it’s effortless. Every day feels like an extension of that weekend—texts flying back and forth, calls that stretch into the early hours of the morning, your voices sleepy but refusing to let go. She sends you pictures of her sneakers (“new kicks, who dis”), blurry photos of her teammates making dumb faces in the locker room, even a video of her crossing up some poor freshman in practice.

You match her energy, sending her memes, complaining about your coursework, telling her about that one teammate who still can’t figure out a basic pick-and-roll.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’ve been doing this forever.

But then, somewhere in the second week, the rhythm falters.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when you notice it. You’re sitting in the library, a half-empty coffee cup on the desk beside you, when you send her a text.

kill it at practice today?

It takes her three hours to reply.

was okay. tired. you?

You frown at the screen, rereading her words. The response is fine. Normal. But there’s something about it—something flat, like the energy isn’t there.

good. the usual drills. i think Coach is trying to kill us.

This time, the reply comes quicker.

lol. sounds about right.

You stare at the message, waiting for more. A joke, a question, anything. But nothing else comes.

By the end of the week, her texts are starting to feel uneven. Some days, she’s herself again—sending you goofy pictures, teasing you about your shooting form, calling you late at night just to hear your voice. But other days, she’s distant. Replies come slower, shorter, like she’s preoccupied with something she won’t tell you.

You don’t want to push. You know how grueling the season can be, how exhausting the constant practices and travel schedules are. But the unease lingers, settling in your chest like a stone.

One night, you call her. It’s late, almost midnight, and you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, your thoughts too loud to ignore.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Her voicemail picks up.

You hang up without leaving a message, tossing your phone onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from her:

sorry, fell asleep. long day. Miss you, rocket.

The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache from the night before. You tell yourself not to overthink it, to let it go.

But then it happens again.

A missed call. A delayed reply. Another vague excuse.

You start keeping track without meaning to. Three unanswered texts this week. Two missed calls. A growing list of reasons you tell yourself not to be upset:

She’s busy.

She’s tired.

It’s nothing.

By the fourth week, you’ve stopped texting her first. Not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired. Tired of the one-word replies, the half-hearted conversations, the way she always seems just out of reach.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t care.

Either way, the silence grows.

Then, the video hits Twitter on a Tuesday morning.

You’re in Advanced Orbital Mechanics, half-listening as Professor Dillard drones on about transfer orbits and delta-v calculations. His voice is a flat monotone, the kind that barely registers after twenty minutes, but you keep your pen moving, scribbling half-legible equations in your notebook. The classroom is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the faint smell of coffee and dry-erase markers clings to the air.

Your phone buzzes once, a sharp vibration against the desk. Then twice. Then again, the rhythm insistent. A few heads turn toward you, their eyes flicking briefly to the offending noise before returning to their own notes. You glance down at the screen, expecting to see the usual: Sierra sending a TikTok link she swears will “change your life,” or Jasmine reminding everyone about the next team meeting.

Instead, the notifications pile up faster than you can track.

Sierra: "don’t check twitter."

Jasmine: "rocket baby i’m so sorry."

Your stomach tightens, unease clawing at your chest. The buzzes don’t stop. One after another, messages flood in—texts from teammates, old friends, people you haven’t spoken to in years. The words blur together, overlapping until they’re nothing but noise.

The team group chat is a wildfire.

"Holy shit"

"Is that really...?"

"When was this?"

"Someone needs to check on Rocket."

You flip your phone over, trying to focus on Dillard’s lecture, but the vibration rattles against the desk, relentless. Finally, you give in, unlocking the screen with shaking fingers.

Twitter opens slowly, the loading circle spinning like it’s mocking you. The first thing you see is the video—top of your feed, trending already.

You don’t want to press play.

But you do.

The footage is shaky, the kind of video that screams “someone was not supposed to be recording this.” The lighting is dim, music pulsing faintly in the background, and it only takes a second for your stomach to drop. You know this place. You know that party. A UConn team event.

You see Paige and Azzi in a dark corner, laughing together. It’s innocent at first—until it isn’t. Azzi’s hand finds Paige’s waist. Paige leans in, her fingers tangling in Azzi’s hair. The way they look at each other—intimate, familiar. Like you’re not even a memory.

And then they’re kissing.

Not a first kiss. Not a hesitant, drunken mistake. This kiss is something else entirely—familiar, practiced.

The caption is almost worse than the video.

"The Prince has found her Princess? 👀 @azzi_35 @paigebueckers"

The phone slips from your hands and lands on the desk with a muted thud. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. The noise draws a glance from the girl sitting next to you, but you don’t meet her eyes. You can’t.

You’re The Prophecy. You’re unshakable. But right now, you’re just a girl who loved someone who made it look so easy to love someone else.

The lecture continues in the background, but it might as well be static. Your mind races, replaying the video in an endless loop, each frame sharper than the last. The way Paige had smiled. The way Azzi had leaned in. The way Paige hadn’t stopped her.

The phone buzzes again.

Sierra: “Where are you? Are you okay?”

Jasmine: “Talk to us, Rocket. Please.”

You don’t reply. You can’t.

Instead, you pack your things in a blur, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with trembling hands. The professor’s voice follows you to the door, droning on about escape velocity, but you’re already gone.

You don’t cry. The Prophecy doesn’t cry.

Instead, you go to the only place that’s ever made sense: the gym.

The air outside is cold, sharp, biting against your skin as you make your way across campus. You barely notice it. Everything feels muffled, like you’re moving through a fog, the world blurred at the edges. The weight in your chest anchors you, pulling you forward.

The door slams behind you, the echo bouncing off the walls and rattling through the empty bleachers. You don’t bother with the lights. Don’t need them. You’ve made these shots in your sleep.

The air is stale, a mix of old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant. It settles in your lungs, heavy but familiar. The ball rack sits in its usual spot, the leather scuffed and worn, the only constant thing in a world that’s suddenly upside down.

You grab the first ball you touch, its surface cool and rough under your fingertips. You spin it once, testing the weight. It feels right. Solid.

Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you step to the free-throw line. You take a breath, chest tight, and focus on the rim—a faint outline in the shadows.

Release. Swish.

The sound cuts through the dark, clean and sharp. You grab another ball, your movements quick, automatic. No time to think. Thinking is dangerous.

This time, you picture Paige. Her smile, the way she looked at Azzi in the video—like you weren’t even a memory.

Release. Swish.

Another ball. Her hand in Azzi’s hair. The way they leaned into each other like it was easy. Like it was nothing.

Another ball. Paige laughing, Azzi’s arm around her waist.

Release. Swish.

The way Paige looked at her, like she was her world. Release. Swish.

You move faster, grabbing ball after ball from the rack, launching them with more force each time. Each shot lands clean, cutting through the dark air with sharp precision. The physics is still there, but now it’s powered by something darker. Something raw and jagged.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Release. Swish.

Your chest heaves, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. You’re not even looking at the rim anymore, just firing into the darkness. Each shot is a missile, and the target is the knot of anger and heartbreak lodged deep inside you.

The rhythm becomes hypnotic: swish, bounce, swish, bounce.

And then it happens.

A memory hits you mid-shot: Paige sitting on the bleachers, chin in her hand, watching you practice. The way she smiled that first time she said, "God, you’re perfect."

Your fingers slip, the ball leaving your hands wrong. You know it immediately. The rotation’s off, the arc’s too flat. For the first time in 1,147 shots, The Prophecy misses.

The clang of the rim is deafening in the stillness.

You freeze. The ball rolls to a stop somewhere in the shadows.

Then something inside you cracks wide open.

The scream tears out of you before you can stop it—raw, guttural, primal. It echoes through the gym, bouncing back at you like the sound of your own heartbreak mocking you. 

The rack of balls goes flying as you shove it over, the sound of them scattering across the court like stars. You’re on your knees before you realize it, fists pounding against the hardwood, your throat raw, your vision blurring with something you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel.

"Rocket!"

The voice barely registers. Then hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You twist, trying to break free, but then you hear it again.

"I’ve got you," Sierra whispers. Her arms wrap around you, holding you steady as you shatter into pieces.

Jasmine is there too, her hands stroking your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “We’re here,” she murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

"She—" your voice cracks, breaking apart like glass. "They—"

"We know," Jasmine murmurs, pulling you closer. "We know, baby. It’s okay."

"I missed," you choke out, the words hollow and broken. "I never miss."

Sierra pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re allowed to miss," she says firmly. "You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to be human."

"But The Prophecy—"

"Fuck The Prophecy," Jasmine says fiercely, her voice steady as a rock. "Right now, you’re just our girl, and you’re hurting, and that’s okay."

The words hit you like a lifeline, and finally, you let yourself collapse into them. You let the tears come, let them see the raw, vulnerable part of you that’s been hidden for so long. They hold you there on the court where you’ve been perfect, where you’ve made history, where you just missed for the first time because someone you loved broke your heart.

Later, they’ll help you to your feet. They’ll walk you home. They’ll make sure you eat, sleep, and breathe, even when it feels impossible.

Later, Paige will blow up your phone:

“please let me explain."

“it’s not what you think."

“i never meant to hurt you."

Later, you’ll pick yourself up and turn this pain into something sharper, something unbreakable.

But right now, in the dark gym, in the arms of your best friends, you let yourself break. You let yourself be human. You let yourself feel everything you’ve been trying to calculate away.

Because some things are perfect until they break.

And some things are stronger after breaking.

this made me so giddy I love itttt

i know — van palmer.

summary: you can't remember a life before van, but there was one. there must've been one. it feels ridiculous to think about. you'd rather think about her, rather think about this— two moments then, and two moments now (and so, so many to come).

notes: heyyy i know i said i would post this like a month ago, i fully forgot!! if there was like one person waiting i'm sorry and i love you sm <3 also this ignores the plot entirely and i wanna make that very clear just in case!! it's like a nothing happened and we're all okay au! anyway here's to my loser girl and to whoever also finds themselves staring at the wall in silence thinking about her :)

・。.・゜✧・. ────

THEN.

"You're hogging the blanket," Jackie mutters over a mouthful of popcorn, purple polished nails tugging at the soft fabric.

She's right— you are. "I'm not," you say, and bring your legs close to your chest partly so they can offer some kind of comfort, but mostly so they're not touching the unknown dangers of the floor anymore.

The TV flashes red and Jackie's living room is bathed in it, along with all your faces.

Shauna snorts at a man getting brutally and very unrealistically decapitated on the screen and pulls her own blanket closer to her best friend before she even has to ask. They do that a lot; talk without words. Any other time you would've noticed, thought that's cute and smiled to yourself, but right now you're too terrified.

The movie is bad. Or, that's what you have to keep reminding yourself of. It's lazy in a way that's bordering on comical and needlessly violent in a way that proves that it was written by a man with interesting fantasies. You shouldn't be scared, but you are.

Another death earns you a few minutes of quiet, though you know the build up to the next one will be worse. The characters cry and fret over the dead body of their friend but the killer is nowhere to be seen, disappearing conveniently into the night. You're granted a scene of daylight but the sun comes and goes, and then the screen turns to dark violets and blues again and you're tensing up in your seat.

It's fine, at first— the pretty blonde girl is yielding a kitchen knife and walking around while her muscled boyfriend boards up the windows of the big house. Lottie shifts where she's sitting on the floor next to Laura Lee's legs and whispers about why they would lock themselves in instead of taking their chances outside, which is 'obviously the smartest thing to do'. You don't have time to process what she's saying because suddenly an ax is clawing its way through one of the windows and the characters are screaming and, well, so are you.

"Fuck!" You curse, jumping and landing yourself halfway into Van's lap, the softness of her thighs under your own, your back against her chest.

Van blinks, more startled by your reaction than the scene itself, her hands coming up to steady you and then immediately dropping back down a second after they brush over the cotton of your shirt. She lets out a shaky breath and does not think about how good your weight feels on top of her, because that would be a bad thought, a questionable thought. And it should not have been the first one to pop into her mind. Definitely not. That would be embarrassing. That would be bad.

You cover your eyes with one hand as the sounds of screaming come to a crescendo and hold one of her hands tightly with the other, mumbling sorry, sorry, sorry as if you're doing something wrong. As if you don't know that, even if you were, Van is incapable of being mad at you. Famously so. Everybody knows.

She looks around the room to the rest of the girls. No one is staring, too busy chewing popcorn and wrinkling their noses at the more gruesome special effects. Van turns her head back to you. A million thoughts rush in, overwhelming and unforgiving. Something about the soft tint of chapstick on your lips, the curve of your nose, the shape of your fingers. Things she's noticed before -Van is often greedy of all your details-, but not in this way, never from this close. She can smell your shampoo from here. Somewhere in the back of her mind, over the scent of honey and strawberries, she wonders if she's going insane.

Your body noticeably relaxes as the violence dissipates, your grasp on her hand loosening slightly. When you uncover your eyes, the final girl is clawing her way through the woods. You're unsure of how she got out of the house, but too comforted by the thought of the movie finally coming to an end to care.

Van is scared to say anything, scared to move— if she does, you might push yourself off of her, ignore her for the rest of the night because you're embarrassed. The thought is ridiculous. You'd never ignore her, you're not that kind of person, but it's what she would do. Except she'd probably never be in this position in the first place, because she'd never be brave enough to throw herself on your lap, even if she was as scared as you were. And that's just it anyway, it's not like you chose to do this. You didn't pick her. You would've found the same comfort in anyone's arms. Right? Van feels you shift closer, just slightly, like you're unaware of it. Right?

Her forehead falls on your shoulder as she thinks herself sick.

"It's scary, right?" You whisper, confusing her crisis for fear. Your fingers wrap around her bicep, soft and absentminded when they brush up and down her skin, trying to make her feel better.

Van feels her stomach flip, her hands twitch. In another world, she would wrap her arms around your waist and press her lips to your ear, mumble something stupid like if you say so, baby just to annoy you. Here, though, all she does is nod her head. She whispers back, "Yeah, it is."

She looks up at the screen, tries to be scared, to be invested. You relax further into her, personal and comfortable as if there's no one in the room but the two of you. Van blinks. She can't give you the name of the girl on the screen. A minute passes and your back straightens suddenly, but you don't rush to slide off her lap. You do it carefully, not because you want to but because you're worried about making her uncomfortable. Van wants to pull you back but she's never faced anything as daunting. She comforts herself with the thought that one day she will, a hungry attempt at manifesting or breaking a mental wishbone or something. For now, she follows you with her eyes and feels her anxiety melt away when you notice her staring and give her a smile. The movie's not yet over. She looks back. Who's the bad guy again?

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

NOW.

Van likes to pretend that she's a better cook than she is. Someone else might find it funny, annoying even, but you can't find it anything but cute. You love telling her that you've run out of food and watch her scoff and puff up her chest.

"I'll make you something out of nothing," she'll say. Then she'll open the fridge and bend at the waist, stare at said nothing for a solid two minutes before resurfacing and declaring that she's craving pizza from the place down the street, anyway, so there's no point in cooking.

At the grocery store the next day, you make sure to buy the essentials for the one pasta recipe that she does actually know how to make. Van likes to feel useful. And you like to indulge her every need, maybe a little too much.

You pick the sweetest looking tomatoes for the sauce, no real expertise behind your method— you're not exactly an amazing chef, either, but the two of you do just fine. Someone calls your name in the middle of bagging the last tomato and you turn to meet a face you had almost forgotten about.

"Katie Lopez?" Van asks again, staring at the folded piece of paper with the almost-stranger's number that you'd gotten without asking (a friendly gesture, you're pretty sure) after a slightly lengthy conversation that carried on even after your multiple anyway, I should probably get going's.

You're telling Van about the encounter while washing the tomatoes in the sink, sleeves rolled up. Your cheeks are warm with kisses like they always are when you make it back to her, as if she wants to reward you for it. You've been hers for so long, and she's still amazed at the fact that you come home to her. "Yes," you repeat. "Why is that so shocking?"

"It's not," she says, flicking the paper where it sits on the counter, kinder than her original need to ball it up or light it on fire or something even more dramatic. She moves to open the cabinet and starts putting away the canned goods you've brought. "I just didn't know you guys were close."

"We're not. She was just being polite."

Van hums. For a moment you think she'll let it go, but of course she won't. She doesn't like the thought of someone flirting with you when she's not there and she especially doesn't like the thought of that someone being Katie fucking Lopez, who's most memorable for fingering girls in the bathroom for most of your shared high school experience.

Van clears her throat and the cabinet closes with a thud louder than she intended, definitely not because she was caught up picturing you under Katie's gaze. She means to sound casual, but she's not trying very hard when she asks, "She ever try to get with you?"

You spare her a single glance, as if to check that she's serious. Of course she is. "What, in high school?" You shake your head, chuckling like the idea is funny. "No. She was more into the cheerleader type."

Van knows that you're right. Still, she squints her eyes at you, ginger hair leaning to one side when she tilts her head. "Is that a hint of resentment that I'm hearing?"

You've gotten good at knowing how to handle her jealousy. It's only fair, considering that she's gotten good at handling yours. Neither are ever that serious. "I was making a neutral observation."

You know she's creeping closer before you feel it. You know her too well. "Yeah?" She mutters, her hands on your hips as she presses herself to your back. Her nose is familiarly cold where it brushes against your neck.

You dry your hands and lean back on instinct, and she doesn't flinch at the added feeling of your weight. Van can be a lot like a brick wall, but you don't usually tell her that, unless you're feeling extra sweet and want her to grin like a cocky little shit for the rest of the day. "You were into that type, too."

Van scoffs, a soft gust of air on your neck. "I was into you," she says.

You hum, purely fucking with her. "Maybe."

"May— what the fuck are you talking about?" She pulls away just enough to prove that she's actually offended. And she is, because the idea is ludicrous and yeah, she's taking it personally. You can question Van about anything you want, except for the fact that she's been in love with you for more than half of her life. "When did you ever see me looking at cheerleaders?" She asks.

You and Van work for a lot of reasons. You work because you're different where it matters, enough to balance each other out, and you work because you're the same in everything else. You might've been just teasing her at first, but now the thought does that stupid thing where it starts to linger and -just like she had thought about you and Katie- you can almost picture it in your head, a younger Van standing on the soccer field, her eyes trailing over a girl's short uniform skirt. You roll your eyes, annoyed mostly at yourself. "Oh, don't act like you wouldn't have loved for them to shout your stupid name."

Van chuckles. She can read your train of thought like a book. She knows you too well. "Stupid name, huh? You're cute when you're jealous." And a little mean, too, but in a way that makes her weak in the knees. She won't be telling you that part. You already know, anyway.

You pull the hands that are wrapped around your waist away from you. Van lets you— she wants to see where this is going. "Not jealous," you mutter.

"No?" She teases, half-heartedly disappointed when you don't turn around to let her kiss you.

You look at her over your shoulder and then make eye contact with the piece of paper on the counter, recalling the words of your old classmate. Call me whenever. We should totally hang out. You're too old to be telling people you should 'totally hang out', but Katie Lopez hasn't changed much from the last time you saw her. You hold back the urge to wrinkle your nose at the memory of that same teenager-trying-to-be-cool smirk that she gave you throughout the whole interaction and hum thoughtfully, like you've been tempted. "Maybe I will call her—" you take one step towards the counter in a half assed attempt to reach for the paper but Van is unusually quick as she strides forward and takes it in her hands, tongue poking into the inside of her cheek as she rips it in two. "Van!" You gasp.

"What? Don't tell me you were actually gonna use it," she pouts. "You're breaking my heart, baby."

You try to take the two pieces away from her and all you earn is her breaking it in four, holding it above your head. You're laughing as you slap her shoulder. "God, you're so stupid."

Van raises her eyebrows, mismatched numbers wrinkled in her hand. She drops them on the counter in favor of cupping your face, pressing a contained short peck to your lips. Don't feel bad, she won't hold back for long. "Stupid like my name?"

"I love your name," you shake your head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I love it. Just as long as it's mine to say."

It is yours, but you know that already.

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

THEN.

Van's room smells like the incense you got her. You wonder if she used it just to appease you because she knew you were coming, but it's a silly thought. Van likes you. You know this now. She takes everything you give her (your time, your smiles, your kisses) like it's a precious gift, so you can't imagine that she would neglect an actual gift.

Your grandmother said you should light the incense before a game, to bring you good luck and calm your nerves, and you're not ashamed to admit that you bought Van her own pack the very next day. Everything makes you think about her lately, especially this kind of thing. You're not even sure that the incense works, but why wouldn't you share it with her? She deserves all of it— good luck, a stomach free of nerves, at the very least a nice lingering scent if your grandma's beliefs turn out to be a myth. But you hope they don't.

Your girlfriend is anxious more often than you are, but never really about a game. Van knows that she's good at soccer. She's nervous about other things. Keeping her side of the house clean, being able to afford Sinéad O'Connor tickets, what her mom's mood will be like tomorrow, English assignments but only because she thinks the professor is the coolest guy alive and she wants to impress him even if she won't admit it. And lately, there's another thing. She worries about whether you'll look at her one day and realize that you're too good for her.

You know about some of her anxieties, but clearly not all of them. She can picture your reaction if she were to share the last one with you, how your face would scrunch up and you'd look at her with eyes so loving and so sad. She can almost hear you ask, soft and patient, why would you think that? And she wouldn't know what to say. There's comfort in the fact that the worry is there, but it's not constant. Van only worries about that when you're gone. When you're in front of her, or sitting next to her in class, or talking to her on the phone, it's hard to imagine that you'll ever stop liking her. She takes in your smile, your laughter, your sparkling eyes and she can't think about anything else. You make all of it go away. If you asked her, she would tell you that she thinks the incense works, but only because it came from you.

She can smell it faintly from where she is now, but there are a hundred other things overwhelming her more— the feeling of your legs on either side of her, the sound of your bracelets clinking together when you move your arms to rest them next to her head and cage her in, the sight of you leaning in to kiss her. It's easy to say, she's only been dating you for three months, but Van is sure that she will never get tired of this.

She hums against your lips, something too close to a moan. Her cheeks are red when you pull away, and you're not sure if it was the sound she made or the regretful, kind of embarrassing thing she has to tell you that gave her that reaction. "My mom will be home in, like, five minutes," she says, raspy and breathy.

Her voice distracts you. Your lips are tingling. "Okay," you say, nodding your head even though it takes you another three seconds to actually process what she said.

This is where you sit up, break apart. Neither of you move.

You smile and lean back down to kiss her again, stomach fluttering from the sound of her giggling as you tilt your head back. How are you supposed to stop when she's so fucking— so cute, so handsome, so in love with you. You've never felt so secure of another person's feelings for you before, but it's impossible to doubt Van. She makes you confident, makes sure that you know at all times. Might as well be saying I love you, I love you, I love you between each kiss that she pulls you back into.

It takes everything in you to break away from her, but you have to. "Fuck, okay. I gotta go," you mutter. You have to. You'll see her tomorrow. It should be embarrassing how greedy she makes you.

She watches as you sit up on her lap, your skirt bunched up over the crotch of her jeans. You must notice her looking, because you're laughing like you can read her mind when she huffs and covers her face with her arms, her lips pursed as she suppresses an even more embarrassing sound than the one she made before.

"I'll see you tomorrow," you insist, like saying it outloud will make leaving easier. You stand up and brush your hands over your hair, flattening the flyaways. Then you grab your backpack from the floor (don't think about the pretty pin she got you a few days ago, because it'll make you want to kiss her again) and walk over to her window.

You could take your chances with the front door, but you don't want to. Van was afraid that her neighbors would see you and innocently mention it to her mom, say something like oh, I saw that Vanessa's friend came by the other day. Van wishes it could be left at that, but her mom is rarely that simple. She looked so worried as she told you about it, so ashamed. You kissed her cheek and promised yourself you'd get good at climbing.

She comes closer as you climb to the other side, getting your footing on the familiar edge of the wall, and she hisses when you let go of the window railing to reach over and cup her face. You don't have to pull for her to bend down and let you kiss her, your thumbs brushing over her cheeks.

"Please don't fall," she's saying as you make your way down.

You look up at her and smile, and Van thinks you're so pretty that she misses the mischievousness behind it. "Have a little faith in me— oh, fuck!"

Van flinches, bumping her head on the window with how quick she moves to look down at you. The sound of your laughter makes her realize your hands never left their safe grip. Her shoulders relax. "Oh my God, fuck you," she scoffs, though she's too relieved for it to have any real bite.

"What were you even gonna do?" You ask, still giggling.

She shrugs, eyebrows furrowed. "I don't know, fucking— grab you or something."

"Your arms are too short to reach me from up there."

"I take offense to that."

"Well, I'm sorry," you sigh, tilting your head. "Doesn't make it any less true."

"I better not hear you asking for my short arms to carry you after practice tomorrow," Van huffs, said arms now crossed over her chest.

You look up at her in disbelief, raising your eyebrows. "I have literally never asked you for that, you always offer."

She shifts slightly where she stands, moves her weight from one leg to the other, caught. "Because I can do it," she mutters.

"Yes, I know. You're very strong, baby."

Van rolls her eyes, choosing to believe that you're teasing her because if she believes that you're being genuine she might die.

Your feet hit the ground with a thud. You do a silly curtsy, as if to say ta-da! and Van thinks you're so cute she's certain that she'll die. You give her one last grin and blow her a kiss before sneaking away from her house into the night.

Van goes to bed with her cheeks aching from smiling, her bed smelling of your perfume, and the faint sound of her brain screaming (terrified, celebrating) you are fucked!

─────✧･ﾟ: *✧･

NOW.

"I wish I'd asked you to prom," your voice is muffled by her sweatshirt, lips partly pressed against her shoulder.

Van snorts, looking down at you. "What?"

"You never went," you explain, and you have that look on your face, like you've been thinking about this for weeks. Like you could cry. Van presses pause on the (admittedly) shitty action film she'd chosen and lets you try to get your thoughts out. "I really wanted you there. You would've liked it."

She lets out a sigh through her nose, a hand coming to rest against your cheek. "I really don't know if that's true, honey," she says honestly.

You straighten your back a little, a tiny frown on your face like you get when you've been challenged. "You would've liked it. You love to dance and the DJ was, like, surprisingly good. And Ms. Dawson actually said yes to a dance with Peter K., even though that was highly inappropriate now that I think about it. But it was funny at the time— and Natalie snuck in a bottle of vodka."

"Yeah?" She asks, awfully endeared even when she's heard the story a million times before. You'd told her all about it the day after prom, your voice groggy and sleepy over the phone. She had felt lame about having missed it, but a thousand times better as soon as she picked up the phone, giggling in her bed like a fool at every detail you gave her.

You wrap your fingers around the hand on your cheek, press a kiss against her palm. "You would've loved it," you say, sounding somehow more convinced than before. "I should've asked you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I was a dick," you insist. "I was a coward—"

"Hey, no. No," Van sits up from her lazy posture, two thin wrinkles between her eyebrows when she frowns. They look good on her. You remember when they weren't there, and it always makes you a little emotional. "Don't say that. You weren't."

"But I was," you try to reason, stubborn to a fault. "I'm not, like, condemning myself. I'm stating a fact."

Her frown deepens. "Well, I don't like it. And I don't think it's a fact."

You didn't mean for this to turn into an argument, but you're not exactly thinking about that at the moment. It happens— you've let the thought saturate in your brain for too long and now you're stuck thinking that you're right. "Why are you arguing with me right now?" You ask, not being petty but genuinely wanting to know.

Van huffs a frustrated breath. "Because I thought about asking you to prom for years, okay?" She says, crawling with embarrassment. "I told myself I would over and over again and then I fucking didn't. If you were a coward, what does that make me?"

You pause, guilt swirling in your stomach because you realize all at once that you've been poking on a tender bruise you didn't even know existed. "Van," you say softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She sighs, almost a chuckle. She can be so mean to herself, so condescending about her own feelings. You know she's not laughing at you, or disregarding you in any way— it's just what she does when she feels like she's humiliated herself. Especially when you're there to watch, looking at her so kindly when she's certain she deserves none of it. "Yeah, well. That was intentional," she mutters.

You let her look away from you for a moment before you push yourself onto your knees, placing one on each side of her hips. She welcomes you like she always does when you come to sit on her lap now, her hands on your waist and her face falling forward to press kisses over your collarbone. A thoughtless motion, automatic.

"Sweet girl," you hum, guiding her head up with a careful hand, smiling when you meet her eyes. "We should've gone out dancing alone. Would've been way more fun."

Van breathes out a laugh. She wonders if she'll cry, and feels like she could. "Yeah," she agrees.

"I would've said yes, you know. I'm not blaming you for not asking me, I get why you didn't. I really do. But it's important to me that you know that." You brush a strand of hair behind her ear. It's pretty, and getting long. In no time she'll be asking you to wash it over the sink and trim it with your fancy hair scissors, like you've been doing since you got back together when you were twenty five after a stupid argument that led to a two years long break. It wasn't a good time for either of you, but you don't regret it. You have the rest of your life to live with her. Still, there will always be things like this— arguments about deep buried shame, fears that might never go away, moments you missed that other high school sweethearts didn't because their worries weren't like yours. It's sad, but not inescapable all the time. You and Van don't blame each other for any of it. But sometimes you need to be reminded of that.

"I know," she nods, her voice in that soft, quiet tone that you love but rarely get with how passionate she is. It's not a hardship, you love that just as much. "I think maybe that's why— why I was so freaked out. Like, if you said yes, it would become real."

You nod and chuckle a little, sweet and airy. "And you'd have to actually start to date me? Yeah, I would be scared," you joke.

Van buries her face in your chest with a groan. "That's all I fucking wanted," she says, feeling too honest to play along like she usually would.

You let her stay there for a while, her nose brushing against the rise and fall of your chest. Wanna be here forever, she'd told you once, with cold fingers sneaking under your shirt, more than a little drunk. You have been making fun of her about it for ages, but it tugs at something different today. It makes you pull her softly with a hand on the back of her neck, just enough to press your lips against hers, not wanting to deny her any of your warmth that she might crave.

Van hums against your lips, moving where you want her when your hands guide her own from your waist down to your hips. You press your chest against hers like you know she likes and she moans into your mouth, a hand moving to press against your back and force you closer.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you," you mumble when she lets you pull apart, speaking close to her ear as you kiss her cheek, lips soft over old acne scars and sunspots.

Van shakes her head. "I don't care," she promises, smiling like she does when she's about to say something corny. "Look at me now," she shrugs, fake humble. "I got the girl in the end."

You laugh against her smirk and kiss her until she's lifting your hips and pushing you down on the couch, your back against the worn pillows, a hand on the back of your head in case you bump it on the arm rest. You like when she moves you around just to show off, reminds you of when you were younger and she'd flex her muscles just because she knew you were looking. She might not be the same type of strong now, but she can still pull out some tricks when she wants to. And with you, Van often wants to.

She tilts her head back when you try to pull her in for another kiss, sighing as she gets comfortable on top of you. She almost gives up the act when you pout at her, blinking your pretty eyes, but instead she leans her weight on one hand next to your head and says, "That is, of course, if she doesn't leave me for Katie Lopez's magic fingers."

Van expects you to roll your eyes, slap her shoulder so she can say ouch! and dramatically rest her hand over the wounded spot. Instead, you slide your hand over hers where it's resting against your hip, intertwining your fingers together and smiling pretty, tilting your head. "Mmh, but I have the best fingers right here."

Van scoffs, playing amused rather than speechless because she's trying not to show you how much your words get to her. It's embarrassing how proud it makes her, how quickly she melts into the palm of your hand when you as much as imply that she's good at something, that you would pick her over everyone else, that you want her like she wants you. Praise from others makes her smile and say thank you, but praise from you reaches her core, makes her dizzy. Her lips feel dry and her tongue pokes out absentmindedly to lick them as you guide her hand up. Van barely registers the movement, too busy watching your face— how beautiful that she gets to see it all the time now, that she knows all the details like you know hers.

Her fingertips come to rest against your lips and her breath stutters as she tries desperately to maintain any sense of coolness or dignity or fucking something while you kiss each one, soft and attentive. She's thinking, is she insane for finding it as thrilling as she does, even after all these years? Do you know what you do to her? You can't possibly know, Van almost decides, but then you part your lips to slide two of her fingers into your mouth and she thinks that you do. You definitely know.

"F—fuck," she breathes out, and tries to remember her original plan to tease you but can't recall your old classmate's name. "You trying to butter me up?" She asks, her chuckle trembling but deep, from the back of her throat.

Her fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and Van groans. You hum, "Is it working?"

You're mean, evil. You're the sweetest thing she's ever seen. Two things can be true at once. You're a dream, and you're not like this for anyone else. The thought echoes through her skull, warm and infectious. Van smirks. "Yeah."

stomp on my heart why don’t you 😭😭

"The Best Parts of Me"

A CaitVi Comic

//TW: Major Character Death

Artwork by @sky-ham

Story by @oxenfreeao3

Commissioned by @/oxenfreeao3

heartachingggggg

𝐏. 𝐁 ─── MALIBU NIGHTS ˊ LANY

your marriage with paige has never been okay these days, despite her apologies and vows to change, the betrayals piled up, eroding your self worth, the breaking point comes when you discovered something explicit shared with her ex.

toxic paige. emotional distress. betrayal. cheating. unhealthy relationship.

masterlist ۶ৎ navigation ۶ৎ

Four years ago, you’d stood in a chapel bathed in golden light, your hands trembling as you slipped a ring onto paige’s finger.

her eyes, bright and unwavering, had promised you forever, her vows had been poetry, her voice steady as she swore to be your home, your safe harbor.

you’d believed her.

you’d wanted to believe her.

but forever, you’d learned, was a word too delicate for the weight of reality.

the first year was everything you’d dreamed. paige was a rising star, uconn’s golden girl, but to you, she was just paige—the woman who’d sneak you into the gym after hours, laughing as you fumbled her jump shot, her hands lingering on your hips to “correct your form.” she’d leave sticky notes on the fridge, scrawled with her messy handwriting

“you are my mvp, babe” or “meet me at our spot tonight—wear that dress i like.” you’d sit in the stands at her games, your voice hoarse from cheering, her winks from the court making your heart stutter.

nights were spent tangled in each other, whispering dreams under the glow of fairy lights strung across your bedroom.

the world was painted in hues of her love, and you were drunk on it.

but dreams don’t last, by the second year, the cracks began to spiderweb, paige’s fame exploded, and with it came a life you hadn’t signed up for. late nights turned into missed calls, her texts growing shorter, vaguer.

you’d wait up, the dinner you’d cooked congealing on the table, as she stumbled in at 3 a.m., reeking of whiskey and something sweeter, something that wasn’t yours.

the first time you caught her cheating, it was a text that lit up her phone while she showered “last night was fun. call me.” the words were explicit, undeniable.

you’d confronted her, your voice shaking, and she’d crumbled, tears streaming down her face. “i was drunk, baby, i swear it was a mistake” she’d sobbed, clutching your hands.

“i’ll do things different this time. i love you.” her blue eyes, so full of remorse, had convinced you to stay.

you loved her too much to let go.

you should have.

the second betrayal was a hotel receipt, tucked carelessly in her gym bag, dated for a night she’d claimed to be at practice.

you’d held it in your hands, the paper trembling, as she spun another story “it was a team thing, i swear, nothing happened.” you wanted to believe her, so you did.

the third time was a photo on a fan’s Instagram, paige’s arm slung around a woman at a club, her lips grazing her neck.

the caption read, “P. Bueckers living her best life.” when you showed her, she didn’t cry, she got angry, accused you of not trusting her.

but later, in the dark, she’d whispered “im sorry, baby. i’ll change. i promise.” you stayed, clinging to the memory of the girl who’d carved your initials into a tree by the lake, the girl who’d promised you the world.

each betrayal chipped away at you, leaving jagged edges where your confidence used to be.

you started doubting yourself—your looks, your touch, your worth.

paige’s apologies became a script, recited with less conviction each time.

you’d lie awake, her steady breathing beside you, wondering when love had become a battlefield.

but you stayed, because leaving meant admitting you’d lost her, and you weren’t ready to face that truth.

tonight, the truth found you.

you sat on the couch, paige’s phone in your hands, its screen glowing with a truth too raw to ignore.

she’d left it unlocked, a careless act of arrogance or indifference.

the messages were a punch to the gut, each word sharper than the last.

her ex—the ex, the one she’d sworn was “just a friend”—had sent a string of flirty texts, emojis and innuendos that made your stomach churn.

paige’s responses were worse. “send me something to make my night” she’d written, her words bold and shameless.

and then, the killing blow “she doesn’t do it for me anymore, you always knew how to make me feel alive.”

your breath caught, a sob trapped in your throat.

the room spun, the walls closing in.

four years of swallowing your pain, of excusing her lies, of hoping she’d choose you it all collapsed.

you weren’t enough.

you’d never been enough.

the realization wasn’t new, but it was final, a guillotine dropping on the last thread of your resolve.

you couldn’t do this anymore.

you couldn’t keep stitching yourself back together for someone who tore you apart with such ease.

the rain was merciless as you moved through the apartment, your movements mechanical, almost detached.

you packed a duffel bag—jeans, a few shirts, your toothbrush, the necklace your mother gave you before she passed, its silver pendant a reminder of a love that didn’t hurt.

you left the wedding ring on the kitchen counter, its diamond catching the dim light like a cruel taunt.

it felt like shedding a limb, but you couldn’t carry its weight anymore.

you didn’t write a note.

words felt pointless; she’d never listened to them anyway.

the door clicked shut behind you, and the rain stung your face as you stepped into the night.

your car was parked three blocks away, and you walked, the cold seeping through your jacket, soaking your hair.

each step was a severance, a cutting of ties to the life you’d built with her.

you saw flashes of memories—the picnic where she’d fed you strawberries, the road trip where you’d sung off key to old pop songs, the quiet mornings when she’d trace your spine and whisper “you’re my forever.”

those moments felt like lies now, tainted by her betrayals, you didn’t know where you’d go maybe your sister’s place in boston, maybe a cheap motel until you could think straight.

all you knew was you couldn’t stay, the city was a blur of neon and shadows, the rain blurring your vision as you reached your car.

you tossed the duffel into the backseat, your hands shaking as you gripped the steering wheel.

for a moment, you sat there, the engine off, the rain drumming on the roof.

a part of you wanted to go back, to believe one more promise, to hold onto the scraps of who you’d been together.

but then you saw her words again, burned into your mind “she doesn’t do it for me anymore.”

you turned the key, and the engine roared to life, paige’s car screeched into the parking lot an hour later.

she’d been at a bar, probably laughing with teammates, tossing back shots while you packed your life away.

the apartment was dark when she stumbled in, her sneakers squeaking on the hardwood, her breath tinged with tequila.

“babe?” she called, her voice slurred, expectant, silence answered, cold and final.

she flicked on the light, and her eyes landed on the ring.

it sat alone on the counter, a glint of accusation, her heart lurched, a sickening jolt of dread.

“no, no, no” she muttered, her steps unsteady as she crossed to the bedroom.

your closet was half empty, your favorite sweater the one she’d always teased you about gone.

the bathroom was barren, your toothbrush missing, your lavender shampoo absent, she tore through the apartment, yanking open drawers, flipping cushions, as if you might be hiding in some corner.

“fuck!” she screamed, her fist slamming into the wall, the drywall cracking under her knuckles.

the realization hit like a freight train you were gone.

not at a friend’s, not taking a drive to cool off, gone.

forever.

she grabbed her phone, scrolling through missed calls, finding nothing from you.

then she saw the open message thread, her own words to her ex glaring back at her like a confession.

“send me something to make my night.”

“she doesn’t do it for me anymore.”

“oh, God” she whispered, her knees buckling, she sank to the floor, the phone slipping from her hand.

she’d fucked up, again, but this time, you’d seen it all, and you’d chosen to walk away.

paige scrambled to her feet, panic overriding the alcohol in her veins, she ran back into the rain, her hoodie soaked in seconds.

“y/n!” she shouted, her voice raw, swallowed by the storm, she checked the parking lot, the street, the 24-hour diner two blocks away where you’d sometimes go to think.

nothing.

the rain blurred her vision, or maybe it was tears she couldn’t tell anymore. “come on, baby, where are you?” she muttered, sprinting toward your usual spots.

the park bench where you’d had your first date, the one she’d carved a heart into with her pocketknife.

empty.

the coffee shop you dragged her to on sundays, its windows fogged but lifeless.

closed. “fuck, fuck, FUCK!” she yelled, kicking a trash can, the metal clanging against the pavement, toppling into the street.

passersby stared, umbrellas bobbing, but she didn’t care.

she’d lost you.

the one person who’d seen her at her worst—her insecurities, her failures, her scars—and stayed.

the one person who’d loved her through every lie, every drunken mistake, every broken promise.

and she’d thrown it away for what? a fleeting ego boost? a cheap thrill that meant nothing the moment it was over?

she sank onto the curb, the rain pooling around her, soaking her jeans.

memories flooded in, unbidden and cruel.

your laugh when she’d tripped during a pickup game, sprawling on the court while you doubled over.

the way you’d trace her scars when she couldn’t sleep, your fingers soft against her skin. The promise in your vows, spoken under an arch of roses

“through everything, i choose you.” she’d broken that promise, over and over, until you finally chose yourself.

paige pulled out her phone, her hands shaking as she typed a frantic message “baby, please, im sorry, i’ll fix this. i swear i’ll never talk to her again, just come home.”

she sent it, then another, and another, each more desperate, her fingers slipping on the wet screen.

“i didn’t mean it, i love you, please, just tell me where you are.” the screen stayed silent, no read receipt, no reply, she didn’t know you’d already blocked her number, that you were miles away, staring out a bus window, the city lights blurring through your tears.

she stayed there, on the curb, the rain relentless, her sobs lost in the storm, she saw your face in every memory—your smile, your hurt, your quiet strength when you thought she wasn’t looking.

she’d had everything, and she’d lost it, the emptiness was a void, swallowing her whole, and as the storm raged on, she realized the truth, no amount of apologies, no promises of change, could bring you back.

you were gone, and the fault was hers alone, you leaned your head against the bus window, the cold glass a small anchor in the chaos of your heart.

the road stretched ahead, dark and endless, the rain trailing you like a shadow, your duffel bag sat at your feet, a meager collection of a life you’d left behind.

your phone buzzed once, an unknown number—probably paige, trying a friend’s phone—but you let it go to voicemail.

you couldn’t hear her voice, not now, not when it would only pull you back, the city faded into highways, then smaller roads, the lights dimming as you moved toward nowhere in particular.

you didn’t know what came next—a new city, a new job, a new version of yourself, the future was a blank page, terrifying but yours to write.

you thought of paige, of the girl she’d been, the one who’d made you believe in love, she was gone, replaced by someone who’d chosen fleeting highs over you.

and yet, the ache lingered, a bruise you’d carry for a while, you closed your eyes, the rain’s rhythm steadying your breath. “you’re enough” you whispered to yourself, the words fragile but true.

it wasn’t a cure, not yet, but it was a start, qnd as the bus carried you into the night, you felt the first stirrings of freedom,broken, yes, but free.

۶ৎ — @addl0vee @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp @avvwritesstufff @prettygirl-gabi @yailtsv @bebitts @heartsforari @usuallyshadowybasement @authentic-girl03 @private-but-not-a-secret @evanpeterstoe @destinybueckers44 @youmeandjennessey @starfulani @cherryswisherz @bueckersworld @paiges-1vur