I recommend reading the fanfic on which this headcanon is based c: (Click)
It took a long time, although the ideas for this headcanon came to me easily and quickly. But I am happy with the result.
8.8k words
ᥫ᭡ᥫ᭡ᥫ᭡ᥫ᭡
♡ After the official verdict is delivered — terminated, fined, banned from touching bow or arrow for a probationary period of no less than fifty years, stripped of trainee status — Alysa walks out of the Empyrean hearing chamber with her head held high, her wings trembling only slightly, and promptly bursts into tears the moment she reaches the mortal plane. She will never admit this. If you bring it up, she will claim it was "atmospheric moisture."
♡ The fine is astronomical. She is now in debt to the Empyrean Bureaucratic Council for an amount that, converted to human currency, would buy a small island. She reacts to this by developing an intense, almost pathological obsession with your budgeting app. She sits on the counter while you cook, your phone in her hands, frowning at the grocery category. "Do you know how much you spend on oat milk?" she asks, genuinely scandalized. "We could buy oat milk, or we could put a dent in my interplanar debt." You tell her you're going to keep buying oat milk. She adds this to her mental list of "Human Inefficiencies I Must Learn To Tolerate."
♡ Her wing maintenance becomes a shared ritual almost by accident. The first time she tries to groom them herself in your tiny bathroom, she knocks over the shower caddy, the towel rack, and a framed print you'd had since freshman year. You find her sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wings awkwardly half-spread, feathers poking into the shower curtain, looking so defeated that you grab a comb and ask what to do. Now it's a thing. Once a week, she sits on the floor in front of the couch, wings extended across your lap, and you work through the feathers section by section while she makes small, involuntary sounds of contentment she refuses to acknowledge. If you stop before she's ready, one wing will flap pointedly in your direction. She pretends it was a muscle spasm.(Its not a muscle spasm)
♡ She talks to inanimate objects constantly, a habit left over from being invisible for most of her existence and having no one else to talk to :c. Your toaster now has a name (Gertrude) and Alysa thanks it after every use. She apologizes to the coffee table when she bumps into it. One time you heard her muttering to a jar of pickles that wouldn't open, and the muttering was not frustration — it was a genuine, reasoned argument about the philosophical implications of being sealed. The pickle jar did not respond, but Alysa seemed satisfied with the conversation nonetheless.
♡ She loves tactile sensations. She pokes you on the cheek all the time, squeezes your cheeks, holds your hand, bites, and simply strokes your skin. In the Empyrean, creatures don't usually express feelings through touch and aren't as sociable as she is in general. That's precisely why she stood out from them and ended up in this situation. Perhaps fate decided to bring you together? Who knows. But you became what she always lacked. You see her. Those who saw her before you "didn't see" her anyway.
♡ Her relationship with your phone charger becomes a point of ongoing domestic tension. She doesn't have a phone, because she is a supernatural being who communicates through higher planes of existence, but she has decided that your phone charger is "the optimal perch accessory" and keeps stealing it to wrap around her wrist like a bracelet. You have bought three replacements. She has claimed all three. Your phone is constantly at four percent.
♡ She experiences her first thunderstorm as a corporeal, somewhat-human presence and reacts with undignified terror. She has spent millennia watching storms from the other side of reality, where lightning is just light and thunder is just sound. Now, suddenly, thunder is a physical sensation that vibrates through her wings, and lightning is bright enough to hurt her eyes, and the whole experience is so overwhelming that she wedges herself between the wall and the bed and refuses to come out. You end up sitting on the floor with her for two hours, her wings wrapped around you both in a feather fortress, while she flinches at every rumble and pretends she is not clinging to your arm. Later, she claims she was "protecting you from atmospheric discharge." (You don't answer her to that, because you know she's afraid)
♡ She writes letters to Instructor Callow that she will never send. You find one by accident, tucked into your copy of a book you haven't read in years, and the handwriting is precise and old-fashioned and the content is half apology, half defense, half something that sounds a lot like a daughter writing to a disappointed father. You put it back exactly where you found it and never mention it. A week later, it's gone, and Alysa is slightly more subdued than usual, and you both pretend nothing happened.
♡ Her understanding of human technology is wildly inconsistent, which makes perfect sense when you consider that she's been observing humanity for centuries but has never had to use a microwave. She can explain the complete political hierarchy of the Empyrean, the mechanics of love-magic, and the historical significance of three different extinct mortal civilizations, but she once stared at your electric kettle for forty-five seconds before asking, in a very small voice, "Where do you put the fire?" You think about this at least twice a week. She thinks the toaster is a portal to hell, and that's why toast appears.
♡ She develops an inexplicable, all-consuming feud with the pigeon that lives on your fire escape. The pigeon is entirely ordinary and, by all accounts, has done nothing wrong, but Alysa insists it "watches her with intent." She spends hours stationed by the window, wings twitching, glaring at this bird. "I am a celestial being," you hear her mutter. "I will not be intimidated by a glorified rat with wings." The pigeon coos. Alysa clenches jaw. She forbade you to feed the pigeons and is leading you away from them.
♡ She doesn't understand the concept of "lying down in bed normally." Every night, without exception, she waits until you are settled, then arranges herself directly on top of you — head on your chest or shoulder, legs tangled with yours, wings blanketing the entire bed and everything in it — with the methodical precision of a cat kneading a blanket. She is heavier than she looks, especially the wings, which have actual muscle and bone beneath the feathers. The first few nights you tried to gently shift her off. Now you've accepted that you will spend the rest of your life waking up slightly crushed and strangely warm. Sometimes you wake up to find she's wrapped a wing around your head, blocking out all light and sound, and you have to fight your way out like you're escaping a very soft tomb.
♡ She steals clothes(obviously). Not intentionally — it starts with her borrowing a hoodie because "mortal dwellings are unreasonably cold" and the Bureau confiscated her climate-adaptive tunic — but it escalates quickly, because your clothes smell like you and she is a creature driven by sensory input in her newly physical form. You will open your drawer to find your favorite sweater missing and discover her curled up inside it, wings poking through slits she definitely made with scissors while you were asleep. Confrontation yields no remorse. "You have other sweaters," she says. "I have only this one." It's your sweater. She has appropriated it with the unassailable logic of someone who has decided that sharing means "mine, and also some of it is yours, but mostly mine."
♡ Her cooking skills are nonexistent in the most alarming way possible. She was not required to eat in the Empyrean. Food was optional, aesthetic, a sensory indulgence for higher beings. Now she has a mortal appetite and absolutely no framework for what is edible. You once caught her trying to eat a raw potato like an apple. She argued that it was "crunchy and hydrating" and seemed genuinely confused about why this was incorrect. You now handle all cooking. She has been promoted to Assistant Vegetable Washer, a role she performs with intense, slightly unnerving focus. (It's dangerous to give her a knife)
♡ She gets attached to the ugliest throw blanket you own — a lumpy, pilled, faded thing you've had since high school and keep only because it's warm. This becomes her nest. She wraps it around herself constantly, over the hoodie she stole from you, and stalks around the apartment looking like a very beautiful, very strange ghost with wings poking out of the blanket folds. She calls it "the artifact." You call it "that ratty thing." She made you apologize to it once. She named this blanket "Harry".
♡ Fireworks. This is the worst thing that has happened to her in her entire immortal life. The first time fireworks scared her so much that she cried. You comforted her all night and stroked her head as she cuddled with you. Later, you took her with you to a festival where fireworks were supposed to start. You taught her for a long time not to be afraid of fireworks and... it worked. It worked because you were there and held her hand, and she sat next to you and watched the fireworks. You looked at her, at her profile, at her facial features, and how she looked like a sculpture. (People at the festival sometimes looked at you. You stared into the void with a soft smile as fireworks exploded in front of you. But no one dared to approach)
♡ She misses flying. This is a quiet, unspoken thing that lives in the corners of your apartment and the way she looks at the window sometimes. Her wings still work — she can hover, she can glide across the room — but the Bureau's disciplinary measures included a flight restriction. No sustained aerial activity. No altitude above roof level. Her wings are effectively grounded, and some days you find her standing at the window with them half-spread, feathers brushing the glass, looking at the sky with an expression that predates language. On those days, you don't say anything. You just stand beside her and wait until she folds her wings back down and returns to the world. One time, she reaches for your hand without looking. You hold it for an hour. At night, when you can't fall asleep, you notice her wings twitching. She dreams of flying and falling.
♡ On one of the days, she stole your new notebook, which was intended for llecture. Like all celestial beings, she has a wonderful ability to write poems and verses. She wrote her thoughts, her feelings, how she spent her day in this notebook. And you. You found the notebook while she was eating in the kitchen and glanced inside. She wrote about how where she was born, no one thought about people more than work. When she was still studying, she always asked her peers about people, and they always answered as it was written in books. But no one ever warned her that people have feelings that cupids do not possess. To love. To be sad. To care. At the Academy, everyone strove for their own goals, and no one helped each other if it wasn't necessary. Sometimes the sentences are cut off, possibly because it is difficult for her to find words, associations, or she simply cannot describe her feelings. Especially in lines about you. She tries to describe your appearance, but cannot compare. She remembers her homeland, but even heavenly beauty cannot compare to you. Because with you, in this small and modest apartment, she learned what home is. On the edges, she carefully draws a square so that her text doesn't interfere, and draws you inside the square. Not perfectly, almost childishly, but very diligently. Sometimes, she allows herself to draw her and you together. Her, with wings and a bow, arrows, and you, looking tired, as usual after all the lectures, and angry pigeons. But what she describes most often is how your hands feel on her skin. She is used to the cold, to her skin being touched only by the wind. She didn't know what it was like to be touched for affection, for care, for the expression of feelings and emotions, and not for a question or a report. She describes you as warmth. But not temperature. A warmth she has never felt. But what causes the strangest feeling in chest is that she writes all the time about how she spent her day. Sometimes something new, sometimes something mundane, but always "she went to university, I stood at the door and waited for her." She has no problem with time, because she can stand there all day and not lose time, because she is immortal. But the fact that she stands at the door and waits for you, instead of occupying herself with something, makes you think. You put the notebook back and pretend you never read it. Now you try to come back from university earlier.
♡ She is, despite everything, absurdly, impossibly, irreversibly in love with you. It's in the way she steals your food and wears your clothes and crushes you in her sleep and argues with pigeons and steals your phone charger and writes you into her notebook in crossed-out poetry you were never meant to read. It's in the way she chose you — accidentally, at first, and then, every day after, on purpose. She never says it outright. She doesn't have to. The weight of her wings draped over you in the dark says it for her, every single night.
♡ She develops a habit of perching. Not sitting — perching. You will come home to find her balanced on the back of the couch like a gargoyle, wings half-spread for equilibrium, reading one of your textbooks upside down. When you ask why, she says, "Chairs are a mortal construct. I am adapting." You point out that the couch has actual cushions designed for sitting. She looks at the cushions with deep suspicion and does not move. The couch-back perch becomes her official daytime station. You've started leaving a pillow up there for her. She pretends not to notice, but the pillow is always slightly warm when you get home.
♡ Her first experience with spicy food is a disaster of mythic proportions. You made stir-fry with chili flakes, a completely normal amount, and she took one bite before her entire face went red and her wings snapped open so fast they knocked a picture frame off the wall. "My mouth," she gasped, "is under attack." She drank an entire carton of oat milk directly from the container while you watched, torn between concern and helpless laughter. Now she eyes every meal you cook with the wary vigilance of a bomb disposal expert. "Is it angry?" she asks, pointing at your dinner. You have to reassure her, every time, that no, the pasta is not angry, the pasta is pesto, they just sound similar.
♡ She discovers the concept of "lazy Sundays" and embraces it with the fervor of a religious convert. In the Empyrean, every day was structured, purposeful, accountable. Here, you have days where nothing happens, and this blows her mind. The first Sunday you spend together doing absolutely nothing — staying in pajamas, watching bad TV, eating cereal for lunch — she lies on the floor with her wings spread out like a white rug and stares at the ceiling in a state of what she later describes as "transcendent purposelessness." Now she demands Sundays. "It's Sunday," she will announce, blocking your path to the desk. "The rules are different. Return to the pajamas." It was Monday.
♡ She gets jealous of your houseplants. You have a monstera in the corner that you water every Tuesday, and every Tuesday Alysa watches you do it with narrowed eyes, her feathers slightly ruffled. "You speak to it," she says, as if this is incriminating evidence. You do, in fact, say "hello, beautiful" to the monstera sometimes. You didn't realize she was keeping track. One day you come home and the monstera has been moved three inches to the left. Just slightly. Just enough to be wrong. Alysa claims ignorance. Her expression is perfectly innocent. One of her wing feathers is caught on the pot. Sometimes she expresses her feelings to Harry that the monstera is not worthy of you.
♡ Her understanding of personal space, which was already theoretical, deteriorates entirely after the first month. The concept simply… dissolves. She walks into the bathroom while you're brushing your teeth because she "had a thought" and "wanted to share it while it was fresh." She opens the shower curtain to ask if you've seen her notebook. She stands directly behind you while you cook, her chin on your shoulder, her wings folded around you both, narrating your cooking like a nature documentary. "The human approaches the onion," she murmurs. "A bold choice. Dangerous. Note the protective eyewear — ah, she forgot it. Tragedy imminent." You cry over the onion. She says "I told you so" with her wings.
♡ She steals your shampoo. She doesn't have hair that needs washing at a human frequency, but she has decided that smelling like you is a non-negotiable requirement of existence. You buy a new bottle and it's half-empty within four days.
♡ The first time you cry in front of her — bad day, stress, everything piling up — she panics so completely that she forgets how to speak English for a solid thirty seconds. The sound that comes out of her is a string of Empyrean syllables that sound like wind chimes and distress. Then she wraps herself around you — arms, legs, wings, the full crushing Alysa Special — and stays there, silent and trembling slightly, for two hours. She doesn't try to fix it. She doesn't give you advice. She just holds you with every limb she has, a fortress of feathers and warmth, until your breathing evens out. When you finally pull back, her face is wet too. You don't mention it. She doesn't either. But from that day forward, the crushing Alysa Special appears within thirty seconds of any sign you might be sad, even if you're just frowning at a difficult paragraph in your textbook.
♡ She starts referring to the apartment as "the nest." Not in a cute, metaphorical way — in a literal, biological, "this is our territory and I will defend it" way. The mail carrier who shoves packages too aggressively through the slot gets a full-wing intimidation display that he cannot see but somehow, viscerally, feels. He starts leaving your packages on the doorstep instead of forcing them through. Alysa is inordinately proud of this. "The nest is secure," she reports. "You're welcome."
♡ She discovers glitter. You don't know where she found it. You don't know why she thought it was a good idea. All you know is that you come home one day and your apartment looks like a craft store exploded and Alysa is sitting in the center of the chaos, absolutely covered in shimmering particles, her white wings now approximately forty percent glitter by volume. "I wanted to be shiny," she says, as if this explains everything. It takes three weeks to get the glitter out of the feathers. You find sparkles in your bed, your food, your textbooks, your hair. Months later, in moments of direct sunlight, Alysa still shimmers faintly. She loves it. You have accepted your sparkly fate.
♡ She writes a ten-page essay titled "The Ethics of Involuntary Love-Magic: A Case Study in Personal Error and Systemic Reform." It's dense, academic, and absolutely scathing about Empyrean training protocols. She doesn't send it to anyone. She just gives it to you to read, hovering anxiously while you flip through the pages, her wings twitching at every facial expression you make. When you tell her it's brilliant, she cries. Then she makes you promise never to tell Callow she cried. Then she steals your snack from the fridge and eats it in front of you, tears still drying on her cheeks, because emotional vulnerability must be balanced with petty theft. It's her process.
♡ She learns what a forehead kiss is and becomes obsessed. The first time you kiss her forehead — absentminded, on your way to the kitchen — she freezes like a statue, wings locked mid-twitch, eyes wide. You have to ask if she's okay. She whispers, "Do that again." Now it's a requirement. Every morning. Every night. Every time you leave the apartment and every time you come back. Sometimes she just wanders up to you and tilts her head down, pointing at her forehead with an expression of regal expectation. The former Cupid, the celestial being, the immortal entity who once shaped the romantic destinies of mortals — stands in your kitchen in your stolen hoodie, demanding forehead kisses like a cat demanding chin scratches.
♡ She has another nemesis. It is the smoke detector. It went off exactly once, when you burned toast, and the sound — a piercing, mortal-engineered shriek — sent her diving behind the couch with her wings wrapped around her head like a cocoon. She has never forgiven it. Now she glares at it whenever she passes. "I havefaced down the Bureaucratic Council of the Empyrean," she mutters to the small white disc on the ceiling. "You are a plastic circle with a battery."( The smoke detector does not rrespond)
♡ Late at night, when the apartment is dark and her wings are draped over you like a weighted blanket and the city outside is quiet, she talks about the Empyrean. The gardens. The way the light bent through the crystal trees. The way the wind smelled like morning, always, even at midnight. She tells you about the libraries where books wrote themselves as you read them, the rivers that sang in harmonies only Cupids could hear, the fields of silver grass where she used to lie on her back and watch the sky change colors. Her voice is soft and distant and aching. You listen without interrupting, your hand moving slowly through her feathers, and she talks until her voice trails off into sleep. She never talks about the Empyrean during the day. Only in the dark. Only to you. You hold these stories like something fragile, something precious, something given. But she doesn't talk about other Cupids. They were not as sociable and open as she was, so they didn't take her seriously.
♡ You are a being she cherishes too much. All the celestial beings she was familiar with before treated her with condescension, neglect, and irritation. She sometimes had to trail after her determined groupmates and ask something. You, on the other hand, could easily communicate with your groupmates and friends. Sometimes, more often than she should, she gets jealous. She sees you interacting with friends, hugging them, smiling at them. Without realizing it, she constantly reaches for your hand to squeeze the fabric of your hoodie or to hold your hand. One day, she squeezes your hand and doesn't let go. Tears stream down her eyes. " Please promise me that you will be only with me. No one else. Promise that I will be your only one, even if I can't give you anything but myself. Please." Her voice trembled on the last word. She practically begged you. And you swore to her that you would only be with her.
♡ The first snow catches Alysa completely off guard. She stands at the window, palms pressed to the glass, wings slightly lifted, watching the white flakes fall from the grey sky with an expression that can only be described as reverent horror mixed with childlike wonder. "Frozen water is falling from the sky," she whispers. "Millions of tiny crystals. And humans just… walk on them? Like it's normal?" She refuses to go outside for the first hour. By the second hour, she is standing barefoot in a snowdrift because she "wanted to feel the texture," and her wings are dusted with snowflakes that don't melt, because the temperature of her feathers runs lower than human body temperature. You drag her back inside, wrap her in a heated blanket, and ply her with hot tea. She shivers, but she smiles like she's witnessed a miracle. From this day forward, winter is her favorite season.
♡ She does not understand the concept of "dressing for the weather." You can explain layers, thermal underwear, moisture-wicking fabrics, but she looks at you like you're speaking a dead language and then walks out into the freezing cold in your stolen hoodie and shorts. Her wings offer some insulation — the feathers contract, trapping heat — but her legs and arms still go numb. She returns from her walks with blue lips and absolutely radiant. You buy her her own winter coat with wing slits that you make yourself, because such a thing does not exist in nature. She wears it every day. She sleeps in it, if you don't stop her.
♡ The pigeon on the fire escape vanishes with the coming of the cold, and Alysa declares victory in their war with the triumph of someone who has personally conquered a continent. "I knew it," she says, pacing the apartment like a general. "Perseverance and resolve. The bird understood who it was dealing with." You do not remind her that pigeons migrate or shelter in warmth. You give her this victory. A week later, she starts to worry about whether the pigeon froze. You find her sitting by the window with breadcrumbs in her palm, staring at the empty fire escape with an expression suspiciously close to concern. "He was a worthy adversary," she says quietly. "I don't want him to suffer." You kiss her forehead and tell her pigeons have been surviving winters for thousands of years. She scoffs and pretends not to care. But she leaves the breadcrumbs on the windowsill. Just in case.
♡ The heating in your studio apartment is unreliable, and on especially cold nights the temperature drops low enough to see your breath. Alysa responds by turning your bed into a feather cocoon that blocks out everything — light, sound, cold air. You sleep at the center of this construction, wrapped in her body and wings like a living sleeping bag. It's the warmest thing you have ever experienced. In the mornings you don't want to crawl out, and she doesn't make you — just lies there, murmuring something Empyrean into the crown of your head until the sun rises high enough to warm the room.
♡ She discovers hot chocolate. This becomes a problem. Not financially — you're willing to buy cocoa in bulk, that's fine — but logistically. She drinks it by the liter. She adds marshmallows, cinnamon, whipped cream, and one time, in a fit of experimental madness, a pinch of cayenne pepper, after which she declares she has "recreated the taste of sunset over the Crystal Gardens." You don't know if that's true, but cayenne hot chocolate becomes her signature drink. She makes it for you every evening. You're not sure you like the taste of sunset, but you drink every cup to the dregs because she glows every time you do.
♡ Before the New Year, you decorated the walls, the tree, and other things. She was so happy, happier than any child. She took the transformation of the house with complete seriousness and made sure that everything was perfect. She even decorated you (she wrapped tinsel around you)
♡ She builds a snowman. It's lopsided. It has pebbles for eyes because you couldn't find coal, and a twig for a nose because the carrot froze and snapped. Alysa names it "The Threshold Guardian" and demands you treat it with respect. She bows to the snowman every time she leaves the apartment. The neighbors give you strange looks — they can only see you, standing beside a girl they cannot see, bowing to a crooked snowman. You have stopped explaining. You simply live with it.
♡ On the coldest night of the year, she tells you that she used to sing. In the Empyrean. Before the training, before the field work, before the bow and arrows. She was in the choir that greeted the dawn over the Crystal Gardens, and her voice was part of the harmony that made the flowers bloom open. She hasn't sung since she was dismissed. You ask her to sing now. She's silent for a long time, staring at a candle on the windowsill, and you're already sure she'll refuse. Then she starts — quiet, uncertain, in a language you don't know. Her voice trembles on the first notes, but it gains strength with every word. When she finishes, the room is silent, and the snow outside is falling thicker, as if the world had been listening too. "I miss it," she whispers. "But here, I miss it less." You pull her into your arms and hold her until the candle burns out.
♡ She gives you a Midwinter gift — a feather from her own wing. Not a shed one. She pulled it out herself, and you know it hurt, because it's from the very edge, one of the flight feathers, and there's still a tiny bead of silvery, non-human blood at the tip. She places it in your palm as carefully as if it were the most fragile thing in the world. "This is a part of me," she says. "Now it's yours. If you ever lose me, if I disappear, if the Bureau decides… This will stay. It won't vanish. It's real." You can't speak. You just close your fist around the feather and pull her close, and you stand there in the silence while the snow falls outside.
♡ You taught her to make snow angels. To your surprise, she leaves a trail in the snow. She enjoys this activity, but afterwards she shivers to the bone, even though you told her to dress warmly. At home, she presses her cold body against you, warming the two of you with her wings, with an old "Harry" blanket. At this time, she tells you that she would like to dedicate herself to winter someday. She would like to become a person, to love winter and snow. Perhaps, in another world, she would like to become a figure skater.
♡ Somewhere around the second year of living together, you notice the change. Not a sharp one — Alysa doesn't shift overnight, she doesn't change outwardly at all — but noticeable nonetheless. She's become… closer. Not just physically (though that too), but in a different way, a deeper way. She used to be able to let you go — to class, to work, to meet up with friends — with a small sigh and a murmured reminder to "come back soon." Now she stands in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the frame, wings slightly drooped, and in her eyes is a longing she's desperately trying to hide. "You won't be long, right?" she asks, and her voice is too even, too calm to be real. You kiss her forehead and promise you'll be back in two hours. She nods, but you know — she will be counting the minutes. She will wait at the door and write about it in her notebook.
♡ The jealousy arrives without warning and completely blindsides her. There was no jealousy in the Empyrean — Cupids don't experience emotions, they trigger them. Alysa has absolutely no idea what to do with this hot, unpleasant feeling that flares in her chest when you laugh at the barista's joke, or when a classmate's hand lingers too long on your shoulder, or when you mention someone's name with warmth in your voice. She gets angry at the feeling itself. "It's not okay," she says one evening, lying on top of you with her face pressed into your neck. "I know you're mine. I know you come back to me every night. But when someone looks at you, I want to…" She trails off. "What?" you ask. "Spread my wings," she whispers. "Full span. So they understand." You stroke her hair and tell her it's normal. She scoffs. "Normal for humans. I'm not human." But it helps.
♡ At night, often, she opens her eyes and looks at your face for a long time, studying your features. Sometimes she runs her fingertips over your skin, snuggles closer, inhales your scent, and looks at your sleeping face. She is immortal. You are not. She is afraid of not hearing your breath one day.
♡ Your friends notice that something about you has changed. Chloe says you've become more… absent. Not in a bad way — just that sometimes you stare into empty space and smile, or answer a beat too late, as if you're listening to someone else. "Are you okay?" she asks. "Yeah," you say. "Just zoned out." You can't tell her that Alysa is standing right behind your shoulder, murmuring commentary about everyone who walks past into your ear. "That man looked at you twice," Alysa mutters, her breath tickling your neck. "His aura is the color of stale soup." You choke on a laugh. Chloe gives you a bewildered look. You take a sip of coffee and explain nothing.
♡ She becomes possessive in the smallest ways. Your mug — now her favorite, and she will only drink from it, even when the others are clean. Your side of the bed — now her side if you get up first, because "it's warm and smells like you." Your daily schedule — she's memorized it and starts to fret if you're fifteen minutes late. "You said you'd be home at six," she says, meeting you at the door, wings folded, arms crossed. "It's six-seventeen." You apologize, explain the traffic, hold out a box of cookies as a peace offering. She takes the cookies, but she still hugs you a second longer than usual, and her wings wrap around you so tightly you feel every feather.
♡ You can no longer cook with garlic. Not because you have an allergy, but because Alysa refuses to kiss you after garlic. "It's an assault on the olfactory senses," she declares, scooting to the far edge of the bed with the air of an offended queen. You laugh and tell her humans have been eating garlic for millennia, and it's fine. "Humans also eat raw fish and call it a delicacy," she retorts. "I don't trust human tastes." You eat the garlic pasta anyway. She doesn't kiss you for two hours. But at night she presses against you just as tightly as always, nose buried in your shoulder, and you know — she was just waiting for the smell to fade.
♡ She gets jealous even of your thoughts. Once, you were lost in thought, staring at the ceiling, and you didn't answer her question the first time. Alysa immediately loomed over you, wings blocking the lamplight, her face inches from yours. "Where were you?" she demanded. "I was right here," you said, bewildered. "Just thinking." "About what?" You hesitated, because the truth was something mundane — a deadline, a grocery list, the need to change the batteries in the smoke detector. "About you," you said, and it wasn't entirely a lie, because you're always thinking about her somewhere in the background. Her wings relaxed. "Good," she said, and settled back onto the bed. "You may continue."
♡ She hates your phone. Not the phone itself — but how long you sometimes look at it. "You spend more time with that rectangle than you spend with me," she says one day, and her voice carries such genuine hurt that you immediately set the phone aside. It turns out she's been keeping count. She has a mental log where she tracks how many minutes you spend on the screen and compares them to the minutes you spend on her. You don't ask about the results. You just institute a rule: after eight in the evening, the phone goes in the desk drawer, and you belong entirely to her. She blooms. Literally — her feathers get glossier, her wings lift slightly, like she's ready to take flight from happiness.
♡ The jealousy toward Chloe becomes the most complicated. Alysa knows Chloe is your best friend. She knows there has never been anything between you. She knows the spark she herself tried to plant has long since faded. But Chloe can touch you in public. Chloe can hug you when you meet. Chloe can sit with you in a café and laugh, and no one looks at her strangely. Alysa cannot. Alysa stands invisible two steps away, fists clenched, feathers bristling with tension, and she says nothing, but you feel that gaze on your skin. After every meet-up with Chloe, she's quieter than usual. She clings to you tighter. She asks — casually, far too casually — "Did you have a good time?" You sit down beside her, take her face in your hands, and say, "I love you. Only you. Always you." She closes her eyes and exhales. "I know," she whispers. "I just… remind me sometimes."
♡ "You're mine," she says one day, and it doesn't sound like a question. "I've learned this now. To love is to know that you're mine."
♡ People stare at you strangely all the time. It's not surprising because they only see you, not Cupid complaining about pigeons in the street. You smile into the void, placing part of the food in the empty spot next to you.
♡ At cafés, you always take the corner table, and you always order two drinks. One for yourself, one that you place on the opposite edge of the table and never touch. Alysa drinks hers when no one is looking — or rather, when no one can see her. You've learned to time it carefully. The barista thinks you're waiting for someone who never shows up. One day she asks, with careful politeness, "Is your friend still running late?" You smile and say, "No, she's here." The barista looks at the empty chair, at the untouched latte, at you, anddoesn't ask again.
♡ In public, you sometimes forget yourself. You're walking down the street and suddenly you smile — because Alysa said something funny, because her wing brushed your shoulder, because she pointed at a pigeon with the expression of an offended aristocrat. You laugh into empty space, and passersby turn their heads. Some smile back — a nice girl, probably listening to a podcast or remembering something pleasant. Some frown. An elderly woman once asked if you were feeling all right. "Yes," you answered, still smiling. "Just a good day." Alysa, standing beside you, beamed.
♡ Your coworkers notice that you sometimes stare into an empty corner of the room and nod. "Are you talking to someone?" a colleague asks, glancing into the same corner. There's nothing there. "Myself," you say. "Thinking out loud. It helps." The colleague accepts this explanation, because people tend to accept plausible explanations. But you're not thinking out loud. You're answering Alysa, who is sitting on the windowsill critiquing your work, her wings trailing down to the floor.
♡ The neighbors are a whole separate story. You've lived in this apartment for several years now, and some of them have noticed odd things. Music playing when you're not home (Alysa figured out how to work your playlist). The sound of wings, like wind, even though the windows are shut. A silhouette in the window — tall, with something like enormous wings behind it — visible when you forget to close the curtains. One neighbor asked if you keep a large bird. You said no. She didn't believe you. Now she eyes you with suspicion whenever you meet in the elevator. Alysa, standing behind you, stares back at her with regal disdain.
♡ You can't take normal photos anymore. Every picture where you're alone, you come out slightly out of focus — as if the camera is trying to capture something else, something just behind your shoulder, and can't quite manage it. Friends joke that you have an "aura" or a "ghost in the shot." You laugh along with them. You don't tell them it's not a ghost. It's a girl who insisted on being in every photo, even if no one can see her. "I want to be part of your life," she said. "Even the part that other people can see."
♡ The strangest thing is when someone accidentally walks through Alysa. She's intangible to everyone but you, but when a person passes through her wing, they shiver — like a draft, like a sudden chill, like something they have no name for. Once, on the subway, a man walked straight through her spread wing and froze, looking around with an expression of deep bewilderment. "What was that?" he muttered. Alysa sniffed. "Rude," she said. "He could have apologized." You hid your smile in your scarf.
♡ Dating. Oh, dating. You don't go on dates anymore, but once, in the very beginning, you tried — out of inertia, because everyone around you said you should. It was a catastrophe. Alysa would sit at the next table and comment on every word your date said. "His aura is the color of swamp water." "He doesn't wash his hands thoroughly enough, I saw in the men's room." "Ask him about his views on household chore distribution. Now." You choked on laughter, your date had no idea what was happening, and the evening ended in awkward goodbyes. After the third attempt, you surrendered. "You're impossible," you told Alysa. "I'm protecting our interests," she replied, her wings spreading in victory. " You are still mine, don't forget "
Time.
♡ You don't notice it right away. A year passes, two, five — and you realize Alysa isn't changing. Not a single new wrinkle, not a single grey hair in her dark strands. Her face remains exactly the same as the day you first saw her beneath the atrium ceiling — young, frightened, beautiful. You bring it up at breakfast, trying to keep your voice light, almost joking. "Do you even age?" Alysa freezes with a piece of toast in her hand. Her wings press flat against her back. "No," she answers quietly, and in that single word there is an abyss. It's the first time you talk about it. Not the last.
♡ Thirty. Your temples aren't touched by grey yet, but fine little rays of lines are gathering around your eyes — lines Alysa calls "laugh tracks" and kisses every morning with particular tenderness. You're still young, still full of energy, but somewhere deep inside, the awareness is already ticking: she hasn't changed a single day. Her skin still just as smooth, her movements still just as light, her wings still just as snow-white. You watch her sometimes when she's not looking and try to imagine what she'll look like in ten years. The answer is always the same: exactly the same. It's terrifying and comforting in equal measure.
♡ Forty. You find your first grey hair and pluck it out while Alysa isn't watching. She notices anyway — she always notices everything that concerns you — and finds you in the bathroom with tweezers in one hand and that treacherous silver strand in the other. She doesn't say anything. She just takes the tweezers from you, cups your face in her palms, and kisses your forehead very, very slowly. "You're beautiful," she says. "Always. At every stage." You cry. She holds you until you stop. The next day, you notice she's gathered your grey hairs — the ones you missed — and woven a thin silver thread into a strand near her own temple. "Now they're mine too," she says, shrugging as if it means nothing.( It means everything)
♡ Fifty. Your peers are marrying, divorcing, having children who are already finishing university. Your mother asks why you're still alone. Chloe, who never learned the full truth but has learned to accept your strangeness, gently asks if you'd like to "meet someone." You smile and say that you're not alone. You've never been alone. They don't understand, but they stop asking. Alysa is standing behind you as they say these things, invisible to them, her wing brushing your shoulder, and you feel the warmth even through your clothes. "I'm here," she says, though you already know. "I'm always here."
♡ Sixty. Your hands start to tremble when you groom her feathers. It's barely noticeable — a faint tremor that comes and goes — but Alysa feels it with every cell of her unchanging body. She takes the comb from your fingers and replaces it with a warm mug of tea. "Let me do it myself today," she says, but she's not good at it alone — the wings are too large, the angles too awkward. You help her anyway. You manage together, slowly, clumsily, like two people learning all over again how to do something that was once simple. You laugh about it. The laughter turns into coughing, the coughing turns into silence. At night, she presses against you tighter than usual, her wings wrapping around you like a shroud, like a shield, like a promise — I won't let go, I won't let go, I won't let go.
♡ Seventy. Your body is a map of the life you've lived. Wrinkles, creases, scars, age spots that Alysa calls "constellations" and names in Empyrean. On your left forearm, you have a cluster of freckles she named "The Three Sisters" — after a star system visible only from the highest tower of the Empyrean — and when she kisses that spot, you don't feel old. You feel sacred. She hasn't changed. Her face is the face of the girl she was the day you met. Sometimes that hurts. More often, it doesn't. More often, you just look at her and think: how lucky I am that I get to see this, that I get to know this, that this miracle chose me.
♡ Eighty. You can no longer walk as easily as you used to. Alysa carries you in her arms — literally. Her arms lift you as carefully as if you were made of smoke, her wings create a cushion of air, and you hover a foot above the floor, wrapped in her body, as she carries you from bed to armchair and back. You protest — "I'm not an invalid, I'm just slow." She ignores you with regal Empyrean haughtiness. "You carried me," she says, and she doesn't mean with her body, she means with her heart, her life, everything you gave her. "Now it's my turn." You surrender. Her wings smell like snow and something not of this world, and you feel safer than you ever have.
♡ Ninety-two. You look like a raisin, and you know it. Your skin is parchment, your fingers are knotted twigs, your voice is a whisper the wind could carry away at any moment. But you're still here, and she's still here, and that's the only thing that matters. Your nieces and nephews — Chloe's children, because you never had children of your own — come to visit you once a week. They've grown used to you talking to empty space. "Grandma's talking to her angel," the youngest one said once, and everyone laughed, because it sounded like a sweet old-person quirk. Only you and Alysa knew it was the truth. Alysa glowed for the rest of the day.
♡ Ninety-eight. You can barely see and barely hear, but you can still feel. You feel the weight of her wings on your body every night. You feel her forehead kisses — more of them than ever, as if she's trying to fit an eternity into every touch. You feel her fingers laced with yours, young and strong, holding your old, trembling hands as if they are the fragile thing in need of protection. "I'm scared," you whisper one night. You don't specify what you're scared of — death, loneliness, oblivion, the unknown — because you're scared of all of it at once. Alysa is silent for a long time. Then she says, "Me too. But I won't leave. I'll be here until the very end. And after." You don't know what "after" means. Maybe she doesn't either. But her voice sounds so certain that you believe her.
♡ One hundred. You never thought you'd live to a hundred. No one did. The nurses at the hospice call you a miracle, and you laugh — quietly, raspingly, because laughter is harder now — because they don't know the half of what made your life miraculous. You're surrounded by people who love you — nieces, great-nieces and nephews, their children, tiny great-great-niblings you held in your arms when they were newborns. They look at you with love, but also with a kind of wonder — how you've lived so long, how you've stayed so serene, how you never complained of loneliness even though you never had a partner. "I have someone," you say, when someone finally gathers the courage to ask. They think you mean God. You mean the girl with white wings standing in the corner of the room, smiling at you through tears.
♡ You leave in your sleep, quiet and peaceful, like snow falling to rest. Alysa is holding your hand. She was singing to you — that same song, the Empyrean dawn hymn — and your breathing slowed, slowed, until it became silence. She doesn't scream. Doesn't cry — not yet. She just sits there, holding your hand as it slowly cools in her fingers, her wings wrapped around the both of you, just like that very first winter when she was terrified of the thunderstorm and you held her on the bathroom floor. Now everything is reversed. Now she is the one holding you.
♡ She vanishes from the human world that same night. The magical bond no longer holds her here. The Bureau no longer holds her here. Nothing holds her here anymore except memory and love, which didn't end with death. She goes where Cupids go when their time among mortals is done. But before she leaves, she places something on your pillow. A white feather — long, a flight feather, with a silver shimmer — and a note, written in your native language, in that same old-fashioned handwriting she once used for letters to Callow.
"Thank you for seeing me. I will come again. Wait for me in the gardens."
♡ Your relatives find the feather and the note when they go through your belongings. They don't understand. They turn the feather over in their hands, wondering what kind of bird it could have come from to be so large and so white — no bird they know has feathers with a silver sheen. They read the note aloud, and someone suggests it must be an old love letter from someone you knew in your youth. They're wrong only in the details. It is a love letter. It is old and new all at once — written on the last night of your life and somehow still smelling of snow and morning. They place it in a box with other important papers. A generation from now, no one will remember where it came from. But the feather will not decay. The feather will lie in that box, white, silver-edged, untouched by time — a small miracle that refused to disappear.
♡ Somewhere in the gardens of the Empyrean — those very gardens where crystal trees bend the light, where rivers sing in harmonies, where the wind always smells like morning — a girl with white wings stands at the threshold and waits. She looks exactly the same as the day you first saw her. Young face, enormous brown eyes, silver bow finally returned to her hands. She waits. She has always been waiting. And when you appear — young, radiant, at the very age you were when you met — she doesn't say anything. She just opens her wings. And you step into them, like an embrace, like a home, like forever. And there is no snow falling, but the air smells like snow. And somewhere in the distance, someone is singing the dawn hymn. And everything is right. Everything is finally right.
"Thank you for meeting me. Thank you for seeing me."
could you do yearner amber being in reader’s concert? reader is in a band and alysa is like a fan of the band so she takes amber and isabeau to the concert and then amber saw reader getting a bit close to the singer (reader is the guitarist btw) and amber gets a little jealous and all? she approaches reader after the concert while alysa and isabeau are like asking for pics and yk and thenn yeahhhh you go ahead with whatever ending:)))
Amber Glenn x female reader
Amber x guitarist! reader
I thought about this request for a long time and couldn't come up with anything, but Pinterest saved me as usual. It turned out to be easier than I thought. :p
𖤋𖤋𖤋
The bar is called "The Rusty Nickel"(random), and it's the kind of place with low ceilings and air thick with sweat and breath, smelling of spilled beer and lemon cleaning fluid. Tonight it's packed to the walls, bodies swaying in the dim coloured lights, and you're up on the tiny stage, tuning your guitar, feeling the heat of the crowd roll toward you along with the hum of voices. The low E string hums under your fingers, and that familiar sound anchors you before the set begins.
Alysa has been talking about this concert for weeks. She found your band on some indie playlist, got completely obsessed, and played your tracks in the locker room over and over until Isabeau had memorised every chorus and started humming them under her breath at practice. Amber agreed to come because Alysa asked in that particular tone of hers that's impossible to refuse, and because it was a Friday night with nothing pressing, and because, if she's being honest, she genuinely liked the deep, moody bass sound on that first track Alysa sent her. That was the explanation she gave herself, and it was enough to get her out the door and into the car.
The truth is always a little messier and more inconvenient. The truth is that when Alysa sent her the link to your band's Instagram, Amber scrolled back three years without knowing why. She found a photo of you sitting on an amp backstage, your guitar across your lap, your head thrown back mid-laugh, just your throat and chin visible in the soft yellow light. Amber stared at that picture for an embarrassingly long time, studying every detail, and eventually closed her phone with the distinct feeling that she'd done something forbidden. She didn't tell anyone about it, not even Alysa when she asked if Amber liked the band's photos.
Now Amber stands at the edge of the crowd, pressed shoulder to wall, Isabeau brushing elbows with her and Alysa practically vibrating beside her, bouncing on the balls of her feet. The lights in the bar go down, leaving only a few blue spotlights cutting through the dark, and the band walks out onto the stage. The drummer counts off with her sticks, and then you step into the spotlight with your guitar slung low on your hip, and Amber forgets how to breathe.
The set pours through the room—loud, gorgeous, visceral. You play with your whole body, not just your fingers: sweat glistens on your throat, the tendons in your forearm shift and roll every time you bend a note, and you move like the music passes through you rather than the other way around. Amber watches your fingers slide along the fretboard and feels something hot and sharp kindle deep in the pit of her stomach. This isn't just admiration or simple attraction—it's specific, adult wanting, the kind that has shape and weight, and she doesn't know where to put it.
And then the fourth song begins, and everything inside Amber flips over.
The singer is good—tall, with sharp cheekbones and a smoky, enveloping voice that fills the entire room. She moves across the stage with predatory grace, and in the middle of the bridge she comes up to you too close, invading your space like she has every right. You tilt your head toward her, still playing, and your shoulders touch—lightly at first, then more firmly when she doesn't step back. She grins at your profile and says something directly into your ear, her lips passing a millimetre from your skin, nearly grazing. You laugh—a short, quiet, conspiratorial laugh that flashes and dies in an instant—and tip the neck of your guitar toward her like it's an inside joke, something no one else is meant to understand.
Amber's jaw tightens so hard her cheekbones ache. Her fingers clench around the plastic cup, and it dents with a soft crunch she doesn't even register. Alysa beside her throws her hands up and shouts the lyrics, blissful and oblivious. Isabeau smiles and tugs at Amber's sleeve to yell, "Look at themm!" Amber doesn't answer. She can't force out a single sound because something hot and acidic has lodged itself in her throat, rising from somewhere deep in her solar plexus. You laugh again, slightly louder now, and the singer rests her hand on your bicep for a moment, squeezing lightly, and at that simple gesture everything inside Amber collapses like it's been kicked out from under her. She feels like someone pushed her off the edge of the rink without warning, and she's falling, unable to right herself in time.
It's ridiculous. She doesn't even know you. She saw you in person for the first time fifteen minutes ago. But her body doesn't listen to logic, her body just reacts—with jealousy so sharp and juvenile that Amber is ashamed of herself. It doesn't change anything. What just happened on that stage feels like a loss she wasn't prepared for, one that makes her fingers tremble.
The set ends with a crash of cymbals and a long, wailing feedback note. The crowd erupts in applause and whistles, the air turning thick and hot. Alysa grabs Amber by the wrist and, without asking, drags her through the crowd toward the little side corridor where the band usually comes out to meet people after the show. Isabeau scurries behind them, clutching the setlist someone handed her right from under the security guard's nose.
You're standing in the corridor, leaning one shoulder against the brick wall, your guitar already set aside, wiping your damp neck with a folded towel. Your face is still flushed from the stage, your eyeliner smudged at the corners, tiny beads of sweat glinting at your temples. You look up when Alysa nearly crashes into you, already launching into an excited, rapid-fire monologue about the modulations in that one bridge and how the bass line wove through the guitar part. Isabeau holds out a crumpled setlist and asks in a soft voice if you'd sign it, gazing at you with such genuine adoration that you can't help but smile.
Amber freezes a couple of metres back, near the doorway, and can't make herself step forward.
She shouldn't be here. She should go back to the bar, or outside for some air, or just leave entirely rather than torturing herself with something that doesn't exist and can't exist. But instead she stands there, rooted to the spot, three steps away from you, with her pulse pounding in her throat and the image still burning behind her eyes: the singer's lips at your ear, your short private laugh, her fingers on your arm.
And then you lift your head and look directly at her—long, studying, attentive look. Your eyes catch the light of the single bulb in the hallway, and something appears in them that Amber can't read. Something warm and interested.
"You're with them?" you ask, nodding slightly toward Alysa and Isabeau. Your voice is lower than Amber expected, rougher after a full set of shouting and singing.
"Yeah," Amber manages, her voice tighter than she'd like. "I'm Amber."
You tilt your head slightly, still watching her, and something between recognition and curiosity crosses your face. "I know who you are. I've watched your programs."
Amber's breath catches. "You have?"
"Of course." You shift the towel across your shoulder, adjusting it, the guitar pick still pinched between your index and middle fingers. A small silver ring on your hand glints dully. "Your step sequence at Nationals this year. It broke my heart. In the best way. I rewatched it maybe four times."
The compliment lands somewhere deep in Amber's chest, beneath the layers of jealousy and embarrassment and nerves. It's small but warm and real, and she doesn't know what to do with it, so she just stands there looking at you, feeling her cheeks burn.
You take a step closer—not a large one, just slightly closing the distance between you. The corridor quiets down, the only sound the muffled bass of the next band starting their soundcheck bleeding through the walls. "I noticed you at the side of the stage during the set," you say, quieter now,intimate despite the people still scattered around. "You didn't look too happy during that last song. I thought maybe you didn't like the music."
"No!" Amber shakes her head too quickly, and the words tumble out before she can filter them. "It was amazing. You were amazing. Really. It's just…" She stops mid-sentence, licks her dry lips, and decides that lying right now would be stupid and pointless. She's an athlete; she knows when to grit her teeth and tell the truth. "The singer. She was really… close to you."
Your eyebrows lift slightly, and in the pause that follows, Amber deeply regrets opening her mouth. But then the corner of your lips slowly curls upward, and you smile—not the way you laughed on stage. Softer for her.
"We've been friends since college," you say calmly, and there's a warm, kind amusement in your voice. "She does that on purpose, to annoy her girlfriend up in the sound booth." You nod your head upward and to the side, and Amber, following your gaze, spots high near the ceiling a dark silhouette of a woman with a short pixie cut and a bright neon lanyard around her neck. The woman stands with her arms crossed, watching the stage with a crooked but unmistakably smitten smile.
Something inside Amber snaps loose with so much force she almost sways. "Oh." That's all she can say.
"Yeah." Your smile widens, and there's a teasing glint in it now. "But honestly? I'm pretty flattered you were jealous."
"I wasn't jealous (a lie)," Amber blurts instantly, too fast and too high-pitched, and knows in the same second that she's only proven your point.
"Okay," you say, and you don't argue, but your eyes say the exact opposite. They're warm, knowing, faintly amused. You saw everything, and you don't mind at all.
Right then Alysa inserts herself between you, having finished her monologue about modulations and now demanding a group photo. You oblige easily, standing between her and Isabeau, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders, posing for a few shots. And then, the moment the phone flash dies, you turn back to Amber. Your attention returns to her with the same inevitability that a compass needle finds north.
"Are you staying?" you ask directly, no preamble. Your voice carries a simple, genuine invitation. "I'm done for the night. I could really use a drink and someone to talk to about anything besides guitar processors and delay times."
Amber glances back at Alysa. She's already grinning wide, nodding aggressively with exaggerated eyes that say "don't you dare say no." Isabeau gives her two thumbs up with the most innocent, encouraging expression.
Amber turns back to you and finally lets herself exhale. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay."
You smile, wide and open, and it spreads warmth somewhere behind Amber's sternum. "Come on, then. There's a bar in the back, it's quieter, and they make a terrible whiskey sour."
You step through the doorway first, and Amber follows you through the thinning crowd. You walk side by side, and your shoulder brushes hers—the same way the singer's brushed yours onstage, but this touch is completely different. It's deliberate, unhurried, meaningful. And then your hand drops slightly lower, and your knuckles graze the back of her hand, so light and fleeting it could be an accident. But Amber knows it's not, becauswe you don't pull away—instead you let your fingers linger a second longer than necessary.
She turns her head and meets your eyes. You're looking at her with that same soft, private smile that says: this is only for you, this is just between us, this is only the beginning.
• She doesn't notice the first one. You left it behind her ear, hidden under her hair. She spends the whole day training, talking to her coach, drinking coffee. You wait. In the evening, she takes off her sweater and sees it in the mirror. She freezes. "Is that... what is that?" ~ "A surprise." ~ "Did you bite me?" ~ "I kissed you. Hard."
• She touches it with her fingers, like she can't believe it's real. She blushes. Then she turns to you and says very seriously: "If my coach sees this — I'll say it's an allergy." ~ "To what?" ~ "To you."
• She asks you not to leave marks on her neck. Out loud. Because competition dresses have open necks. But if you leave one on her collarbone, she wears a turtleneck even in summer. And she doesn't complain.
• You wake up in the morning — she's already looking at herself in her phone. Smiling. You ask, "What is it?" ~ "Nothing. Just... it hasn't faded yet." She's very pleased.
• When Amber teased her about the hickey, she immediately looked away and smiled shyly. She blushed to the tips of her ears, but was not ashamed of it. She hid it because if Alysa or Amber noticed, they would tease her for a whole month. Amber and Alysa noticed anyway and teased her. They call you two lovebirds.
• When you leave a hickey in the most visible place again, she leaves a hickey on you in response. This doesn't make you angry, but on the contrary, you are happy to receive hickeys from her. And she tries not to show your hickeys to everyone, even if she considers them very beautiful and cute. At some point, you left such a strong hickey on her neck so she leave a hickey on your cheek. You had to live with a hickey on your cheek, as if someone had hit you.
Amber Glenn
• She notices immediately. You barely pull your lips away from her neck, and she's already running to the mirror. "Did you... is that a hickey?" ~ "Yes." ~ "Seriously?" ~ "Absolutely."
• She's not angry. She smirks. Runs her finger over the fresh mark and says, "Well, I guess I'm wearing turtlenecks for a week." ~ "A week?" ~ "Maybe two. You did good work."
• She's possessive. And she likes wearing your marks. The day after a hickey on her neck, she doesn't wear a turtleneck. She wears a low-cut top and goes to the gym."Are you serious?"~ "What? I'm hot."
• In the evening, she shows you the hickey under a lamp. It's turned purple. "Look what you did. This is forever now." ~ "It's not forever."~"For me it is."
• If you leave a mark in a visible place before her competition, she doesn't hide it. She answers journalists' questions: "My girlfriend was joking." The journalists blush. Amber smiles. You watch the interview from home and cover your face. She is impossible c:
• She leaves hickeys on you in return for fairness. "Now we look equally stupid." You look at yourself in the mirror. Her hickeys are so noticeable and large that it looks like a wild animal left you a hickey, not your girlfriend.
• Once you left a mark where no one would see it — on her inner thigh. Amber came home from practice, took off her pants, looked, and whistled. "Wow." ~ "What?" ~ "Nothing. Just a reminder that you're wild~"
Alysa Liu
• She's thrilled. You leave the first hickey on her neck — she runs to the mirror and squeals. "This is for me? Really for me?" ~ "Who else?" ~ "It's so... purple!" She takes a photo. Then sends it to all her friends.
• She touches it constantly. At practice, she touches it. While eating, she touches it. Before bed, she stands in front of the mirror and stares at it. "Are you sleeping?" ~ "I'm admiring your art." ~ "Go to sleep,Alysa, please." ~ "You're my artist."
• She doesn't know how to lie (or she just doesn't want to). When people ask what's on her neck, she says, "My girlfriend kissed me." She's generally happy.
• You leave a mark on her collarbone. She wears her shirt with the top button undone. You button it. She unbuttons it again. You button it. She leaves it open.
• She shows you her hickey the next day: "Look, it's turned yellow. It's like a rainbow. You gave me a rainbow." She just can't stop commenting on the hickeys on her body so much that it almost makes you regret what you did. Almost.
• Once you left a mark on her inner wrist. She wore short sleeves all day and showed it to every person she knew. "See this? She did this." She brought her hand right up to Amber's face during practice. Amber had to dodge her hand everytime.
• She is so proud of you leaving hickeys on her like you are giving her a medal. Sometimes she gets shy during the process when you take your lips to her skin, sometimes she gets shy when many people look at her hickeys. But she is not ashamed of it.
• If you leave a mark before an important competition, she doesn't hide it. She steps onto the ice with her neck exposed. Her coach asks what it is. Alysa answers seriously: "A mosquito bite." (A mosquito your size)
• Amber always remained your loyal knight, protecting you, even from her heart. She kept her feelings, even when you walked to the altar in a wedding dress.
4,1k. angst
Finally. This turned out to be more difficult than Cupid Alysa...
Amber was twelve when she realized her life no longer belonged to her.
It didn't happen when she took her oath. Not on the training field, when a sword hit her ribs for the first time. Not the day her father — an old knight with gray whiskers — said: "You will serve the princess, and that is above any battle."
It happened when you dropped your crown.
You were seven. You were walking down the hallway — somewhere important, probably to an etiquette lesson or to the king and queen — and the crown, too big for your head, slipped down to your forehead, then over your eyes, then fell to the stone floor with a dull clatter.
You stopped. You looked at it. Then at Amber, who stood guard by the doors.
"Help me," you asked. Not ordered. Asked. The way you ask a friend. The way you ask an older sister.
Amber dropped to her knees. It was a breach of protocol — shouldn't a knight kneel before a princess? Yes. But not like this. Not at eye level. Not with that expression on her face — soft, almost tender. She picked up the crown, brushed the dust from your dress, straightened your collar. Her fingers, already beginning to roughen from the sword, were surprisingly gentle.
"Your Highness, let me carry it for you," Amber said. "When you grow up, you'll wear it yourself."
You looked at her seriously. You tilted your head — so your hair fell over your face. And you answered: "I don't want a crown. I want you to stay."
Amber felt something inside her turn over. Something she had no name for. She was too young to understand. Too inexperienced to be afraid. She just nodded, tucked the crown under her arm, and followed you into the garden.
From that day on, Amber was everywhere.
She stood outside your bedroom door when you had nightmares. You cried out in your sleep and she burst inside, breaking every security rule, sat on the edge of your bed and took your hand in hers. "Shh," she said. "It's just a dream. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You opened your eyes, red from crying, looked at her, and your breathing slowly steadied. "Stay with me," you asked. She stayed. Until morning. Sat in the chair by your bed, sword across her knees, listening to you breathe. It was more important than any sleep.
She carried you on her shoulders through the garden because you couldn't reach the tallest roses. You laughed, bright and joyful, and grabbed her hair with your small fingers. It hurt. She didn't complain. She smiled, because your smile was the only light in her gray, training, endless life.
She endured it when you braided her hair. You weren't good at it — the braids came out crooked, too tight, sometimes you pulled so hard her eyes watered. But she sat still as a doll and waited for you to finish. "Beautiful," she said, though she had no mirror. You beamed with pride.
She trained to be a knight for you. Not for the kingdom. Not for honor. And not for her father. For the smile that appeared on your face when she walked into the room. So that no one would ever dare raise a hand to you. So that you could always sleep peacefully.
She didn't understand back then that this was called love. She thought it was duty. Loyalty. Friendship. She was wrong.
You grew up. And her love grew with you.
When you were ten, you developed a fever and drifted in and out of consciousness for three days. The healers shrugged helplessly. The king and queen never left your bedside. But when they fell asleep in their chairs, Amber was there. She sat on the floor, leaning against your bed, listening to you breathe. "If you die," she whispered into the darkness, "I won't know why I have a sword. I won't know why I need the morning."
You didn't die. You opened your eyes on the fourth day, saw her — disheveled, sleepless, eyes red and said: "Have you been crying?"
"No," Amber lied. "Dust in my eyes."
You smiled your weak smile and whispered: "You're always here."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because if she opened her mouth, she would say something that could never be taken back.
When you were thirteen, you fell in love for the first time. Not with her — with some page boy with golden curls and a stupid smile. You told her about him for hours, sitting on a windowsill, swinging your legs, staring out the window. "He's so handsome, Amber. You have no idea."
Amber had an idea. She imagined walking up to that page, grabbing him by the collar, whispering in his ear: "If you hurt her, I will rip out your tongue and feed it to the dogs." She did none of that. She listened. Nodded. Smiled. Because your happiness was more important than her broken heart.
The page turned out to be an idiot — like all pages. He dared to say that your dress was "ugly." You ran to Amber in tears. Amber didn't say a word. She found that page an hour later. He apologized. He had a split lip and a black eye. You never found out who did it.
Amber was always there. When you laughed. When you cried. When you danced at balls with foreign princes, and she stood against the wall, gripping her sword hilt so hard her knuckles went white. When you asked her to brush your hair before bed, because no one did it as gently as she did.
She knew every habit of yours. How you drank your morning tea. How you bit your lip when you were nervous. How you looked at the moon before sleep, as if searching for answers in it. She knew you better than you knew yourself.
But you didn't know her.
You didn't know that at night she lay awake, replaying your conversations in her head. That she stored every smile of yours in her memory like a treasure. That she never allowed herself to think of you for more than a few seconds — because if she did, she would go mad.
You didn't know that she loved you. With all of herself. Every cell. Every heartbeat.
She was a knight. You were a princess. You can't love the sun too close — you'll burn. She was ready to burn.
War.
When the war with the neighboring kingdom began, Amber felt relief.
That sounds monstrous. War is death, blood, mud, the screams of the wounded. But war gave her what peacetime could not. War gave her distance. From you. From your eyes. Fromm your smile. From the pain that ate at her from the inside every time you looked at her as a friend.
She went into battle with joy — not from cruelty, but from despair. Because in battle, she could scream. In battle, she could slash, smash, fall, rise, and not think about you for at least a few minutes.
But you were with her. Always. In every swing of the sword, in every prayer before battle, in every gulp of water from her canteen. "Bring me something beautiful," you asked before every departure. She brought you things. Silk from enemy tents. Stones that sparkled in the sun. Feathers from rare birds. You collected them in a box. You didn't know that some of them were stained with blood. You didn't know that she cried over them at night.
She fought for you. Not for land. Not for resources. Not for the king. For the chance to come home. For the chance to see you smile again. For the chance to stand guard at your door and listen to you breathe.
She survived where others fell. She pulled arrows from her own shoulder and stitched her own wounds because the field medics were busy with those who could still scream. She didn't scream. She thought of you. Of your hands, which once braided her hair. Of your voice, when you called her name.
The war ended in a stalemate.
No one won. Both kingdoms lay in ruins. The death toll was in the thousands. Amber returned home with a wounded body and a heart that still beat — defying every arrow and sword.
You met her at the gates. You ran to her, hiked up your skirts, ignoring protocol, ignoring the advisors, ignoring the king and queen. You threw your arms around her neck and cried. "I thought you wouldn't come back," you whispered. "I thought I'd lost you."
Amber stood still, not breathing. Her arms hung at her sides because she was afraid to touch you. If she touched you, she would never let go. Never.
"I'm here," she said quietly. "I always come back."
And one month after the war ended, the advisors announced their decision.
The princess would marry the prince of the enemy kingdom.
Amber stood in the council chamber when it was announced. She stood against the wall, where a knight is supposed to stand. Her face didn't flinch. Her hands didn't clench into fists. She looked the same as she did in battle: expressionless, cold, ready for the blow.
Inside, everything was screaming.
She looked at you. You sat in your place, next to the king. Your face was paler than usual. You weren't looking at her. You were looking at the table before you. At your hands. At the ring they hadn't put on you yet.
"This is necessary for peace", said the chief advisor.
"It will bring prosperity to both kingdoms," chimed another.
"The princess agrees", the king finished.
You lifted your head. Your eyes found Amber's for a fraction of a second. In that look was everything. Apology, pain, despair. And something else.
"I agree," you said.
Amber felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. She nodded to herself, to something inside her that was howling with pain and continued standing against the wall. As always. As everywhere.
The one who was always there.
The wedding day was sunny.
Amber hated the sun. In her life, she had come to love rain, fog, cold — anything that hid her face. The sun was too honest. It showed every wrinkle, every scar, every tear she hadn't wiped away in time.
She wore her ceremonial armor — gold, engraved, with the kingdom's crest on her chest. She had worn it only twice in her life: when she was knighted, and today. She felt like a fraud. The gold shone, but underneath was the same thing — a broken heart, tired eyes, hands that had held a sword too much and held you too little.
She stood among the guests. Her place was among the nobility, among dukes and barons who looked at her with envy or indifference. She was a knight. Her place was to protect. Not to die alive.
But today she wasn't protecting. Today she was watching.
You walked down the aisle.
Your dress was white, so white that Amber's eyes hurt. The train stretched for several meters, carrying lace, pearls, thousands of tiny sequins that sparkled in the sun.
She had helped you choose that dress.
You asked her to come to the fitting. You stood before the mirror, turning, asking: "What do you think? What about this? Maybe this one is better?" Amber looked at you and died. Slowly. Just melting from the inside.
"It suits you," she said then. She wasn't looking at the dress. She was looking at you. At your shoulders, which trembled slightly. At your eyes, which searched her face for support. At your smile — the same one she had fallen in love with twelve years ago.
"God," you said then. "I'm so nervous. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't like me? What if..."
"Everyone likes you," Amber interrupted. "You've always been liked. And if he doesn't see that..." She didn't finish. She couldn't finish. Because the next sentence was: "...then he's a fool, and I'll kill him." She couldn't say that out loud.
You didn't notice her pause. You smiled at your reflection and said: "Thank you for being with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Amber knew. You would live. You would smile. You would marry the prince and be happy. And she would stand against the wall and watch.
The organ began to play. You walked down the aisle. Your father led you by the arm — proud, happy, unaware that his daughter was marrying not for love but for duty. Or perhaps aware. What did it matter.
Amber watched your feet step across the carpet. She knew your knees were trembling a little — you always trembled when you were nervous. She knew you were biting your lip — you had done that since childhood. She knew you were searching for her eyes in the crowd.
You found them.
For one moment, as you passed her row, you turned your head. Your eyes met hers. And in that look was everything you couldn't say.
"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."
Amber nodded. Barely noticeably. So that no one else would notice. She didn't smile. She couldn't. She just nodded, and you understood. "It's okay. I'm fine."
You reached the altar. The prince was waiting for you — young, handsome, with dark hair and calm eyes. He wasn't evil. Amber had checked. She had watched him for a month, gathered information, interrogated servants. He wasn't a bad person. Maybe even a good one.
That only made it worse.
If he had been a monster, Amber could have hated him. Could have dreamed of his death. Could have devised a way to save you. But he was just a person. Neither good nor bad. Just a person standing at the altar now, looking at you with admiration.
You smiled at him.
"Do you consent?" asked the priest.
You looked into the hall. At your hands. At the prince. And again — at Amber. Only for a second but that second stretched into eternity.
Amber wasn't breathing. She stood, gripping her sword belt so hard her nails dug into the leather. Her heart had stopped beating — or was beating too fast, she couldn't tell. The whole world narrowed to your lips, your eyes, to the one word you were about to say.
"I do," you said.
And the world collapsed.
......
After the ceremony came the feast.
The hall was decorated with flowers — white roses that smelled so strongly Amber's head spun. The tables groaned with food, wine flowed like water, musicians played cheerful melodies. Guests laughed, danced, toasted the newlyweds, peace, the future.
Amber stood bby a pillar. She didn't sit at the table — couldn't. She didn't touch the food — couldn't taste it. She didn't drink the wine — afraid that if she did, she wouldn't be able to hold back what was clawing to get out.
She watched you.
You were dancing with the prince. Your dress spun, the train slid across the floor, you smiled — that smile she hated. The smile of someone who had accepted her fate and stopped fighting it.
The prince held your waist. His hands were where Amber's hands should have been. His lips whispered something in your ear — something that made you nod and smile even wider.
Amber looked away. She couldn't watch. But she couldn't leave either. She was a knight. Her place was here — protecting you. Even from her own broken heart.
An hour later, you found her.
You left the hall — quietly, unnoticed, leaving the guests and the prince behind. You walked down the corridor, your dress rustling on the stone floor, and somewhere inside you, something led you to her, as it always did.
She was standing by a window, her back to you. Her shoulders were too straight — unnaturally straight. She was squeezing her gloves as if she wanted to tear them apart. She didn't turn when you approached because she knew your footsteps with her eyes closed.
"Amber," you called.
She didn't answer.Her voice was stuck somewhere in her throat, trapped between an oath and love.
"Amber, look at me," you asked.
She turned.
She looked at you and her heart sank. You were so beautiful it took her breath away. Up close, you were a painting Amber had always wanted to create. You looked just how she had always wanted you to look. But at your shared wedding, not at the wedding of you and the prince.
"Happy wedding day," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She had learned this over years of war, dying inside but not showing it. "You look beautiful, Your Highness."
You winced at the title. You had never asked her to call you that. Always said: "Amber, I'm not a stranger to you." Today you didn't argue. Because today you had become a stranger. Forever.
"I wanted to..." You trailed off. You couldn't find the words. What can you say to someone who gave you their whole life, and you married an enemy? What can you say to someone who carried feathers for you from the battlefield, who sat by your bed during your fever, who braided your hair when you were little? What can you say? "I'm sorry"? "I regret"? "I never wanted this"?
"I'm happy for you," Amber said. It was the biggest lie of her life. "Peace is most important. You did the right thing."
You stepped forward. You did what you had done a thousand times before — took her hand, brought it to your cheek. Her fingers were rough, scarred. You remembered them soft. When you were little, she touched you so carefully, as if you might fall apart. Now her hands were calloused from the sword. You kissed every scar. Every single one.
"Don't," Amber whispered. But she didn't pull her hand away.
"You were always with me," you said. "Since childhood. You braided my hair when no one else wanted to bother with me. You listened to my silly stories about princes I dreamed about. You fought for me. You fell. You rose. You were always there."
Amber looked at your hands. She remembered every second. When you were seven and dropped your crown. When you were ten and had a fever, and she sat by your bed for three nights straight, not sleeping. When you were fifteen and cried over a page with golden curls, and she found that page and made him apologize.
She remembered everything. Every breath of yours. Every smile. Every tear. She stored them in her memory like sacred relics.
"I'm still here," she said. Her voice wavered. For the first time that evening. For the first time in many years.
You shook your head. "No," you said. "Now you'll stand on the sidelines. Like everyone else. And I will live in a foreign castle, bear his children, smile at his guests. And every day I will remember you."
"Don't," Amber asked. Her voice cracked — like ice underfoot in spring.
"I will always remember how you braided my hair," you continued, not listening. "How you brought me feathers from the war. How you looked at me as if I were the only light in this world. I never thanked you. I never told you..."
You stopped.
Amber knew what you wanted to say. And you knew she knew. The words "I love you" hung between you like a sword on a thread. But they were not spoken. They never would be. Because it was too late now.
"I love you," Amber said. Not "loved." "Love." Present tense. Because her feelings hadn't died. They would never die. Even when she grew old. Even when her sword rusted. Even when you forgot her name. "I've loved you since the day you dropped your crown. I was twelve, and I didn't understand what it was. Now I understand. I love you in every battle, every night, every breath. I love you now. And I will love you when you grow old, and I stay in this armor that you put on me for the first time."
A tear fell on the stone floor. You didn't know whose. Maybe hers. Maybe yours.
"Amber..."
"Go," she said. "Your husband is waiting. Your kingdom is waiting. Your happiness is waiting." Her voice broke on the last word. "And I... I will always be here. By the door. Like when we were children. If you have a nightmare — call me. I will come. Even if it's another castle. Even if there's a war between us. I will come."
You stood for another minute. Then you turned and left. Your dress rustled again on the stone. Amber watched you until you disappeared around the corner. She heard you sob once. Very quietly. She didn't follow you.
Then she sank to her knees.
Not because she was bowing to anyone. To God. To fate. To the emptiness. She pulled from under her armor an old ribbon — the same one you had used to braid her hair when you were little. The ribbon had faded. The edges were frayed. Amber had kept it for twelve years. She had taken it to every battle. In her left breast pocket, close to her heart.
She pressed the ribbon to her lips.
"My princess," she whispered. "My goddess. My light. My meaning. My war. My victory. My defeat. I will keep you. Even if you never come back to me. Even if you bear his children. Even if you forget my name. I will keep you here."
She touched her chest with her hand. Under the armor, under her shirt, under her skin, a heart beat — stupid, faithful, unkillable.
"For a thousand years I will stand at your door," she said. "For a thousand lives I will search for you. In each one I will be your knight. In each one I will watch you marry another. In each one I will shatter against your wedding like a cliff. And in each one I will come when you call."
In the hall, music played. Guests laughed. You danced with the prince.
And Amber Glenn, the greatest knight in the kingdom, sat on the cold floor of an empty corridor, pressing an old ribbon to her lips, and cried. For the first time in many years. For the first time since the day she was told she would guard a little princess whose crown kept falling over her eyes.
She wasn't crying because you got married. She was crying because for all twelve years, she had known this day would come. Known and done nothing. Never said anything. Never confessed. Never tried to steal you the way she stole feathers for you from the battlefield. She just loved. Silently. Faithfully. Hopelessly.
But many years later you never called for her.
Not after one year. Not after five. Not after ten.
Amber wasn't waiting. She just existed. She guarded the kingdom — the one you had saved with your wedding. She trained new knights, taught them to hold a sword, endure pain, never give up. She never told them about you.
But at night, when the castle grew quiet, she took out the old ribbon. Pressed it to her face. Closed her eyes and imagined you were still there.
That you were still the little girl with the crooked crown. That you still called her — "Amber, help." That you still laughed when she tossed you in the air.
She knew it wasn't true. She knew you had children by now. That your husband had become a good king. That you rarely thought of her — except perhaps in those moments when your daughter asked you to brush her hair, and you suddenly remembered someone's rough, gentle fingers.
Amber wasn't angry. She never knew how to be angry at you.
When word came of your death — quietly, in your sleep, surrounded by grandchildren — Amber didn't cry. She sat in her room, clutching the old ribbon, and stared out the window. Outside, the sun was setting.
"You were the light," she said to the emptiness. "You were always the light. And now that light has gone out. But I'm still burning. Because you lit me. And I will burn until I crumble to dust."
She lived another ten years. She never loved anyone else. Never danced at weddings. Never took off her armor at night — as if she were waiting for you to call.
• She's loud in public. Laughs, jokes, slaps people on the back while smiling. But when you're alone, she goes quiet. Sits next to you, puts her head on your shoulder, and just stays still. That's her real voice.
• She remembers everything you love. Her desire to know everything you like is her way of showing you that you matter a lot in her life. Sometimes when you receive a gift you've wanted for a long time, you see only quiet tenderness in her eyes. She can tell you all sorts of nonsense or important things, but when you talk about something unimportant, she just sits there and listens. She didn't forget. She never forgets anything you say. She just doesn't show it.
• When you're asleep, she sometimes just looks at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't breathe loudly. Lies on her side and watches. You wake up and catch her. "What?" you whisper. "Nothing," she whispers back, and closes her eyes. Even when you fall into a deep sleep early in the morning, when the sun is just beginning to rise, she lies on her side and looks at your features.
• She touches your hands when you're busy — typing, doing dishes, reading. She just walks by, runs her fingers over your hand, and leaves. It takes two seconds. Perhaps she just wants to touch you. Maybe she wants to say with this that she is near. Maybe she is not thinking about something, but merely showing her affection.
• When she misses you a lot, she becomes more nervous and withdrawn. She flies to another country for competitions, and when she's with you, she just sits and is silent, thinking about how she'll return home and lie with you under the same blanket. When she's in the company of Amber, Isabeau, and others, she shines and smiles as usual, but between the silences and the conversations of others, she stares into space with a barely noticeable smile and misses you.
• Despite the fact that she always openly shows her emotions and feelings, there are still things she cannot show or say. When it overwhelms her, she silently comes to you and hugs you tightly, buries her face in your neck or chest, and stays silent. You hug her back and ask if everything is alright. "I don't know."
• She loves pets. She loves animals in general. In the evening, when you walk down empty streets and notice a cat or a dog, she immediately approaches and squats down to pet it. When you smile at her display of affection, she just shyly smiles and looks away.
• When she's angry after a bad competition, she doesn't take it out on you. She stays silent the whole drive home. Then she asks you to just sit next to her. You sit. She puts her head on your lap and closes her eyes. An hour later she says, "I love you."
• She buys you gifts for no reason. A stuffed animal because "it looks like you." A scarf because "your neck gets cold." You say she shouldn't spend money. She nods but keeps buying.
• She remembers your shoe size. Your favorite color. Your brand of hairspray. You don't know how she keeps track — her head is always chaos — but for you, there's a separate shelf.
• She loves to teach you all sorts of silly things and have fun. Next to her, you feel like a teenager, a primary school student, and it's the best feeling. Even as an adult, she will always find ways to make your heart flutter and your stomach fill with butterflies.
• She calls you strange names. "My grump." "Sleepy sweetheart." "That sour face I love." She will call you by everything she loves or what comes to her mind, just to make you smile.
• She loves photo booths and is always pulling you by the hand to take a couple of shots. Every time you take pictures, she immediately puts them under her transparent phone case, in her wallet, and simply attaches them to the mirror.
• She doesn't know how to take care of you when you're sick. She panics, clatters dishes, calls her dad asking "what do I do?" Eventually, you go to the kitchen yourself. She sits at the table, guilty. You make tea and sit next to her. She puts her head on your shoulder. That's her medicine (her affection).
• She writes your name in snow. On foggy glass. In sand. You saw her once — on a frozen lake, in huge letters. She didn't know you were watching. Mostly it's the first letter of your name, but she writes your full name where it will be clearly visible. Once during practice, she wrote your name inside a heart on the ice with the blade of her skates.
• When she's truly exhausted, she doesn't sleep. She just lies with her eyes open, staring at the wall. You lie down next to her and take her hand. A minute later, her eyes close. Two minutes later, she's asleep.
• When she is jealous, she loses all energy and needs more attention. She appears before your eyes more often, takes your hand more often, especially in public places or even in secluded spots. She becomes quieter, but she needs to know that there will be no one else because it is important to her that everything between you remains individual, just for the two of you.
• She's loud and bright and always laughing for everyone else. But for you — she's also quiet, and tired, and so soft. You're the only one who sees her like this. You keep it like the biggest secret.
𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡... alysa tries to prove that she can be more than the player everybody knows her as.
𝐚/𝐧 — im sorry this is SO underwhelming, i didnt know how to write the dialogue or the ending, sorry! i hope you guys still like this
the sound of your alarm blared across your bedroom, the noise abruptly waking you up, already fucking your day up.
the hangover was not helping. you felt your head throb and spin, your vision blurry and body so sore that every movement feels like something that comes with a painful cost.
you do your best to roll across your bed, sloppily grabbing your phone to turn off the alarm. as you rub your eyes to get them to focus so you can better see the icons on the screen, a notification pops up.
2:47 AM | alysa:
im sorry
i really am
can we talk
you used what little strength you had left in you to shut your phone and set it down on the nightstand a little harder than intended to, a small scoff coming out of you.
you moved to bury your head in your pillow, trying to ignore the burning sensation in your chest as tears formed in your eyes, your pride refusing to let a single tear escape.
the promise you made to yourself last night echoed in your head. “i’ll never waste an ounce of my energy on her ever again.”
the blanket felt so comfortable, the mattress practically swallowing you, like it was begging you to stay.
so you stayed.
you tossed and turned until you finally shut your eyes, trying to get the notification out of your head.
but no matter how much you shifted around, how much you swore you didn't care anymore and that you were entering your “nonchalant” era, you still couldn't help but wish the girl with striped hair would come over, hand you an edible and lull you to sleep, the memory of her soft lips on your neck haunting you.
the sunlight that managed to filter through your half closed blinds was too bright, too demanding. a groan came out of you when you finally stood up, going to close the blinds all the way through.
now your room is pitch black, hitting your chest with the melancholy you became familiar with years ago.
you slumped over to your bed, closing your eyes, hoping to escape your misery at least in sleep.
the dream was heartwrenching — it was you and alysa, holding each other in the middle of a field, surrounded by flowers and a sunset with a gorgeous orange-pink gradient.
the dream itself wasn't so bad. the heart wrenching part was waking up and coming to the realization that this really was just a dream.
that alysa hadn't come back to you, and you haven't gone back to pressing lazy kisses against the top of her head.
your room was still pitch black, you didn't even know what time it was, the blinds wouldn't let you see.
tears were now streaming down your face, your hands moving up to wipe your nose then your tears, wetting your sleeve.
there was no hope for you, the feeling of emptiness had already begun to swallow you whole. you decided there was nothing better to do, so you went back to sleep. this time, your mind had some mercy on you, so you had a dreamless slumber.
it was now nearing midnight, and the sound of your phone ringing awoke you, causing a whine to come out of you.
you reached for the phone on the nightstand. a number you hadn't saved nor recognized.
⋆⋆⋆
alysa had spent the entire night crying until she fell asleep at 4 in the morning.
her dreams were filled with your caresses, the times you'd kiss her cheek, how you were patient with her when she was figuring her feelings out, how gentle you'd been..she never realized that she couldn't live without it until she lost it.
the sunlight crept through the curtains, waking her from the dreams she wished would translate to real life.
alysa looked around — trying to understand where she was. everything around her seemed unfamiliar. the mattress was softer than she'd been used to, the view different from the one she would enjoy every time she went out for a smoke.
once it finally clicked to her that she was at her friend's place, the memories from last night immediately began flooding in, like water rushing through a broken dam. the familiar ache in her chest returned, accompanied by the feeling of emptiness in her stomach.
alysa was stumped. she sat up, looking through the window. she knew she had to leave eventually.
the first thing she did was grab her phone, checking to see if you texted back.
read.
she covered her face with her hands, groaning while she muttered a “god, this is so embarrassinggg.” to herself. “i cant believe i drunk texted my..ex.”
what were you, really? exes? you never dated. that might've been the worst part of it all.
all this pain from a couple that never even dated.
her mascara was ruined, makeup smeared all over her face, eyebags so big they looked like black eyes at first glance.. the whole ”rough night” package.
she put her phone in her pocket, taking a quick trip to the bathroom.
the hallways were closing in on her — the shame, guilt, remorse, all of the emotions from last night coming back in full force.
she tried to put up a front, pretending it wasn't eating her alive. but as soon as she locked the bathroom door, it was over for her.
tears came streaming down her face as she curled up against the door, hugging her knees, no longer trying to contain the emotions that had been bubbling up under the surface for months now.
she thought she had more time, she really did. she thought she had more time left until she had to confront her feelings about you, about herself, to confront her problems. she never thought it would be in a friend's bathroom after a college party.
the knock on the bathroom door was what finally got her to snap out of it — her body jolting at the sound and sudden vibration.
“alysa, you in there? let me come in!” her friend insisted, her tone making it clear she wasn't taking no for an answer.
with you gone, her friend was the only real connection she had outside of her family. the only one who gave her reality checks, stayed by her side, showed her the good and the bad.
alysa knew she needed the comfort and the advice. it wasn't like she had much of a choice anyway, the pain was ready to swallow her whole if somebody didn't come to help her stay on the surface.
she stood up, her hand going to reach the door handle.
her friend's eyes widened, not accustomed to this side of the usually composed alysa. she sighed, sitting down next to her, wrapping her arm around her as she spoke, her voice scolding, but alysa felt lingering softness.
“lysa. dude. you're still crying?”
“i miss her so bad.”
“im sure she misses you too.”
“do you think she'll come back to me...”
“maybe. but you need to work on this whole trust and commitment issues thing you got going on. not every girl is out to get you, y'know? and she definitely cared and wanted you. i don't know how everybody but you saw how she looked at you.”
“i just…i was scared to..i..”
her friend didn't respond, just waited for alysa to calm down the turmoil inside her, tracing soft patterns on alysa's shoulder.
“i trusted a girl once. i thought she'd be the one. we spent the entire 7th grade together. always texting, calling, never spent more than a few hours apart. and then i finally worked up the courage to ask her out..and from then on we started dating. we only lasted a few weeks until she told me i was too much. told me i was too intense, that i..” alysa muttered in between sobs and sniffles, no longer having the strength to continue.
she let her friend's arms wrap around her. she pretended it was you holding her. she let herself melt into the embrace, her sobs eventually coming to a stop.
“lysa you cant let a doomed relationship from 7th grade ruin your ability to love freely in college. it's like letting a bad grade you got once determine the grades you get for the rest of your life, because you don't believe in yourself and your ability to learn from your mistakes and do better.”
“i would say i know,” alysa murmured sheepishly. “but i didnt. i needed to hear this.”
“i know you did.” her friend spoke, tracing little patterns on alysa's shoulder. “did you text her?”
“i texted her last night.”
“let me see.”
alysa groans, reluctantly handing her the phone. alysa was never one to beg, or sincerely apologize. the tough front she was putting up wouldn't let her. having her friend see her text somebody like this felt humiliating.
“ouch. read?”
“dont even mention it.”
her friend sighs, handing her her phone back.
“maybe she needs some time to think about it.”
“whatever dude..it's over. obviously..” she said.
alysa's head was resting on her knees which were hugged to her chest. her eyes were getting watery, staring off into blank space. she felt pathetic, vulnerable, uncomfortable. she looked like a kicked puppy.
“alysa, give it a few days.”
she didn't respond, she just closed her eyes and took a few shaky breaths before finally standing up to wash her face.
“see, i told you. they're all the same. they all leave.”
alysa's tone was oddly monotone, a stark contrast to the hopeless, shaky voice heard earlier.
“no! this was your fault. you did this to yourself. you pushed her away.” her friend scolded.
“she could've tried to stay!” she retorted, her frustration bubbling under the surface.
“she did! she can't fight for you to keep her forever you know.”
“whatever.”
alysa fixed her hair and went back to the guest bedroom to get her bag. she tried to avoid conversation, because she knew what it would all be about.
“thanks for letting me stay..sorry for last night.”
her friend let out an exasperated sigh and pulled her in for a quick hug.
“don't worry about it…just.. take care of yourself yeah? lay off on the parties for the next few days while you're recovering.”
alysa rolled her eyes, a small smile growing on her face.
“yeah yeah, okay mom. take care.”
her friend snickered, shut the door and with that, alysa was once again, left alone.
she was sobered up by now, at least enough to walk home.
the entire walk was spent with her mind on autopilot, her body having taken this route many times, no longer requiring much thought from alysa.
alysa used this to her advantage, using the time to think about you. she wondered where exactly it all went wrong. tried to gauge if it was worth it to even try to change if you wouldn't be there to enjoy the “new and improved alysa liu”.
she thought about giving up, about letting you go. she knew you deserved better, and she was stuck between being this better that she wanted to give you, or letting somebody else take her place.
of course, it would be easier to let someone take her place. she wouldn't have to worry so much about changing, wouldn't have to put in the effort. then she thought about how it'd be like seeing you with a new girl. she thought about how she was willing to give everything up to be that girl.
she didn't notice it, but her legs started moving a little faster, getting her to her apartment sooner.
she took her key out of her bag and unlocked the door.
her cats rushed to greet her, causing a soft smile to form on alysa's face.
immediately after looking up from her cats, she noticed how empty the apartment felt. how your soft voice wasn't there to warm her heart like how it used to every time she came back from work or school. she noticed your hoodie hung on her chair — the only trace of you left remaining.
the blinds were half closed, not letting much light seep in.
there were clothes, cups, random items and dishes scattered around the apartment.
they were right when they said your room (or apartment) was a reflection of your mind.
alysa was lost, she was messy, how could she expect someone to handle her if she can't handle herself?
she picked her cat up, carried her to the cat tree, and then began cleaning up.
she wanted to impress you, to show you that she was finally improving, that it wasn't empty words.
she imagined how you'd praise her the next time you came over, how you'd stare in disbelief, tell her you're proud of her..
she didn't realize it, but she was smiling like an idiot, humming some song while cleaning up.
she cleaned up her cat's litter, threw the trash out, picked up and threw the clothing in the laundry, neatly folded her clothes, opened the blinds, now letting the sun illuminate the room.
she changed her bedsheets, put on a happy yet calm song, and sat on her desk to do the homework that was long overdue.
she stared at the problems on the question sheet, completely dumbfounded. math was never her strong point, but she didn't expect to be this lost.
that was when she realized just how much she needed you.
every time she struggled with schoolwork, she'd call you, and you'd come over to help. you kept her grades afloat — it was thanks to you she got her first B+ in college.
now, she didn't have her favourite nerd to call up.
the inability to solve the questions wasn't what hurt her, it was your absence and all the small ways it was noticeable that did.
alysa knew that it was the 21st century and she could've just looked up a video explaining how to solve the problems, but she didn't want some stranger, she wanted you. she was well aware you were the last thing she deserved.
still, she tried her hardest to get her homework done, and do it decently at that. she wanted to hand in the homework in front of you, to prove that she was getting her life together.
you had always scolded her for being careless with her grades, now she wanted to give you a reason to be proud of her.
she spent the rest of the day trying to be “productive”, remembering all the things you'd told her, all the advice you'd given until your mouth started foaming up.
when the day came to a close and the sun hid behind the horizon, she put her headphones on and went to see what you were listening to. She went to your profile, choosing to listen to whatever you were listening to. “Break It Off” by PinkPantheress started playing.
“noone ever saw me cry, until i left the party the other night..do you remember all the things that you said to me?”
she promised to herself — no more crying, no more wallowing.
but then the memory of you leaving, nose stuffy, eyes red and puffy from crying and makeup smeared all over your face came back, and for a minute, she was in your shoes.
guilt and shame practically swallowed her.
she couldn't get the image of your puffy eyes out of her head.
her weekend was spent wallowing, wolfing down tubs of icecream, ignoring everyone but her sibling’s calls and messages.
sunday night came around.
her hands reached to take off her headphones, placing them on the nightstand. she set an alarm for 8AM, so she'd have time to make it to her 10AM class. she grabbed the plushie you bought for her a few weeks ago, holding it tightly in a pathetic attempt to soothe herself by pretending it was you she was holding.
eventually, she let herself close her eyes, falling into a somewhat peaceful slumber.
⋆⋆⋆
the next day, she walked in class, her eyes darting around, trying to find yours.
however it seemed she was out of luck that day, as her classmate informed her you weren't coming to class that day.
“why?” alysa questioned, a hint of concern in her voice.
“apparently she's got the flu.”
“what? is she okay?”
“i mean, i’m sure she is.. it is just the flu after all.” her friend answered, clearly unwilling to entertain the conversation any longer.
“yeah. you're right.”
alysa finally sat down, a small pout on her face — looking like a kicked puppy yet again.
when it was time to turn in her homework, she took one last look around the classroom one last time before handing it to the professor.
she spent the rest of her day looking like a kicked puppy. she was hoping to sneak a few glances at you throughout the day, and maybe have some small talk if she couldn't get a meaningful conversation out of you.
but yet again, you weren't there.
⋆⋆⋆
the next few days were a blur.
alysa was just going through the motions — wake up, go to the bathroom, shower, get dressed, pack your books, go to class, come home, eat, feed her cats, do homework, clean up, wait for you to respond to her text…
she was getting tired of it.
your absence was eating her up.
she vowed she'd listen to her friend and lay off on the parties while she was recovering from everything that was happening, but the void in her heart was catching up to her, and she thought it wouldn't be long until she became part of it.
she tried to distract herself, to reassure herself that everything will be okay, but it was getting clear she was starting to crack.
when she realized nothing was working, she chose escapism and went back to what had always worked as a distraction — alcohol, drugs, parties.
friday came around, and somebody forwarded her a party invite.
she couldn't resist.
she spent an entire weekend searching for a sign you still cared about her existence, let alone a sign you'd come back.
but nothing showed up.
“fuck it,” she muttered to herself. “im going. she won't care anyway..and i just need the drugs and alc.”
she knew it was a terrible idea from the get go, yet she still let herself slip into the version of herself she spent the whole week condemning.
⋆⋆⋆
when she came to the party, she didn't have anything but getting high and drunk on her mind. usually she'd hoe around, but this time it didn't even cross her mind.
you took up all the space in her brain, and she hated it. she ran to parties as a distraction.
she popped any pill offered to her, taking any concoction of a drink her peers thought up.
the effects came rushing in not long after. her vision was becoming blurry, her speech slurring, and she couldn't tell faces and voices apart. everybody and everything looked the same to her, and she retracted to a couch tucked away in a corner.
a group of girls noticed her, immediately rushing towards her.
each girl started making their advances.
one asked for her number. another tried to make small talk in that flirty voice alysa loathed to hear when it came from anybody from you. some would touch her, running their hands up her thigh or waist.
alysa was overwhelmed.
she was clearly intoxicated, begging everybody to leave her alone. there were tears prickling at the corner of her eyes, sweat dripping down her forehead as she got more and more panicked.
when a girl leaned in to kiss her, alysa almost froze. she pushed her off of her, and went to run to the nearest unoccupied room.
that was when her eyes caught on the phones held up by her friends, clearly recording.
betrayal flashed her eyes. its not like her friends were ever good ones..always pressuring her to go out, introducing her to new ways she can ruin her life, always leaving when the topic wasn't gossip or getting wasted.
but she didn't expect this from them.
her only real friend saw her, and followed her to the bathroom.
“alysa, god, are you okay?”
“i want my girl back.” alysa begged between sobs.
“lets calm you down first, and we'll call her, okay?”
“i want her now.”
her friend didn't bother negotiating, she just pulled out her phone and dialed your number.
the phone rang for a bit until you picked up.
“hello?” you said.
alysa's friend handed the phone to her.
“um, y/n? can you..please come pick me up? i got really wasted..and everybody was all over me..and my friends didnt help..just recorded me..im so sorry..i know im an asshole..can you drive me to my place atleast?”
you'd never heard alysa beg like this before..you could tell she was crying. she wasn't even trying to hide it, you could hear her hiccups, sobs and sniffles through the phone, clear as day.
you sighed, panic setting in.
“send me your location.”
alysa did as you told her, sending you her location.
“ill be there in 15.”
you were wearing a pair of oversized sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair tousled from laying in bed the entire day, but all you did was fix your hair before rushing to your car.
you couldn't tell what you were feeling. some of it was anger for sure. but you weren't sure who exactly you were angry at. you were angry at her for continuing the partygirl lifestyle she knew she couldn't keep up. you were angry at her friends for being bystanders instead of trying to help. you were angry at yourself for not responding to her text. you were angry at the universe for putting you in this situation.
but you were also worried.
worried that she got alcohol poisoning or overdosed on whatever she took.
worried that something worse might've happened if she didn't have enough strength to get away from those people, whoever they were.
worried that you might've never gotten the call, and something worse could happen to her.
so you sped all the way through, frantically looking for a parking spot as close as possible to the host's house.
when you finally arrived, your eyebrows were furrowed, and you were seething with rage.
everybody had quiet down, trying to process what just happened.
you burst in, taking in the sight of her friends and everybody else just standing there, with alysa nowhere to be seen.
“seriously. what is wrong with all of you?” your voice crackled through the otherwise silent room.
“you useless fucks just sat there and recorded alysa while she was struggling? you're telling me, nobody thought of helping her get out of whatever she was in? she could've been raped or some shit! and what were you thinking, making advances on somebody obviously too intoxicated to even think for themselves?”
the anger in your voice was evident.
nobody said anything. they didn't dare to make a peep.
you sighed, realizing nothing would come out of this.
“where is she.”
alysa's friend came out of the bathroom, hearing the commotion, already knowing what it was about.
“in the bathroom.” she said.
“thank you.” you answered, making your way to the bathroom where alysa was hiding.
once you got there, you didn't even bother knocking, just came straight in.
alysa was curled up, leaning against the bathtub, her eyes shooting open when she saw who was standing in front of her.
“you came!” she said, her voice a little too hopeful than she'd like to sound.
“you called.” you replied, kneeling down to get on her level, bringing her in a warm embrace.
“y/n, i-”
“save it. i dont wanna hear it now.”
you pulled away, cupping her cheek.
“we're going to my place, and you're staying until you've sobered up, you hear me?”
“y-yeah.” alysa murmured, like she hadn't been begging to be near you for a whole week now.
you pick her up, carrying her to your car.
everybody stared. its all they knew how to do. you paid no attention to them — they didn't deserve a morsel of your energy.
you just focused on bringing alysa to the car as quickly as you possibly can, strapping her in the passenger seat and rushing to your own.
a soft, drunken smile appeared on alysa's face as her eyes caught on the “y/n’s passenger princess :)” she scribbled a few weeks ago, paired with a few hics as the tears kept streaming down her face.
you didn't notice, just got in and began driving back to your place.
“you scared me.” you mutter.
“im sorry.” alysa mutters back between sniffles.
“you'll be okay.” you tried to sound believable, you really did it. but you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel hopeless for her and your relationship.
the rest of the ride was quiet save for the soft sobs and sniffles coming out of alysa, making her entire body tremble.
she never looked so fragile.
⋆⋆⋆
you carried her back to your apartment.
alysa had become shamelessly clingy — burying her head in the crook of your neck, trying to memorize your scent while her arms clung to you like you'd disappear if her grip loosened a bit.
you pretended it didn't affect you. but the familiar ache in your stomach returned, and you tried to hold back the tears that were daring to escape.
you set her down on your bed. she didn't let you get up, immediately climbing into your lap, sobbing her heart out, gasping for air.
by now the emotions she'd been suppressing the last few weeks had come back in full force, showing her no mercy.
the sobs wrecked her body, having her shaking, holding onto you like a lifeline while you desperately tried to calm her down, playing with her hair.
“i-im so sorry hic i promise i tried! i really did, i- hic i cleaned my room every day, like you told me to! i did my homework, i stayed sober, i waited..and i dont kn-know why i gave in like that, i dont know why i went to the party.”
her voice was trembling, her eyes pleading with yours for understanding.
“lys-” you tried to calm her down, but she cut you off.
“i thought you'd never come back, so i thought if she's not here..what's the point? so i gave up..i'm so sorry..”
“lysa, baby, im sure you tried, and im proud of you, yeah? but you need to change for yourself and not others.”
“you're the only thing about me i like.”
your heart breaks at that, the defeated tone tugging at your heartstrings. her speech is still slurred, and you refuse to believe she's serious about this, but you play along in hopes she'll calm down.
for a moment, you hesitate whether you should hold her, if you can show that side of yourself again without getting hurt, but she cuts off your train of thought and buries her head in the crook of your neck, her hands wrapping around you.
that's where you give in, and hug her tighter, burying your nose in her hair, her scent overflowing your senses.
“alysa, promise me you'll stop. regardless of if i'm here or not. you know you can't keep this lifestyle, it's destroying you on the inside out.”
“but i want you to be here.”
“okay, lysa. come on, you want me to run you a bath?”
“no..” she answered petulantly.
“why not?”
“i just wanna stay close to you.”
she tightened her grip on you, burying her face deeper in your skin, taking in your scent, eliciting a sigh from you as you spoke
“five more minutes, then you have to take a bath.”
“okay.”
her nose nuzzled your neck, the rest of her body pressing flush against yours, not allowing a centimeter of distance.
“dont fall asleep on me.”
“no promises.”
her response gets a small laugh out of you.
“alright.”
she fell asleep. never took a bath.
when you realized, you carefully untangled yourself from her arms, walking to your closet to find her a comfy pair of PJs.
you put them on her, careful not to wake her.
once she was comfortably dressed and covered with her favourite blanket (that you made sure was always clean, just in case she needed to sleep over), you laid next to her, letting yourself really take in her features.
she looked so soft while she was sleeping — it was hard to believe that alysa, the girl who mumbles things like “stay” and “so cozyy..” in her sleep while simultaneously pulling you impossibly closer, is the same girl who can party for days on end and sleep around with people like she's taught herself how to detach from the people inside the body, and somehow, she perfected being able to see everybody as just another body she'd entertain herself with for the night.
you could never understand it, because she was the sweetest girl when she tried. she held onto every piece of you — hair ties, polaroids, old hoodies, ripped tights, anything you'd give her.
the thought of it brought you to tears. you'd done so much for her to just keep you around, and somehow, it was never enough for you to be the only one, for her thoughts to never stray away from you, even when the alcohol slurred her speech, when the drugs enhanced her senses, when she was left alone with her thoughts.
you were well aware that she slept around, that she never settled down.
at first you thought you could handle it, that you wouldn't get attached, and it would be just another college fling.
you were left disappointed in yourself when you caught yourself frowning when she wouldnt return your “i love you’s”, the goodmorning-goodnight texts, or when she wouldn't call you back with the excited tone you felt like you had to work for.
and ‘work’ is just another word for sex, because it seemed like that was all she ever cared about.
like forming attachments was just something she couldn't find it in herself to care about.
normally you'd pump yourself up and convince yourself that you were special, that she cared about you at least a little bit more than she cared about her other girls, but this time, your bubble burst for good, no longer trying to justify or glorify the treatment you received.
there was no point in it.
she would wake up, you'd make her breakfast and she would be sober enough to walk home.
and after that, you would never speak again.
you'd change your courses, stop going to parties, cut off your mutual friends, throw away every photo, letter, gift, hoodie, every thing that reminded you of her, and alysa would become a distant memory you'd laugh at in a few years.
just as you cut out your ‘flawless’ plan to move on from her, alysa's hands tightened around your neck, reminding you of your earlier conversation, where she wrapped herself just like that, and you held her the same way you did whenever she would have a nightmare or you would be making up after an argument. you held her with the amount of love and care reserved for when she needed reassurance, for when she showed you that she needed you.
your chest ached at the thought that you would have to leave her tomorrow, knowing what she would do to herself. guilt and fear mixed up in your chest, blending together and creating a sense of protectiveness towards her. you wanted to protect her from what was about to come, to hold her and talk her through it all, but how could you protect her from your absence, knowing it's the only thing that protected you?
at the end of the day, if alysa really tried, she could replace you, but you could never replace her.
you were mistaken when you thought you could be just like her and detach yourself from everything. you cared far too much for this to stay a friday night stress reliever call.
the sky changed into the lighter purple-blueish shade it always did when the sun was preparing to rise above the horizon.
the clock on the nightstand confirmed your fears — there wasn't much time left until alysa would wake up, and you two would be forced to address the recent events.
alysa’s grip remained tight, leaving you trying to decide if you wanted to act nonchalant and pretend you hadn't been craving this, or allow yourself to — no, acknowledge that you were already melting in her embrace and that you were far gone.
everything you thought you had understood up until this point started to seem absurd.
you told yourself she didn't care. that you were nothing special.
yet here she was, clinging to you like a lifeline, begging for you to stay and actually seeming sincere.
part of you said she cared, that you mattered a little more than the other girls.
but then you would be discarded as soon as things got hard.
the bar was low, really. she wasn't a good person in general.. but still, being engulfed by flames seems comforting to those who have spent their entire lives buried in snow.
another thirty minutes of trying to make sense of it all passed until you noticed how heavy your eyelids had gotten.
there was no point in staying up. the moment of truth was tomorrow, and no amount of overthinking could prepare you for whatever outcome the universe created for you, so you let yourself bury your nose in alysa's hair for what was most likely the last time, and let sleep take you.
⋆⋆⋆
alysa tried to untangle herself from your embrace, each limb taking a decent amount of effort to free.
just as she managed to fully untangle herself, your eyes fluttered open, vision a little blurry.
as soon as you processed what was happening, a long, embarrassing whine came out of you in an attempt to make it known that you were unapproving of whatever was happening.
you didn't have enough energy to form a sentence — your brains were scrambled, and you were reduced to a whining mess.
alysa sat on the edge of the bed, scooting only a few inches closer to you in a feeble attempt to cease your whining.
“where are you going?” you asked, your tone a little higher pitched than usual.
“home.” she answered with a face that looked like she was clawing the words out of her mouth.
“aren't you staying for breakfast?”
“no- i..” alysa began trying to form a sentence, but she was cut off.
“how are you gonna sober up with no food?” you asked with the same whiny tone.
“but..”
“alysa.”
a long sigh from her.
“fine.”
that caused a soft smile to grow on your face.
the next thirty minutes were a blur — alysa took a shower while you prepared breakfast.
once the table was set, she sat across from you, refusing to make eye contact.
you'd prepared her favourite breakfast, and alysa thanked you for remembering, but to you, this wasn't something you did on purpose.
you always made her the exact same breakfast when she came over because you loved hearing her little squeals of excitement every time she caught a whiff of what was being prepared. to you this was instinct, routine, something you did absent mindedly.
for the first 10 minutes, you both picked at your food until alysa broke the ice, finally speaking.
“im not gonna tell you i'm sorry, because ive said it so many times, it doesn't mean anything to you..”
a beat of silence while you processed her words and the sudden shift in topic.
“but i..i did really try to improve the things you said i should improve.”
“like what?”
“i.. cleaned my room and the rest of my apartment..actually cleaned it, not just shove things in drawers and call it a day. i even wiped the counters and stuff. i also did my homework. poorly, but i did my best. and i stopped with the parties.”
“first, i have to see it to believe it. second, if you really stopped with the parties, how did i end up picking you up wasted from some rando’s house?”
both of you were surprised at the harsh tone your words escaped in. you weren't intending to sound like that, not when she was being so vulnerable.
it was almost like your body was trying to protect itself, acting on its own without your input.
for a second, you wanted to reach out, to wrap your arms around her and apologize for your harsh tone.
alysa cleared her throat, her gaze averting from your eyes and towards her food.
“well, you..you can check my grades, my room..i..you can even ask my friends, and they'll tell you that the party you picked me up from was the only party i attended since we fought.”
your glare burned into her forehead, disbelieving and full of frustration yet a want to believe her words.
a few moments of silence passed till alysa spoke again.
“i want to show you that i can be better.”
“i know you can be better..will you be better?”
“yes. please. just let me show you.”
“fine.”
you felt bad that you were giving her this treatment. you didn't like the words that came out of your mouth, you didn't like your voice, and you didn't like how alysa winced every time you opened your mouth.
⋆⋆⋆
alysa fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door. her hands were trembling, her body language and tense facial expression mirroring the fear and anxiety she was holding.
at first, you thought you walked into the wrong apartment.
the blinds were open — the sun illuminating the entire area, the usually cluttered chairs and tables now free of unnecessary weight (save for your hoodie she borrowed months ago still on the sofa), the counters shining, and the place filled with fresh air.
nothing about this place said “alysa’s”. the last time you were here, it was dark, messy and suffocating.
“oh wow,” you stammered. “i didnt think you were being serious.”
alysa remained silent, holding her own hands in a cowered stance.
“you did this?”
“i..yeah.”
you walked through the rooms.
her cats came rushing to you.
“oh wow, you actually groomed them too.”
“i did.”
“damn, lys.”
a slight smile tugged at her lips when she heard the nickname.
“well, okay..you got me there. i’m proud of you..i hope you keep this up.”
“i’ll try my best.”
“you better.”
you sigh and walk out of her bedroom, the door creaking behind you.
you clutch onto your bag, looking down to your feet and then up at the front door.
“i gotta go.”
“what?” alysa stammered.
“i have to go..got some chores.” lying through your teeth, trying to remove yourself from the uncomfortable atmosphere.
“wait– stay, we need to talk.” alysa insisted.
“what is there to talk about?” you questioned.
“i think you deserve some closure.”
“i have all the closure i need.”
“you think that but you really don't.”
“how are you gonna tell me what i need?”
“y/n.” her tone was whiny, eyes glossy and pleading with you.
alysa letting go of her dignity like this was a rare sight.
“you better make this worth my time.”
“just let me explain myself. if you choose to stay, great, and if you dont, well..its your choice.” her voice faltered at the “and if you dont”, and you pretended to not notice it.
you pretended the frown that grew on her face didn't bother you. how her shoulders being slumped instead of carried with confidence didn't overwhelm you with guilt, knowing you were the reason alysa was reduced to nothing but a pathetic, pleading mess.
the soft cushion on the sofa had the same cover you bought her months ago. it had a cat that resembled one of her past cats, and it threw you back to when you first gifted it to her, how she pretended not to care about it much, but she still softened and gave you a hug.
now you want to be in her embrace again, to let yourself melt and not let the outside world bother you any longer.
you sat down, holding the cushion, tracing little patterns on it.
alysa hesitated to sit close to you, her mouth opening without anything coming out.
“sit.”
she sat next to you, her knee bumping yours.
“sorry.”
“dont apologize.”
alysa wasn't the kind to apologize for seemingly small things like bumping into you. this was a first.
“ive been an asshole to you and to everybody else.”
“you have.”
she sighs, her chest aching at your affirmation.
“i don't get it. you come over, and you hold me like i'm the most precious thing in the world, and the next day you're posted up on some other girl's lap. how does that work?”
“i..im just scared of getting attached. i’m scared of being let down. disappointment isn't really a thing when you didn't expect much in the first place. i was scared. i didn't know how to run from what i was feeling, i didn’t want to accept that you were starting to mean more than a fling to me.. and.. the only way i could really distract myself is parties.”
“so all those nights i begged you to stay, to try and be something with me, to commit..and you just ran off to parties. and..”
“i thought you'd leave! i thought if we got together, and i got too comfortable and you saw how i really was — obsessive, broken, complicated, you'd leave, and i would get hurt.”
she was getting defensive, her voice raising slightly before she caught herself and lowered it, a little guilty from snapping like that.
“what makes you think that? i stayed through you hoeing around and i still tried to make something of us. you think I couldn't handle whatever else you could throw at me?”
alysa shut up at that. she realized she underestimated you. finally, she murmured: “she said the same, and she left not a month later.”
“..she?”
“my ex.”
“who?”
“there was this girl back in.. middle school,” only then did it fully hit her how stupid her whole thought process was. a small, embarrassed chuckle escaped her with the realization that this was something she should've gotten over years ago.
“she promised me she loved me as i was, that she'd stay..and when i started to get complicated, she left. and i got so attached, i really thought..this was it, i’ll marry her. when she left it broke me. i didn't let myself look at anyone how i looked at her ever again. when college rolled around, i dont know how this started, i dont know why i became this way. i promise. i'm not..i can love. i'm not completely broken.”
your heart broke a little at her confession, but your pain stood in the way of your sympathy making you forgive her and letting her off the hook.
“you can't let a failed middle school relationship keep holding you back from forming any meaningful connections.”
“i know!” a self deprecating laugh came out of her mouth, a sheepish smile on her face.
“i realize that now. and- and i hate how i handled this. because i care, okay? you were the only one on my mind for months, do you know how many bottles i had to down to run from my mind and find some distraction? i know this sounds insane, maybe because it really is.. but i don't want you to think that you weren't enough, or.. or that this was all surface level. i dont remember the last time i let someone hold me and kiss me like that. hell, our quick pecks were more intimate than the sex i had at random parties. my point is, if you thought you mattered to me more than others did, you were right.”
now the whole place was silent save for alysa's breath, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes.
you were at a loss of words, your mouth opening, but no sound came out of it.
“just- please, let me show you, let me prove to you that i can be better?”
“i dont understand what you're asking.”
“will you be my girlfriend?” alysa blurted out.
you could've sworn your heart skipped a few beats, followed by your eyes widening.
“h-huh?” you stammered, giving her a confused look.
“you heard me. will you be my girlfriend?”
“you're serious?”
“yes.”
“..girlfriend.. like.. you're willing to commit…?”
the incredulous tone your words were spoken in made alysa wince and question how lowly you thought of her.
“yes. i'm..willing to do all the cheesy stuff, to do all the communication, the dates, the hard parts.. i’ll do it all if you let me.”
you bit your bottom lip, gauging her sincerity.
this was all you've ever wanted. what you've been begging for for the past couple months, and now it's being handed to you.
you couldn't tell if she was being serious, you couldn't tell if there was some ulterior motive behind this.
“please? just one chance?”
sigh.
“i’ll be your girlfriend.”
alysa perked up at that, her smile instantly growing, her hand reaching up to rest on your thigh without her even realizing.
“really??”
“yes, really.”
she no longer tried to suppress the tears that were threatening to wash over her cheeks.
her arms came up to wrap around your neck, burying her head in the crook of your neck, her tears forming a wet spot on your shirt.
you crumbled, fingers flying up to play with her hair in a soothing motion.
“you're being serious?” she asked between sobs.
“yes, lysa, i’m being serious.”
her legs moved to wrap around your waist, straddling you as she made herself comfortable.
“god i’ve missed you.”
“i missed you more.”
having her in your arms like this felt weird.
this was the first time you held her knowing she was yours, that she belonged in your arms and your arms only.
obviously, alysa still had to prove that she would keep her word.
she had to keep cleaning her place and taking proper care of her cats, keep parties on the low, stay loyal to you.
she gave you a spare key to her apartment so you could check on her whenever you'd like.
sometimes you'd catch her staring at the alcohol on the shelves, clearly fighting with herself not to grab one by the neck and down it in a minute.
you'd catch her struggle to cope with her emotions, sitting across you and relearning how to form a sentence that would express the emotions she was experiencing instead of the ones she thought you could digest with ease.
she would invite you to every party she went to and would be glued to your side the entire time, and every time a girl approached her, her heart was heavy with guilt when she saw the insecurity in your eyes.
alysa was still witty, nonchalant on the surface and complicated to understand, but this time she was willing to cooperate, to help you understand her and show you all the love she held for you in her heart.
her gifts turned from bribes to displays of affection, her attention no longer felt like something you had to work for, and her arms were your safe space instead of something you feared would never be yours.
each time she saw doubt creep onto your face, she made sure it disappeared as quickly as it came.
each time you seeked reassurance, she gave it to you, no questions asked.
her arms held you tight against her with love and care, gently squeezing you to let you know that you still belonged in her arms.
and you would always hum or squeeze back, reminding her that you were the only one who belonged in her arms.
🦇🐴 Amber had been taught since childhood to beware of vampires who drank the blood of civilians and livestock. She was taught to sharpen stakes, shoot a revolver, and protect the livestock. But when she saw you, she knew she was doomed. More precisely, you, because you got stuck with that girl in the hat. Glamorous, majestic, and intimidating vampire. But now enduring a girl teaching you country life.
> Part 1
> Part 2
> Part 3
....
I think it will be more convenient if I break down big ideas into parts, otherwise Tumblr lags and slows down... Anddd I will write some smut(s) in one of the parts in this fanfic. (There will most likely be more mistakes in the text :p)
𓅫 In your dove form, you love to tease her — flying close, almost touching, then slipping away. Alma sits on the windowsill in her sleek peregrine shape, her talons flexing and unflexing, but she doesn't strike. She clicks her beak at you, but not in anger. And then she dives anyway, her wings a dark blur, and she gently nips at your feathers. "Cheeky little thing," she'll say later, back in her human form.
𓅫 Alma the peregrine is territorial. When others visit, she hides you under her wing. She sits with her wing spread, and you press against her side. In human form, this turns into her fixing your collar, smoothing your dress, tucking your hair behind your ear. The children giggle behind her back. She doesn't care.
𓅫 In her human form, she adores watching you bask in the morning sunbeams. She simply smokes a pipe and silently watches you from behind, so as not to disturb your sunbathing.
𓅫 She hates mess. Even in feathers. If one of your feathers sticks out the wrong way, she's already there, smoothing it with her beak, fixing it. Her movements are precise but gentle. If you peck her shoulder in protest, she stops, gives you that look: "Darling, must you?"
𓅫 The children love watching you both in bird form. Once, Hugh released a handful of bees, and you, in your dove form, chased after them. Alma sat in a tree as a peregrine, watching with an expression that mixed exhaustion and tenderness. "Really, my love?" she said later.
𓅫 When you are both in human form, she likes to kiss you briefly and tenderly. Her kisses are almost imperceptible, reverent. When she kisses, it's more like pecking your face. But when she kisses longer, they are more tender, thoughtful, and loving, kisses on the lips, forehead, or cheek.
𓅫 The children have been calling you her wife for a while now. Alma pretends not to notice — but once, she absentmindedly used the word in front of Enoch (he didn't answer anything about it). After that, Fiona started leaving tiny woven grass rings in your pockets.
𓅫 Sometimes you deliberately appear in her path in the form of a dove. She calmly walks down the corridor with a mouthpiece in her hand and stops halfway, noticing you below. Her eyes widen slightly, but then melt into affectionate. "What are you doing here, my little dove?"
𓅫 When you sit on her shoulder, she sometimes looks at you out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes she closes her eyes, enjoying the silence between you and the gentle rustling of your wings. But as soon as you start playfully pecking her, she starts to giggle softly and smile broadly, playfully grimacing. "Little minx!".
Your niece's fifth birthday party. The theme: "Jungle Safari." The entertainment: a giant inflatable bouncy castle, a face painter, and a "very special guest".
Amber had said no. Immediately. With the kind of finality she usually reserved for triple Axel landings and arguments about pineapple on pizza.
"I am not wearing a cat costume," she said.
"It's not a cat costume. It's a jungle mascot."
"It has ears. And whiskers. And a tail."
"...Yes."
"And you want me to wear this." She held up the costume — a full-body, neon-orange tiger suit with padded paws and a massive, flopping head. "In public."
"You'll be a hero."
"I'll be a heatstroke statistic."
"You're an athlete. You've competed in worse conditions." You batted your eyelashes. "For me?"
She stared at you. The costume stared back.
"No," she said.
........
She wore the costume.
Of course she wore the costume. She always caved eventually — not because you manipulated her (okay, maybe a little), but because underneath all the competitive fire and the focused glare, Amber Glenn was soft. Especially when it came to you.
Especially when you said: "The kids would be so happy. They don't have a lot of money for big parties. This would mean everything to them."
You might have exaggerated. Slightly. The kids had plenty of money. They had a bouncy castle and a hired magician. But the costume worked.
She stood in the living room, fully suited up. The tiger head sat under her arm. Her face was already flushed.
"I hate you," she said.
"You love me."
"I'm going to sweat to death."
"I'll bring you water."
"I want that recorded. You owe me."
You kissed the tip of her nose. "You're the best girlfriend in the world."
"I'm the hottest girlfriend in the world. Literally. It's like a sauna in here."
The party was chaos.
Twenty children, ages three to seven, hyped on sugar and birthday cake, descended upon the tiger mascot like piranhas.
"MR. TIGER! MR. TIGER! CAN YOU ROAR?"
Amber, to her credit, roared. She was embarrassed.
She let them pull her tail. She let them hug her padded legs. She let one particularly bold child climb onto her back for a piggyback ride across the lawn.
You watched from the sidelines, phone in hand.
Every few minutes, Amber would turn toward you — her massive tiger head tilting in a way that somehow conveyed exhaustion and exasperation and affection all at once.
"You're filming this," she said, stomping over during a break in the chaos. Her voice was muffled through the costume.
"Of course I'm filming this."
"Delete it."
"Never."
"You're evil."
"I'm documenting love."
"That's not what this is. This is blackmail material."
"It's both."
She groaned — a long, theatrical sound — and stomped back to the children, who immediately swarmed her again.
The face paint came next.
One of the children — an especially ambitious four-year-old — had somehow acquired a tube of glitter face paint and decided that the tiger mascot needed "prettier stripes."
Amber stood perfectly still while the child painted neon pink zigzags across her fuzzy orange stomach.
"This is happening," she said flatly.
"It's art," you called from your chair.
"It's vandalism."
"It's community bonding."
The child finished and stepped back to admire her work. "Now you're a princess tiger!"
Amber looked down at her glitter-covered chest. "I'm a princess tiger."
"Yes!" The child beamed. "You need a crown!"
"No crown—"
Too late. Another child had produced a paper crown from somewhere( possibly the bouncy castle) and was attempting to balance it on Amber's massive tiger head.
It did not fit. It perched awkwardly between her ears.
"I'm wearing a crown," Amber said, her voice hollow.
"You're wearing a crown," you confirmed.
"On top of the tiger head."
"On top of the tiger head."
She turned to face you. Even through the costume's mesh eye holes, you could see her glare.
"I'm going to put glitter on your pillow tonight."
By the end of the party, Amber was drenched.
Sweat dripped down her temples. Her hair — what you could see of it — was plastered to her forehead. The costume's fur was matted in places. The paper crown was long "gone".
She sat on a bench in the shade, the tiger head finally removed, her face red and exhausted.
A small girl approached her, clutching a half-eaten cupcake.
"Mr. Tiger?" The girl held up the cupcake. "Do you want some?"
Amber looked at the cupcake. Looked at the girl. Looked at you.
"I'm not actually a tiger," she said gently.
The girl's face fell. Her lip wobbled.
"I'm—" Amber sighed. "Sure. I'll have some cupcake."
She took a bite. The girl beamed. Amber chewed slowly, defeated.
You sat down next to her and handed her a water bottle.
"You're amazing," you said.
"I'm melting."
"You're amazing and melting."
She drank half the bottle in one go. Then she leaned her head against your shoulder — the costume's ears poking your chin.
"Never again," she said.
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"Okay."
"You're not listening."
"I'm listening. I'm just not agreeing."
She groaned. You kissed her sweaty temple.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too," she muttered. "But I'm still putting glitter on your pillow."
The next morning she wondered if she wanted children. Most likely the answer was yes.
Nothing like that, maybe my thoughts about what Alysa is really like.
I saw a few photos in her (?) room and there are SO many mangas. If it's her room, then I'm very impressed. I think she's really one of those who can get completely absorbed in reading a book/manga or something like that. She gives the impression of being an extrovert, but her gaze is so "deep", as if she knows more than she shows.
She had no mother figure from childhood, meaning she was born to an anonymous donor and raised under the guidance of her father. Her father proudly showed off magazines, photographs, and other things hanging on the wall in his study. He seems a bit strict but still caring father. She learned to skate from a young age because her father wanted her to become a figure skating master. She is also an older sister, and honestly, she carried so much responsibility and expectations that she took a break. To be honest, she really fits the mold of "that older sister"—she can be fun and open, but also very responsible and collected, which she demonstrates.
Her interview, where the journalists asked rather strange questions, like... calm ones? To the question of what would make her popular if not for figure skating, she answered simply. "Nothing." She just answered directly. And I just think that she is one of those people who could definitely answer an personal question honestly if someone asked her something or asked for advice. In a life situation, if someone cried in front of her, one of her friends, she wouldn't panic, but would simply sit next to them and say something, something to comfort, maybe make a joke, but only to calm the person down, or she would just be silent but be there. I can't say it's a fact, but I feel some calmness, maturity in her.
Yes, she jokes a lot, openly expresses her emotions, behaves silly, but this is not something that falls under the category of intruding into someone else's personal space, interfering with others, or presenting oneself as superior to others. In one interview with a Russian coach, she was described as a young girl who came to a competition. While other figure skaters couldn't change because of some incident (I might be wrong), Alysa simply sat on her suitcase and put on her skates. It's actually so sweet. As a child, she is very kind and friendly. Just simply accepting the world as it is.
I remember reading a post that she is very masc. When I first started learning about her, Didn't even think about it actually. Some people wrote that this could be because she grew up under her father's guidance. I can't say that it's exactly like that, but I think maybe? :p Would say that she is simply used to choosing what will bring her comfort. She wears baggy clothes, but also looks great in dresses and other things.
She can be trusted. It's just that for me, as a terribly nervous person, she seems understanding. Her introverted side seems calm and reassuring. Perhaps that's why she always reminds me of a puppy: no matter how hyperactive, still understanding and caring. If you tell her a secret and ask her not to tell anyone—she might look away, think, and nod with a small smile. She often seems to be thinking about something, even during interviews. At the meeting with Taylor Swift, she seemed a little shy, but still herself.
She loves animals, loves anime, and is often modest. Sometimes I notice that she tries to avoid conflicts and doesn't try to argue with someone else's opinion seriously. Her childhood photos are so cute, especially where she's crying and just living her life. I would categorize her more with a Cigarettes After Sex song than some energetic playlist.
And those Chinese spies— I'm scared.
Okay, maybe I'm writing some silly things about her, but as a person she seems quite chill. Just my opinion and my observations. They could be wrong.
(writing this post because the translator doesn't want to translate my fanfic into English and now I'm just writing my thoughts. If I had written the fanfic in English, you would have died from the grammar, so I'm writing in my language and then translating)
There are so few fanfics about her and some are not for female readers. I caught it.
𖢌𖢌𖢌
🌸 Despite her cool and bold stage image, when she's alone with you, Aeri turns into the most gentle person in the world. She loves when you play with her hair while her head rests in your lap. In those moments, she quietly tells you about her worries or how much she missed you, mixing Korean, Japanese, and English in one sentence, because with you she doesn't need to monitor her speech.
🌸 Aeri is your personal DJ and playlist curator. She constantly sends you tracks with notes like "this is literally you" or "I want to kiss you to this song." She got you hooked on late night drives, where you just cruise through nighttime Seoul listening to R&B, and she holds the steering wheel with one hand while squeezing your palm with the other, humming the melody under her breath.
🌸 Her unique love language is caring through food and coffee. Even if she's dead tired after practice, she'll still make you the perfect matcha latte or order your favorite ramen delivery, because "you probably forgot to eat while working/studying." She'll sit across from you, chin resting on her hand, watching you eat with a soft smile, considering it her personal recipe for happiness.
🌸 You're both true aesthetics enthusiasts. Aeri loves buying you matching items that don't look too obvious. It could be identical silver rings, vintage t-shirts, or even the same perfume scent for both of you. She's obsessed with you two smelling delicious together, mixing her "sweet" notes with your "woody" or "floral" ones.
🌸 Aeri is the most supportive fan of your passions. If you ever start doubting yourself, she instantly switches to a serious tone and says, "I won't let anyone talk badly about my girl, not even you." She'll be the loudest one in the room at your performance/project defense, or she'll be waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers and a note written in three languages that says "I'm proud of you."
🌸 Sometimes she loves teasing you about your height difference or personality contrasts, but truthfully she enjoys being the little spoon, cozily tucked under your side while watching anime. You can lie cuddled up for hours discussing plotlines while she lazily kisses your fingers or draws invisible patterns on your skin, then suddenly says, "Let's adopt a cat? Or actually, let's get two."
🌸 Aeri collects your shared "artifacts" — movie tickets, dried petals from your first date, silly stickers you once sent her. She has a little box she calls her "happiness capsule." On particularly hard days when her schedule is draining, she opens it and sifts through the contents to remind herself that somewhere out there, you're waiting for her. One day you found a crumpled napkin in that box with your first handwritten "I love you," and you cried together with her.
🌸 Your dates often happen in "safe haven" mode. Aeri, surrounded by noise and fans, treasures most the moments when you just sit on the floor of your apartment, order a mountain of junk food, and watch old Hayao Miyazaki films. She'll comment on every scene in a mix of three languages, mimic the characters, and steal pizza slices right from your hands, then guiltily kiss your cheek, leaving crumbs behind.
🌸 She secretly writes you poems in her phone notes. They're not always rhymed lines — sometimes just a stream of thoughts, where phrases like "your laughter sounds louder than the applause of an entire stadium" sit next to "you sneezed funny today, I love you." She never shows them publicly, but once you found the open note while she was sleeping, and now it's your most precious secret.
🌸 Aeri has a highly developed intuition for your mood. Even if you stay silent and text a dry "I'm fine," within seconds she's already dialing your number or showing up herself with your favorite dessert. She sits beside you, places your feet on her lap, and says, "If you don't want to talk, don't. Let's just be quiet together. What matters is that I'm here." But a couple of minutes pass, and you're already telling her everything — she has a gift for creating an absolutely safe space.
🌸 Your most romantic moments happen at dawn, when the whole world is asleep. If she has a day off, she might wake you at five in the morning whispering, "Let's go greet the sun." Sleepy, wrapped together in one blanket, you sit on the balcony with mugs of tea, and when the first rays touch her face, she turns to you and says, "You know, moments like this make any hardship worth it." Then she adds with a smirk, "And getting to see your sleepy face, of course."
🌸 Her way of making up after arguments is honesty and food. Aeri isn't the type to sulk for days. Even if you've had a fight, an hour later she's already standing in the doorway with a bag from your favorite café, saying, "I'm still a little mad, but I can't stand you being hungry. Let's eat first, then we can continue sorting this out?" While you eat, she starts the conversation herself: "I thought about why I got worked up. Honestly, I was just scared that..." — and like that, any conflict turns into a dialogue that only brings you closer.
🌸 She loves organizing at-home spa days. Face masks, cucumber slices on eyes, robes — all top tier. While you lie there with green sheet masks on your faces, she suddenly starts laughing: "We look like two aliens on a date." Then she sits behind you to give you a shoulder massage and grumbles, "God, you were sitting all hunched over again, you've got stone knots back here." Her hands, though small, are surprisingly strong, and she doesn't stop until she hears your satisfied sigh, then quietly kisses the top of your head.
You don't notice it right away. Or rather, you do notice, but you chalk it up to something else—fatigue after a long day at school, another argument with her parents, the general mood that Maddy Perez possesses, as changeable as April weather. She's sitting next to you on the couch in your living room, legs tucked under her in white ankle socks, scrolling through her phone with an expression so focused it looks like she's reading the terms of a nuclear agreement rather than someone's Instagram stories. Her nails—long, almond-shaped, coated in perfect red polish—tap rhythmically against the screen.
You place a hand on her knee, and she doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away, but she doesn't cover your palm with hers either, the way she usually does. She just keeps scrolling.
"Everything okay?" you ask, squeezing your fingers slightly.
"Absolutely," Maddy replies without looking up. Her voice is even, almost sweet, but you've been with her long enough to understand: this doesn't bode well. Maddy Perez has a particular talent—she can wound more deeply with the word "absolutely" than another girl could with a string of curses.
You decide not to push for now. In two years of dating, you've learned the cardinal rule of life with a hurricane named Maddy: when she's simmering, it's better to give her some space. She'll let off steam—she'll tell you. Or show you. Maddy's emotions usually come bursting out fast and flashy, like confetti from a party popper—bright, loud, followed by chaos. But today is different. She's quiet. That unnerves you.
You return to your homework, though concentrating is already difficult. You watch her out of the corner of your eye. Maddy sets her phone down face-first, adjusts her hair—you know this gesture by heart: she runs her fingers through at the roots, slightly lifting the dark strands so they fall with more volume—and finally looks at you. Her gaze sweeps across your face like a searchlight, looking for something.
"You had a fun time at lunch today," she says.
It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with a faint hint of polite conversation that conceals a trap.
You freeze for a second, replaying lunch in your mind. Yeah, you were sitting on the bench in the courtyard—you, Cassie, Lexi, and a couple of kids from another class. Maddy was at cheerleading practice at the time—they have a big performance coming up, and rehearsals have been more frequent. You remember laughing at some joke Lexi made about the school play, and then helping Cassie decode texts from her new boyfriend, while she chirped away nonstop, as she always does.
"It was fine," you answer cautiously. "Why?"
Maddy tilts her head slightly to the side. Her lips, lined with a pencil a shade darker than her lipstick, curve into the semblance of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes at all.
"Just curious. You two looked really cute together."
Wait. 'Together'? With who?
"Are you talking about Lexi?" you ask, trying to find your footing.
"About Ethan," Maddy breathes the name out like something sour on her tongue, and turns away, picking up her phone again. She's not scrolling now—just holding it, turning it in her fingers like an expensive toy.
Ethan. Oh god. Ethan is the new guy from biology class, the one you were paired with for a lab assignment last week. He did sit with your group at lunch, because he doesn't really know anyone else at school yet. He's funny, a little awkward, and absolutely, one hundred percent, holds no romantic interest for you. You can't even remember if you looked in his direction for longer than five seconds.
"Mads," you set your notebook aside and turn your whole body toward her. "Ethan is just a guy from class. We're doing a project on photosynthesis together. That's it."
"I know what photosynthesis is," she cuts you off, icy.
"I don't doubt you do," you try to suppress a smile, because it's genuinely funny—in any other, non-jealous situation, Maddy would be the first to joke about her grades. "I'm saying he's nothing to me. At all. Zero."
"Then why was he sitting in my spot?"
There it is. That's where the shoe pinches. Not in Ethan as a guy, but in the symbolic "her spot." On the bench where you always sit together, where you first kissed after she walked up to you in the school courtyard six months ago, in front of everyone, and said, "Listen, I think you should be my girlfriend." To your right. That's where Maddy always sits, and Cassie usually sits to your left. But that day, Maddy wasn't there, and Ethan, unaware of your group's unspoken seating chart, plopped down in the empty spot.
"Because he doesn't know. Nobody told him, Mads. To him, it was just an empty bench."
"It's not empty," she enunciates. "It's my spot. Next to you."
Maddy Perez's jealousy isn't shouting or breaking dishes, as you might expect given her explosive temperament. It's something far more sophisticated and quiet. It's a checklist in her head that she's constantly reviewing: who looked at you, who you smiled at, who stood too close, who touched your shoulder, even by accident while passing a textbook. It's a database where every interaction gets its own category: "threat," "potential threat," "can be ignored." Ethan, apparently, jumped straight into the red zone over a single lunch.
You reach for her, but Maddy gets up from the couch—fluid, like a cat—and walks into the kitchen. You hear her open the fridge, the clink of a glass water bottle.
You follow her. You lean your shoulder against the doorframe, watching her pour water into a glass. Her movements are still smooth, but there's tension in them—her back too straight, her fingers gripping the neck of the bottle too tightly.
"You know I love you," you say quietly.
Maddy takes a sip, sets the glass down on the counter. Turns around. Now she's looking right at you, and her dark eyes finally betray the emotion she was trying to hide behind indifference. It's not anger. It's fear.
"Then why didn't you tell him to move?" she asks. Her voice cracks half a pitch lower, almost a whisper, and that makes it hurt even more. "Why did you just let him sit there, like it doesn't mean anything?"
Now the puzzle pieces click into place. It's not just about the spot. It's about the fact that Maddy saw—or thought she saw—you having a perfectly good time without her. You were laughing, talking, your world didn't collapse during the forty five minutes she was running drills in the gym. And that—that is the most terrifying thing for a girl who is used to being the center of someone's universe. First at the center of Nate Jacobs' universe, which turned into a catastrophe, and now at the center of yours.
Maddy isn't just jealous of another person. She's jealous of the possibility of you existing without her. Of the thought that you are whole and separate, and she isn't the only axis you revolve around. But you understand something else too: it took her incredible courage, after everything that happened to her, to trust someone again. And now she is desperately terrified of losing it. Losing you. So every little thing swells in her mind to the scale of a tragedy.
"Come here," you open your arms.
She hesitates for exactly one second. Maddy Perez isn't someone who easily lets herself be comforted. She's used to being strong, prickly (:p), the one who hurts first so she doesn't get hurt. But with you, she's trying to be different. And you appreciate that.
She steps toward you, presses her forehead into your shoulder, and you catch the scent of something sweet from her body—perfume with notes of vanilla and sandalwood, the one she always wears before bed, even if bedtime is hours away. You wrap your arms around her, running your palms down her back, feeling the tension slowly release.
"I don't see anyone but you," you whisper into the crown of her head. "Seriously. You can ask Lexi, Cassie, anyone. I look at Ethan the same way I look at a lab microscope. Functionally. With no emotion."
She snorts, and that's already a victory.
"He's an idiot anyway," Maddy adds, not lifting her head. Her voice is muffled but without the ice. "He has a stupid haircut."
"Really stupid," you agree, even though objectively the haircut is just a haircut, totally ordinary, but now is not the time for objectivity.
"And he laughs too loud. It's annoying."
"So loud," you chime in, stroking her hair.
Maddy finally pulls back and looks at you. Her makeup is still flawless, not a single eyelash has smudged, but in the corners of her eyes you see a wet gleam she will never, ever admit to. She sniffles—elegantly, almost imperceptibly—and then suddenly smiles. A real smile, the very one that made you fall for her in the first place.
"Tomorrow I'm coming to lunch myself," she announces in a tone that brooks no argument. "And if that moron sits in my spot again, I'll give him such a photosynthesis lesson, he'll run all the way across the school."
"I'll warn him," you laugh. "Like, my girlfriend is the cheerleading captain, she can do a backflip with one hand and knock your tooth out, so you'd better relocate to another planet."
Maddy rolls her eyes, but the sparkle is dancing in them again. The crisis has passed.
Later, when you're lying in bed and it's already dark outside, she laces her fingers with yours and spends a long time examining your hands together—hers, adorned with a couple of silver rings, and yours.
"I'm sorry," she says, barely audible. "I know I act like a psycho sometimes. It's just… I don't know how to be any other way yet. But I'm learning."
You turn your head toward her. Maddy's profile in the half-dark looks drawn—the sharp arch of her brows, lashes, lips. You kiss her shoulder.
"We're learning together, remember? Me—not to be jealous of every lamppost, you—to tell apart those… chloroplasts and mitochondria."
"To tell chloroplasts apart from mitochondria," Maddy corrects, and you hear a smile in her voice. "I actually know biology better than you."
"Oh, so you're not just the most beautiful, but also the smartest?" you tease.
"Exactly," she answers with absolute seriousness. "And tomorrow I'll prove it to the entire school courtyard. And Ethan can sit on the other side of town."
You laugh, and she laughs too, and this is the best proof that the evening, which started with passive-aggressive scrolling, ended the right way. Maddy will be jealous again—it's part of her nature, the same as her love for sparkly earrings or the habit of painting her nails exclusively red. But she's not afraid because she doesn't trust you. She's afraid because she's been burned before. And you're ready to prove your love to her as many times as it takes.
Amber x very feminine reader that just loves touching Amber's muscles!! She'll just randomly stick her hand under Amber's shirt to feel her abs, trace her back muscles, or just gets giddy if Amber decides to walk around their place in a sports bra or tank top. Sorry I just love how muscular she is 😩
Amber Glenn x female reader
𒁂 Muscular girlfriend
➥➥➥
The apartment was filled with soft afternoon light and the scent of coffee Amber had brewed about an hour ago. You sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, but your gaze wasn't fixed on the laptop screen where the screensaver had long since taken over. Your attention was fully, irrevocably claimed by Amber.
She stood with her back to you, sorting through some notes on the table. She wore a simple black sports top that treacherously (or, rather, deliciously) put her back on full display. You bit your lip, watching the muscles ripple beneath smooth skin with every tiny movement. The elegant lines of her lats tapered down to her waist, forming that perfect V-shape silhouette, and when she reached for a pen, her firm, rounded delts flexed into sharp relief.
You let out a quiet sigh, feeling that familiar, nerve-tingling warmth spread through your chest. You knew that figure by heart, yet every single glance at Amber's muscles made your heart beat faster.
"Kitten, are you trying to burn a hole through me?" she asked without turning around, a smirk audible in her voice. Her tone was low and velvety.
"I'm just admiring," you murmured, already rising from the couch. Your legs carried you to her of their own accord. "That's not forbidden, is it?"
Amber turned, and her lips curved into that disarmingly tender smile.
"It's not forbidden. But I feel like a museum exhibit."
"You're so much better," you breathed, stopping just a step away from her. "Exhibits can't be touched."
Your eyes glinted with mischief. You closed the distance and, taking advantage of the fact that Amber was still leaning against the table, slipped your palms under her sports top, pressing them flat against her stomach. The hot skin burned your cool fingers. Amber flinched for only a second — from the unexpected chill, not from resistance.
You froze, your eyes fluttering shut in bliss. Under your palms lay steel-cut abs. You felt the muscles tense for an instant, hardening into rigid plates, and then Amber deliberately relaxed, letting you explore.
"Again?" she whispered warmly, nuzzling into the top of your head.
"Always," you mumbled, tracing the lines of each abdominal ridge with your fingertips. You outlined every dip and groove, savoring the definition, the hardness hidden beneath that thin layer of velvety skin. "It's hypnotizing."
You slowly slid your hands sideways, stroking her obliques, then glided higher, cupping her ribs with your palms. You loved feeling her breathe.
"Turn around, please," you asked, your tone petulant but affectionate.
Amber obediently turned. Your hands immediately found her back, slipping under the top from below. Your palms smoothed over the strong lower back, climbed up along her spine, massaging the muscles tensed from the day's work.
"You're like a stone sculpture," you whispered, pressing your cheek to her chest while your hands continued their journey over her shoulder blades. "A Greek god. Only better, because you're warm and you smell good."
Amber laughed quietly, and the vibration sent a shiver through your body.
"I just got back from training, princess. I can't possibly smell good."
"You smell like Amber," you insisted stubbornly, the pads of your fingers stroking the solid curves of her biceps. "And that's the best scent in the world."
You pulled back just enough to take her left hand and lift it to your lips. Amber, understanding your weakness, bent her arm slightly at the elbow. The bicep immediately swelled into a tight, round ball, a sharp boundary forming between it and her deltoid. You let out a breath of pure admiration and pressed your lips to the tensed muscle.
"This is just unfair," you said, kissing the warm skin. "You do this on purpose."
"Maybe," she replied coyly, relaxing her arm again. "I like the way your eyes light up. You get so... hungry. Not in a food kind of way."
You released her hand and, without a second thought, simply wrapped your arms around her waist, burying your face in the cleft between her firm pectoral muscles, which looked so impossibly inviting beneath the rigid fabric of her sports top.
"I just can't control my hands when you're near me dressed like this," you confessed, voice muffled, your nose tracing the edge of the neckline. "If you're in sweatpants and a t-shirt, I can still behave like a civilized person. But in a crop top... or, heaven forbid, if you walk around the apartment in just a sports bra... It's torture. My hands have a life of their own. They're magnetically drawn to you."
"I've noticed," Amber said, stroking your back, and then suddenly she gripped you under your thighs and lifted you onto the empty kitchen table, settling herself between your spread knees. Now you were at eye level.
"Well, since you enjoy it so much... touch away," she allowed, lacing her fingers with yours and placing your palms on her shoulders. "But just so you know: I enjoy watching you do it just as much."
You ran your open palms from the base of Amber's neck, over her traps, which curved softly into her shoulders. You weren't just in love with Amber's body. You were obsessed with it in the gentlest, most aesthetic sense. It was pure reverence — witnessing how femininity and strength blended into one beautiful form. Every training session she endured was like the work of a sculptor.
You leaned in and left a damp kiss on the jut of her collarbone.
"I love you," you said, finally pulling your hands out from under her top and wrapping your arms around her neck, pressing your entire body against hers. "And your muscles..."
"In what order?" Amber chuckled, hugging you back.
"You're first," you answered seriously. "The muscles are just the cherry on top. The most gorgeous, firm cherry in the world, one I'm willing to taste over and over forever."
Amber said nothing in response, just held you tighter, smiling into your hair. She felt cozy in your obsession. To the rest of the world, Amber was an athlete, an object of admiration, but to you, she was simply the person you loved — someone you could freely (and with enormous pleasure) snuggle and squeeze whenever the urge struck.
Later that evening, the light outside had faded into deep indigo, and the apartment was quiet save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You had somehow managed to untangle yourself from Amber long enough to make tea, but when you returned to the living room with two steaming mugs, you nearly dropped them both.
Amber had stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other resting on her stomach. She had changed out of her training clothes into loose gray sweatpants that hung dangerously low on her hips, and — most devastatingly — she had pulled off the sports top entirely, replacing it with nothing but a thin, white tank top. The kind with armholes cut so wide they plunged down her ribcage, leaving the smooth landscape of her sides and back almost entirely bare to the shifting shadows of the lamplight.
She wasn't even doing anything provocative. She was scrolling through her phone, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. But the way the cotton draped over the firm swell of her chest, the way her shoulder muscles shifted with every tiny scroll of her thumb — it made your mouth go dry.
"You're staring again," she said without looking up, that same warm amusement curling at the edges of her voice.
"You're doing it on purpose," you countered, setting the mugs down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, as if they were made of crystal.
"Am I?" Now she did look up, one eyebrow arching. Her eyes glinted with playful challenge. "I'm just lying here. Comfortably. In my own home."
"In that tank top," you added, sinking onto the edge of the couch cushion beside her hip. Your fingers itched.
"Is there a problem with my tank top?" She tilted her head, the column of her throat catching the light, and you watched the tendons shift beneath her skin.
"Yes," you breathed. "It's got holes in all the wrong places. Or the right places. I haven't decided."
Amber laughed — a full, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes — and placed her phone face-down on her chest. "You're impossible."
"And you're beautiful," you shot back. "So I think we're even."
You couldn't wait any longer. Your hand found the hem of her tank top, but instead of slipping underneath, you simply rested your palm flat against the exposed sliver of her side where the fabric gaped open. The skin there was impossibly smooth, warm from the lazy heat of the couch. You traced the subtle ridges of her ribs, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
Amber went still beneath your touch, her eyes softening as she watched you. The playfulness melted into something deeper — that quiet, tender trust she reserved only for you.
"You know," she murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, "most people would get bored of this after a while. Same body, day after day."
"Most people don't get to touch you," you replied, your voice barely a whisper. You flattened your hand and slid it around to her back, tracing the valley of her spine through the thin cotton. "And your body isn't the same day after day. It's always doing something new. Right now, for example..." You paused, pressing your fingers gently into the firm muscle beside her shoulder blade. "You're holding tension here. Did practice run late?"
Amber exhaled slowly, her eyes fluttering half-closed. "A little. Extra off-ice conditioning."
You made a soft, sympathetic sound and shifted closer, bringing your other hand up to join the first. You began to knead the tight muscle with your thumbs, working in slow circles. The tank top made it easy — too easy — to access the broad planes of her back, the sculpted curve where her neck met her shoulders.
"Better?" you asked after a moment.
"Mm." It was less a word and more a low, contented hum. Her head lolled forward slightly. "You have magic hands."
"I have very motivated hands," you corrected. "They know exactly what they want."
"And what do they want?"
You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Everything. Every inch. Every muscle. Every time you move, I want to map it. I want to memorize the way your lats flex when you reach for something, the way your abs tighten when you laugh, the way your quads look when you're just standing in the kitchen making coffee like a normal person— except you're not a normal person, you're a masterpiece, and I'm just..."
You trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. But Amber caught your chin gently between her thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up to meet her gaze.
"You're just the girl who makes me feel like the most beautiful person in the world," she said softly. "Every single day."
Your heart squeezed. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then to the crest of her shoulder, then — because you simply couldn't resist — to the swell of her bicep, which she obligingly flexed for you.
"Show-off," you murmured against her skin.
"Your show-off," she corrected, and the smile in her voice was like sunlight.
You stayed like that for a while — you tracing lazy patterns across the landscape of her arms and shoulders, her fingers idly stroking through your hair. The tea grew cold on the coffee table, forgotten. Outside, the city hummed its distant nighttime song, but inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of shared breath, the warmth of tangled limbs, and the sacred, simple joy of being allowed to touch someone you loved without reservation.
Eventually, Amber shifted, tugging you down so you were lying half on top of her, your head tucked beneath her chin. Her arms wrapped around you securely, one hand resting on the small of your back.
"You know I'd let you do that forever, right?" she said into the quiet. "Just... touch. Explore. Whatever you want."
You smiled against her collarbone. "Forever is a long time. You might get ticklish eventually."
"Try me."
So you did. You traced your fingers feather-light across her ribs, and she squirmed beneath you, a surprised laugh escaping her lips.
"Okay, okay — truce, truce!" she gasped, catching your wrist.
You grinned, propping your chin on her sternum to look up at her. "You said try you."
"I underestimated my opponent." She was still laughing, her eyes bright. "Remind me never to do that again."
"Never underestimate a girl obsessed with your body," you said solemnly. "It's a life rule."
Amber shook her head, still smiling, and pulled you up for a proper kiss — slow, warm, and tasting faintly of the peppermint tea you'd never gotten around to drinking.
When you pulled back, she tapped her finger gently against your nose.
"Weirdo," she said affectionately.
"Your weirdo," you echoed her earlier words, and the look she gave you was so full of love that your chest ached with it.
haii i rlly love ur writing i need more isabeau fics pls🤧🙏 i will take anything im not picky but preferably hurt/comfort😚😚
Isabeau Levito x female reader
𒁂Comfort
𖡹𖡹𖡹
The silence in the hotel room pressed against your ears, heavier than the roar of the crowd that had haunted you all day. You sat on the edge of the immaculately made bed, unable to even remove your skates, which now felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. The tears had dried on your cheeks, leaving behind only a tight, uncomfortable feeling and salty tracks. You hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the city sprawling beyond the window—a million indifferent lights, twinkling like nothing had happened, like the world hadn't just ended.
The performance had been… a disaster. Not in the protocols—to the fans, perhaps it looked like just an unfortunate fall. But to you, it was a collapse. All those months of work, the carefully crafted choreography, every word from your coach, the early mornings when you dragged yourself out of bed before sunrise, the bruises on your hips from endless jump repetitions—it all crumbled in a single moment, when your blade betrayed you on the simplest of steps. A step you'd done a thousand times. A step that should have been muscle memory.
Your mind was a cruel projector, replaying it on an endless, merciless loop. The sickening jolt of the ice meeting your body. The collective gasp of the crowd. The way the music played on without you, indifferent to your collapse. You'd gotten up—you always did—but something inside you had stayed down on that ice. Something felt broken that no trainer could tape back together.
You replayed that moment over and over, feeling a fresh wave of despair rising in your throat. The scores hadn't even been announced, but you already knew: after a performance like that, you don't stand on the podium. And that knowledge coiled into a tight, cold knot inside your chest, pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Hours had passed since you fled the kiss and cry, dodging journalists and well-meaning federation officials. You'd refused dinner, ignored your phone buzzing endlessly with notifications—half-hearted reassurances, you assumed, or worse, pity. You couldn't bear pity. Not right now. You hadn't even changed out of your costume, now feeling like a costume in the cruelest sense—a beautiful dress for a role you had failed to play.
A soft knock on the door made you flinch.
"It's me," came a quiet, melodic voice you would have recognized out of a thousand. Isabeau.
Your heart clenched painfully. Of all people, she was the one you most wanted to see and the one you most wanted to hide from. She had been magnificent tonight. Ethereal. Watching her skate from the sidelines before your own performance, you had been torn between overwhelming pride and a tiny, shameful seed of envy at how effortlessly she commanded the ice. She had floated through her program like a dream, every movement imbued with that signature grace that made Isabeau… Isabeau. And now here she was, at your door, when she should have been celebrating, doing interviews, being showered with the praise she so richly deserved.
The door opened quietly, and Isabeau slipped into the room. She was still in her performance dress—sky blue, weightless, a beautiful contrast to her dark brown hair. She was so untouchably beautiful, a vision of everything you felt you weren't tonight, that you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
But then you saw her face. The soft hallway light fell across her features, and you realized she didn't look like someone who had just triumphed. She looked… worried. Deeply, genuinely worried. Her brow was furrowed, and those luminous eyes were scanning the dark room frantically until they found your hunched silhouette on the bed.
Isabeau said nothing at first. She simply closed the door behind her with a soft click, plunging the room back into semi-darkness, and moved toward you soundlessly. When she knelt before you, your breath caught. Isabeau Levito, the champion of the night, was kneeling on the scratchy hotel carpet in her thousand-dollar dress, and you saw that she was holding a soft white blanket, clearly taken from her own room down the hall.
"I know what you're going to say," she whispered, her voice softer than silk, threading gently through the oppressive silence. "That it's over. That it was the worst day of your life. That you're good for nothing. That you don't deserve to share the ice with skaters like me." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "I know that look. I've worn it myself. I've seen it in my own mirror more times than I can count."
She was telling the truth. Despite the balletic elegance she projected, Isabeau understood this pain like no one else. You'd been there for some of her dark moments—the injury scares, the brutal training blocks, the days when her body simply refused to cooperate with her artist's soul. She had walked through her own thorns, known only to her, to stand before you now—the embodiment of grace and strength. But she was also just a girl. A girl who knew what it meant to fall.
You stayed silent, terrified that if you opened your mouth, you would simply break down sobbing. Your fingers, still ice-cold from the rink and from shock, were gripping the edge of the mattress in a death grip. Isabeau gently, very carefully, placed her warm hands over yours. The heat of her touch was almost startling, a reminder that you were still alive, still here, still capable of feeling something other than the crushing weight in your chest.
"May I?" she asked, her gaze shifting to your laced-up skates. You hadn't even removed your blade guards, which were still on, a testament to how thoroughly you had shut down.
You could only manage a weak nod.
Isabeau didn't just unlace them. She did it with a kind of sacred reverence, as if those skates were a glass slipper, not the cold, merciless instrument of your fall. First, she carefully removed the guards and set them aside. Then her slender, musical fingers worked the knots loose with patience, taking care not to pull too hard, not to jar you. She unwound the laces from the hooks with deliberate slowness, and with each inch of freedom, each release of pressure, you felt a small measure of the suffocating weight recede from your body.
"You are not your skate," she said quietly, without looking up, fully focused on the second boot. "You know that, right? What happened today—that's just a moment. One bad day. It doesn't define you. It doesn't take away your talent, your music, the soul you pour into every movement. It doesn't erase every beautiful thing you've ever done on the ice."
Her voice caught slightly on the last words, and you realized with a pang that she was fighting back her own tears. She wasn't just comforting you as a friend. She was mourning with you, because she knew—she truly knew—how much this hurt.
Finally, the skates hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud. The sound felt monumental. You felt your numb, aching feet touch the soft fibers of the carpet, and a shudder ran through you. But Isabeau didn't stop. She unfolded the blanket—so soft, so impossibly soft—and, as tenderly as wrapping a child, draped it around your shoulders. It smelled like her, like vanilla and something floral, and the warmth enveloped you completely. It was such a simple gesture, but it was so overwhelmingly kind, so undeserved, that the brittle armor you'd been trying desperately to maintain finally, catastrophically, shattered.
"Come here," she whispered, rising to her feet and opening her arms.
And you surrendered. Completely and utterly. You fell into her arms, pressing your face against the cool silk of her dress, and you sobbed. Not the quiet, dignified tears of disappointment, but raw, ugly, guttural sobs that tore their way out of your chest. Loudly, inconsolably, like a child who had lost something precious and didn't yet understand that the world kept turning. You cried for the lost dream, for the sleepless nights of training, for the ache in your muscles, for every early alarm clock you had silenced with a groan, for every party and normal teenage experience you had sacrificed. You cried for the cruel unfairness of this sport that demanded everything and gave no guarantees.
Isabeau stood perfectly still, absorbing the avalanche of your grief like a steady lighthouse in a storm. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back, while the other gently stroked strands of your hair, carefully undoing the elaborate updo that had miraculously survived the fall, letting your hair tumble loose. It felt like being unbound, not just physically, but in some deeper sense.
"I'm here," she murmured like a mantra, rocking you gently to the rhythm of some silent, private music. "I'm right here. I'll catch you. I'll always catch you. Let it all out. Don't hold anything back. Rest now. Just feel me. You're so safe."
She guided you both backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed, and she sat down, pulling you with her so you were curled into her side, your head on her shoulder, the blanket still wrapped around you like a cocoon. Her heartbeat was steady under your ear—a quiet, rhythmic reminder of a life that hadn't ended, a world that continued to exist beyond the walls of your grief.
You didn't know how long you stayed like that. Minutes, maybe hours. Time had lost all meaning. But eventually, the violent sobs quieted into sporadic, shuddering breaths. The trembling that had been wracking your body subsided. Exhaustion, deep and bone-weary, began to seep into your limbs. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen nearly shut, but your chest felt marginally lighter, as if the tide of tears had washed away some of the poison.
Isabeau shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Her lips were soft and warm.
"When I was fourteen," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, "I had a competition where I fell three times. Three. On jumps I'd landed perfectly in practice that very morning. I wanted to quit. I sat in the locker room and I told my mom I was done, that I was a fraud, that everyone would finally see I didn't belong there."
You listened, perfectly still. She rarely talked about her own struggles so openly.
"My mom didn't argue with me," Isabeau continued, her fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder. "She just sat with me while I cried. And then she said, 'Feel it all tonight. But tomorrow, we go back to work, because this sport needs your light.'" She paused, her voice thickening. "I'm telling you the same thing now. Feel it all tonight. Hate it. Rage against it. Cry until there's nothing left. I'll be right here the whole time. But please… please don't let one fall convince you that your light isn't real."
Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, but these were different—quieter, touched with something that felt almost like the first stirring of hope. You turned your face into her shoulder, breathing her in.
"It feels like the end of the world right now," Isabeau whispered, her lips brushing your temple. "I know. But the sun will rise tomorrow. And we'll go to the rink. Not to compete, just to be there. Early morning, when it's empty and the ice is fresh and the only sound is the hum of the lights. Just to feel the ice again. Not to drill jumps, not to chase perfection. But to fall back in love with it. To remember why we started."
She pulled back just enough to look into your tear-streaked, swollen eyes. Her own eyes glistened, but there was no pity in her gaze. Only faith. An unwavering, pure, stubborn belief in you, the kind you had so desperately lost somewhere along the way.
"We're going to put on our favorite music—the one we used to skate to in your basement when we were kids—and we're just going to move. No rules, no judges, no protocols. Just us and the ice."
A small, broken laugh escaped you at the memory—two gangly pre-teens attempting spirals on a tiny patch of frozen driveway, laughing so hard you couldn't breathe. She smiled, a few strands of her dark hair falling loose from her own updo as she tilted her head, brushing a strand from your damp face instead.
"There she is," Isabeau said softly, her thumb gently wiping a tear track from your cheek. "There's my girl."
She pulled you close again, settling back against the pillows. The world outside the room—with its scores, its medals, its expectations, its cruel, unblinking spotlight—ceased to exist. All that remained was this tenderness, this cozy cocoon of the soft blanket and her warmth, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the gentle pressure of her hand still stroking your hair.
"There's no fall we can't rise from together," Isabeau murmured, and this time it wasn't just a pretty line from a friend offering comfort. It was a vow. A promise sealed in the quiet darkness of a hotel room, witnessed only by the indifferent city lights outside.
Your eyes grew heavy. The exhaustion of the day, the emotional purge, the warmth of her body against yours—it was all pulling you toward a deep, dreamless sleep. The last thing you felt before you surrendered to it was Isabeau pulling the blanket more snugly around you both and pressing one more lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. We have an early date with the ice. And I'll be right here when you wake up."
And for the first time that night, the silence wasn't heavy. It wasn't oppressive or accusing. It was a healing silence. A gentle silence. A cradle for your shattered heart, held safe in the arms of the one person who understood it best.
There's been a lot of nsfw Jinx x reader stories lately. I was wondering if you could write a sfw one.
Jinx and Reader just cuddling and vibing on Jinx' couch. Reader rubbing her hand up and down Jinx' back and scratching little circles into her scalp with the other hand.
The light in Jinx's hideout is never steady. It flickers in time with some busted generator, buzzing like an angry bumblebee, throwing long, trembling shadows across the walls from all the blueprints and bomb casings hanging everywhere. In the corner, under a pile of scrap metal she proudly calls "spare parts," something drips oil in a quiet, rhythmic tap. It smells like solder, old dust, and something sweet — probably the remains of the fruity gum she swiped from Ekko a hundred years ago and saved for a special occasion.
That special occasion turned out to be "nothing."
The couch is sagging exactly to the shape of her body — narrow, wiry, always coiled like a spring. But tonight Jinx isn't a spring. Tonight she's melted wax. She lies draped over you, her nose buried somewhere in the curve of your neck, and her breath — warm, slightly uneven — tickles your collarbone. One of her arms hangs off the edge of the couch, fingers twitching lazily in the air like she's still conducting some melody only she can hear, even in stillness. The other arm has a death grip on your shirt near your ribs, fabric bunched tight in her fist. Just in case. So you don't dissolve.
Your palm glides up her back — up toward the sharp shoulder blades jutting beneath her thin striped tank top, then down to the small of her back where the skin feels slightly cooler. You move your hand slowly, with steady pressure, and feel the tight knots of muscle rolling under your fingers — old, stubborn things, accustomed to constant battle. Jinx exhales at this. Not a groan, just deflates, like an old balloon, shedding the last crumbs of tension.
Your other hand sinks into her hair. The blue strands, rough from dye and gunpowder residue, tangle around your fingers. You start tracing little circles into her scalp, right at the base of her skull, and that's where she finally breaks. Jinx's leg twitches — reflexively, like a dog getting scratched behind the ear — and she makes an unintelligible sound.
"Mmmmf."
It's not a word. It's a vibration born deep in her chest and trapped in her throat. You feel her jaw, pressed against your shoulder, loosen slightly, and she stops chewing the inside of her cheek. The eternal, maddening coil inside her finally stops grinding.
"If you stop, I'm gonna blow something up," she mumbles suddenly. Her voice is muffled, sleepy, but the threat lands disgustingly in character. "Something real big."
You laugh quietly, and the sound sends a tremor through her chest where it rests on top of yours. Jinx cracks one eye open — magenta, bleary with drowsiness, but still sharp.
"Whass so funny? Think I'm joking? That thing in the corner? Nah, too loud for a Friday night. I'll blow up… I dunno. A mailbox. They're so fancy in Piltover. Just picture it: boom — and bills go flying everywhere. Beautiful."
You don't stop stroking her head, only increase the pressure slightly, nails scratching gently, and her eye slides shut again. She nuzzles her nose against your shoulder like a cat marking its territory.
Somewhere deep in her workshop, a brass mechanism starts clattering — probably the timer on one of her "toys" has gone haywire. The sound is sharp, metallic, irritating. Once, you would have flinched. Now you just keep stroking her back. Jinx freezes for a moment, listening, but you don't stop your hand, and she melts again.
"Fix it later," she whispers. "Later. Busy here right now."
She lifts herself onto her elbows, just a couple of inches, to peer into your face. Her hair falls forward, tickling your cheeks. Her eyes aren't manic right now — just very, very tired. And very blue, if you ignore the pink iris.
"You're warm," she declares with the gravity of a scientific discovery worthy of the Academy. "Like a heating pad. You're my personal living heating pad that doesn't scream or try to turn me in to the Enforcers. That's… a fucking rare resource. Gonna guard you."
She collapses back down, this time with her full body weight, pressing you into the sagging couch. Her ear is plastered against your chest, right over your heart.
"Thumping," she reports. "Loud. Rhythm's all wonky, like a beginner on drums, but loud. I like it."
You keep running your hand along her back. Up and down. Up and down. Your finger traces every knob of her spine, every nick along her ribs. She's scrawny, Jinx. Too scrawny to carry a minigun. But you know if you tell her that, she'll just snort and tweak some bolt in her gun to make it even deadlier. She doesn't need your concern about her weight. She needs this: a hand that doesn't strike, fingers that don't choke, and a silence where no ghost-voices are hiding.
The flickering lamp finally shuts off with a soft pffft. The room goes dark except for the toxic-green glow of Zaun pouring through the windows — the color of chem-factories and neon signs promising cheap pleasures. In this underwater light, Jinx's profile looks carved from mother-of-pearl. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing has slowed completely.
"I'm not asleep," she lies through her teeth. "I'm just… listening. To your heart and that stupid hunk of junk in the corner. Comparing."
"Who's winning?" Your voice comes out hoarse; you're almost asleep yourself.
"The junk," she answers without hesitation. Lying, of course. "Got a steadier rhythm. Your heart jumps around like a psycho. Suits me."
Her fingers, the ones clutching your shirt, finally uncurl. Her palm flattens across your ribs, warm and slightly sticky with sweat. You feel her smile — not the manic, wide grin, but just the corner of her mouth pressed against your skin.
"Keep going," she commands, already barely conscious. "The circles. You stopped for three seconds. I counted. Penalty — another twenty minutes no sleeping."
Lies. All lies, obviously. Because half a minute later, you hear the shift in her breathing — deep, even, with the faintest whistle near her canine tooth. Jinx is asleep. No nightmares. No whispering. No twitching eyelids. Just dead weight, pressing you into the couch, quietly drooling on your shoulder.
You kiss the top of her head, right where the roots are darker — her natural color, not the dye. She doesn't wake, but the furrowed crease between her brows smooths out all on its own.
The flickering lamp flickers back on, but now the light feels almost cozy.
"I will definitely draw this moment from our lives." - She thinks.
