#(idk if i ever will but. it's spinning in my head. I'm thinking on it)

[fictional-worlds-are-exquisite]

Im so glad that Google AI keeps the spirit of telling you your symptoms could be death approaching

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Going back into my cave after this but Wyllstarion x The Princess Diaries au. Wyll as Mia, Astarion as Nicholas, Tav as Andrew. You understand.

[grimgrinnrs]

...What if I eventually picked up Vox...

[thehallstara]

i just. don't think dehumanizing people no matter who they are or what they've done is the answer ever. i just. can't get my mind around that. being monstrous is as human as anything else and when we dissociate ourselves from that we run the risk of believing we can never be monstrous either

[publicdomainbooksdevotee]

Guess what just hit Project Gutenberg!

This isn't about the analytical engine (the one that could have been considered a computer), it's an article about a difference engine (the mechanical calculator one).

I just skimmed it and it's like…30% just talking about how horrible errors in calculation tables are? He's not wrong, but still. Dude. And a good chunk of describing the machine is talking about how to make the machine print out what it's doing so you can be sure it isn't making errors.

It's got some pictures.

Another large chunk goes into how horrible it is that this very important work is not appreciated enough and he needs more money, which I guess yes, he's definitely right that calculating machines can REALLY be world-changing, but also my dude, you never finished one!

[W]e express our regret, that a discovery of such paramount practical value, in a country preeminently conspicuous for the results of its machinery, should fall still-born and inconsequential through their hands, and be buried unhonoured and undiscriminated in their miscellaneous transactions.

I mean yes, your mechanical calculator is definitely remembered as a too-early broken offshoot of early computing history, but also they gave you seventeen thousand mid-19th-century pounds sterling and you didn't make a whole working calculator. There comes a point.

[ladykailolu]

I’m imaging scenarios of Godot slow-dancing with his boyfriends, one at a time, one-on-one. And each time, it’s just the two of them swaying back and forth, so close to each other, in the lonely darkness of an empty room. They dance to the song “Slow Dancing in the Dark” by Joji, hands holding onto each other, fingers intertwined, Gyro and Jake resting their heads on Godot’s shoulder, taking in his scent of subtle spicy, living in the moment.

[delespresso]

DETESTATION ━━ Fiyero x fem!reader

author's note; this was previously titled 'kiss me' lol. i cant lie, i was sort of just winging it with this one — i've been doing a lot of rivals to lovers u guys, my brain is a little confused now 😭 idk if i liked this but i hope its good! <3

prompt; “You can’t just…kiss me to win a fucking argument, [NAME]!” “You’re right…but did it work?” ps; i changed it up a bit, oops

summary; the constant back and forth was totally out of total detestation. . . right?

━━ ☄. *. ⋆

It was the third invite to the Ozdust Ballroom within the month.

Ever since the Winkie Prince showed up at Shiz a few months back, he's been influencing quite a few trips to the scandalocious venue. In fact — he started it immediately on his first day.

She didn't plan on going this time either. Even if the invite had come directly from him, while he was following her tail all over campus.

"C'mon, princess, it'll be fun," Fiyero urged as he walked behind her like a little puppy.

Typically, she refused to even be in his vicinity. With her luck though, somehow Doctor Dillamond decided he needed a tutor to push him through history class — so of course, she was chosen, being the current top student.

"Think of it as me thanking you for helping me ace history," Fiyero continued.

He did, in fact, ace his history after that. A whole A solid.

"For the millionth time, Fiyero, no," she huffed.

He rolled his eyes at another rejection, still following her as they found their way into the dining hall. It was sparse at the moment, they were quite early this time.

"Your welcome for history. But that's it," she added.

She grabbed a tray, starting to put food on it. As she did though, the infuriatingly charming — and annoying — prince stole a piece right out of her plate.

"You should learn to live a little. See the nightlife. Go dancing. We don't live forever, you know?"

She stared up at him as he just went on his little ramble about life.

"If you're worried about a dance partner—"

"I really don't care—"

"I'm sure Boq is very kind to help in that," Fiyero said with a sly smirk.

Respectfully, Boq was nice and cute in a way, but she would much rather drink a tub of toxic elixir.

She could only scoff in response, picking up her tray and finding a seat. Still he refused to let up.

"One night. Its just one night, it really won't kill you," Fiyero insisted.

"It won't, but I might kill you."

She set her tray down with a huff, but she didn't get the chance to sit yet before he was pestering her again.

"I've lived quite well, I wouldn't mind dying at your hands," he shrugged.

"Are you serious right now?" she scoffed. "I have a fork and knife an inch away from my hands, don't tempt me."

"Oh, how horrifying," he mock gasped.

Oh, this little—

"Truthfully, I find a death by my history tutor to be a beautiful exit," he continued with a smug grin.

"You have no sense of self preservation. My hands would be a painful way to die," she retorted.

He didn't miss a beat, grabbing her hands in his in such an oddly gentle manner that had her brain crashing for a moment.

"These soft hands? I find that hard to believe."

She blinked rapidly, just staring at the way he held her hands to his chest for no reason. Why was her head spinning? Why was her pulse rushing?

"You're infuriating," she managed to hiss as she pulled her hands away.

Really, she had no idea why this man annoyed her so much. She felt an irrational amount of irritation when he was around. Her head would sometimes go empty when she looked at him, her heart suddenly going too fast and her stomach feeling like it was floating.

Dislike. Pure, utter, dislike. Loathing, perhaps. Detestation.

Those were the only acceptable answers.

She ended up taking her lunch to go, bringing it with her to eat somewhere else where she could escape him.

"Come dancing tonight!" he tried again even as she stomped away from him and replied over without turning back.

"Eat grass!"

It was her roommate that dragged her to the Ozdust Ballroom that night. No one else.

Certainly not the persistent, annoyingly handsome prince. No.

She allowed herself to have fun for a while, dancing around with her roommate. She didn't catch a single glimpse of him so she assumed he bailed.

She would be absolutely wrong when she ended up twirling right into his arms.

Fiyero's hands were on her waist, keeping her right there as her hands ended up on his biceps. He grinned down at her, that casual and laidback smile he always had.

"You came."

"Not because of you."

He chuckled at her quick defensiveness. It was cute to him. Taking her hand, he gave her a quick whirl before pulling her close again.

"Of course not," he agreed.

"Plenty of other reasons to come to a party," she nodded.

"Mhm."

"Nice ambience, people in nice outfits," she started to list aimlessly.

"Yes, they do dress up nice," he continued to agree.

"Good music, exceptional dancing—"

"You dance well."

"Random excuse to dress myself up too—"

"You look lovely."

"The lights are quite nice too, all blueish—"

She didn't get the chance to keep yapping when suddenly a pair of warm lips were on hers. It felt like she was on fire. A good kind of fire. When she opened her eyes again and their lips parted, she met his gaze under the lights.

Her lips were parted, her breath catching. Her face was definitely flushing and Oz— her head was reeling. She was too flustered she ended up fumbling her words.

"You can't just kiss me to win an argument, Fiyero!"

He laughed at her reaction. In hindsight, he should've probably not do it out of nowhere. But her reaction was priceless.

"Yeah, probably not. But it shut you up," he mused.

She stared up at him, eyes wide as she was clearly baffled.

"You need to stop finding excuses, princess," he teased, giving her yet another whirl.

Her dress flared out before she ended up back with him, flush against his chest. Whatever she felt for him was strong. Though she was starting to suspect it wasn't actually detestation.

She'd likely been in denial.

"You need to not kiss someone without permission," she retorted anyway.

Fiyero only smiled, but at least he nodded sincerely with a bit of a shrug.

"Fair enough. Sorry," he agreed. "Can I have a redo?"

She raised a single brow up at him, this time catching up with the dance way better than when she initially ended up in his arms. A coy, almost teasing smile pulled on her lips as she casually ended up leading the dance.

"Let's see your dancing first, Winkie Prince."

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[phosph-ate]

Hide Away

Dr. Phosphorus x GN!Reader

Summary: Dr. Phosphorus has you feeling things. You are sure these feelings are one-sided, but after hiding from your feelings you come to realize that is not true.

CW: Suggestive themes, 18+, dry humping, biting, you get freaky in a closet, rick refers to you as kid, you are immune to dr phosphorus but no other details of how/what you are is given, no beta.

WC: 0.8k

A/N: divider by cafekitsune. this is just a random idea; I wanted to get freaky in a closet with the skeleton thus this was born. I do plan on making maybe a little series for phosphorus x reader... And maybe a p2 for this with maybe a fem and male reader... idk I'm bouncing ideas around right now. Also, side note, I've only ever written reader inserts or character x oc, and this show has me wanting to do character x character fics... anyway, let's goooo!

You were crumbling. Fast.

You watched Dr. Phosphorus from across the room. Your eyes wandered from his face to his ribs, down to his belt. You needed to know what he was like. What he felt like. You needed him.

“Are you okay?” Nina nudged you.

“Uh,” You looked away from the man you were swooning over. You were hot. Everything was so hot. “I just need some fresh air.”

You turned away from Nina and walked down the hall. As you continued, thoughts plagued you. The glances you would share with Phosphorus, the small touches here and there. It was driving you insane. You figured you could not say anything. So you kept your thoughts to yourself.

You, on autopilot, found a closet and quickly entered it. You needed to get your mind off of him, and immediately. Once you realized you were in a fucking closet, you had to think of a gameplan to get to your room. Maybe you could handle the situation yourself.

You sat down, back against the wall, and shut your eyes tight. The only source of light coming into the room was from under the door. Other than that, you sat in the dark. You sucked in air and placed your head in your hands. Your world was spinning, leaving you to not notice the door opening.

“This is your idea of getting some fresh air?” The closet door shut and suddenly it was not completely dark in the room. You could definitely make out Dr. Phosphorus.

“Oh!” You jumped and tried to scoot further back but realized you could not get any closer to the wall. “I was just- I’m thinking!” You ended up snapping at him.

“About…-”

You could not handle it anymore. “About you!” You tried to keep your voice down. You groaned and hugged yourself. “It’s always you…” You huffed. “I want- No, I need to know what it’s like-”

“What do you need to know?” Oh, he was smug.

“Everything!” You stood up and looked at him, really looked at him. “I want to feel you; I want you to touch me! Dr. Phosphorus-”

“Call me Alex.” He corrected you.

Your face was burning now. Your eyes widened and you sucked in air. “Alex,” You were begging, “I need you.”

You thought he was smug before. He stepped towards you and his hands reached for you. “Are you sure?” He sounded like he was trying hard to compose himself. To keep himself from pouncing on you.

You nodded, “I’ve never needed anything more in my entire fucking life.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Dr. Phosphorus grabbed you. His hands grabbed your hips, and he pulled you close to him. You were pressed against the wall, and he stared at you. At least, you were sure that was what he was doing. “Can I kiss you?” You begged.

“Please.” It was his turn to beg. You kissed him, gently on the cheek. You began to pepper kisses across his face and your eyes shut. You moved slightly, getting a better angle, and Dr. Phosphorus moaned. His grip on you tightened and you rubbed your hips into his. He let out a whine.

It was music to your ears.

“I’ve been thinking about you too.” His voice was husky. “Every time you laugh-” He continued, and you stopped kissing him and your head fell back from pleasure, “-and you lean back, I just want to-” He could not control himself anymore. His hips bucked into yours while you kept grinding against him and his teeth scraped your throat.

An airy noise escaped you and your eyes shut tight. You grabbed his coat and held on, knuckles turning colors from your grip. “Do that again. Please, Alex.” You whined. Dr. Phosphorus obliged. His teeth biting at your exposed skin, dragging from your throat to your collarbone.

Chills ran up your spine and you moaned. A little too loudly.

A fist banged on the closet door and neither of you responded. The door swung open. “What the fuck!?” Rick shouted. You ignored him. You felt too good to care.

Dr. Phosphorus kept grinding against you, his grip on you becoming bruising. And then, suddenly, there was nothing. Dr. Phosphorus was ripped from you and thrown out of the closet. You stood there, shocked and horny.

“We’ll continue this later,” Dr. Phosphorus reassured you.

Rick ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “Not in a fucking closet you won’t!” He snapped. “Come on out, kid.” He motioned for you to leave the closet.

“Can I get some fresh air now?” You looked at Rick in a daze.

“As long as you don’t get caught with him outside.” Rick glared at Dr. Phosphorus.

You nodded. You definitely needed to think. And, if Phosphorus was not pulling your leg about continuing later, you could wait for release.

[frost-queen]

Tired of giving you all of me (Reader x Rodrick Heffley)

Requested by: me Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @alex--awesome--22, @ellie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve , @queen-of-books , @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown , @wildieflower , @meyocoko , @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23 , @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr , @swampything07, @melsunshine , @panhoeofmanyfandoms , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 , @markive-m

Summary: You've had a crush on Rodrick for a while now, you finally dared to go ask him something. When Rodrick seems to invite you more for bandstuff. It takes you a while to finally see he was just using you for his own good. Rodrick realizing it too late that he can't think of anyone else. [idk if this will even be popular or that there is still a demand for, but ever since I saw the movie again I needed to get the idea out, so if this is only for me, so be it] - (N/Y/N stands for not your name)

You were very nervous. Very nervous about approaching him and asking for a shirt. Rodrick Heffley stood by his locker with two of his band members. Laughing and goofing around with his drumsticks. Pretending to punch the guitarist in the stomach whilst laughing loud. Collecting all your courage, you got in motion.

First hesitant but then you were already walking, it would seem idiotic to turn on your heel and leave. Only having to endure your poor decision. Heart thumping loud as you clutched the book in your hand a bit too hard against your chest.

Your feet stopped behind him as he still had no clue of your presence behind him. Taking a deep breath, you went to tap him on the shoulder. Rodrick stopped laughing, taking a half spin toward you on his heels. His eyes widened briefly before they settled with boredness.

"Yes?"- Rodrick said with a hard stare it made you want to crawl away. -"Hi Rodrick... I...I was thinking if I could get a shirt?"- you asked with all the confidence you could find. Which wasn't a lot. Rodrick scratched the back of his head confused with a drumstick. -"From your band."- you flapped out.

Swallowing nervously afterwards. -"How much are they?"- you then asked when he remained silent. He looked over his shoulder to his bandmates before letting his arm rest against the lockers. -"N/Y/N right?"- he said totally getting your name wrong. -" It's Y/n actually."- you corrected shyly.

Not that he was listening. -"Look our shirts are practically sold out."- he told you with a cool attitude. -"Really?"- you questioned, so gullible in believing it. Rodrick puffed loud, waving his drumstick down. -"Yeah."- he said as you saw his drum mates snicker behind him.

"But if you really must have one."- Rodrick spoke unbothered. -"I think I can find a spare one at home."- he let you know. -"Okay cool."- you responded with a shy smile. You turned around, feeling as hot as a stove. Rodrick puffed sarcastically, lowering his elbow from against the locker. Turning back around, he grabbed the guitarist by his neck, pulling him low to give his head a good rub. 

Counting the cash in your hands, you walked up to the Heffley household. Unsure how much Rodrick would charge you for a shirt, you came prepared. Ready to spend to one hundred bucks just for a shirt from him. You hated how expensive your crush on him was getting. Tugging the money away, you rose your hand to knock. Three firm knocks, making you take a step back. From behind the door you heard commotion.

Making you plaster up a smile. -"I'm already going."- a voice said whilst opening the door. A young boy answered the door, looking you up and down. You figured it must be Greg. Rodrick's younger brother. -"It's a girl."- he shouted to someone to the right. There was a loud gasp as you felt a bit uncomfortable.

The door got opened more as mrs. Heffley pushed Greg aside with a surprised look. -"Hello mrs. Heffley. My name is Y/n, I'm in Rodrick's class. Is he here?"- you introduced yourself. Greg started laughing as his mother nudged him hard in the elbow.

Her eyes seemed to lit up as she held her finger up. Almost trying her best not to smile so over exciting. -"Rodrick dear, there's a girl to see you."- his mom called out at the foot of the stairs. Greg kept staring at you questionable. -"What did he do?"- Greg asked curious. 

"Nothing."- you replied, moving your hands behind your back to occupy them. -"He paid you right?"- Greg assumed. -"Nope."- you anwered with a shake of your head. -"No way a girl wants to talk to Rodrick willingly."- Greg let out laughing. -"Rodrick!"- His mother called out again, more annoyed now.

You heard a door slam followed by loud thumping. -"What?"- Rodrick called out annoyed, scratching his hair. -"Rodrick."- his mom made clear with a nudge to you at the door. Rodrick's gaze went to you. He then immediately rushed back upstairs. -"Rodrick"- His mom yelled out as his behavior.

"Auch."- Greg said to you, walking off snickering. Waiting here for a shirt made you feel scammed. Like you were waiting for nothing, only to be fooled and laughed at. Lowering your gaze, you were about to turn back when there were more loud stomps. Rodrick rushed down the stairs, walking up to the door.

"N/Y/N right."- he was wrong again. -"Y/n."- you corrected him with a polite smile. Rodrick puffed unamused. -"Got my money?"- he said as you immediately grabbed for your money. -"How much is it?"- you asked as Rodrick's eyes widened on seeing the money in your hands.

He plucked the cash from your hands. All of it. Too bothered with the money, he threw the shirt at your face. It blinded you as a second later you heard the door slam. Taking the shirt down, you took a look at it. It was an ugly grey shirt with löader diaper written on it with a marker.

"You could've given me a nicer color!"- you shouted at the door. How ripped off you felt. Sighing soft, you went down the driveway back to your bicycle. Placing the shirt in the front basket, you started cycling home as the sun had already set.

Thinking about how Rodrick clearly had no interest in you and ripped you off by taking all your money, made you cry. Wiping your eyes constantly to keep your vision clear. All that for a boy you like. Something you were never daring enough to do something about it. 

The next day at school, you were sitting in class waiting for the teacher to enter. Gaze low on your books till you saw a set of black painted nails set on your desk. Moving your gaze up, you met up with Rodrick Heffley. -"N/Y/N."- he said lowering his head down keep a low voice. -"Y/n."- you sighed out at once again your name being wrong.

"Löader diaper has a gig tonight, can you come?"- he asked, looking over his shoulder if anyone was listening in. Your eyes lit up, curling up a smile. -"Really?"- you replied trying to dim your excitement. -"Yeah income fee is 10 bucks."- he told you. -"Didn't you already took enough money from me."- you pointed out at the hundred bucks he claimed ownership over.

Rodrick puffed loud, looking away. You kept glaring at him to make your point. -"I'm already giving you a fan discount."- he responded tapping on your book. -"You're a leech."- you muttered out. Rodrick smiled tauntingly.

The teacher walked in, dismissing Rodrick to his desk. You could barely pay attention. Constantly thinking of the upcoming gig. Of Rodrick Heffley actually having asked for your presence. Wanting another fan there. Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you were glad Rodrick sat somewhere far behind you. 

For the gig, you had put on the band shirt. Trying to make it as flattering as you could. You arrived at the gig after having gotten the text from Rodrick. Waiting by the entrance for him. You received some looks, all looking at your shirt.

Not the good kind of looks. Jumping back, the white van hit the brakes fast in front of you. The windows were down as the guitarist thumped his hand against the car door. -"Shirt girl!"- he called out. The comment made you roll your eyes, but still it was better than Rodrick giving you each time a different name.

Rodrick had gotten out, opening the side door, revealing another band member laying down with his legs up. Rodrick whistled loud calling you over. You went over to him. He took one glance at your shirt before grabbing a bag and shoving it in your hands.

"This needs to get backstage."- he said shoving another bag in your hands. -"Ro...Rodrick"- you breathed out confused. He gave you in each hand, held by a few fingers two more bags. -" Thanks N/Y/N."- he said getting it wrong again with a pat against your cheek. 

You wanted to correct him, but had slightly enough of it. Rodrick motioned for you to get a move on. Sighing loud, you carefully made your way backstage. Trying hard not to trip. The last few meters you tumbled forwards as the bags plopped out of your hands.

Exhaling loud, you were out of breath. Returning to them, you got handed over more bags and gear. Going back and forth... alone with no help from them. Exhausted and worn out, you made your way to the stage. Needing a moment to see the room was close to empty.

Just some drunks, some weird gathering club that clearly couldn't book another venue and a guy already starting to clean up. You were the only one, who moved to the front of the stage. Looking uncomfortable around. The band got on stage as Rodrick went to sit behind the drums. They introduced themselves as you were the only one clapping.

Rodrick started to slam the drums as they played one of their favorite songs. You tried to ignore the drunks behind you, enjoying their gig. They played a few songs till the guy cleaning up cut the lights, setting them in darkness. He didn't even apologize as Rodrick suddenly stopped playing.

Staring saddened in front of him. Taking his drumsticks, he left the stage in anger. You quickly made your way backstage. Seeing Rodrick scratch the drumstick in his hair. -"You were amazing."- you complimeted them. Rodrick stopped, eyes widening at you.

He than laughed loud. -" Pack up N/Y/N."- wrong again. -"It's Y/n"- you made clear with a glare. -"Whatever." - he answered letting the drumstick twirl between his fingers. Sighing loud, you collected the bags. This time the other bandmates helped out with the heavier gear. Rodrick waiting in the car, behind the wheel.

After the car was loaded, he drove off without offering you a ride home or a goodbye. Sighing soft, you went home alone. Ever since the gig, you got pulled up more and more by Rodrick to do things for him. Charming you each time with something fun till he made you do everything. Basically becoming their roadie for everything. 

Rodrick sat at diner, discussing the upcoming talent show, he wants to join with his band. It could be his major breakthrough. Greg snorted loud, receiving a stomp underneath the table from him. -"Auch."- Greg called out. Rodrick mimicked his pathetic whining as their parents sighed loud. -"So Rodrick... this talentshow... you'll need a lot of preparation right."- his dad started to gear up a conversation. -"Duh."- Rodrick answered with a full mouth.

"I'm so prepared for our breakthrough, I'm making more shirts."- Rodrick let out. -"Oh."- his mother responded intrigued. Rodrick lowered his fork. -"I'm letting Y/n do all the work."- he answered chuckling. His father's fork dropped, clattering against his plate. Staring with wide eyes of shock at his wife. -"Hold up."- his mom began.

"Are you telling me you are using Y/n to do your work?"- she made clear. -"Yeah."- Rodrick replied obviously. His father threw his hands up. -"Wow."- Greg said dramatically. Rodrick looked at everyone not getting what was wrong about it. Rodrick's phone rang as the name popped up on the screen. His mom taking a quick glance at who was calling him. Minion. Rodrick got up, picking up the phone. -"N/Y/N."- he said all smug. He heard you sigh on the other side.

"Are you even trying?"- you asked him at once again calling you wrong. -"How are my shirts?"- Rodrick asked avoiding your question. -"Done... I'll drop them off later."- you yawned loud after your sentance. -"Cool."- Rodrick answered before ending the call. 

You arrived at the Heffley household with two bags full of hand-made Löaded diaper t-shirts. Rodrick opened the door without any acknowledgement to you. He took a bag from you, looking inside. -"How many are there?"- he asked. -"40."- you told him with a smile. Rodrick dropped his gaze at you.

"40? I asked you to make 70."- Rodrick called out. -"No you didn't."- you replied sure you were right. Rodrick sighed taking out his phone. -"There, see."- he showed you the texts between him and you. Your eyes widening at the nametag. Minion. In horror you stared at it, not even caring for the number. -"What?"- Rodrick called out, looking back at his phone.

"Is that what I am to you?"- you shouted. Your sudden loud voice startled him. -"Minion. You're just using me!"- you threw the bag full of shirts at him. It hit him in the chest as he caught it before it would fall to the ground. -"What is the big deal about it."- he answered unbothered.

It pained you to finally see the reality. Having not wanting to see it for so long. Always telling yourself that he liked you. That you were only helping him out cause he wanted to be close to you. Turns out you were wrong. Unable to control yourself, you started crying.

"The deal?"- you called out. -"You're using me to do your dirty work and I stupidely let you. I let you use me because I wanted to be close to you."- you cried out in a state of hysteria. -"Because I'm in love with you!"- you confessed wiping your tears away agressivly. Rodrick staring with wide eyes back at you, unsure what to say.

You threw the second bag of shirts at him as well. Rodrick tried ducking for it, but it hit his shoulder when he ducked to the side. -"You are the worst Rodrick Heffley!"- you shouted wanting to hit him but your hand lingured in the air. Rodrick having turned his head, ready to receive the impact.

Yet it never came. Slowly opening his eyes to you. -"Get my goddamn name right!"- was the final thing you shouted at him before running off. Crying so loud, you had to keep wiping your eyes dry to see something. Rodrick swallowed nervously, entering the house once more.

Greg jumped in front of him all jokingly. -"Ha! You loser."- Greg laughed out, making fun of his brother. Rodrick clenched his jaw, jumping at Greg. Pulling his head under his armpit out of angerness. Greg started calling it out for mercy as Rodrick gave him none.

"Rodrick!"- his mother shouted pulling at his shoulder. Rodrick let go of Greg with a loud huff. -"That's it!"- she called out when Greg taunted Rodrick once more. Rodrick nearly jumping at him to mess with him. -"No talent show for you!"- mrs. Heffley made clear.

"What? But it could be my great breakthrough."- Rodrick answered pleadingly. -"I am sick of your behavior and how you just treated Y/n is beyond how I raised you! You need to learn some respect Rodrick!"- she said as a final. Rodrick stomped up the stairs angered to his room. Slamming the door shut. Letting himself slide down against his wall. Palms pressed deep onto his eyes. Knees to chest as he felt at a sudden loss. 

Rodrick hated that his mom still made him come to the talentshow. He was waiting in the open room before being seated. He looked around, gaze stopping as he spotted you. He made the effort of wanting to greet you or talk to you. You locked eyes with him, giving him a glare. Before he could stop you, you walked off.

"Y/n..."- Rodrick said as it never reached you. Being ignored so obviously. Exhaling loud, he lowered his hand once more. Turning his head, he met up with his mother's gaze. A lot of sympathy in it. Rodrick shrugged her off, heading for the theater. He took his seat next to his mom at the outside.

He had a good view at backstage. Eyes widening as he saw his bandmates and Bill appear backstage. His eyes widened even more seeing you appear near them. -"Be right back."- Rodrick said slipping out of his seat. Making his way down to the stage to find a way backstage. -"What is going on?"- he called out confused. Bill laughed doofily. -"Are you playing without me?"- he asked feeling betrayed.

"Yeah."- Bill answered groovily. -"But I started the band."- Rodrick replied in shock they would play without him. -"That's rock and roll dude."- Bill told him. -"Oh and I took your minion too."- Bill let out. Rodrick's eyes widened with anger. Before he knew it, his fist swung at Bill's jaw. Bill tumbling to the ground.

"You stay the hell away from Y/n!"- he called out as his guitarist had to pull him back. -"Rodrick?"- you said confused approaching. You had left for a second to fetch them some water. Rodrick looked back at you with a gulp. He took as step closer to you, saddened to have being so stupid.

You set the waterbottles down, taking your leave. -"Y/n!"- Rodrick called out making you stop. -"I'm sorry..."- he apologized. You shook your head not wanting to hear it. -"You never are."- you told him. Rodrick ran up to you when you started to distance yourself from him. -"Y/n."- Rodrick repeated grabbing your wrist to pull you to a stop. -"I'm tired of being used by you."- you called out. You wanted to turn around when Rodrick took your other wrist as well, keeping you in place. -"I'm an idiot."- he confessed.

"An idiot for not seeing what was right in front of me. I shouldn't have used you or take you for granted. I'm really sorry about that Y/n but please don't hate me. That is the least thing I want."- he finished. Rolling your eyes at him, you puffed loud, turning away from him. Rodrick pulled you back to him. Lips crashing onto yours.

So caught up with you, he hadn't seen how he was on the stage. The curtains dropping as the kiss was displayed to the entire theater. There were gasps all around and muttering. The guitarist trying to get his attention. Rodrick retrieved his lips, looking shyly around at the peering eyes.

Annoyed, he pulled you backstage. Looking back at you, he snapped his finger in front of you. Seeing how frozen you had gotten from the kiss. -"Must I kiss you to unfreeze you Y/n?"- he teased with a chuckle. You immediately shook your head, hand pressing against his chest. Rodrick smiled moving a hand on your lower back to kiss you again. Not taking you for granted anymore.

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Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[karlachismylife]

Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

King's Gambit

Mattheo Riddle x Potter!Reader

Summary: You go to a Ministry gala with your family, meeting and dancing with Mattheo Riddle, who is just looking to cause some trouble,

WC: 4.5k

CW: Potters Live Au, reader is a bit naive, uhm... a bit of an over protective family moment. Possible part one idk yet

The grandeur of the Ministry of Magic was on full display as you crossed the threshold of the ballroom with your parents. You were instantly struck by the magic of the scene before you. The high, enchanted ceiling shimmered with starlight, mimicking the night sky, while hundreds of floating candles illuminated the room with a warm, golden glow. The walls were draped with deep emerald and gold silks that shimmered as if enchanted, and charmed violins played a soft, elegant waltz in the background.

Couples were already spinning gracefully on the polished marble floor, their robes a dazzling array of colors. The scent of fresh roses and honeyed champagne filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversations and laughter. It was all so intoxicatingly beautiful, the kind of scene you had only read about in fairytales.

James muttered beside you, his voice low as he leaned towards Lily’s ears. “All this extravagance, and they still haven’t managed to give half my team a decent raise in years.”

Lily gave him a pointed look, tugging slightly at his lapel to straighten it. “James,” She huffed softly, though there was no real bite to her tone. “Play nice tonight. It’s not the time to start a crusade. I did not marry a martyr.”

Her words earned a small chuckle- even a smile from him, and he shook his head with a quiet hum. “I'll play nice.” His hazel eyes softening as they met hers.

“It's all I ask.” Lily smiled with a teasing lift of her brow. For a moment, the two of them seemed lost in their own world, the years of love and trust between them clear in their shared gaze.

But the moment was short-lived. A procession of wizards and witches began to approach, eager to greet the famous Potters- the main reason your father hated these events. Lily straightened and fixed a pleasant smile on her face, while James sighed and reluctantly did the same, running his thumb along the small of your mother’s back.

You stood quietly beside your parents, watching as they navigated the growing crowd of well-dressed witches and wizards with a practiced ease you could only admire. As handshakes and polite greetings were exchanged, you couldn’t help but let your thoughts wander to them.

Your parents were obsessed with one another- there was no other word for it. The way your father leaned ever so slightly toward your mother, as if her presence grounded him in a room he clearly loathed. The way your mother’s smile lit up her face, genuine and kind, even as she endured endless small talk with people you both knew she’d rather avoid. It was more than impressive; it was love, the kind of love you’d always dreamed of.

You stole a glance at Harry beside you. He rolled his eyes when yet another Ministry official complimented your family, calling your parents “an inspiration to the wizarding world.”

“An inspiration, huh?” Harry muttered under his breath, leaning toward you. “Guess that makes us company.”

You bit back a laugh, your lips twitching as you murmured back, “Company? Speak for yourself, I'm plenty charming.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at you. “Is that so? I think you're far too much of a hopeless romantic for that. Please note the hopeless.”

Your mouth opened in mock offense, but before you could retort, your mother’s voice cut in smoothly.

“Children, behave,” Her tone was warm but firm as her eyes flicked between the two of you. She didn’t miss the smirk on James’s face, though. He always loved your playful banter, even if Lily pretended not to. As if you four hadn't come up with fifteen new flavors of insults for the obsequious little bootlickers on the ride over.

“Yes, Mum,” You and Harry chimed in unison, barely suppressing your laughter.

Despite the formality of the evening, moments like these reminded you that no matter how many people admired your family from afar, it was the love and humor between you all that made it so special. It wasn’t just about being “The Potters,” the golden family everyone seemed to look up to. It was about being your family- perfectly imperfect, brimming with laughter and love.

Still, as the line of greetings seemed endless, you couldn’t help but steal glances around the room, your attention drifting.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing near the edge of the ballroom, casually leaning against one of the ornately carved marble pillars. His dark curls framed his sharp features, and the flickering candlelight seemed to make his stormy brown eyes gleam. Unlike most of the wizards here, dressed in stiff, perfectly pressed robes, he had an air of effortless rebellion. His tie was slightly loosened- okay, no it was definally falling off-, his robes were tailored but not overly formal, as if to say he couldn’t be bothered to fully conform to the expectations of the evening.

You couldn’t help but stare. He was impossible to ignore. Taller than you, but not too tall- just enough to crane your neck but not enough to make you ache from it- hair perfectly imperfect, as if he had charmed it that way, to capture the fractures of light that defined it’s mockery of shape. He looked entirely out of place among the glittering gowns and polished smiles, and yet, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who owned the room. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as though he knew exactly the effect he had on the people around him.

Merlin, a smirk to match his eyes, eyes to match his hair, hair to frame his neck- like his features were crafted just for him. Carved from marble and stone with crackles of imperfections you'd have to dream up later. Even the crooked tug of his lips seemed intentional to tug at everyone of your poor heart strings.

There was a brilliant symphony in your chest that resonated in your stomach.

He was speaking to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, who stood rigid and composed as always, their platinum blonde hair shining in the golden light. Draco Malfoy stood beside them, his usual smug expression in place, though his posture was noticeably more subdued in the presence of the dark-haired boy.

“Who’s that?” You asked quietly, leaning toward Harry. Doing your best not to betray your throbbing heart.

He followed your gaze, and his expression soured immediately. “Mattheo Riddle,” He muttered. “Lucius’s nephew. Have you not seen him at school?”

Your stomach turned at the name. Riddle. As in that Riddle. You should have looked away right then, should have reminded yourself who he was and what his family represented. But something about him kept your gaze locked. He turned his head slightly, and for one brief, heart-stopping moment, his eyes met yours.

It was as if he could see straight through you. His smirk deepened, as though he were amused by the fact that you’d been caught staring. Slowly, deliberately, he inclined his head in a faint, mocking gesture of acknowledgment.

You felt your cheeks flush, and you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on a nearby couple twirling across the dance floor. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes lingering on you, nor the strange pull in your chest that urged you to look back.

“Don’t even think about it,” Harry said sharply, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts. “He’s trouble. Worse than Malfoy. Worse than Sirius.”

You shrugged, forcing a nonchalant tone. “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Good. Because if Mum and Dad catch you looking at him, they’ll lose their minds. And so will I.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond, your thoughts already wandering back to the boy across the room. For all of Harry’s warnings, you couldn’t deny the strange pull you felt. There was something about Mattheo Riddle that demanded attention, something dangerous and intriguing- and you weren’t sure if you wanted to run away from it or dive straight in.

No, you knew what you wanted.

But you knew that you shouldnt.

Your family exchanged more greetings, handshakes, and forced smiles, but you were distant, your thoughts circling the boy whose smirk had left an imprint on your mind. It wasn’t just his confidence or his looks- it was the way he seemed to take up space without effort, as though the world around him was merely a stage set for his amusement. Oh, and is he really as bad as your uncle?

Scratch that, considering their shared blood you didn't want to know.

Then, as if sensing your turmoil, he moved. Oh, you had been staring. Slowly, deliberately, Mattheo stepped away from the Malfoys, his movements unhurried but purposeful, like a predator approaching its prey. You felt a shiver run down your spine, though whether it was fear or anticipation, you couldn’t quite tell.

"He's walking over here," Harry muttered beside you, his tone dripping with irritation.

"Relax," You whispered, though your heart was racing.

"Relax? With him here? I don't think so."

But you barely heard your brother. Your attention was fixed on Mattheo as he stopped just a few paces away, his brown eyes meeting yours again, this time with a look of pure challenge.

"Potter," He said smoothly, nodding first to Harry before letting his gaze slide to you. His voice was low, rich, and laced with just enough amusement to make your cheeks warm. "I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been standing here with..." He paused and took an exaggerated swoop of his eyes across the crowd. The one slowly growing to stare at him. And you. "... no one taking you to the dance floor. It's a right shame, really."

Harry bristled beside you, his jaw tightening. "Maybe because we’ve been busy avoiding people like you."

Mattheo’s smirk widened as if Harry’s hostility only entertained him. Ignoring your brother, he extended a hand toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Care to join me for a dance? It seems a waste for someone like you to stay off to the side all night.”

Your heart leapt into your throat. You could feel Harry tense beside you, his protest hanging in the air, unspoken but palpable. You knew what this was- a game. A deliberate move to provoke Harry, your parents, and everyone else in the room who cared about the politics of family names and allegiances.

But as you looked at Mattheo, you couldn’t deny the spark of temptation. The air around him seemed to hum with electricity, pulling you in despite the warning bells ringing loudly in your mind.

The implications were crystal clear: a single dance with him would be enough to set tongues wagging for weeks. It would stir unrest, fuel speculation, and undoubtedly ruffle the feathers of both your family and the Malfoys. James Potter’s daughter, sharing a dance with Voldemort’s son? It was practically a scandal waiting to happen.

For a fleeting moment, you thought about the optics, about how this would play into the political games you despised so much. Mattheo, no doubt, was using you to create chaos, and you would be giving him exactly what he wanted if you accepted.

But then… you caught his eyes again, stormy and confident, daring you to say yes. They held none of the coldness or cruelty you expected- just a flicker of intrigue and something else you couldn’t quite place but you were dying to know. There was an electricity to his presence that left you breathless, like he was daring you to step into the unknown with him.

Merlin, those eyes. The longer you stared, the more you realized you cared far less about what people thought or the scandal it might cause. Politics were meaningless to you, but he- he felt dangerous, exhilarating, and impossible to ignore. What was one more Potter scandal? Merlin bless your parents.

“I-” You began, your voice catching slightly.

Harry tensed beside you, muttering low, “Don’t you dare-”

You turned your head, offering your brother a small, apologetic smile before slipping your hand into Mattheo’s. His fingers curled around yours, warm and firm, and you swore you caught the flicker of something softer in his smirk- oh- satisfaction, yes.

“Don’t wait up, Harry,” You muttered lightly, though your heart was hammering in your chest.

Mattheo’s smirk grew as he led you onto the dance floor, every movement deliberate and self-assured. The whispers started almost immediately, a ripple of murmurs spreading across the room as heads turned to watch. You didn’t care. All you could focus on was the warmth of his hand in yours and the way his gaze seemed to darken with every step.

“Brave choice,” Mattheo murmured as he pulled you into position, his voice low and velvety. “Or foolish. I haven’t decided yet.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a small, teasing smile. “Bravery and foolishness are often the same thing, don’t you think?”

His eyes sparkled with amusement as he placed a hand lightly on your waist, drawing you closer. “Perhaps. Though I doubt anyone’s ever called you foolish before.”

“Maybe they should,” You quipped, the playful edge to your voice masking the way your heart raced.

He chuckled softly, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Not tonight. Tonight, you’re the most captivating person in this room.”

You blinked away the sudden shock that rocked your shoulders. Oh, he's good. “You have a quick tongue. Familiar with making woman's hearts flutter or is that a side effect, Riddle?”

Mattheo's smirk deepened, his hand tightening just slightly on your waist as he leaned in, his lips brushing close enough to your ear that his breath tickled your skin. “I’d say it’s a bit of both, Potter,” he murmured, his voice rich and low, laced with amusement. “Though I’m surprised you’d think I need to try.”

Your cheeks burned, and you hated how easily he could make your heart race with just a few words. You arched an eyebrow, determined not to let him see the effect he had on you. “Confident, aren’t you? That arrogance must be exhausting.”

“Not at all,” He said smoothly, twirling you expertly as the music swelled around you. “Confidence comes naturally when you’re good at what you do.”

“And what exactly are you good at, Riddle? Charming unsuspecting girls into regrettable decisions?” Your words were sharp, but your tone was teasing, and you couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through you as his eyes flickered with something darker.

He grinned, his stormy gaze locking onto yours as he pulled you just a fraction closer. “Regrettable? Now, that’s a strong word. But tell me, do you regret this, Potter?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught in your throat as he dipped you suddenly, the world tilting for a brief, breathless moment. When he pulled you back up, his face was so close to yours that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, could feel the warmth radiating off him. He didn’t look away, didn’t falter, as if daring you to answer honestly.

Your lips twitched into a small smile, and you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a boldness you didn’t quite feel. “I’ll let you know when the dance is over.”

Mattheo laughed softly, a low, rich sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. He guided you into another turn, his movements as smooth and calculated as his words. When you settled back into the rhythm of the dance, he let his gaze drop briefly to the necklace resting against your collarbone.

“Moonstone,” he remarked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity. “That’s what Muggles call it, isn’t it?”

You blinked, slightly surprised by his observation. His eyes flicked back to yours, glinting with a quiet amusement as though he enjoyed catching you off guard.

“It is,” you replied, your fingers brushing the pendant absentmindedly. “Why? You have a sudden interest in jewelry, Riddle?”

He tilted his head, his smirk returning as if he knew something you didn’t. “Not sudden, no,” he said, his voice smooth. “But moonstone is… interesting. It’s traditionally given as a gift for younger girls, is it not? Or perhaps you’re just sentimental?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though there was no real heat behind it. “I got it when I was younger,” you admitted, lifting your chin slightly. “My mum gave it to me. And what about you, Riddle? How does someone like you know so much about jewelry?”

Mattheo’s smirk deepened, his hand tightening slightly on your waist as he leaned in. “Let’s just say I have a talent for noticing things most people overlook,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the pendant once more before flicking back to yours. “Though I’ll admit, it looks best on you tonight of all nights. I am perhaps bias.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Instead, you raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “And here I thought you only noticed trouble, Riddle. Didn’t expect you to have an eye for fashion.”

He laughed again, the sound light and unrestrained. “I’m full of surprises, Potter,” he said, his voice dropping just slightly. “Though if you’d like, I can stop noticing. I doubt anyone else would’ve caught the moonstone detail.”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself. “You’re an enigma, Riddle.”

“As I've been told.” He leaned closer with a wink that sent a ripple of hissing through the onlookers you had forgotten about.

The music drew to a close, and Mattheo slowed the dance, his hand still resting lightly at your waist. The smirk on his lips never wavered as he stepped back, his stormy gaze holding yours for a moment that felt much too long. Then, without releasing your hand, he turned toward where your parents stood, his expression shifting into one of perfect, calculated poise.

Your heart sank as realization dawned. “Mattheo,” you hissed under your breath, but he merely cast you a sideways glance, one brow quirked in amused defiance.

He led you toward James and Lily with deliberate grace, his every movement purposeful and commanding. The whispers in the room seemed to grow louder as the crowd parted for him, all eyes fixed on the Riddle boy escorting the daughter of James Potter across the polished ballroom floor.

James, who had been watching the dance unfold with growing tension, straightened immediately as the two of you approached. His hazel eyes flicked to where Mattheo’s hand still clasped yours, his expression darkening. Lily, by his side, wore a polite but cautious smile, though her gaze was sharp and assessing.

When you reached them, Mattheo finally released your hand but bowed his head slightly in a gesture of formal respect. “Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” he began smoothly, his voice rich and confident, “thank you for the honor of allowing me a dance with your daughter. It was, without question, the highlight of my evening.”

James’s jaw tightened visibly, his posture stiffening, but before he could respond, Mattheo turned his attention to you. His eyes softened just enough to make your breath hitch as he lifted your hand once more, his grip gentle but firm.

“And to you,” he said, his tone dropping to something more intimate, “thank you for indulging me, Miss Potter. You were exquisite.”

Before you could react, he bent down and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand, lingering just long enough to send your heart into a wild frenzy. The warmth of his lips against your skin and the way his eyes held yours as he straightened left you speechless- and painfully aware of the sharp intake of breath from your father.

Mattheo’s smirk returned, subtle but unmistakable, as he inclined his head once more toward James and Lily. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he said smoothly, stepping back with practiced elegance. “I look forward to seeing you all again.”

With that, he turned and strode away, his movements calm and self-assured as if he hadn’t just ignited a firestorm of whispers and tension. The room seemed to buzz in his wake, but you could barely hear it over the pounding of your heart.

James cleared his throat, breaking the silence, though his tone came sharp and restrained. “Care to explain what that was?” His hazel eyes flicked to you, his voice low enough not to attract attention, but every word carried the weight of his disapproval.

You hesitated, glancing at Lily, hoping for support. She was watching you carefully, her expression softer than James’s but no less concerned. Harry, on the other hand, stood beside her with his arms crossed, his face set in a scowl that mirrored your father’s.

“It was just a dance,” You placated, trying to sound calm, though your pulse was still racing. “He asked. I said yes. That’s it. If I had said no, you know what the tabloids would say by morning.”

James’s jaw clenched visibly, his hazel eyes darkening as he processed your words. “You think this is about the tabloids?” He hissed, his voice low but taut with tension. “I don’t give a damn about the papers. This is about him. About what he represents and the fact that he knows exactly how to manipulate situations like this.”

“He’s right,” Harry interjected sharply, his arms still crossed as he glared at you. “Mattheo Riddle doesn’t do anything without a reason. You think he asked you to dance just because he wanted to? He’s playing a game, and you’re letting him win.”

You squared your shoulders, refusing to shrink under their disapproval. “I didn’t let him win anything. I made a choice, and I handled myself perfectly fine. Do you have any idea what it would’ve looked like if I turned him down in front of everyone? Half the room would’ve spun it as a Potter snubbing a diplomatic gesture, and the other half would’ve accused us of holding old grudges.”

James’s lips pressed into a thin line, but Lily placed a calming hand on his arm before he could respond. “She’s not wrong,” she said softly, though her expression remained serious. “If she’d refused, it would’ve caused a scene, and not the kind we could easily recover from. But that doesn’t mean we can ignore what just happened.”

You turned to her, your voice quieter now. “I know who he is. I know what his name means. But for Merlin’s sake, it was a dance. That’s all.”

James exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as if trying to rein in his frustration. “It wasn’t just a dance,” he muttered, his gaze flicking toward where Mattheo had disappeared into the crowd. “Not to him. Not to anyone who saw it.”

Lily’s eyes softened as she looked at you. “Your father’s right. Whatever Mattheo’s intentions are, they’re not simple. He’s too calculated for that.”

“Or maybe,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended, “he’s not as much of a villain as everyone thinks he is.”

Harry let out a derisive snort. “You can’t be serious.”

You turned to him, your jaw tightening. “I didn’t say he was a saint, Harry. I’m just saying maybe he’s not the monster you’re all making him out to be.”

James stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less intense. “You don’t know him, and you don’t know what he’s capable of. People like him don’t do anything without a reason, and whatever his reason was tonight, it wasn’t good.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of doubt. But then you remembered the way Mattheo had looked at you- not with malice or cruelty, but with a curiosity that had felt startlingly genuine.

“I can handle it,” you said firmly, meeting your father’s gaze. “I’m not a child, Dad. I know what I’m doing.”

James stared at you for a long moment, his expression a mix of frustration, concern.

Then, James’s hard gaze softened slightly as your words hung in the air, the tension between you crackling like static. He ran a hand through his unruly hair again, a telltale sign of his inner turmoil. For all his frustration, for all his protective instincts screaming at him to put a stop to whatever this was, he couldn’t stay angry with you for long. He never could.

He let out a slow, resigned breath, the stern lines of his face easing just enough to remind you of the man who had always been your safe haven. “You’re not a child,” he admitted finally, though the words seemed to cost him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry about you. It’s my job, whether you like it or not.”

You blinked, surprised by the shift in his tone. His hazel eyes met yours, and though they still carried a flicker of disapproval, there was something else there now- something softer, more vulnerable. “You’re my daughter,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m always going to want to protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

Lily stepped in then, her hand resting gently on James’s arm as she gave you a small, understanding smile. “Your father’s trying, love,” she said softly. “He just… doesn’t want to see you hurt. Neither of us do.”

Harry, however, was less inclined to soften. “You’re making a mistake,” he muttered, his arms still crossed tightly. “And when it backfires, don’t come running to me.”

Lily shot him a sharp look, her tone firm but even. “Harry.”

He huffed but said nothing more, his scowl firmly in place.

James exhaled again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look,” he said, his tone gentler now, “if you’re so sure you can handle this… fine. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But I swear to Merlin, if he so much as looks at you again- ”

“Dad,” you interrupted, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “I can handle it. I promise.”

He studied you for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching yours for something- reassurance, perhaps, or a sign that he could need to fight this battle for you- like he always had. Eventually, he nodded, though it was clear he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “But just… be careful. Please.”

Lily squeezed his arm, her own expression a mix of concern and quiet pride. “We trust you,” she said softly, her green eyes meeting yours. “Just… don’t give us a reason to regret it, okay?”

You nodded, the tension in your chest easing slightly at her words. “I won’t.”

James muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like we’ll see, but he didn’t press the matter further. Instead, he stepped back, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as he gave you a weary but affectionate look.

“Go on,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctant humor. “Enjoy the rest of the ball. Just… maybe avoid any more dances with Riddle.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at that, the sound lightening the mood just enough to ease some of the lingering tension. “I’ll do my best.”

As you turned to rejoin the crowd, you felt a surge of gratitude for your family- for their love, their concern, and even their overprotectiveness. They didn’t always make things easy, but you knew their hearts were always in the right place.

Even if Harry could be a prat about it.

[letsyapthenightaway]

The Hockey Boys reacting to you being shipped with another player

Matt Rempe- a Hughes out of all the people who you could get shipped with it had to be Luke Hughes. He's ticked about it but doesn't straight up say it but it shows. He gets even more clingy always pulling you in closer, his head on your shoulder. When he sees reasons as to why you two are being shipped he adds himself into the narrative. "Just because you two fit the tall and skinny + Short and Plus size duo? That's literally us too so..'" I feel like you would get posted a lot more on his socials when this ship starts getting talked about.

Luke Hughes- He will get so annoyed! It's a little funny like "They are shipping you with Matt Rempe! Rempe, out of all people!" Rolls his eyes every single time he sees a tweet. If he sees a tweet about how Matt could carry you while Luke probably can't. He is causing HAVOC proving everyone wrong! he can carry his girl and is showing it off. At a game specifically after a win. Straight out of a movie skates over, picks you up, and spins you with the biggest smile. So smug when those ship posts start to go down and are now being replaced by how cute you two are.

Jack Hughes- "FUAKING TREVAH?!" All of this is because you said you liked his tattoo. I don't know Trevor but from how fans describe him I'm gonna say that he will tease Jack but still in a way that's respectful with his girlfriend. "Mr. Steal your girl" "Shut up, Trevor" He wouldn't take it to heart, would be a silly joke between all of you. "I'm taking your girlfriend on a date!" The dude offered to drop you off at your place. If it's an off day he would softly mention it, only a little insecure but it was still on his mind. Some loving and reassurance will help him real quick. Would make a public comment about how Trevor's tattoo is actually lame, but it's a joke.

Quinn Hughes- With his brother, really? Looks at the tweet and laughs Jack and you would never do that to him. Plus he has way better hair than Jack you said so yourself. I don't think Jack would joke about it, he would probably pull away a little. He wouldn't want that ship blowing up more, he respects you and Quinn. This is about Quinn but I don't think he would let this get to him at all, it would get more to you and Jack. Jack will think of something to get you and Quinn more cuddly in public so the people talk about you two. "look at my brother AND HIS GIRLFRIEND! HIS!!" Oh, how did that picture of Quinn's hand on your butt start trending? The world may never know...

Connor Bedard- Honestly? Wouldn't find out on his own. Someone had to tell him, he walks into the room and just does his default stance "When did you ever say you like older men?" Awkward silence because you have no idea what he is talking about. "They are shipping you with Jack Hughes" idk I feel like as he says that he is walking over making you lay down for a sudden cuddle session. Feel like he would hide his face in your neck with his arms wrapped around you. You would feel him laugh and a muffled "as if" looks up at you with that Bedard smile/smirk pulling you in tighter.

I wish I was lying when I say I spent more than 5 minutes laughing at the fucking Trevor. I was in tears and it isn't even that funny.

[weneeya]

hi!hi!!! this is the same person who requested tht office romance w/ kuroo last time hehe. i love your writing style so much bc its easy for someone like me (who has a deteriorating brain functioning system from all of the brainrot ive been influenced by the internet) to understand and imagine in my silly deluional head XDDD anyways !! id like to request dad! headcanons for the black jackals (specifically, hinata, sakusa, atsumu and bokuto^^) omg maybe a scenario where they find out that reader is pregnant then proceed with the headcanon with how they act with the kid/s i just needed to request this bc my baby fever has been progressively getting worst and i just cant stop thinking abt kids :']] GOODLUCK AND I WISH U WELLLL !!! <3333

baby fever m.list | rules

pairing. msby x reader

characters. hinata, atsumu, sakusa, bokuto

note. omg thank you sm I'm so happy you loved the one with Kuroo because i loved writing it sm!! and i probably the idea even more because omg the boys as dads?? it's genius idk why i've never did it before! i hope you'll love it just as much <3

⎯ Hinata Shoyo

You had been trying to have a baby with Shoyo for a few weeks already, but it was like fate was against the two of you because you seemed to not be able to end up pregnant. You were slowly starting to lose hope ; thank God Hinata was way too positive and optimistic to even think about the worst. It was helping you, in a way. 

He was at the gym to train for their next matches when you learned the good news. You didn’t hesitate twice before almost rushing to join him. He was talking with his team, most specifically Bokuto, when you arrived like a fury. Shoyo looked at you with a big smile and you waved at him. He came to you in no time. 

“You seemed happy. What’s the news?” He asked with his usual smile, and you almost felt the tears in your eyes. You took his hands between yours, trying not to talk too loudly. “We did it Shoyo! I’m pregnant!” And your words didn’t get the time to fall in the silence. 

Hinata held you tightly between his arms, carrying you off the ground and spinning around with you in his arms. Right after your feet finally met the floor again, he cupped your face with his hands to kiss you. “I told you, we needed to be patient!” And you were sure that the rest of the team was going to learn the news sooner than later. 

good with children ; he has a little sister after all 

always so patient no matter what 

not the type to ever yell, so when he get to angry mod, the kid stop immediately 

will talk a lot about highschool and his friends ; so proud 

take pictures all the time, videos too ; a lot of memories of your baby boy 

ready to take a break from volleyball so he could give all his time to you and the baby

⎯ Miya Atsumu

Saying that Atsumu was scared of having children was an euphemism. The man was absolutely terrified by the idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have a child with you, of course not ; it was just the responsibilities which were so stressful for him. He kept acting cool at first but after some time you’ve been able to understand what was going on inside of his mind. 

Until you’ve been confronted with reality. You were alone in the bathroom, and Atsumu was waiting for you right outside of the room. Things were a bit weird with your body lately and you both noticed it. So it wasn’t so surprising that you took a test just to be sure. 

You got out of the bathroom, and your gaze met Atsumu’s eyes. You slowly showed him the test, and he could quickly read the answer he was waiting for. You were pregnant. He looked back at you, and he saw that you were about to say something he didn’t want to hear from you. 

“Don’t ever say you're sorry,” he started, slowly caressing your cheek with his thumb. “It’s the best news you could have told me. Because we’re going to have the most beautiful baby ever, and I’m going to love you two until the end of my days.” This time, you couldn’t really help the tears which felt down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, and he left a kiss against your forehead. 

“I love you,” you told him in a whisper, and he couldn’t help but to smile slowly. “I love you too,” was his answer before he held you tight between his arms. He was scared, of course ; but he couldn’t be happier at the same time because God knew how much he loved you. 

the man is an overprotective mother ; almost like he was the one who bear the baby 

careful about absolutely everything 

acts cool but stressed when something doesn’t go as planned 

girl’s dad at 100% 

loves to be considered as a princess ; will wear a dress and a tiara 

bringing gifts all the time, especially when away because of volleyball

⎯ Sakusa Kiyoomi

You already talked about having children with Sakusa, but the conversation was never ending well. In fact, it always ended up in an argument. Your partner was completely closed at the discussion and you couldn’t understand why. 

So when you learned that you were actually pregnant, fear ran over you. You cried a lot, for a long time. How were you supposed to say this to him? Was he going to leave you? You were so scared, and it was messing with your poor mind. 

Sakusa came home after practice, and he found you in your bed, curled up in the blanket to hide yourself. A sigh left his lips before he took place right beside you after being ready to do so. “What are you hiding from me? Don’t say nothing, I know you too well. There’s something wrong.” 

You looked at him and he frowned immediately when he saw the redness of your eyes. You had been crying for quite a while, so he knew he was right ; even if he hoped to be wrong. He slowly caressed your cheek, waiting for you to find the strength to tell him. 

“Kiyoomi… I’m pregnant…” You told him in a little voice, and his eyes widened almost right now. He blinked a few times, and you looked away, feeling the tears coming back. “I know, we talked about it, but I…” 

Sakusa grabbed your chin with all the softness in the world, making you look back at him. He left a small kiss against your lips. “I couldn’t be happier, my love, I swear.” It was your turn to stay silent, all blinking. This is how you learned that the only reason behind Kiyoomi’s anger towards pregnancy was actually fear because of all the complications. 

But if it was for you, he was ready to take the risk. Because having a baby with you was all he could dream of. You just needed to be careful. 

biggest girl’s dad ever 

will do anything for his baby girl ; even if it meant going out with ribbon in his hair 

discreet about his private life but when he sees you two during his matches? can’t hide much longer 

completely devoted but still know how to be a little strict 

wants his child to have the best education so he’s careful about everything 

get scared every time the baby is just a little sick 

overly protective ; especially when it comes to boy close to his girl

⎯ Bokuto Koutaro

He was made to be a father, you were sure about it. He loved children so much, there was no way he wouldn’t be happy to learn that you were pregnant. But it was still pretty stressful for you, because you were never sure of anything with Bokuto. 

Today was the day, because he was finally coming back home after being away with his teams for a few weeks. You couldn’t announce this to him on the phone so you had to wait for him to come back. When he entered your shared apartment, he had a huge smile on his lips. Being able to finally reunite with you was all he could ask for. 

You were sitting on the couch, and he almost immediately jumped on you. As the yapper he was, he started to talk about his trip and everything that happened. But you seemed lost in your thoughts, and he noticed it quickly. 

“What’s wrong babe?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. You met his gaze and a sigh left your lips. “I have something to tell you,” you started, and Bokuto slowly frowned his eyebrows. Something was weird, and he didn’t like it at all. He stayed strangely silent while you were trying to find the right words to tell him the news. 

Another long sigh left your lips before you finally decided to say it out loud. “I’m pregnant, Kou.” And the silence after that was long. Too long for you, and you started to worry. Until a huge smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed your hands, eyes wide. “We’re expecting a baby? Really?” 

It was like all your worries fled away at this exact moment, and you slowly nodded with a smile on your own lips. “Yes, we’re expecting a baby.” Nothing could go wrong if it was with Bokuto after all. 

neither a girl’s dad or a boy’s dad ; just devoted and obsessed with his children 

had probably cry more than you when he saw your baby for the first time 

it’s like the accomplishment of his entire life 

not really the strict parent ; doing half of the stupidities with your boy 

will obviously teach him volleyball at the youngest age 

always playing with your son when he can ; doing his best to be as present as possible 

will show him to the camera during his interviews after a match 

always talking about you or the baby to everyone ; really the proudest 

a kid himself so obviously he know what to do to make the baby boy laugh 

thank you for reading!

[pbaz7]

CROSSING THE LINE — PART NINE ♡

paige x azzi

warnings: panic attack

word count: 5k

A/N: This chapter was a little sad to write but I liked detailed I was able to get with Paige's feelings . If you didn't see my post earlier I'm not sure where I'm going from here yet with this story. This might be one of the last chapters with like an epilogue or something but idk fully yet. Please let me know what you think and leave live reactions and comments if you can! Hope everyone had a nice holiday 😊

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

Mid February 2024

Paige stared at her reflection in the mirror, her face pale, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. The weight of it all felt unbearable. Her mind churned with a constant noise—comments, critiques, expectations, all bouncing off the walls of her head. No matter how hard she worked, it was never enough. Each day was a new round of judgment, and she was so tired no matter how much she tried to hide it. 

It was February, and UConn had only lost two games this season, but both had come with a heavy cost. The media storm that followed each loss made it feel like the world was spinning just a little bit too fast, dragging her along with it. Geno’s contradicting criticisms were always looming. She was too passive one game, too aggressive the next, but always too something. She shot too much, didn’t shoot enough, forced too many shots. Every mistake, every misstep, every decision, was held under a microscope, dissected and discussed endlessly.

Paige’s breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at herself in the mirror, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. The scoreboard in her mind was relentless. If she didn’t get at least 25, if she didn’t clearly dominate the game, she wasn’t good enough. It didn’t matter that she was impacting the game in other ways—her assists, her defense, her leadership, her mere gravity on the court. None of that seemed to matter. Only the numbers in the point column.

The pressure was suffocating. No matter how many hours she spent perfecting her game, it was never enough.

Every morning, the first thought in her head wasn’t about the game ahead—it was about the headlines, the tweets, the messages people were sending. Every night, she lay awake replaying her mistakes, wondering how she could have done more. What if she’d pushed harder, passed differently, shot better? What if she had been more aggressive? The question haunted her like a shadow, chasing her down until she couldn’t tell where the doubt ended and she began.

The whispers were always there—people talking about her, criticizing her, claiming she wasn’t the player they thought she should be, the player she used to be. Even her own coach had joined the chorus of voices pointing out her flaws. She could feel the eyes on her during every practice, every game. Everyone was waiting for her to fall, to break under the pressure.

And sometimes, Paige felt like she might.

Azzi slowly noticed it over time. Paige had been quieter than usual during practice, a little more withdrawn in her celebrations, a little more distant. When they were on the court together, Azzi could see the way Paige was moving—slower, as if every step took more energy than the last. She was still putting in the work everyday, but it wasn’t the same. Her confidence, her usual fire, seemed dimmed. Azzi knew Paige well enough to recognize the signs.

So after a seemingly difficult practice for Paige one day, when the gym was nearly empty and the others were gathering their things, Azzi caught up with Paige. She stood in front of her, blocking her path to the locker room, her eyes soft but insistent.

"Paige," Azzi said, her voice gentle but firm. "What’s going on?"

"I’m fine Az," Paige muttered, her tone a little flat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, especially considering her girlfriend's tone with her. She took a step closer, closing the distance between them.

"You’re not fine," she said quietly, her voice threaded with concern. "You’re putting on a mask, but you know I can see through it."

Paige hesitated for a moment, her gaze dropping to the floor as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel Azzi’s eyes on her, the concern there in the way she was looking at her, but for some reason, the words felt stuck in her throat. She didn’t want to admit how bad it was lately, how much it was all eating away at her.

"I don’t know," Paige said quietly, her voice laced with frustration, a vulnerability she wasn’t used to showing. "It’s just... everything’s too much right now. The pressure. The expectations. I feel like I’m drowning, Azzi. I can’t keep up."

Azzi's heart twisted as she took a step closer, her hand reaching out to gently grasp Paige's arm. "Talk to me, baby," Azzi said softly, her voice full of warmth and care. "You know you’re not in this alone. Whatever you’re feeling, you can share it with me."

Paige let out a shaky breath, the tears she’d been holding back threatening to spill over. She could feel the walls she’d built around herself start to crack, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she wanted to let them fall. She wanted everyone to see everything—the weight of it all, the suffocating pressure she couldn’t escape. She wanted everyone to see just how bad they had made her feel. 

"I just... I don’t know how to do this anymore Az," Paige admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "No matter how hard I try, I’m never enough. The media’s on me, Geno’s on me, even our own damn fans are on me, everyone has something to say, and I feel like I’m constantly failing. If I don’t score 25, if I’m not the one carrying the team every game, it’s like I’m invisible. Like I’m not good enough."

Azzi’s gaze softened even more as she took Paige’s hands in her own, her thumbs brushing over her skin with a soothing touch. "Paige, baby" she said gently, lifting Paige’s chin to meet her eyes. "You are always more than enough. I see everything you’re doing on the court—how you’re leading, how you’re supporting your teammates. You’re making an impact in ways that go beyond just points on the board. And I know how hard you’re working. Don’t let anyone—including yourself—tell you otherwise."

The emotion in Paige’s chest bubbled up, the weight of Azzi’s words landing on her like a balm. She wanted to believe it, wanted to trust that the things her girlfriend said were true. But it was hard to let go of all the voices in her head. It was hard to not think Azzi was just being a supportive girlfriend. 

"I don’t know how to quiet my head," Paige said softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "How do I keep going when it feels like nothing’s ever enough?"

Azzi pulled her into a gentle hug then, holding her close, her arms wrapping around Paige like a safe haven. "You don’t have to do it alone baby," Azzi murmured into her ear, her voice steady and reassuring. "I’m right here, every step of the way.”

Paige buried her face in Azzi’s shoulder, letting the tears fall freely now with no one else in the gym, no longer holding them back. She didn’t have it in here to be strong right now. She didn’t have it in her to be Uconn’s golden girl right now.

…

But then Uconn almost lost another game. Keyword being almost. 

The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in around Paige as the weight of everything pressed down on her. She had been here a few times before, locked in this dark space, trying to silence the voices in her head, but today felt different. It was harder to breathe, harder to push through.

The game had ended with a win. UConn had won by 11 points, but it wasn’t enough. It never was. Not when you were the star. Not when everyone expected perfection. Geno had praised her performance, sure, but there was always that hint of disappointment in his voice—more could have been done. More passes. More assists. Fewer contested shots because that won’t help in March.

Paige felt like she could feel the media’s eyes on her the entire game, their cameras flashing with judgment as they pounced on every flaw, no matter how small. The fans, too, had their say—complaining that she should have dropped 30 points on an unranked team, that she was being passive and deferring too much to other players. She knew they didn’t understand. They couldn’t see what was really happening on the court, the way she was trying to balance it all, the way she was doing everything she could to make her teammates shine, to get everyone involved.

But none of that mattered. Not to them.

Paige sat on the floor of the suite, back against the wall, feeling like she was shrinking into herself. She knew better than to get sucked into social media. Azzi had told her, warned her to delete it all, to stop looking at the constant stream of opinions from strangers. But here she was, scrolling through her feed, eyes filling with tears as she read each comment, each demand for more, as if she wasn’t already giving everything she had even if it was slowly killing her. 

She let out a shaky breath, biting down on her lip, trying to hold the tears at bay. But it wasn’t enough. The pressure kept building, the anxiety squeezing around her chest, making it harder to breathe. Paige put her phone down with trembling hands, the weight of it all sinking in, her head pounding with the noise in her mind.

Unable to stop herself, she softly banged the back of her head against the wall a few times, willing the thoughts to stop swirling. 

Why wasn’t it enough? Why couldn’t she just be allowed to have a good game, a solid performance, without the world tearing it apart? Why did every win feel like a loss when the criticism outweighed the praise? 

The tears finally came then, falling freely down her face as she sat there, trying to get a grip on her spiraling thoughts. The walls felt like they were slowly closing in, and she couldn’t stop the fear that was creeping into her chest. The fear that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough. That one day, the pressure would break her. That she would fall off the face of the Earth and everything for everyone else would keep spinning. 

She hated feeling weak, hated how powerless she felt in this moment. Not being in control. But she just tried to hold onto the thought of Azzi still in her mind, a small thread of comfort in the chaos. Azzi would understand. Azzi always did.

The room felt so empty without her. The silence was suffocating, the isolation almost too much to bear. Each breath Paige tried to take felt shallow, and the harder she focused on her breathing, the more it seemed to slip away. The more difficult it became. Panic was creeping in, like a hand pressing down on her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs.

She could physically feel all of it—the weight of the expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect. Each thought, each criticism, each word from the media felt like it was wrapping itself around her throat, making it harder to breathe.

She knew she should call Azzi, to try to force some words out so her girlfriend knew how much she needed her. But her phone lay discarded beside her and Paige couldn’t bring herself to look at it. She knew the messages, the comments, that she would unlock her phone to would only make it worse. Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t stop it. Every time she tried to focus her thoughts, to breathe deeply, to imagine Azzi the panic only tightened its grip.

Then the door clicked open, pulling her back from the edge for just a moment. Paige’s heart tried to catch up knowing who it was, but the breath still wouldn’t come.

Azzi froze when she saw Paige, sitting on the floor, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. It only took a second for Azzi to drop her bag and throw her phone on the bed before rushing over. She didn’t hesitate, kneeling in front of Paige, taking her face in her hands. Paige couldn’t look at her, her breathing coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

"Paige," Azzi’s voice was gentle, but firm. "Look at me."

But Paige couldn’t. She was shaking, struggling, trapped in the chaos of her mind. Azzi saw it instantly—this wasn’t just sadness this time. This was another panic attack.

"Hey, hey, listen to me," Azzi said softly, her fingers brushing along Paige’s cheek, trying to steady her. "Breathe, baby. You’re okay."

Azzi’s own breaths were deep, slow, as she began to count, trying to guide Paige through the chaos. "In... one, two, three..." she counted, her voice low but steady. "Exhale... one, two, three..."

Paige’s chest heaved, her breaths sharp and ragged. She tried to focus on Azzi’s voice, but everything felt distant, blurry and out of reach.

"Come on, breathe with me," Azzi whispered, gently urging her. "In... one, two, three..." She let the air out slowly, counting as she did. "Exhale... one, two, three."

Paige’s body trembled, and Azzi could feel the weight of her distress, her panic. But she kept her voice calm, breaking each sentence into short, steady breaths.

"You’re safe," Azzi said, her thumb gently tracing over Paige’s skin. "I’m here. Breathe with me baby."

Paige’s breaths came in short, gasping bursts, still out of rhythm. She tried to follow Azzi’s lead, but each time she focused on her breath, it slipped further away.

"In... two, three," Azzi counted, her voice never wavering. "Exhale... two, three. You’re okay. I love you. I’m here."

Paige’s hands shook as she clutched at her chest, fighting for air. "I can’t... Azzi..." she gasped, her voice barely audible. She was drowning in the overwhelming pressure, feeling like she was finally losing the battle.

"You can," Azzi whispered, her own breath deepening as she counted. "In... one, two, three... Exhale... one, two, three." She leaned closer, her forehead gently resting against Paige’s. "Focus on me. You’re doing great. In, out. In, out."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, but slowly, Paige’s breathing began to soften. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. The frantic gasps slowed, her chest rising and falling with each breath, steadier now.

Azzi didn’t stop. She kept her hand on Paige’s face, gently coaxing her. "You’re so amazing, baby. You’re so strong. You’re so perfect."

Each breath they took together was a small step, and with every inhale, Paige felt the panic loosen its grip, just a little. Her hands stopped shaking as much, her body less rigid. Azzi’s voice was still steady, counting each breath, reassuring her.

"Good," Azzi said, her voice soft but filled with warmth. "That’s it. You’re okay now. Just breathe with me."

Paige’s breath was slower now, the panic starting to fade, replaced with exhaustion. She looked up at Azzi, her eyes filled with gratitude, but there was still a trace of vulnerability in her gaze.

Azzi smiled softly, her thumb brushing across Paige’s cheek. "I’m here," she whispered again, as though to remind Paige that she wasn’t alone. "I promise you’re never alone."

The storm hadn’t completely passed, but in that moment, with Azzi’s arms around her and her steady presence grounding her, Paige felt like she could breathe again.

After a few minutes of quiet, Azzi didn’t speak. She simply stood up and took Paige’s hand, gently guiding her towards the bathroom. Paige let herself be led, her body feeling light but exhausted, her mind still clouded and heavy. She felt empty, drained, but Azzi was there—her steady hand, her calm presence, like a lifeline in the chaos.

Azzi helped Paige undress. Paige didn’t protest, too worn out to resist, too overwhelmed to think about anything beyond the comfort Azzi was offering. When Azzi took off her own clothes and stepped into the shower with Paige, there was no rush, no urgency, just a quiet understanding between them as they sat in silence for a little bit.

Azzi began undoing Paige’s two braids softly as she kissed her girlfriends cheek or neck now and then. She then reached for the shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into her palm before gently massaging it into Paige’s wet hair. The warm water cascaded down over them, mingling with the steam, but all Paige could focus on was the soothing pressure of Azzi’s fingers against her scalp. Slowly, the tension in her body began to melt away. She leaned into Azzi, letting her eyes close as she rested her head on her shoulders, the simple act of being cared for grounding her even further.

Azzi didn’t say anything, her hands working methodically, rinsing the shampoo from Paige’s hair before applying conditioner. The quiet was comforting, the sound of water and Azzi’s soft hum in Paige’s ear were the only things filling the space.

When Azzi finished rinsing the conditioner out of her hair, Paige finally opened her eyes, meeting Azzi’s gaze. Azzi’s eyes softened, filled with a tenderness Paige couldn’t quite put into words. Her love for Paige was clear in the way she looked at her—gentle, unwavering, and so full of admiration.

Paige’s throat tightened, but she whispered, “Thank you.” Her voice was hoarse, but full of gratitude.

Azzi smiled, her thumb lightly grazing Paige’s cheek as she leaned in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. I told you, no matter what, I’m always in your corner and I’m going to help you get through this.” 

The words settled into Paige’s chest. She wasn’t alone. Azzi was there, always there.

Without thinking, Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi, pulling her close. The water hit them both, but neither of them cared. They stood there, their bodies pressed together, holding each other in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

…

Steam lingered in the air as Paige stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a hoodie and sweats, her damp hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. The soft shuffle of Azzi’s movements drew her attention to the bed, where Azzi had just sat cross-legged, a comb in one hand and two hair ties in the other.

"Come here," Azzi said softly, patting the space in front of her.

Paige raised an eyebrow, but the gentle look in Azzi’s eyes pulled her forward. She settled on the floor, her back to Azzi, who immediately began threading her fingers through Paige’s damp hair.

For a while, the room was quiet except for the faint sound of the comb gliding through Paige’s hair. Azzi broke the silence, her voice gentle. "You wanna tell me what’s been on your mind tonight?"

Paige was silent, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. She bit her bottom lip, her mind racing as she tried to find the words. "I just... I don’t know what people want from me anymore," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi paused briefly, her hands stilling before resuming their steady rhythm. "What do you mean?"

"It’s like..." Paige hesitated, trying to find the words. "It’s not about basketball anymore. Every game, every move—it’s a story for someone else to tell. I can’t stop thinking about what people are gonna say after every game, and it’s exhausting."

Azzi hummed softly as she began parting Paige’s hair for the braids. "Do you think about that while you’re playing?"

Paige nodded, her voice small. "Sometimes. It’s like... the game isn’t just the game anymore. There’s so much pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations, and it makes it hard to just... enjoy it. To be in the moment."

Azzi gently tugged one section of hair, starting the first braid. "Paige, baby, you’ve been playing basketball your whole life. You didn’t fall in love with it because of what other people thought. You fell in love with it because it made you happy.”

"I know," Paige said, her voice wavering slightly. "But it’s hard not to care when there’s so many expectations. It’s like... no matter what I do, it’s never enough for me to just get one day of silence. And I just don’t want to let anyone down."

Azzi’s hands worked steadily as she braided, her voice calm but firm. "You can’t control what people think or say, no matter how hard you try so we gotta let that part go. But you can control remembering why you play. You don’t owe anyone anything, Paige—not the fans, not the critics, not even me baby. You play this game for you and only you. 

Paige was quiet for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweats. "It’s just hard to block it all out sometimes."

"I know it is," Azzi said softly, tying off the first braid and starting on the second. "But you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You’ve handled so much already, you’ve been through so much already and you’re still here, still fighting. That’s what matters."

Paige glanced over her shoulder, a small smile breaking through her thoughtful expression. "When did you get so wise?"

Azzi grinned, focused on finishing the second braid. "I’ve always been this wise. You’re just quiet enough for the first time to actually pay attention."

Paige chuckled, leaning into Azzi’s touch as she tied off the braid. Azzi ran her fingers over the finished work, smoothing down stray hairs before giving Paige’s shoulder a light squeeze.

"There," Azzi said, standing up and heading to the corner of the room to grab her basketball shoes. "Now, let’s go."

Paige blinked, looking at her with clear confusion on her face. "What? Go where?"

"The gym," Azzi said matter-of-factly, sliding her feet into some slides

Paige stared at her in disbelief. "Az, we just played an entire game and just got out of the shower. You’re crazy." 

Azzi smirked, tossing Paige’s shoes onto the floor beside her. "Come on, Superstar. I’m not asking."

Paige groaned, flopping back onto the carpet. "I picked a crazy person to be my girlfriend," she muttered, though a small grin tugged at her lips.

Azzi stepped closer, brushing a playful kiss against Paige’s temple. "Definitely, thought that was in the fine print though."

With a dramatic sigh, Paige sat up, slipping on her shoes and tying them lazily. "You’re lucky you’re cute," she grumbled as she followed Azzi out the door to her car. 

…

The gym was eerily quiet, the faint hum of the overhead lights the only sound as Paige and Azzi switched into their basketball shoes. Paige stood near the baseline, watching Azzi lace up her sneakers with an amused expression.

Azzi grabbed a basketball from the rack, dribbling it once before tossing it to Paige. "Check."

Paige caught the ball, raising an eyebrow at Azzi. "What are we doing?"

Azzi, already standing at the three point line, grinned. "We’re playing one-on-one."

Paige scoffed, spinning the ball lazily in her hands. "No, we’re not."

Azzi tilted her head, feigning innocence. "What, scared you’ll lose?"

Paige rolled her eyes, her competitive spirit sparking lightly at Azzi’s accusation. "First of all, I don’t lose one-on-one. Second, I definitely wouldn’t lose to my girlfriend."

Azzi smirked. "Then prove it. Play me. Otherwise I’ll just tell everyone you were scared."

Paige muttered something incoherent under her breath before lazily checking the ball back to Azzi.

Azzi immediately took advantage of Paige’s relaxed posture, going into a quick jumper from behind the arc. The ball arching beautifully through the air and swishing through the net.

"2-0," Azzi announced, her smirk widening.

Paige groaned, grabbing the ball. "Alright, that’s real cute."

When Paige checked the ball this time, she pressed a hand firmly against Azzi’s hip, cutting off her space. Azzi tried to drive left, but Paige stuck with her, their bodies brushing as they collided. Azzi pivoted, stepping back into a mid-range jumper that kissed the front of the rim before bouncing in.

"3-0," Azzi teased, grinning. "You’re looking a little slow tonight, P. You tired?"

"Yeah?" Paige’s voice dripped with mock sweetness as she checked the ball again. Azzi tried to hit another step back but it bounded off the rim. 

They checked the ball and Paige jab-stepped to her left, forcing Azzi to shift her weight, then crossed over and exploded to the basket with a quick step. Azzi stayed close, but Paige used her body to shield the ball, finishing with a layup off the glass. 

"3-1," Paige said, flashing a smug grin.

Azzi grabbed the ball, her competitive spirit ignited even though this was supposed to be about Paige. As they continued to play, their movements grew sharper and more physical. Paige backed Azzi down on one possession, bumping her with her shoulder before spinning for a fadeaway jumper. Azzi countered by cutting through the lane with a quick first step, using her speed to slip past Paige for an easy floater.

The teasing never stopped.

"Didn’t know I signed up for wrestling practice," Azzi quipped after Paige body-checked her on a drive.

"Yeah yeah," Paige shot back. "You’re not getting past me again."

Azzi grinned. "Oh, I’m passing you right now." She immediately drove left, brushing past Paige’s hip as she hooked her slightly and finishing with a reverse layup that left Paige shaking her head.

The game became more intense with each possession. Azzi swatted one of Paige’s layup attempts, the ball flying out of bounds. Paige groaned.

"You’ve never done that in your life" Paige said, narrowing her eyes as she retrieved the ball.

"First time for everything," Azzi replied, standing tall and grinning.

Paige responded by hitting a deep three-pointer, holding her follow-through for much longer than necessary as the ball sailed through the hoop. "9-8," Paige said, her smirk confident.

On the next possession, she used a quick hesitation move to fake Azzi out of position, draining another jumper.

As the score climbed, so did the tension. The gym felt warmer, their breaths coming faster, their earlier shower completely undone by the sweat dripping down their faces. Every drive and every block brought them closer, their bodies brushing and colliding in ways that blurred the lines between competition and something more.

At one point, Azzi’s hand lingered on Paige’s waist as she pivoted for a shot, and Paige didn’t pull away. Instead, she smirked, leaning in slightly as she jab-stepped.

"You getting distracted on me?" Paige teased, her voice low.

" Nope," Azzi fired back, though her flushed cheeks suggested otherwise.

Eventually they were tied at 17, both breathing heavily as they sized each other up. Paige had the ball tucked against her hip, her gaze locked on Azzi.

"What do I get when I win?" Paige asked, her tone playful but laced with a hint of something more.

Azzi’s eyes narrowed, her lips curving into a smile. "You’re not going to win."

Paige chuckled, her confidence unshaken. "Guess we’ll see."

She dribbled slowly, luring Azzi to sleep on defense before hitting her with a fast combo move before she drove hard to the basket, finishing with a finger roll that danced around the rim before dropping in.

"18-17," Paige said, smirking as she checked the ball. "Told you, I don’t lose."

It was Azzi’s ball again and once she caught the ball back from Paige, she stepped back, shooting a quick three-pointer that hit nothing but the bottom of the net.

"19-18," Azzi said, mimicking Paige’s earlier tone. She smirked, stepping closer. "What am I getting when I win?"

Paige grinned, walking up to Azzi until they were nearly nose to nose. “A little something to remind you how giving I can be.”

Azzi shook her head, laughing. "You’re full of it."

The game continued, both of them refusing to give an inch to the other but finally Paige ended it with a three that rattled in after she hit Azzi with a hesi pullup. 

"That’s game," Paige said, her voice triumphant as she grabbed her water bottle.

Azzi was smiling as she sipped from her own bottle, her grin unusually big. Paige noticed and raised an eyebrow. "You do know you just lost, right?"

Azzi kept smiling, stepping closer until they were chest to chest. "Yeah," she said softly. "But you weren’t thinking about anything else besides this game, were you?"

Paige blinked, her grin softening as realization hit her. For the first time in a while, she hadn’t been consumed by the weight of everyone’s expectations and opinions of how she was playing. She’d just been... playing.

"Huh," Paige said, her voice quieter. "I guess not."

Azzi smirked, leaning in close, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "See? I told you I’d help."

Paige leaned in, her lips brushing against Azzi’s, but before she could close the gap, Azzi stepped back with a mischievous grin.

"Nah," Azzi said, grabbing her water bottle and bag. "I’m a sore loser. You don’t get a kiss after beating me."

Paige laughed. "The winner’s supposed to get something."

Azzi tilted her head, her voice dipping into a sultry tone. "Oh? Is that what you want from me baby?"

Paige nodded, her smile growing as she stepped closer, but Azzi turned on her heel, heading for the door.

"You gotta work for it," Azzi called over her shoulder, her voice dripping with playful challenge as she walked away.

Paige stood there, dumbfounded, watching her girlfriend’s retreating figure. Despite everything she’d been feeling earlier, all the negativity and doubt, Azzi had completely unraveled it and left nothing but the Paige who loved to play basketball more than anything.

"Wait!" Paige called after her, grinning. "So, I’m really not getting any tonight?"

Azzi turned, walking backward as her smirk deepened. "Maybe," she teased, her eyes gleaming. "But like I said you gotta work for it P."

Paige chuckled, shaking her head as she jogged after her, a lightness settling in her chest. She couldn’t stop the grin spreading across her face, her eyes fixed on Azzi.

"Thank the gods," Paige muttered under her breath, her voice laced with a mix of humor and adoration, "and every single heaven above for Azzi Fudd."

The thought made her laugh softly to herself as she caught up, ready to follow wherever Azzi led her next.

[luveline]

idk if you would write for this I checked your guidelines and wasn’t sure but I would LOVE a pregnancy scare with Aaron (May be reader is younger than him?)! And she’s just panicked bc he’s older and already has a kid and etc and the test can be pos or neg totally up to you!

thank you for requesting! 1.3k, fem (possibly) pregnant!reader

cw reader's and hotch's attitude towards pregnancy is mostly positive

Your period is twelve days late. 

That is not a small amount of time. 

You don't notice it at first, and when you do you figure it's a few extra days without an irksome pain, a balm to soothe the ache of your absent boyfriend and a hard job, but when Aaron comes home from a case and you still haven't started your period, the panic begins to set in. 

You have a hard time keeping things from him for obvious reasons. His being a human lie detector felt fascinating when you first met, but now it's making things worse. You would've liked some time to yourself for denial, only he can always tell when something is wrong, though it's clear to you he's not sure exactly what it is. He'll realise eventually, you know. 

"Let's go to the store," he suggests, his hand flirting with the back of your neck. "You always feel better after a sweet treat." 

You've been to the store today, unbeknownst to him, for some emotional support chocolates and a small box you'd rather not think about. You'd hoped that he might get called away to give you time to open it, but without him you're not sure you have the strength. 

You hadn't expected to feel this way. You want desperately to tell him, but you're just so, so scared. 

"I don't feel like going anywhere." 

He hums as his hand moves to your shoulder, squeezing a loving path down to your hand. Jack bangs a toy down in his bedroom across the way, and the washing machine spinning from the utility closet sounds louder than it ever has before, like a rocket about to erupt. You don't know what it is that gets you, but suddenly you're overwhelmed, a confession stuck in the back of your throat as Aaron meets your panicked gaze. 

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Here, honey, sit down." 

He guides you to a kitchen chair. 

"What's wrong?" he asks again, bending at the waist. 

Your head rushes with white noise for a second. You wet your chapped lips with the tip of your tongue; you've missed your period, but it isn't that alone that scares you. Perhaps in an instance of a psychosomatic symptom, you feel weird, other. Something has changed. And you're starting to feel sick. 

"Aaron, I don't know what to do," you say. 

His eyes widen with an expression you don't often see. "Has something happened?" 

It's so, so hard to say. "I think I've messed up." 

"Not in any way I can't fix." 

"Maybe I have," you say miserably, panic hot behind your eyes. 

He shakes his head. "You haven't. I swear you haven't. Please, tell me what's wrong before I have a heart attack." 

You can't say it while he's looking at you, and when you do it's hardly audible. "I think I'm pregnant," you breathe. 

Aaron pauses. You can't even raise your head, anxiety its own heartbeat and nausea rising fast. You let out a gasp you'd held in and try to calm down, even while every little part of you worries about what he's going to say. 

You don't know if you want to be pregnant, or have a baby, but you know it would probably break your heart just a touch if Aaron didn't want to have one with you. You're not sure why. And Jack is a beautiful kid but he's growing up. Aaron isn't young. 

"How sure are you?" he asks, tone completely measured. 

"I… I feel it," you say. "I know that's stupid… 'N my period is really late, nearly two weeks now." 

"You feel it?" 

"I feel sick." Your elbows on your thighs and the backs of your hands pressed to your eyes, you curl in on yourself. "I'm so scared." 

"You're scared?" Hands on your forearms. Aaron gets down on his knees in front of your chair and rubs fondness into your skin, his voice a soothing, familiar comfort as he says, "Sweetheart, you have nothing to be scared of. Don't be scared. I'm right here." 

Tears like a shock, relief and horror mixed into one. "I'm so stupid, I haven't even taken the test yet, I don't know why I'm acting this way." 

"We all react differently to foreign situations than how we might imagine. What's important now is that you take a breath, because otherwise you'll panic." 

While you're afraid of what he's thinking, you trust him implicitly. "Okay." 

"Okay," he says, pulling your hands away from your face. "Just breathe, honey." 

He's more patient than you knew another person could be. He wipes your straggling tears with his hand without a word, his breath coming in even inhales and exhales for you to follow. The small spike of panic swiftly melds to plain old tears. You're embarrassed. You're unhappy. You and Aaron certainly weren't trying for this occasion. 

"What are you scared of?" he asks eventually. 

"Of you. Of what you're thinking, and– and what if I– I mean, what if I'm pregnant?" you ask, as though pregnant is a new word. When you said it at first, you'd meant, what if we end up having a baby together? But now you're more inclined to think about the process itself. What if you're physically pregnant? 

"Well, you have absolutely no reason to be scared of me. I love you." Aaron puts his hand just under your ear, his thumb to your cheek. "Whatever happens. Nothing else matters to me besides you." 

"Because you want a baby," you say unhappily. 

"Who says I don't?" He smiles at you softly. "I think we should've had this conversation a long time ago, but the long and short of it is that I love you. I love you and I'll do what you need me to." 

"I figured you'd be done having babies," you say, still hesitant. 

"Evidently not." He laughs, and you laugh back and he acts like you've hung the moon. "If you're scared of being pregnant, maybe you should take the test before you wind yourself up, hm?" 

"I guess I'm acting pretty silly, huh?" you ask, sniffling and wiping your eyes, the two of you caught in breathy laughter again. 

"Hormonal, maybe," he says. "Don't be scared. I don't want you to be scared." 

"What do you want?" you ask. 

"I just want you to stop crying. It's not right…" He strokes your damp cheek. "If I'm honest? If you take that test, and you aren't pregnant, or if you don't want to have a baby," —his face is calm, a small smile playing on his lips— "then I don't want you to, either." 

"But if I am?" you ask. 

"Then I will be so, so happy, because it's you." 

A missed period isn't necessarily indicative of pregnancy, and you could be freshly pregnant or four whole weeks and the test could still come out negative. Maybe your weird feeling is indigestion. Whatever happens, you really believe that the man in front of you is here for whatever answer you find. 

"I love you."

"I love you, too," he says, bone deep sincerity turned to something lighter, fondly teasing as he lifts himself up and hugs you close. "You know that." 

You let him hold you for a little while, calming down, looking at the positives and all your options. "You think Jack would be happy?" 

"He'd love a brother or sister… eventually." 

You wipe your tears and runny nose in his shirt and he does you the generosity of pretending not to notice. If you are going to have anyone's baby, you'd want it to be his. 

[eph3merall]

there's toxic!chris.. but what about toxic!matt ?

this was so stupid. matt was such a fucking bitch! sure, yeah, you know you aren't the only girl he's fucking. but would it kill him to clean up after himself sometimes? you're sitting on the edge of matt's tidied bed—actively ignoring the red lace bra and tropical smelling perfume bottle you found laying around his floor.

he's stalking out of the shower with damp hair, a pair of low hanging sweatpants and a black tank, with his eyes already roaming over you. immediately he can tell something is wrong and he isn't sure if he wants to even pester you about it, knowing he probably won't even get an answer.

"so, like.. you okay?" are the first words you hear from matt as he shifts around to get comfortable on his bed. he rests his head back against his headboard, a pillow supporting his lower back as he crosses his arms across his chest. your back is to him, and you don't answer.

right. he should've seen this coming. just because you're silent at first doesn't make him stop though, because oddly enough the idea of you being upset (you, his favorite hoe) has his mind reeling and stomach churning uncomfortably so he tried to get you to open up.

he's putting both his hands up when you turn around and snap at him, all annoyed. "god, matt, do you ever know when to leave something alone? obviously i'm fine so why can't you just shut the fuck up?!" he hates to admit how beautiful you look and sound right now, brows furrowed in exasperation and lips parted, screwed into a scowl.

"no, y'know what, i'm leaving." he was too busy staring at your lips and your chest that he didn't hear the words leave your mouth for a second before you're suddenly getting up and gathering some of your belongings. matt is up in a second to wrestle you to face him, hands on your shoulders and shaking furiously.

"seriously, what the fuck is wrong? you haven't ever acted like this, like, ever." you're ignoring him, because he was such a douche. yeah, you get that you aren't special to him but sometimes he really was a fucking bitch. call it jealousy.. you weren't dealing with it tonight. "matt— leave me alone." white hot tears are already springing into your eyes out of anger as well, and having matt see you cry seemed embarrassing enough that it encouraged you to twist and squirm yourself from his grasp.

he doesn't get it until he sees your eyes water, and he's confused nonetheless. does he act though? yeah, because he wasn't thinking. his arms are around you in a second, effectively spinning the smaller girl in his arms to his chest. a ringed hand is cradling the back of your head, tangling into strands of hair.

"what's wrong, huh?" he's mumbling into your head and holding you a little too tight for comfort. but matt didn't want you to leave. so when he felt your body go lax in his arms he loosens up a little, enough so to tug you towards his bed where he lets you lay your head on his chest.

he doesn't exactly expect an answer, and he's not surprised when he doesn't get one. his grip is always firm, as if making you sure you don't somehow get up. because oddly enough, he wants you here. not even to fuck, he just wants you like this—cheek pressed against the material of his black tank and your body on top of his.

you're pissed off still. it's mainly the reason you're giving matt the whole silent treatment shit, even if you know it's a little unfair. he's told you multiple times you aren't the only girl he fucks, that you aren't special in any way. (you are though, he thinks you're special but won't ever tell you) you don't get why this is upsetting you, it's not like you seriously have feelings for him, right?

sighh toxic!matt is such a bitch n he makes me wanna punch something but he's one of my favs

not proofread

more smut coming soon !! idk when maybe when i get ideas and finally finish my masterlist ....

—

©eph3merall 2024